Liminal

by candyballofdoom

Summary:

In the small, cramped broom closet, Stanley stood alone.

Here, he could breathe. Here, he didn't have to keep moving.

Here, he could rest.

Notes:

happy 4/27 yall!!! i wasnt originally gonna do anything but the idea of writing a fic kept bothering me and i knew i couldnt read my silly gay books in peace if i didnt write this so hear ya go!!! the stannarrator brainworms fought the tgcf brainworms which led me to make this fic. please enjoy it for the sake of the worms im my brain. thank you very much. :3

In the small, cramped broom closet, Stanley stood alone.

The narrator had finished his spiel, had given up on trying to coax Stanley out of the room, and now he truly was by himself.

With a heavy sigh, Stanley sat down with one knee propped up, leaning his back onto the wall. He stared up at the lone fluorescent light on the ceiling, achingly bright as always.

He was so unbelievably tired.

Not physically tired, no, that was impossible here at the parable. No matter where he went or how he was hurt, Stanley did not get tired. After every reset he would be the same, and nothing could change that.

But who knew how many resets had gone by? How long had it been since Stanley was in the real world, an office worker with genuine connections with other people?

Had he ever been a real person at all?

...Whatever. He had come here to rest, not to overthink his own existence. He'd done enough of that already anyways.

He knew that the Narrator couldn't bother him here. Wouldn't bother him, waiting obstinately until he decided to come out. Stanley knew this because he often came here in between particularly heavy runs.

He came here once after the Skip Button Ending. Stanley was sure he was inside for hours, but when he came out the narrator acted as if it had been seconds. Whether it was his own perception of time that was off or if the narrator simply chose to ignore it, he did not know and didn't bother asking.

...As much as he tried not to dwell on it too much, thoughts about his past, or lack thereof, still came back to haunt him in moments like these.

For example, recently he had found himself craving touch. Surely that was some indication of him being a real person- after all, if he wasn't, then why on earth would he think of such a thing?

Stanley hugged himself, though it did little to satiate that longing. It felt intangible, numb.

...Even though it was useless, Stanley found himself pondering whether the narrator had a physical form. His face warmed and he quickly pushed the though aside- even if he did have a form, after all, he probably wouldn't dare show it to Stanley in fear of him causing even more havoc than usual. He wasn't wrong, but only because Stanley would be too embarrassed to ask the narrator to hug him and never let go.

Even though the narrator was insufferable, he was all Stanley had. And maybe spending an eternity alive was horrifying, he made it a little less painful at times.

Stanley thought back to the skip button ending, to the hollow silence when he had pressed the button one too many times.

He thought back to the empty wasteland he had seen once the room opened.

He shuddered, pulling his knees close to his chest. It was alright. The narrator was right outside the room. The relative silence in the broom closet was a different kind of silence, a reassuring little break filled with the mild hum of the lights.

The Narrator had once described the concept of liminal spaces to him. An inbetween of sorts, empty places where people don't linger for long, or places that should be filled with people turned desolate. Empty hallways, empty playgrounds, all empty and still places.

Although the broom closet didn't fit the traditional depictions of liminal spaces, Stanley thought it worked well as a boundary, or a moment between the usual cluster of resets and runs.

Here, he could breathe. Here, he didn't have to keep moving.

Here, he could rest.

This place was liminal, nothing more than a moment in time that was still for once. But Stanley cherished it.

He didn't need to sleep in the parable. But nonetheless, Stanley closed his eyes.