"You don't have to hurt anymore. You can let go of those burdens." - fiddlefordisms
It's a sweet sentiment, one he wholly expects from his best friend's ample kindness. And it feels so simple when he says it, feels so easy to just nod and agree. Things were better now, weren't they? He was home, he had his family back. He could rest. For the first time in almost thirty years, life was calm. The boulder of regrets and pain he's been pushing up a metaphorical hill didn't roll down. It didn't crush him. He'd made it out and then some.
When Sisyphus completes his impossible task, shouldn't he be able to leave the hill himself?
But he can't seem to do it. He can't put down all of that rage and fear. He's been holding it for so long, he's made a bitter facsimile of a home within it. It's what he knows, what he's been clinging to. And honestly, what right does he have? He's caused so much loss, so much suffering with his arrogance. Shouldn't he at the very least be able to carry that? He certainly didn't fix the problems he caused, that was Stanley, so shouldn't he have decency to atone for them? It's bad enough that he's gotten off so easily with Stan and Fiddleford not quite remembering the extent of his transgressions (which is also his fault) and forgiving him.
When surrounded by so many that can't remember, how can he be anything other than the man who can't forget?
The sigh he gives in response is not a new one, not to himself or Fiddleford. It's the sigh he's taken to giving when things are too heavy to really explain. He feels guilty for that, too. Fiddleford has more than earned the right to his thoughts, to crack open his mind, but he can't find it in himself to give them freely. Perhaps it's the novelty of being able to keep his thoughts to himself. Or perhaps he's just a coward.
Either way, he squeezes the other man's hand, trying to convey his appreciation in less than words.
"It...It's rather difficult to do, but I am trying."
It never really feels like enough.
