Chapter Text
A long, arduous afternoon later, Steven finds himself seated across from his wife at their dining room table, a homemade meal of roasted bell peppers and chickpeas plated out for the two of them and a subtle, guilty shimmer lurking within the most isolated thickets of his features.
If Connie happens to notice his anxiety, she makes no obvious move to address it yet. And genuinely— from the bottom of his heart— he’s not sure whether this makes him feel better or worse. Scouring whatever’s left of his good judgement for how on Earth to broach the topic of… of, well… literally every last disparate emotion that’s been coiled into an impossible knot within his mind and his dick for the last few weeks, he stalls the inevitable by engaging in a bit of casual small talk instead.
So, how was your day, he asks, taking a few bites of his dinner. (Pretty good. Busy, but fairly uneventful.) Was Mrs. McCaffrey back in today, or is she still out with the flu? (Still sick, she’ll probably be working from home for the rest of the week.) Has there been any new momentum on that clean energy bill Senator Marks was hoping to push to the state’s committee? (Yes, actually! The first hearings will be at the end of the week, which— after how many months this bill has spent in the drafting stage— is pretty exciting. They’re hoping they can push it to House without too much revision.)
Shamefully though, his attention begins to wander once Connie starts chattering about what she’s been learning in one of her graduate courses, unable to fully escape the trappings of his self inflicted ruin. Sheesh. He must admit there’s a minuscule facet of him that foolishly hoped that maybe… just maybe… almost knocking out the whole week’s household to-do list within the span of a couple hours would absolve his soul of all the shame it harbors. Laundry, dishes, sweeping, fetching the mail, grocery pick-up, hardware store trip so he can replace that faulty bulb over their bathroom sink… beyond folding up all their clothes and bedding and deep cleaning the bathrooms, there’s nothing else he can think of that needs his attentive touch. But is it enough? Is he enough? Is there anything more he can do— anything at all— to make up for the damning fact that mere hours ago he basically (no, not basically— don’t try and worm your way out of this one, coward—) engaged in partnered sexual acts without his wife?
Frowning, he fidgets with the ring adorning his finger, sliding his thumb across the smooth blown glass inlaid at its core. Stars, he feels so incredibly lost right now. Despite his immense pleasure and joy in the heat of that moment, the memory of that encounter now leaves his stomach lined with a churning, conflicting sense of regret he can’t quite pin a name on. But how is he supposed to rationally explain any of this? It all unfolded so fast. He doesn’t want to hurt her. Doesn’t want to lose her. Doesn’t want to—
“Steven?” Connie interrupts his racing thoughts, setting her fork down on the edge of her bowl with a gentle clink. “Sweetheart, is something the matter?”
“Hmm?” he intones, snapping his gaze up to meet hers head on. “I— I’m sorry. I’ve just… got a lot on my mind, right now.”
“Yeah—?” she says with a slight huff of amusement, cocking her head ever so slight. “Whatcha mulling over? Your cogs were grinding so loudly I thought I was about to see smoke pouring out of your ears.”
He flushes under her perceptive scrutiny, heart hammering in his ribcage. Goodness, so much for masking the tides of his distress. But then again, should he really be surprised? Connie’s a woman of many talents— and reading his features like a damn novella just so happens to be a specialty of hers. One thing’s for sure: there’s no more delaying this conversation.
Come on, rip the bandaid off, he tells himself. No choice now but to be wholly, transparently honest… even if it kills you.
Especially if it kills you.
Swallowing hard, he clasps his hands together upon the tabletop and prepares himself for the very real and scary possibility that what he’s about to admit to her might destabilize their recent marriage entirely.
“Connie… there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
Her forehead creases with immediate worry. “Okay…? Shoot.”
“Earlier today, I, uh—” a singular bead of sweat trails down his face as his words nearly die in his throat, spoken in such a whisper they’re naught more than an echo— “well, I kinda removed my own gem…”
“Wait, what?!” she hollers, shooting up from her chair in a flash.
He throws his hands out in a rush to placate the worst of her worries. “No, no, no, no— please, please, sit down, I swear everything’s okay now, it wasn’t for long.“
The barest hint of tears stain the corners of her eyes as she clamps a quivering palm over her mouth. “But why the hell would you—”
“Listen, you have every right to be as upset at me as you want later, but just… let me give you the context, okay? It’s… kinda a long story.”
