Chapter Text
This conversation was long overdue, to call it the elephant in the room felt like an understatement. The bloating pressure bubbled within their chests, the tension between the two threatened to rip them apart from one another.
For the first time in his life, Marc had to contend with that, he had to accept that things were going to change, he couldn’t run away from it any longer. He couldn’t close his eyes or bury his head in the sand like he’s always done before; he was sure Steven would never let him get away with it anyway.
The dust had settled from the chaos in Cairo, the world was saved, Harrow was dead, and Khonshu was gone. Now, it was just the two of them. Marc and Layla. It felt like they might have been the only people left in the world.
“I need you to be honest with me this time, Marc,” Layla had said. She wasn’t looking at him, he couldn’t blame her, not really. Her voice was small, like how it got when she’d spent the night crying to herself, and the thought broke his heart, “I want the truth, about what happened to my father. All of it.”
She looked up at him, then, her eyes big and filled with a lifetime’s worth of grief; it’d been eating at her for so long, how could Marc have put her through that?
“Don’t lie to me anymore…please.”
Marc took a long breath, fiddling with his too-short nails, already whittled down from his anxious biting habit. He’d rehearsed this little speech in his head over and over, but it didn’t make it any easier, not really. Layla deserved the full story, she was entitled to know what happened to her father; what he told her in the tomb only left her with more questions than answers.
“I’ll tell you it all, I’ll tell you the truth. But, I can’t lie, it gets ugly,” He warned, knowing that wasn’t ever going to deter her, but hoping that the courtesy would offer some sense of security. In that sense, the warning was more for him than it was for her. He was stalling, he was hoping she'd back away, it just showed she was so much stronger than him.
“I was discharged from the military pretty early on,” Marc started, his head bent down, “Still don’t really know what happened, I went into some sort of fugue state and just…ran away from it all, I guess. I didn’t have many options after that, and with my…skill sets, I figured I’d go work-for-hire, as a mercenary.”
Layla knew this part, but, clearly, she didn’t know the extent of what that implied. She couldn’t have, he kept it hidden from her, he was selfish like that.
“I worked under a man we called Bushman, he was my commanding officer. We mostly did robberies and heists, rarely were we ever tasked just to kill, but…it wasn't completely uncommon. One night, we were supposed to raid an Egyptian tomb, some sort of old dig site…it was just the two of us that time around. It was rare that was ever the case, I don’t think he liked me very much, I think he felt like I was too soft a lot of the time, like he had to babysit me.”
Marc began wringing his hands together, revisiting those times were difficult for him, too, but he didn’t feel as though he had the right to complain; not with what he did to Layla’s family, “It was supposed to be a short, easy job, and the heist itself—that—that part went by quick,” Internally, Marc could feel some part of him tell him to stop, to run away, to just try and forget it all; he wouldn't let it win this time, he didn't want to be a coward anymore, “But…y-you know, we were spotted, by some people working on the dig site. They were harmless, I told him, just archeologists doing their job; they were already plenty scared of us, no point in complicating the mission when we got what we were there for. But he didn’t listen, he said, that’s the kind of attitude that gets you killed.”
Against his better judgement, Marc looked up at Layla, he made eye contact with her, and all-at-once, it sunk into him the gravity of what he was confessing. He didn’t get to choose, with Steven, what the Duat decided to show him. It was now by his own volition that he was showing this to Layla, it made him feel sick and weak, vulnerable, afraid in that way that kept him stagnant. It’s like he could hear his mother in his head, telling him he’d just proven her right.
“I guess…he wanted to make an example of me, or—or use this as some sort of teaching moment, because he shot me,” Marc pointed towards his abdomen, the lower right side, “Right here…where it wouldn't fatally wound me.”
Layla’s mouth tightened, her jaw shut and her lips pursed into a straight line. To try to guess what she must’ve been thinking was impossible; she looked like she was trying not to cry.
