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There is a dress; built of pink and purple fabrics that haunts Marco’s closet. He can’t see it as it’s tucked far away in the back of his closet, in a bag, and folded into a box. He thinks about it everyday. Just a small fraction of a thought usually, but tonight is different. Usually, Marco can bear his body, in dim lighting and doused in loose fitting sweaters. He can keep the discomfort at bay by going on wacky adventures with Star and Pony and going on dates with Tom.
But it’s all built up and Marco’s heart feels as if it’s going to tear under the weight of all this… feeling he has. He doesn't know what it is, but it’s there, and it’s killing him, and he knows that somehow, someway,that dress is linked to it.
His room is lit with moonlight. Just enough to see what he's doing as he digs through his closet. Behind left-over swords and assorted knick-knacks, underneath armour and reaches what plagues him. The box.
Marco double then triple checks that his door is locked as he slides the dress from its box. Wrinkled all over, and in desperate need of repairs to the lace around it. Marco fumbled as he slipped on the gown. “Just to see if it still fits.” he kept whispering to himself. A justification to the cold air in his room and laser-puppies asleep underneath his bed. He stumbles around as he struggles to get the dress over his head and yank it past his arms. And once it’s on it’s loose, needing tightening he can’t do by himself. But as Marco sees himself in the mirror with his hair far past due for a cut, he’s awestruck at who stares back at him. It’s him but it’s not. It’s who Marco dreams about. Who he sees in the halls of St. O’s. Who Ponyhead still jokes about with Marco on the rare occasion it’s just the two of them.
The dress is frumpy and loose. In dire need of lacing he can’t dream of achieving on his own considering the times Star has laced him it's taken the help of Gloserick, her full strength, and a spell or two. But the image he sees is so him that he can’t help but be enamored. Time disappears as Marco allows himself this moment. Before he buries it with all his other memories again.
The peace of soft snoring and shuffling of fabric is broken by Marco’s window opening. “Hey Marco, you ready to-” Tom sits himself on the side of the window sill inside Marcos room, “that’s kinda fancy for a midnight picnic isn’t it?”
Marco spins around faster than he ever has before. Which says a lot considering the amount of times he’s done it in varying levels of situations. Marco stares like a deer caught in headlights. Completely dumbfounded. Marco opens and closes his mouth for a few moments, akin to a fish. Tom’s patient expression, like this, is the most normal sight in the world. Like Marco hasn’t had to strangle his inner self to prevent himself from perusing dress shops in the Underworld because of how wrong it felt. Because of what Tom might have thought of him.
“Tom?”
“Marco.”
Marco stares a little longer. “You are in my house.”
Tom nods, “I am.”
“It’s-” Marco looks at his alarm clock “12:32”.
Tom nods again.
Marco takes a deep sigh, crossing his arms over himself. The self consciousness settling in. “Can I ask why?”
“We have a date tonight. You forgot, didn't you?”
Marco doesn't give a response to the question because he did forget. And he never forgets when they have dates. And Tom is giving him a look that Marco doesn't want to name because it would destabilize what he thought, feared, Tom would think about him in this state. Tom has only seen Marco as Turdina a very limited number of times. In battle on a special occasion, and just before he left to speak at the reformed St. O’s.
Tom moves from his spot towards Marco, “Are you okay Marco? You seem-”
Marco cuts him off. Too scared to know what he has to say. “I’m fine. I’m normal. This is just… messing around. Just give me five minutes and-”
Tom rests his hands on Marco’s waist. “Woah, slow down. You don’t have to change. I was going to say you seemed like you were… at peace.”
In the dim lighting Marco has come to hate are Tom’s eyes. Full of so much love and unsaid acceptance that he knows Marco can’t hear right now. Looking at Marco as if he were the only person in the world. And if Marco sheds a few tears it goes unacknowledged. Even as Tom pulls in Marco for a hug. His head landing on Tom’s shoulder. They stand there, absorbing the moment. The silence that was there before continues. Proof that Marco’s world didn’t end when he was caught in the dress that haunts him.
The world spinning just as it had before.
Later in the night, Tom would help Marco lace up his dress. With the most tender touch someone could ever have. Then he would insist on styling his hair and doing light makeup. And when Marco cried again they would hug again. And Tom would help Marco undress as if he were a piece of fine china. Moving slowly and lovingly. And deep into the night, into what most would consider early morning, they would lay down and return to turning with the rest of the world.
Marco’s haunting soothed but still waiting to be named.