With her immediate panic satiated, Steven begins his testimony.
Inhaling deep, he anchors the first act of this narrative with their visit to Beach City a month or so ago. With those age-old nightmares she already knows so intimately. With his twilight excursion to his mother’s room. He tells her about manifesting a copy of himself— of his Gem half, to be more specific— and about how he utilized this apparition to help reason his way through some troubling emotional matters he’s harbored regarding his split, back when he was a kid. Connie nods along, picking at what little supper remains in her bowl all the while… though it pains him to admit she doesn’t look quite as appetized anymore.
This next bit, of course, is where he suspects he’ll lose her.
It’s almost impossible to keep his voice from cracking in embarrassment as he broaches the hot topic of what actually happened in the Room that night. Of the unexpected and downright confusing flutters of affection he unlocked during that conversation. Of… of the passionate kiss he shared with this illusory manifestation of his own Gem.
Ever so subtle, his wife leans forward as he reaches this part, laying her spoon down in her emptied bowl. Her brows shift inwards in a manner he’s unable to fully parse, but he can’t help but note that her eyes are blown wide with clear intrigue. She beckons for him to continue.
“And, well… after that, I left. Returned to the motel. Tried to just, I dunno,” he groans with a small flourishing wave, and then immediately folds that hand against his weary temple. “Forget about it, I guess. But then, I…”
“Couldn’t seem to put it out of your mind—?” she finishes his sentence.
Correctly.
Steven sighs, shoulders slumping forward in his defeat. “Yeah.”
“So is this, uh… is this what all your pent-up energy these past few weeks has been about?”
“Yeah…”
“And you didn’t tell me about any of this earlier because…?”
“I know, I know, I should’ve been honest with you sooner,” he says in full sincerity. “Everything just… spiraled out of my control so quickly. That whole time, no matter what I did to try and satisfy those thoughts, t-those urges, I… it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough—! It felt like I was going crazy, I just had to do something about it! So then I—”
Big swallow.
Well, it’s now or never, Universe…
“S-so then I yanked out my gem, just like White did, a-and then… and then the two of them maybe, kinda, sorta… had sex with each other,” he stammers out. “In the guest bedroom, not ours,” he adds after a brief beat, as if such a pointless, nugatory detail makes this final bomb of an admission any easier to swallow.
The surface of his mouth is so dry it might as well be coated with desiccant as he silently gapes at Connie in the harrowing few heartbeats that arrive immediately afterward, priming himself for her inevitable response… whatever it may be.
Whatever he deserves.
But to his great anxiety, her expression remains shrouded in uncrackable neutrality. Her hands— motionless and polite— are clasped together before her, not even a stray wrinkle appearing on her forehead while she stares long and hard at the repeating pattern on their table runner.
“I— I see,” she finally utters, lips pursed, letting all this crucial information soak in.
A great big lump forms at the back of his throat as he moves to speak.
“I’m just—”
Unfortunately, the second he opens his stupid trap again it’s all over for him. His voice grows all thick and strained, and he struggles to say much of anything through the uncontrollable onslaught of tears and snot that— without much warning at all— wrests a complete and unrelenting command of his body.
“I’m so, s-so sorry,” he brokenly sobs, reaching a stray hand across the table towards hers, “I swear on my life I never meant to hurt you like this, I never meant for things to go so far—”
His wife’s eyes flash with an equal measure of concern and confusion as she darts to her feet, scuttling around the table’s perimeter to his side. “Woah, woah, what the hell are you talking about?”
“What am I—? Don’t you get it? I broke my vow to you, I… I cheated on you, I-I’m—”
“Hey, hey!” she intones, pressing her palm against his shoulder… sweeping her thumb along one of the seams of his shirt with delicate grace to try and help calm him down. Such blissful (but undeserved, he doesn’t deserve her love after what he did) contact is a welcomed diversion from all the tumultuous emotions ripping through his system like a flash flood right now. “Let’s go calm down in the other room and talk this through, yeah? I genuinely think you’re blowing this up into a far bigger thing than it needs to be.”