“If I had to wager, he didn’t want me to die right away, he wanted to make me watch…” Marc took in a shaky inhale, it was all just getting to be too much. He pushed through regardless, because it hurt, and Marc was a glutton for punishment, “He…propped me up on a pillar, so I could see it all happen. He went through and shot everyone who’d been left. One-by-one, through the back of the head.”
If he dared to close his eyes, Marc would be transported back there; into the dry, hot draft of the desert night, where he could hear the pop of a silenced pistol cut through the humid air, followed by an immense, defeated sense of quiet. Louder than the act itself, the kind of quiet that only a dead man could produce. It happened quickly, it happened silently, there was no screaming or begging from those men, and that was somehow worse; to Bushman, it was procedure, it was routine, it was utility. Just another part of his job, as benign as anything else.
“For what it’s worth…” Marc’s voice quivered, though it didn’t feel like his own at that moment, “I don’t think your father died in pain…”
No, because it had happened so peacefully, so… mildly . And Marc, selfish as he was, resented that fact. Because from that day on, those memories, the weight of what he’d done, would go on to haunt the quiet within his life. It filled the few pockets of reprieve he got; all that was calm, all that was sober, it was tainted for him.
Not unlike the silence of this moment, actually. Not unlike the absence of Khonshu.
He was brought out of his thoughts when Layla took in a shaking breath, wiping away tears with the butt of her hands. Marc fought the urge to reach out to her, to comfort her, he had to remind himself, that's not what he was here for.
“And…” with a brittle voice she asked, “And how did you get out alive?”
Marc's eyes dimmed at that, the answer was simple, and he hated the fact it was so succinct.
“Well,” he said, “That's how I met Khonshu. In exchange for saving me…he asked me to become his avatar.”
Within his mind, Marc remembered visiting that scene with Steven; the state he was in, the context of what he'd just survived, the cold steel of a gun pressed up to his chin and the blood and saliva pooling in his mouth.
Marc thought about how badly he wanted to die then, and he thought about Steven's words. He told him rather plainly, Khonshu was manipulating him. It was a notion that was all-too-easy to deny at the time, but something about re-living that moment here…Steven's words broke through some sort of invisible barrier, they sunk into the pit of his stomach like something nauseous and heavy.
It was getting harder to deny, when Layla suddenly got that look in her eyes. Something that said ‘Oh, now it all makes sense.’
It surprised him, when Layla took his hands in her. When he was met with gentle touch and silent, devoted affection.
“...You have every right to leave,” Marc said, as though maybe she just hadn't considered that fact, because anyone in their right mind who saw it as an option would surely take it, right? “I'm…I'm sorry. For everything I put you through,” but Marc only continued to prove himself a vile, wicked person, because like the scum that he was, he wanted so badly to be loved by her.
Layla didn't say anything, she simply stared at their hands, intertwined together. She rubbed her thumb against his hand, she traced stars and hearts onto him, she did that any time she was anxious.
“I don't hate you,” She said simply, silently.
Marc could only stare in response. He was so useless like this, he hated it when he didn't know what to say or do.
“I don't hate you,” She repeated, “But…I don't know what to do, about…about us .”
Marc nodded, he knew what this meant, he knew this was in regard to their marriage.
“I'm angry at you for keeping this a secret from me. I'm angry that you knew about this the whole time, that…that it took you this long to be honest with me, when that's all I've ever wanted from you,” The tears had come back, streaming down Layla's cheeks, she had to swallow down hiccups in-between her words, “But at the same time…” And against all odds, she held onto Marc tighter, “At the same time…I love you, still, and I don't know if that would ever change.”
It was strange to hear that from her, Marc almost wanted to deny it. In the past, he would've, he would've told her she was making a mistake, that she didn't really know what she was saying. But Marc needed to learn better, to do better; as foreign as it was to him, he needed to learn to let himself be loved.
Everything between them had changed, but, strangely, it had all stayed the same.
Just then, Layla seemed to collapse. The stress of keeping it all together, of being so strong and responsible, it got too much to bear, she broke down into his arms.
Marc had never seen her like this, had never seen Layla absolutely be broken apart. He'd seen her cry, sure, Layla never stopped herself from feeling what she had to feel, but this was different.
