#mrharion

Rhan Becker. Rhapsody.

Marion’s been acting weird.

Usually, whenever your conversations lapse into silence, it doesn’t take long for them to pick the lull right back up with a seemingly endless supply of chatter. They don’t expect you to keep up. You don’t bother to. Well, alright, sometimes you do try to pay attention. You think that their voice takes on a more cheerful lilt when you do. Maybe. They’re a hard person to read, even with your telepathy.

But recently, they’ve been letting those quiet moments linger, waiting for you to glance over at them to figure out why they paused. Stretching out the seconds with a tight hold on your gaze. Expectant. The spell breaks when they inevitably move on to talk about something else, but it’s been enough of a recurrence for you to take notice of it.

For instance, there was that one time when the two of you were on grocery duty. While they were reciting anecdotes on why you should never carry your cash in aluminum briefcases or duffel bags, you tossed in a pack of chocolate pudding alongside the usual gallon of milk into the cart. When the squeaking of hair-ridden wheels didn’t follow behind you, you turned around and tilted your head at them.

“What?” you asked, frowning at their gauging look.

“We don’t usually get that,” they said, pointing at the pudding.

“You don’t want it?”

“I mean, I do, but—”

“Yeah, I bet you do.”

You didn’t think much of their pause at the time, instead moving on from the dairy section to the snack aisle. You added packs of trail mix and peanut butter crackers to the growing pile, a corner of your lips quirking up at Marion’s pings of approval. Neither of these are to your taste, but you figured that, with some extra supply, maybe they’d stop leeching off of your own stash.

But that wasn’t the last you saw of the weird staring contests.

Your latest memory of one comes from the last time you went on a scouting mission with them (they’ve taken a liking to calling these missions “dates”, even though they’re entirely business in practice). You already had the blueprints for the event venue you planned on striking next, but Marion suggested that you get also get a lay of the land in person. Their idea was to request a tour of the place, since that’s a service they offer for soon-to-be-wed couples.

“Or we could just, you know. Sneak in during the after hours?” you shot back, because faking being fiancees sounded like one hell of a hassle and a recipe for disaster. Not to mention that you really didn’t need more material to fuel the completely unprompted thoughts you’ve been getting about them.

The disappointment that prickled your skin was definitely projected with intent, if their openly unimpressed expression was anything to go by. “That’s so boring of you.”

“It just makes more sense,” you retorted, sticking your hands in your pockets. “Less room for mistakes.”

“I can and will ad hominem you into agreeing to this.” When you tried to walk away from the conversation, they immediately trailed after you and hurled figurative tomatoes at you in an admittedly impressive impression of the Rat Council. “How could you be so uninspired? Stale, even? Next thing you know your brain will start growing mold with how little you put it to use!”

You put up a good fight—at least, that’s what you tell yourself—but you eventually folded and let them have their way. The worst part? From the impressions you’ve gathered, this whole mess didn’t have any underlying flirty motive to it. They genuinely just considered this a fun outing idea between…

Well, you’re not sure what they consider your relationship to be. In fact, you’re not even sure what you think of it either.

At least Marion had the decency to volunteer for the role of future bride before you even had to draw that line yourself. You got the sense that they were just going through the motions when they were dressing themself up, but they were much more spirited when it came to deciding on your characters and helping you pick out your clothes.

Upon your arrival, you tapped on your fake glass frames and looked around the building in feigned awe, letting the scanner map out a spatial diagram for later use while Marion kept the attendant distracted with animated gossiping. The visit, at least, turned out to be worth your time, since there were some notable discrepancies from the blueprints that you wouldn’t have caught onto otherwise.

Seeing this act to its end did unfortunately mean that you’d have to bear through the whole tour process, which entailed getting drowned in binders packed with decoration options. Despite the dreadfully long process, you somehow found yourself invested in this whole farce. There was a coherent vision coming together, and you weren’t about to just let it reach completion without your input. It also doesn’t help that enthusiasm is infectious, especially coming from another telepath. At some point, it became a matter of trying to figure out how much of Marion’s stated preferences were part of the character, and how much were their own.

At last, after making decisions after decisions, down to the fucking napkins, all that was left were the flowers.