Looping her arm around his, she pulls him to his feet and half-leads, half-drags him away from their dining area, the two of them outright abandoning the uneaten remainder of his meal to the cruel whims of fate. And… okay, okay, point taken, so maybe there is a chance that she’s right. Maybe he is being way too melodramatic about this and it’s not as damning and complicated as he’s making it. But the again… considering all the intricate little nuances with which this whole scenario unfolded— that niggling prickle at the back of his neck that something about this arrangement must be wrong, must be forbidden… that creeping sense of shame the washed over him afterwards, for the way he willingly engaged in sexual acts without her while still wearing his wedding band— he can’t think of anything else to call what he experienced this morning but bold-faced infidelity.
His sniffling has not abated by the time Connie steers him in front of the couch and motions for him to sit. He complies without argument. After everything she’s heard tonight, it really is the least he can do. Thoughtful as always, she fetches a few tissues for him so he can wipe his nose and dry his tears before plopping herself down at his side. Gathering all his wits as best he can, he breathes in nice and even… once, twice, thrice.
“Okay,” she begins, clasping her hands upon her lap. “So let me make sure I understand this correctly. You’re saying that you somehow… separated yourself from your gem this morning?”
A singular nod.
“A-and that… and that your human half and your Gem half, t-they…”
“Had sex,” he murmurs, his cheeks burning red hot once more.
“Yes. Right. But you’re not still—?”
“I’m not split anymore, no,” he says, lifting his shirt a few inches as his proof. The exposed diamond at his navel shimmers under the dim evening light as she peers down at it, contemplating. “They fused back when they were done.”
Scratching at the nape of her neck, the corners of her mouth pucker inwards as she contemplates these facts. To his great relief the emotions coloring her face don’t seem to be tinted with tones of anger or resentment. That being said, Connie’s always been a master of controlling the minutia of her countenance in a stressful situation, so he’s not out of the woods yet. He inhales once again, allowing his lungs to fill to the brim… preparing his mind and soul for whatever scathing admonition is surely set to come next.
Or at least… that’s what he feared.
His anxiety’s worst-case scenario.
“I… yeah, okay,” she begins in time, “I mean, I’m not gonna lie. What you’ve described is pretty unusual— and fucking dangerous, I might add— but I don’t see it as cheating if that’s what you’re so tied up in a tizzy over.”
“But isn’t it?” he retorts, throwing out his open palms in gesture. “I basically made love to another person under our own roof! It just feels—” his voice breaks on these syllables as he doubles over, clutching his head with both hands, his elbows bolstered against his thighs— “augh, I dunno. I guess it’s just that…”
“That what?” Connie probes after a moment’s silence.
Steven grits his teeth, willing himself the strength to finish this sentence, to finally— after nonstop weeks of harboring this thought, this germinating attraction he can’t yet comprehend the complete shape of— push this intimate little admission out of all the murk and mire of his mind and into objective reality.
“That… I never expected to develop these kinds of feelings for someone else too, y’know? I—” braving himself, he sits up to meet her steady, perceptive glance again— “before all this, it’s only ever been you.”
Her gaze narrows. “But is your Gem someone else? Are either of them someone else?”
There’s a brief moment where his jaw lulls open and his tongue shifts upwards as if to respond, more than ready to dig himself deeper into the rotting brambles of his own sexual insecurities, but…
He can’t lie that Connie brings up a valid question. Even though that original separation took place about a decade ago at this point, he’s never well and truly dedicated much time to processing what his components’ split existence means for him as his own person. Like yes, he’s pondered on the mystery of how they split for days, but now that he’s secured that answer… now that he knows he unravels much like any other fusion would… what does this make him? Who is Steven? Did he always exist as the sum of his parts— as two beings seamlessly blended together as one— every last step and decision he’s ever made the product of their shared will, of their unified passions and perspective? Or is he simply the template by which they molded their base-most form and temperament when they first burst into half-life existence that day?
Was he born a fusion, or is his fusion-like duality yet another unexpected by-product of his traumatic childhood?
Without more evidence, it’s impossible to say for sure.
“Listen,” his wife says, breaking the almost oppressive silence. “I’m a little pissed at you for other reasons we’ll get back to later, but first things first— let’s try and unpack this a bit.“
Acquiescing to her request, he leans himself back on their sofa and angles himself to listen.
“Let me be pristinely clear,” she begins, tapping her fingertips against the side of her thigh as she briefly pauses to consider her phrasing. “If you told me you had sex with a completely different person, I’d be livid. But given this involves some strange form of fusion, I… well, things aren’t so clear cut, are they? It’s not that you yourself made love to some complete third party, or whatever, it’s that these beings who are a part of you made love to each other. Those are two wildly different concepts.”