He'd never had her cling onto him like a lifeline, he'd never seen her unravel at the seams and spill forth a messy deluge of sobs and tears. This was grief, coming out all at once, this was years of unresolved tension finally taking its toll on her, it was opening a wound that hadn't really healed as much as it was just easy to ignore. There was a difference between those things, and Marc was seeing the consequence in real time.
He hesitated, before wrapping his arms around her again. He felt dirty, he felt evil, he didn't want to taint her, didn't want to drag her down more than he already had.
Marc still didn't understand what it was about him that made him worth loving, he couldn't fathom why he wasn't being beaten, left behind, cursed at or berated, why he was afforded humanity that a monster like him didn't deserve. But Marc quickly realized that he might never truly understand, he didn't need to, all he had to do was trust in Layla's decisions, stay faithful to her judgements.
It wasn't his place to tell her what was and wasn't good for her, so if she needed to be held by him right now, if she needed to love him to get through this, then he'd accept it. He'd already done so much harm to her, trying to do what he thought was ‘good ', it was about time to admit he didn't actually know anything, it was about time that he just listened.
—
Layla and Marc didn't talk to each other for a long while after that.
It wasn't really for lack of trying; the morning after Marc's confession to her, he sent her a text, he asked how she was doing, if she needed anything. Layla said right now that she just needed time and space. And, subconsciously, Marc just accepted that their relationship was probably over.
It hurt, but it wasn't something Marc was unused to, he'd done this before, after all.
The problem was, unlike last time, Marc knew he had to keep living after the fact. The plan was to run away and disappear, in some sort of fashion, so he wouldn't have to contend with the pain and guilt of knowing what he did to Layla.
He didn't have that anymore. There was comfort in living so recklessly, in not caring about what happened to him or whether or not each day would be his last. No one taught him what to do now that he had a life to live, people who loved him, something to do with himself.
It was terrifying, it was some of the worst fear Marc had felt, because it dismantled all that he was and all that he lived for. It challenged everything he'd ever known, it reminded him that, truly, he was nothing.
The days went by slowly, agonizingly. He found himself wandering the streets when bored, too restless to lay down but too tired to do anything productive. The gloomy November weather likely wasn't helping with his mood, but there was something gratifying in looking out and seeing a world as miserable as he was, it meant he at least wasn't missing out on much.
He had Steven to talk to, at least. Steven kept up their routine, took care of the body, did all the things Marc struggled to get the hang of. Steven had always been better at this sort of thing, ever since they were kids. For the longest time, Marc chalked it up to him simply being better, more inherently ‘good’ in some abstract way, but he knew, as an adult, that it was never really that simple.
At some point, he just decided to ask, “How do you do it?”
Steven had been cleaning the dishes then, he was staring at Marc’s reflection on a plate he’d been scrubbing.
“Do…what? Clean the dishes?” He asked earnestly, “Well, I usually start with—”
“No, I meant—” Marc interrupted, “How do you…how do you always know what to do?”
Steven paused, meeting Marc’s eyes, “...Sorry mate, I don’t really get what you mean.”
“I dunno, you just…you…” Marc felt himself grow frustrated at not knowing how to find the right words, how was he supposed to do this? How was he supposed to be vulnerable, when he spent his entire life doing the exact opposite?
“I feel so useless sometimes, like…I can barely get out of bed some mornings, can barely feed myself or do something as simple as talk —just—about my feelings. But you do it all so easily, aren’t you tired?” In the reflection, Marc’s shoulders sagged, “Aren’t you…scared?”
Steven’s face relaxed into a neutral frown, relaxed and non-judgemental, he propped the plate up against the backboard behind the sink, like a make-shift mirror, while he continued scrubbing what was left of the dirty dishes.
“Well, yeah, I’m plenty tired…” Steven said, eyes fixed on the menial task at hand, “And I’m plenty scared, too. That’s not something that changes between us.”