The obvious choice was the hydrangea, and frankly the only good choice. But finding an in-character way to interject with your opinion was difficult when Marion was too busy talking the attendant’s ear off about daffodil symbolism.

“They’re Easter flowers and bloom on early spring, so they’re associated with new beginnings, you see. Oh, but I’m sure you already knew that! My point is, the classic yellow will carry the usual associations, but we add a twist. White daffodils are considered grave flowers, but mix them in with the yellow ones… and ta-da! You get a flowery representation of ‘till death do us part’! How poetic is that? Besides, they’re such pretty little things.”

Okay, sure, but that was also a whole lot of yellow that you very much didn’t want in your wedding, even if it was a fake one that was never actually happening.

“So?” Marion prompted, flipping back strands of their immaculately styled wig. Christ, you were still not used to the unrecognizable voice coming out of them. “What do you think, honey?”

You could have gotten this ordeal over with by going along with their choice, but a little disagreement would add a convincing touch to the cover.

“Sure, why not?”

It takes a moment for you to process your own words, which had taken a complete turn from the thoughts that led up to them. You blink at Marion. They blink back.

And there it was again, the drawn-out moment of silence, loaded with some kind of expectation for you to realize something. Was the whole daffodil thing supposed to be some kind of code? Or are they just surprised that you went along with their idea so easily? Well… they did sound invested in the whole thing. And you could admit that the mixed daffodils were a pretty interesting play on wedding vows.

Besides, it wasn’t like any of this mattered anyways.

Once the two of you returned to the base, the rest of the evening went about as expected.

And now here you are again, eyes locked onto theirs, entirely unsure when the moment will pass. You had settled down on the living room floor, just about to repaint your nails, when you caught them watching you intently from their spot at the couch. You still haven’t figured out what they want from you, but whatever this is has happened enough times that you’re starting to wonder if they want you to kiss them. Or something like that. That sounded less stupid before it became a coherent thought at the forefront of your mind.

“Okay. Before I get any weird ideas,” you begin, because you need to know. “Why the hell do you keep staring at me like that?”

“What weird ideas?” they ask back, raising a brow.

“Ignore that,” you frown. “I asked you a question first.”

They chew on their lips in thought, then point down. “Look at the nail polish you’re holding. What color is it?”

What kind of question is that? Of course it’s—

You squint in disgust at the neon yellow bottle in your hand. Wait, but didn’t you reach out for it just earlier, fully ready to paint your nails in this ungodly color? What the fuck?

“Rhan.” Marion climbs out of their seat, then takes the bottle from you. “I’ve been messing with your head.”

A part of you agrees that yes, yes they have, but then all at once, you realize that they mean what they say literally.

“You’ve been what?” you demand, rising to your feet with clenched fists.

“You never go off the list when we’re getting groceries,” they go on. It baffles you how carefully neutral they’re able to keep their expression. “But you got the pudding that one time. Remember?”

You do, actually, because you’ve been thinking about the way they looked at you back then. Does that mean—

“Is that why I tossed in those other things too?” you press, still trying to wrap your mind around the fact that those weren’t your decisions.

“Oh. No, nothing after the pudding was my idea, actually.” They have the audacity to look as confused as you do about that. “The rest was entirely just you.”

Your mouth opens and shuts, at a loss for words. Indignation begins to boil inside you, breath growing shallower with each exhale.

“Listen, in my defense, you were supposed to have figured it out by the time we got to the daffodils.”

The fucking daffodils.

“You hated them enough that I thought you’d realize something’s up when you said yes, but instead you somehow you found a way to—”

You interrupt them with a fist square to their jaw. The punch packed enough force to send them staggering a few steps backwards, though they don’t let out any noise of pain besides the faintest gasp. Your panting barely starts to settle down as you stare at the crescents that your nails left on your palm. The urge you acted on was intense enough that, for a second, you wonder if they were in your head again, but no—this sickening, familiar need to lash out at everything and anything that’s wronged you is nothing but your own.

“Why?” you rasp out. “Why the hell would you do something like this?”

You like to think that you’ve been trying to understand them better, even when they barely make any sense, but what are you supposed to make out of this?

What if they hadn’t told you?

… Why did they tell you?