Steven scowls, his shoulders slumping. “I guess, but…”
“And anyways, ignoring all the complications of your whole ‘kind of a fusion, kind of not’ situation—“ she cocks her head in muted bafflement, clearly struggling just as much as he is to define and categorize the truest nature of his recent carnal activities— “wouldn’t having sex with yourself basically just be masturbation?”
“I mean… maybe-?” he says with a broad shrug. “Depending on the circumstances? But that doesn’t super fit how I felt. How they felt.”
Weary, time-worn eyes flutter shut, numerous phantom sensations dancing across his consciousness with a feather-light grace: of his quivering hands sweeping across the sloping plane of his back, pressing his affections against each and every scared facet of his form with lust-drunken abandon… or of his selfless extension of light, surging swift and strong through his fingertips and crossing the very barrier of their split being to flood his delicate system with its restorative essence.
It’s impossible to hold back even a smidge of his wistful, overly-sentimental sigh whilst reflecting upon the crux of this matter. Upon— if he’s honest with himself— some of the best sex he’s ever had. And stars, does that feel wrong to admit while sitting right next to the literal love of his life. Even as an unvoiced thought, sequestered within the sheltered privacy of his mind, it bubbles and churns at the pit of his stomach with an altogether acerbic bite. Genuinely nothing about the arc of this conversation makes sense to him so far. Like, why isn’t she more upset about this? After all, it’s not like he split into his components for no damn reason and they just so happened to get intimate, no— he wrenched himself apart solely to satisfy his own mounting arousal. He wanted this, he craved this…
And shamefully, a not-insignificant chunk of his soul still craves their presence now.
But how does one even begin to express these feelings?
How can he help her grasp the deep internal conflict he’s wrestling with here?
“When I— I mean, when they were, uh… together… they were wholly separate bodies, Connie,” he explains, glancing back towards her. “You remember, right? They’re linked, yes, but… many of their thoughts, their preferences, their desires… they were unique, I could tell.”
For instance, the foremost detail that leaps out in his fused memory is his components’ contrasting opinions on the cause of their past corruption— of who’s more at fault for that— and of the lingering remnants of scaring that still mar his skin today. He himself, well… it’s taken him years of struggle to accept these marks for what they are. His subtly sharpened teeth. The unnatural darkening of his nail beds. The thickened, scaly scar tissue that appeared at strategic points along his arms and spine after his meltdown, dotting his body like some fucked up anatomical map of the monster he once feared he was. For better or for worse, his internal conflict over these features— his battle to reclaim them as a badge of honor, as physical proof of the dark days he’s survived— defined an entire era of his life. And it’s this same conflict he can see reflected in his components, too, thinking back to their latest encounter.
It’s the way his Gem manifested with such evident scarring defining his silhouette, even more blatant and severe than what he himself expresses. It’s the way he still remembers the soul wrenching shame this part of himself harbored for these aspects of his form, juxtaposed in dizzying fashion by the pure, romanticized adoration his other half poured out for those very same scars.
It’s the way he exists today as some strange, inexplicable blend of the two mindsets… his opinion having evolved into little more than a begrudging neutrality.
All of that to say, they’re not him.
Nor is he either of them. Not really.
Which is what makes this next thought that’s drunkenly pirouetting across the surface of his awareness like some sort of damned tumbleweed so intensely confusing.
“And even now,” he continues, “it’s like…” He pauses, lips pressed tight as he contemplates how best to explain this feeling, this thankless, incurable ache within his core. “It’s like I’m stuck projecting myself on the most familiar piece of that puzzle, or something. I know I’m not actually me when I fall apart. Neither of them are me. But… the non-Gem one, the one who looks the most like me… whenever I fantasize about this scenario, I always imagine myself in his place. And, well, I’m pretty sure I’ve figured out why at this point.”
Deep, shaky inhale.
Connie leans forward against her knees as she listens with rapt attention, chin perched atop a loose fist. Out of anxious habit, Steven’s fingers shift to scratch at the scaly scar tissue at his elbow as he pushes himself to finally vocalize the full and honest truth.