“Then how do you…”
“Well, it might be different for you, I don’t know the most about how this…’alter’ thing works, but for me…” Steven paused as he mulled over the words in his head, “I do these things ‘cuz I know I’d be worse off if I didn’t. Like, I know if I don’t feed myself now, it’ll be harder to do it later,” He swung a fork around as he talked, Steven had always been so animated like that, “Sometimes, it’s more about preventing things from getting worse than it is making things better. Does that make sense?”
Marc didn’t say anything, not for a little while, the ambient noise of an easy chore had filled the comfortable silence between them. He hadn’t been looking at Steven, when he said:
“But what if it doesn’t get better?”
It was a simple question, but clearly one that sat heavy in Marc’s chest, one that haunted everything he did, that fed on his energy, his will, his ability to do basic things.
Steven didn’t even hesitate before saying, “I’d figure it out.”
“But…but what if you don’t figure it out?” Marc rebutted.
“Then I’d figure that out too,” Steven answered so simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “I feel like you’re not happy with my answer, you have that look on your face, but, what else am I supposed to do? What other option do I have?”
The answer came shamefully quick to Marc’s head, ‘simple, you die’. He didn’t verbalize it, though, and if Steven sensed Marc’s shame, his immediate sense of defeatism, he didn’t show it.
“...I have too much to live for, Marc,” Steven said, his voice a low whisper, “I have too many people who love me, I have to at least try .”
That was the principle difference between them, it seemed. Marc had no idea how it came so easily to Steven, that intrinsic sense of worth, he didn’t know why the idea that he had people who loved him seemed so…novel, so scary . That was the point of the illusion he’d built for Steven, he figured; up until very recently, Steven did, in fact, believe he had parents who loved him, a mother who sent him nice cards, a father that had his best intentions in mind. Even if he’d felt lonely, he at least had something to look forward to, when he saw those post cards on the fridge.
Marc was awash with shame at that. That, too, was a lie, it was an example of Marc’s dishonesty, his cowardice. It seemed everything ‘good’ he did ended up that way.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Steven said, his voice assured and heavy, snapping Marc out of his own thoughts, “But I think you’re forgetting something, Marc, that you’re one of those people, too.”
Marc, taken aback, pointed dumbly to himself, as though to say, ‘who, me?’ , and Steven laughed at that.
“Yes, you ,” He said with a smile, “I think…even before I knew you were there, before I knew what our…condition was, I could feel you. I didn’t have any of the words for it, but I think I just sort of knew , I knew you were in there, somewhere , I knew you loved me. It didn’t make all my problems go away, but it made the sadness easier to carry,” Steven’s smile softened, his voice feathered, “And no, before you ask, nothing about that has changed. If anything, knowing you’re here makes me wanna try harder.”
Marc didn’t respond to that, didn’t know what to say. Steven was made of love, Marc rejected it at every turn, and it wasn’t just himself he’d been hurting by doing that. He kind of wanted to cry, his chest was all tight, but, strangely, it wasn’t in a way that made him feel…bad, or dirty.
It was never more clear to him than in that moment, that something needed to change, that Marc needed to do something about this all. And it helped, knowing that Steven would always be here for him, that his support would, truly, be unconditional. Steven, too, made him want to try harder.
“And don’t forget,” Steven said, looking at Marc, “You’re someone I love, too.”
Marc nodded, he smiled, as Steven went back to doing the dishes. And hey, if he had to wipe away a tear here and there while Steven was busy, no one had to know.
—
The concept of a ‘comfort dish’ was something foreign to Marc. To him, food was just calories, macronutrients, numbers and utility; he rarely sought to associate food with memories, let alone make them good ones. He never really had anyone to share a meal with, no one to cook for, ‘family’ meant something completely different to him than it did to most people.
Well, with one exception, that is. Early on in his relationship with Layla, she was having a bad day, the kind where she closes herself off and makes herself unavailable to those around her. He’d ask and prod, but she wouldn’t respond, and he didn’t know how to navigate that sort of thing at the time. He never really learned, looking back on it. So, he called her mom, asking what he could do for her, and she gave him the recipe for Layla's favorite childhood dish, said that there was no sort of heartache that it couldn’t heal.