Holding your head, you muster a glance back upwards, gaze landing on Marion’s still-widened eyes. Your attention shifts towards the hand hovering over their bruising cheek.

You have to admit, it’s a shame that you marred that pretty face. Or maybe it’s prettier now that it has a mark from you blossoming on it. Either way, there’s a guilty sore in your chest that wants to apologize. Ask if they’re alright. You won’t, though. Your anger pushes down on the ache and shoves it away to some corner, far out of reach.

In fact, that anger overstays its welcome, wrapping around your hands until they’re balled into fists again. It chokes you until your throat tightens, preparing you to shout at them—

Wait, no. This isn’t you. You notice it this time—thin, silky threads pulling from the well inside your heart. They would have easily slipped past your notice had they not been so tightly strung.

Desperation. You sense desperation in the next tug.

“Stop,” you growl, stomping towards Marion. Their head snaps up towards you as you grab their wrist. “You’re really trying to pull this shit again? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Somehow you’re back here. Back where you started. Stuck in a staring contest that you’re unwilling to back down from this time because you deserve some fucking answers, damn it!

In that split moment, their gaze flickers down to your snarling lips. Their mouth goes ajar, and for the briefest second, you think they’re actually going to do it. Unwittingly, you brace yourself.

“You weren’t supposed to sense that,” they mutter instead.

You hold your breath for a second longer, then scoff in disbelief.

“Seriously?”

“I guess he was right,” they go on, practically shoving you off the rail.

What?

“Once you realize there was a telepathic intrusion, you get better at recognizing them from then on… or something like that,” they explain, brushing off your grip from their wrist. “That’s what Chen told me about shields, anyways.”

You swear you feel a wave of nausea at the sudden turn this conversation has taken. “Are you trying to say that all this was—”

“Because your shields are awful? Yeah.”

The migraine hasn’t hit yet, but you can see it coming from a mile away.

“I figured I’d try to help. You were—you were supposed to realize it earlier, but you kept finding ways to use me as an excuse to make sense of things.” They shrug. “It was hard to just stand by and watch, really. So I had to give the answer away to you. At least it looks like it worked, though.”

“Alright. That’s a shitty explanation if I’ve ever heard one.” You scratch the back of your head in frustration. The problem is, you can’t come up with a better one yourself. “Whatever. I’ll take it. But that last time…” You let your hand drop back to your sides. Open, close. “That one felt personal.”

“Well…” They struggle to move on from that single word, their thoughts tripping over themselves before they finally settle on crossing their arms. “That’s on you for being weird.”

“Really? You took that long to come up with an answer, and that’s the best you’ve got?”

They tilt their head away from you. “I had that coming—why would you be sorry?”

“I never said I was.”

“But you were.”

“Or maybe you’re just projecting how sorry you feel for yourself, you asshole.”

It’s that immature response of all things that gets them to shut up. You sigh. If a low blow like that is what it takes to finally feel like you’re back on your own terms, then so be it.

Except there’s still one question that’s been nagging you this entire time, begging to be let out.

“Did you plant the kissing thoughts too, then?”

Marion narrows their eyes at you, mouth agape. “The what?”

Shit. You fucked up.

“Never mind,” you try, knowing that it’s too late for that.

“No, no. Go back. Don’t tell me kissing is the weird ideas you got?” And just like that, they’ve recovered their insufferable smile. “I thought you were finally picking up on the hints that something’s off.”

“You’re the one that kept staring at me like you were expecting me to do something!”

“Yeah, expecting you to realize that I was literally messing with your head?”

At this point, Marion has already dissolved into a giggling fit, while you’re busy searching for the nearest exit to dart towards. Just as you take a step back to make a run for it, they grab your arm and pull you in. You hold your breath, expecting them to seal the deal, but instead of prying your mouth open like you imagined they would, they only leave a light peck on the corner of your lips.

“There,” they say, trying to channel a tone of finality even as they keep glancing at your mouth. “That should get any leftover dumb ideas out of your head—”

They don’t get to finish their sentence before you shove them down to the couch and pick up their slack. To your surprise, they melt under you, holding your face and letting your breaths mix together. As you close your eyes and let their tongue roll over your piercing, it occurs to you that you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve shut them up today.

+ a bonus bad sex meme for your troubles