“My Gem half… It’s almost like I’m… attracted to him now—?” he says with a shrug, voice hitching upwards in all his jumbled confusion. “Like… sexually. And maybe romantically, too. It’s kinda hard to tell the difference, sometimes. But he’s a part of me, right, and the two of them also love each other, so—” his hands join right in to this monologuing, sweeping a wide arc in emphasis of his rambling words— “so how does any of this make any sense? I don’t even really want to feel like this, ‘cause the only other person I’ve ever wanted to have sex with is you!”
“Steven,” his wife frowns, reaching out with marked hesitance.
“I married you!” he blurts out against the whims of his thundering heart, shame staining his features in red. “I committed myself to you! So it all just… everything I’m feeling, it all seems like one huge betrayal of that.”
“Steven.”
Calloused digits press firm against his forearm.
“Hey. Look at me. Please.”
It takes a great well of courage to press past that instinctual drive to shrink back into himself— to clam up and shut up and never utter a syllable of this soul-baring nonsense again— but once he sucks in a quivering breath and locks eyes upon his wife, a bright wellspring of relief surges to existence within him. Reflected within her gaze, he finds a potent sum of patience and empathy. It’s certainly far more than a numbskull like him deserves, but… that’s beyond the point, isn’t it? Because every time the shadowy maelstrom of his fears threatens to pull him under the waves of this perilous sea, his dear, sweet, stubborn Connie fights to reel him in to shore anyways. Her supple touch bursts with unquestioned affection as she sweeps her hand across his skin. Tracing along the backs of his knuckles, she flashes him a thin smile before gingerly interlacing her fingers with his.
“I get how strange all of this probably is to you, but… I genuinely think you’re applying human relationship logic to a situation that’s so unique it simply can’t be defined in any pre-existing terms. I mean— you’re not human. Not completely, that is,” she says, a statement that’s— despite its truth— somehow as blunt as it is pointed, a rusted dagger piercing straight through his lungs. “So why restrict yourself to human sexual conventions?“
“I—” he gives her hand a squeeze of acknowledgement before pulling away— “I hear what you’re saying, but it’s still confusing. Like, I don’t remember them feeling that way about each other when I was younger. Or at least… I don’t think they did? Admittedly, it’s all kinda fuzzy to me now.”
She shrugs. “Based on your track record, that actually makes a lot of sense to me.”
“Hmm?” he murmurs, brows creasing in his perplexion. “What do you mean?”
“It’s always been in your nature for your feelings to intensify and evolve over time, right?”
Steven nods along, his thoughts drifting towards that heart shaped demisexual flag sticker on his laptop, the one he picked up a few years back at the last Delmarva Con he attended.
“Yeah—?”
“So don’t you think that’s exactly what happened here? They’ve been a part of you for like, forever. With all that in mind, it’s not hard to imagine why they might grow to have such an intimate connection.”
“I— huh,” he says, letting his body sink back into the blissful embrace of the couch cushion as he truly marinates in the eloquence of her logic, really lets this idea sink in. “Wow. Okay, I can see your point. It’s just… what do I even do with any of this knowledge, y’know? Where do we go from here?”
Connie crosses one leg over the other as she readjusts herself in a more casual position, propping her elbow against the upholstery.
“Well, how ‘bout for starters you quit it with all this self-inflicted shame bullshit and finally give me the juicy deets?”
He squints, not quite following.
“The ‘deets?’”
“About the sex, you dingus!” she says with a laugh, serving him a spirited slug to the shoulder. “Was it good? Bad? Somewhere in between? I gotta know!”
His cheeks heat up as he— once more, in far better spirits— thinks back to everything that transpired this morning. Goodness, where does one even start to explain the kind of transcendental experience he had?
“Stars, it was amazing,” he admits with a wistful sigh.
In the most descriptive, thorough manner he can muster, Steven attempts to paint his partner a cohesive picture of events… beginning from his self-induced separation.
He tells her about regaining consciousness in the guest room as two bodies instead of one, about that uncanny sensation of being split but not split— of having full awareness of each other’s thoughts and emotions and bodily sensations, of literally seeing through each other’s eyes… their distinct senses of self still blurring together at the edges even despite their tangible cleavage.
“Imagine it like… we were fused in every possible way except physical,” he says, intertwining his hands within his lap. “All of those threads that link our minds together were still intact, but—” slowly, delicately, he slides his fingers apart until they’re only touching at their tips— “they were stretched far beyond their normal give, to a point where each piece of myself could actually be aware of their own existence.”