It was something called koshary, he hadn’t heard of it before that point, but he figured it sounded easy enough to make, and he wanted at least to try. It was a mixture of rice, vermicelli noodles, lentils, and macaroni, topped with a seasoned tomato sauce and fried onions.
To be honest, Marc completely fucked it up the first time around. He overcooked the macaroni, the tomato sauce was too salty, and he burnt the fried onions. He was just about ready to chuck it all away when Layla shambled out of bed, beckoned by the smell of some sort of kitchen disaster, possibly wondering if the house was burning down.
When Marc explained what was going on—that he saw she was feeling down and was attempting to make her a nice meal to cheer her up—and when he presented her the mess that was his sad first attempt, Layla laughed. He didn’t expect that reaction, but she laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and Marc didn’t realize how much he missed that sound, so he wasn’t about to complain.
Quickly, however, her laughter died down, and it gave way to quiet sobs, transitioning so seamlessly that, for the next two weeks, Marc would flinch when he heard her laugh. Tears were streaming down her face, and he didn’t know what to do. He felt like an idiot, like the biggest jerk in the world, over the course of two of the most confusing minutes he’d ever had.
Then when Layla got herself together, she said, “ That explains the mess, it was my mom who gave you the recipe,” In a tone that was somewhere between bemused and heartbroken, “You didn’t fuck it up, she’s just the worst cook you’ll ever meet.”
That broke a little bit of the tension in the atmosphere. Layla went on to explain that koshary was something her father would make her during her lowest moments. When she got sick with the chicken pocks, after a bad day at school where she’d gotten bullied, and even after she was rejected from her dream college. And they’d make it for happy times, too, on birthdays and celebrations and after important life events. She said it had to be his recipe, because he was the only one in the house who knew who to cook.
Layla also explained that, today, she’d been down because it was the anniversary of his death.
They tried again at the dish that night, just the two of them. She guided him through the process, making sure to correct the spice blend he’d been using, teaching him how to properly chop an onion, because he’d never learned, up until that point. By the end of it all, it was midnight, and they had enough food to last them until the next week.
This was the first step in establishing a little ritual between them. Whenever Layla was grieving, any time she’d expressed any sort of homesickness, he’d prepare that same comfort meal without a second thought. In that way, Marc, too, was part of Layla’s family.
Layla cited that day as the day she realized she wanted to live the rest of her life with Marc. Marc remembered it as the day his guilt had taken him over, had consumed him so wholly that he couldn’t look himself in the mirror anymore, not without feeling utterly, completely disgusted with himself.
Because how could he? How could he take away Layla’s father from her, witness the death of a wonderful man, have been the reason a girl was left with one less parent in her life, then have the gall to try and cheer her up after the fact? Play house like he wasn’t the one that broke apart her family?
And every day that went by where he didn’t fess up, tell Layla the truth of it all, the heavier the guilt would grow heavier within his mind, the darkness would grow unbearable, and he'd tolerate his own reflection less and less. It all bubbled over until the day he left her, but it never resolved, not really.
Telling Layla the full story about her father felt like taking a weight off his shoulders, sure, but it also left him feeling empty. He was so much the product of his own guilt that he didn’t know what he was without it. Marc was left aimless and confused, unsure of himself, he never wanted Layla to have to see him again, and yet was heartbroken at the fact she wasn’t here right now. More than anything else, he hated the fact he had such a close proximity to her grief, it made him think about how much better her life could've been had he not taken that job.
He figured, regardless of how he felt, what was made of him or their relationship, that he could manage the pain a little easier with a nice, warm bowl of koshary filling his stomach.
It was strange. Taking out the pots he’d need, prepping the ingredients and lining them up on the counter, fishing through the pantry for lentils he didn’t use for any other dish, tying an apron behind his back. It brought back both the best and the worst times of his past with Layla. It was both the comfort of sharing a meal with a loved one, as well as the sense of remorse he felt, knowing he had to inflict himself upon Layla in order to get it. It was a compulsion that soothed and an act of self-harm that helped him bleed.
