twin, if ur still there, do a marcel x reader pls pls pls, thanks!
a/n: I like to think he does traditional photography as for a little something to pass the time (oh, did I mean it as a break from duties? no, not in this case though). I didn't even realize it was angst UNTIL I was rereading it, how could I have missed such a big aspect? sorry, guys 😭 I also read your "twin" as "twink," and I was like... bro..
Marcel develops photographs. Unfortunately, he develops attachments too. sfw, gn!reader. slight angst, happy ending
✩ ft: Marcel
“I think you've developed that one four times now.” Your fingers tapped rhythmically on the table where he was working.
Of course, he knew, and as much as he hates repeating something, it had to be done. He softly sighed at the reminder but then focusing on the details again.
The dark room smelled of chemicals and the slight tinge of blueberries left unattended on the table. You leaned against the table, arms now crossed as you watched Marcel carefully hang another photograph on the drying line.
He didn't turn around, his eyes paying careful attention to every detail. He murmured, "It's not right yet."
You glanced at what he was staring at and observed. “It looks fine to me."
He let out another heavy sigh, for what felt like a thousand times already. “It's not just about being ‘fine.’” Despite being frustrated with repeatedly doing it, his voice was steady, though a little tight underneath, like something pulled too taut. He reached for the next print even before the last one had finished dripping. “This time will be exact.”
You frowned at his persistence. In the dimly lit room, you carefully sat on a chair beside his table, slumped in defeat as you watched him work in silence for a while.
You always wondered why it took him several attempts to find the exact one, but all you ever received was a ‘this is the last one.’ You closed your eyes for a moment and opened it to glance at him, the red light casting shadows across his pretty face, making him look more like one of his own photographs than an actual person.
His hands moved quickly, almost frantic if you try to observe closely. It's as if he's running out of time, and it makes your stomach churn—that's it. You're no longer tolerating this torture anymore.
“Marcel. Stop for a second.”
“I'm almost done.”
"You said that about six times already!” You quickly reached out to grab his hand that was about to reach for another photo.
His hands stilled as he looked at your hand. He didn't look at you, his shoulders set in that too-straight line. “I just… need to get this one- just this one right—”
“Why?”
There was a pause—a deafening silence, long enough that you almost regretted asking.
He ran a hand over his hair. “Because if I don't capture it properly, it fades. And if it fades, it's like it never happened... at all.” His voice that was once frantic, gradually grew quieter. “And I know I don't want to forget this, or any of it.”
You slid off the chair and came to stand beside him, close enough that your shoulders touched. Your tone was quieter too, almost matching his. “Forget what, exactly?”
“You.” He paused immediately, almost startled as he realized how raw his emotions are. “I don't—” He exhaled shakily, his hands braced against the counter now instead of the photographs.
He continued, careful this time. “People leave, eventually. Just things ending. And all I'll have left is whatever I managed to put on film. So it has to be right.”
Something in your chest ached at that, you almost felt bad for asking. You never really heard him talk about his mother directly, but you didn't need him to do that to understand. He unconsciously stared at the farthest photo on the board. “It's getting…frustrating. So tiring.”
“Hey...” Sadness filled your eyes as your hand moved to touch his wrist gently. “I'm not a photograph. And I'm not going anywhere.”
"You don't know that." He shook his head.
"Neither do you. So why decide I'm already gone?"
His eyes finally lifted to yours, his expression almost guilty—or maybe just afraid, the kind of look Clemar usually absorbed so that Marcel never had to wear it. His voice was low. “I'm not deciding that. I'm just… preparing. Just in case.”
You sighed. "You don't have to prepare for me leaving. I'm right here. And I know, I'll never leave.”
"For now."
"For as long as I get a say in it." Your other hand reached up to cup his cheeks. "Which is a lot longer than your 'for now,' just so we're clear, okay?" A soft smile reached your lips.
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh, a little looser than the tension he'd been carrying all evening. Slowly, his hand turned to cover yours against his cheek. “...You're very confident for someone arguing with a man who controls time.”
You huffed. “You control the moments. Not people leaving—” You almost thought you made him offended by the last comment, so you slid your hand down to hold both of his, and shifted the topic. “S-so, quit developing the same photo countless times and come sit with me! This, this moment is happening right now.”
Marcel glanced at the photograph still dripping on the line, then back at you. Something eased in his expression, not entirely a smile, but something close to it is still better. “...Fine. Just this once.”
You smiled at his agreement as you led him to the balcony of the room. You both glanced down at people dancing beneath the lights and the lively music of the festival.
A sigh left your lips as you stared at the lights beaming. "You know, there's so much that a mere camera can only capture."
You could almost hear Clemar strongly disagreeing.
You chuckled. “And I think this is progress.”
He wrapped a hand around your back and murmured, “Yeah, yeah. Just... don't get used to it.” And yet, he found himself enjoying that very moment, especially with you by his side.