“And this is what it felt like the first time, too?” Connie asks, leaned up against his side. “Back when— y’know?”
He nods, swallowing hard. “I believe so, yes. It’s just… before, I could never fully explain this part of it to you because it was too painful to think about. But now, after this new experience, I… all of it suddenly seems so less heavy. I dunno why. Maybe it’s ‘cause this time around, I chose this for myself—?“
“Maybe,” she agrees with a soft hum, and gestures for him to continue.
For the sake of time Steven chooses to gloss over a great deal of his components’ conversation, but slows down his storytelling once they begin to get intimate. A burning flush creeping up his neck all the while, he lays out the scene for her in vivid, explicit detail:
First, his Gem half sucking the other one off…
(Stars, those teasing, tactile digits… sliding along the base of his shaft with a well-acquainted fluency as his lips and tongue evolved their technique even further, every last breathy moan and seizing muscle acting as a guiding beacon in this nonstop feedback loop of pleasure…)
Then, his organic half offering to return the favor.
“Except the thing is, my Gem half, well… he didn’t exactly have human genitalia,” he says in little more than a bashful squeak, his limbs halfway to trembling under lust’s renewed thrall upon the mere remembrance.
This big bomb of a factoid secures her full and undivided attention in a flash. Her eyes widen as she snaps upright upon the couch.
“Oh—?”
“Y-yeah, it was like… basically a geode?”
“Hmm. A geode, huh,” she utters, tapping her lithe digits against her chin. “How would that even work—?”
“It seemed to be sensitive to touch in the same way my gem gets when I’m, uh— y’know. Erect.”
He pantomimes a few erratic tapping motions against his midsection as a visual, and she nods in immediate understanding. And holy shit, thank goodness for that. With how hot and bothered he’s getting in simply recounting this salacious little exploit, he’s not sure his dignity would’ve survived having to elaborate in any more brow-raising detail. (Alas, he’s still rather insecure when it comes to vocalizing the dirtiest of his thoughts.)
Unable to neutralize the nervous bouncing of his leg as his tale shimmies ever closer to its magnificent crescendo, Steven pushes to finish his uncharacteristically explicit dialogue. He describes how beautiful his Gem’s innermost facets were… warm to the touch and rendered in shimmering shades of pink. He tells her how his organic half began his explorations with all the practiced skill of his digits— that crystalline hollow flaring wider and wider with every frenetic repetition of his fingertips’ frolicking beat— but swiftly shifted to pleasuring him orally the second he got a taste of his sweet slick. Even Connie— usually the master of self-restraint when it comes to discussing sexual matters— is starting to look a bit aroused as he regales her with this part of his story. His pulse stuttering, he pushes through to the end anyways… painting a thorough image of his components’ final moments before they lost all concentration amidst such blissful release and snapped back together with all the intrinsic force of a pair of rare Earth magnets.
“Wow…” she utters upon the back a shaky exhale, pausing to allow the risqué meat of his story time to fully sink in.
“Y-yeah,” he says with a nervous laugh. “So that, uh… that’s what I’ve been trying to process all afternoon. I- I’m sorry for freaking out on you over all this, I just… I didn’t know how you’d react. What you’d think of me. The absolute last thing I want to do is ruin what we have, y’know?”
Lithe fingertips run all the way up the stubble spattered curve of his jaw, drawing a shallow gasp of relief from the deepest abyss of his soul… from the cavernous void where all his most world shattering anxieties are kept.
“Sweetheart, you didn’t ruin anything. I promise you didn’t. I love you just as much as I always have, and there’s so few things in this world that could ever change that. But…”
A short but uneasy beat of silence (in which his heart skips a handful of beats) passes. She pulls the blessed reassurance of her touch away, shrinking back in to herself.
“Moving past all that… there is something else I’d like to address now, if that’s okay.”
He nods, sniffling. Based on the intensity of her initial reaction to his news this evening, he’s pretty confident he knows where this train of thought is going, and by all laws of sound communication it’s a fair issue to call out.
“It hurts that you didn’t open up about these struggles before resorting to tearing yourself apart,” she says, clasping her hands together in her lap. “It hurts that you didn’t trust me with this piece of yourself in the first place.”
“I—” his head droops as he internalizes this cutting critique— “I understand.”