Of course, for Marc Spector, nothing could be that simple. A meal couldn’t just be a meal, love couldn’t just be love, there had to be some way he messed it all up. It was like he was a pollutant, something evil and intrusive, something you couldn’t think too much about lest you get too sad about the state of the world. Surely, the guilt worked itself into the food he was cooking, it seeped out of his hands and coated all he touched, no wonder nothing he made ever seemed to taste right, no wonder all he built was only ever destined to come toppling down.
“You’re doing that thing again Marc, you’re being mean to yourself ,” He heard Steven’s voice echo within his head, it startled him, causing him to flinch out of autopilot, “We were working on being a little nicer to ourselves, remember?”
Marc sighed, he released the tension from his shoulders, tension he didn’t know he’d been holding onto. That’s right, they were…working on that.
It was just so hard sometimes. Trying to convince himself he wasn’t worthless, corrupting, inherently dirty, it was like trying to tell himself the sky was purple, when it was so obviously blue. It just didn’t make sense, it went against everything he ever knew, it felt like he was being lied to or deceived, being vulnerable always made him worry about being taken advantage of. He decided to try anyway, because Steven said it would help, and he didn’t wanna let him down.
“I can always swap in, if you need…” Steven offered. Marc shrugged his shoulders at this, returning to the half-sliced onion on the chopping board.
“No, no, it’s alright,” He said under his breath, “I wanna at least finish making dinner first…”
Things were silent as he continued work, and he was working on that, too; being comfortable with the silence, not trying to drown things out, simply focusing and being present in the moment. It was easier said than done, to put it lightly.
It was as he was just about finished with the dish that his routine got interrupted, by a gentle knock on the door.
Immediately, Marc tensed, frightened, adrenaline began itching beneath the edge of his skin. If it was a stranger, that was scary, something to worry about. If it was someone he knew, that was even worse .
Unfortunately for him, a look through the peephole showed that it was the worst case scenario, Layla.
There was a pit in his stomach at the sight, he felt disappointed in himself for hesitating, for feeling the urge to run; nothing had even happened, and he already wanted to cry. This was it, he thought, it had to be. Layla was here to tell him that she never wanted to see him again, would leave him like he always knew she secretly wanted to do. Nothing left to do but man up and rip the band-aid off; Marc opened up the door to be met with sad, wide brown eyes.
“Hi…”
Layla greeted him with a shy smile and tired lips, it looked like she was hurting. Marc couldn’t blame her, he was too, though he had no right to.
He didn’t say anything for a bit, there was an awkward pause, until Layla sniffed the air, “Something smells good,” She commented, her voice raspy, like she’d been crying too much, “Are you cooking again?”
“Yeah…” He answered, “I…I made enough for two, if you wanted to have some.”
Against all odds, Layla’s eyes lit up at him, something sweet and genuine.
“I’d love to.”
—
Dinner was awkward, to say the least. The silence threatened to eat them whole, the tension made Marc’s chest hurt, made it feel tight and confused. It seemed he shared a lot of these sorts of moments with Layla.
If nothing else, she was eating, which was good. Marc had yet to even touch his food, just stared down at it as though it could balm any of the pain within him. He wasn’t too hungry, he realized.
Neither of them knew how to broach the topic at hand, Marc didn’t feel like he had the right to take the first step, Layla was just as awkward with her feelings as he was sometimes.
Eventually, she said, “You know, you’ve gotten really good at this recipe.”
Marc looked up at her curiously; he hadn’t tasted it yet, so he wouldn’t know. He kind of wondered if Layla was just saying this to be nice.
“I’m serious,” She said, scraping the bottom of her bowl with her spoon, collecting as much as she could of what little was left, “It doesn’t taste like baba’s, but it’s really good…there’s something very ‘Marc’ about it.”
Marc willed himself into giving a half-hearted smile. In reality, his throat tightened at the mention of Layla’s father, “...Steven read somewhere that turmeric was supposed to be really good for you…he bought a whole container of it the other week, so I thought I’d add a bit to the sauce.”
Layla nodded, “ That explains it. I quite like it, honestly,” She said, “I think things would get boring if they just stayed the same. I like that you add your own spin to things. I like tasting something unique, or smelling something in the air, and being reminded of my husband.”
There was something about that word, ‘husband’, that tugged at Marc’s chest, that threatened to rip his heart out. He didn’t say anything, his jaw felt like it was locked shut.
“I’ve been thinking about you a lot, lately,” Layla’s voice dimmed, it was so small, it didn’t feel like it fit her, “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking…and…I just wanted to say thank you.”
Out of all the ways this conversation could’ve turned, he didn’t expect it to be this. Marc was sure he was hearing things wrong, and he must’ve made some sort of facial expression that indicated his confusion, or maybe he was just that easy to read, because Layla went on to say:
“There’s a lot of things I’ve been feeling the past couple of days, there’s a lot of grief I’ve been working through that I thought I was over, but…” Layla bit her bottom lip, attempting to find her words, “More than anything else, I’m…relieved. Because you’ve given me something I’ve been missing for so long, something I didn’t know I needed. You’ve given me closure.”
Layla extended her hands across the dining table, seeking to hold onto Marc’s. He hesitated, he was still processing that sentiment, he didn’t think he was ready, he didn’t know if he was deserving.
“I’ve felt so stuck. I had no idea how to move on after baba died, I just knew I couldn’t stay still. In reality, I think I was just running in place,” Layla continued, “For years, I felt like that scared little girl…the one who was wondering when baba was coming home, the one who thought to herself, maybe he’s still out there, maybe I was missing something, maybe he would just turn up one day, and by grieving him, I was actually leaving him behind.”
She was crying now, she looked up into Marc’s eyes, and Marc couldn’t hold back his own tears. It was all too much, the confession, the sentiment. Eventually, he took her invitation, he took hold of her hands with his own shaky pair.
“I think…I think I can move forward now,” She took in a shaking breath, “And you’re the only person who could’ve given that to me. So…thank you.”
Marc couldn’t handle the intensity of it all, the way all these old feelings crashed down against him, the way Layla was making herself vulnerable for him. There was a degree of trust that had to be involved in that, in this conversation, and the idea that he still had that piece of Layla, it overwhelmed him.
“I-I’m sorry,” He managed to choke out, he was covering his face with his other hand, too ashamed to let Layla look at him in such a state, “I’m…so, so sorry, Layla.”
And she simply let him cry, it was equal-parts humiliating and liberating. Marc had never cried in front of her before, he always thought it would make him less of a man. But it felt good, the release of endorphins and the inevitable connection they fostered as a result of sharing something vulnerable with one another. He loved her so much, out of all the things he knew to be true, this was the thing that he was most assured of.
At some point, they’d both ended up on the couch, interlaced with one another, consoling each other through these big feelings. Truly, and on the inside, they were both just scared kids with no one to turn to but one another. They needed this, they needed each other.
After some time had passed, Layla had told him, “I still love you…I still want to be with you…but I don’t know if I can do that, not right now,” She was honest with him, which Marc appreciated, so he nodded along, “I think…if we ever want to continue being with one another, you have to promise me. Please, don’t keep secrets from me anymore, don’t run away from me.”
She was looking him in the eyes when she said this, hard and determined, “You’ve lied to me for so long, when all I’ve ever wanted, all I’ve ever asked from you was your honesty. I’m not going to pretend that I’m not also angry at you, for holding this back from me,” She said, “But I could never hate you…I want to believe in your ability to change, so you have to prove it to me. If you can do that…I can let you back in.”
Marc didn't say anything, he simply nodded. Too overwhelmed by everything that's been going on to give anything more than a simple gesture, too scared of opening his mouth and messing this up again. It felt too good to be true, what Layla said. And for once, he decided not to turn down the invitation.