“Like— shit, Steven,” her voice warbles, overcome with a sudden onslaught of grief, “if something went wrong this morning, if they couldn’t fuse back and something had happened to you when I wasn’t home to help, t-then… then what good is everything I’ve sacrificed to protect you if I can’t even—”
Connie’s once impassioned words fizzle out into nothing more than an isolated cluster of strained, broken sobs. Shoulders trembling in her fear, she topples into his arms, eyes fluttering shut. Calloused fingers seize thick fistfuls of the back of his shirt, her willowy yet undeniably strong limbs wrapping around his midsection with such distraught force it’s almost painful. Whatever automated, impersonalized words of comfort were germinating within him dissolve into formless static upon his tongue. Shit… so this is serious. It’s not within her nature to break this rapidly. Not over trivial matters, anyways. One thing’s for damn sure… empty platitudes mean nothing now, not when his partner’s outright staining his shirt with the damp of her snot and tears.
Blinking through the watery blur of his own burgeoning tears, he pulls her tight… tucks her in flush against his chest… sweeps his digits in broad, comforting circles across the plane of her back as he whispers his heartfelt apologies for his lack of consideration with this whole mess. Stars, there’s so, so many excuses and half-baked justifications jangling around inside his head for why he obscured the truth from her for so long— chief among them, his fears (which he now sees are irrational) of infidelity, or of freaking her out with his unconventional sexual interests so soon after their marriage— but now is definitely not the time to try and defend his choices.
He’s done quite enough long-winded explaining today as it is, he thinks.
Because without meaning to… without dedicating even a measly millisecond of brain power to the potential consequences… he thrust her into the horribly vulnerable position of having to learn about his risky sexual activities after the fact. Like, how would he feel if their positions were swapped? What if Connie was the hybrid, and— entirely in secret, without him nearby to aid in the case of an emergency— cleaved herself in two?
Obscured from her view as he clutches her close, his expression plummets.
What if, indeed.
They remain locked within each other’s comfort for a good few minutes as her once-harried breathing settles into a more sustainable rhythm.
“Damnit, I hate crying like this,” she says with a frustrated huff, pulling away from his embrace to blot at her eyes with the sleeves of her sweater. Despite her upset, she can’t help but cast a half-hearted laugh as she peers at the soggy mess she made of his shirt. “Sorry for using you as my tissue, Biscuit.”
His own cheeks still just as damp and ruddy as hers, he’s swift to shake his head. “No, no, you don’t have to apologize for anything. I… I’m glad you said something about all this. I know I’m not the best communicator at times, but… b-but I want to get better at it. You deserve nothing less. Anything you want to know, anything you need, I’ll make it happen. I swear to you.”
“Okay,” she inhales sharp, leaning back on their couch. “Can I… ask you a serious question, then? And—” she jabs her index finger in front of his lips as they begin to part— “and before you leap to respond, please be honest with me.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you plan on splitting again? Yes or no?”
His mouth falls dry as he considers. She’s probably not gonna be a big fan of this answer, but…
“Yes. I’d like to.”
“I figured,” she hums, threading her fingertips together in her lap. “Then, may I request something important of you?”
He meets her gaze head on, now painfully aware of all the apprehension threaded within those warm brown irises of hers. She continues.
“Can you promise me that you’ll only do this when I’m home, and notify me beforehand?“
Swallowing hard, he nods his wholehearted acceptance of these terms. It’s as fair a deal as any. Although the more he thinks about it… even if she consents… something about the mental image of his base components enjoying an intimate time together whilst Connie is abandoned to sit on the couch in the other room— distracting herself with a book or a puzzle and trying everything within her power not to crumble under the force of her anxieties as she listens in on their pleasure— is distinctly wrong to him. Wrong, and upsetting. So with that in mind…
“Alternatively,” he begins, a nervous little quiver underlining the tenor of his voice, “there’s, uh… there’s also always the option to join them.“
Her brows thread inwards as she begins to piece together the fullest picture of his offer. “What, like… y’mean…”
“Have sex, together,” he says, glossing the palm of his hand along the furthest ridge of her jaw, beseeching her fullest attention, drawing her in. “All three of us. I-if you want to, that is.”
Perhaps it can be healing for her too, he postulates to her, re-living this painful sliver of their childhood in a safer context. In their own time, their own space. At their own behest. It doesn’t have to be for very long, and they can always fuse back if their separation should prove too dangerous to sustain.
His wife hesitates, the pulse in her neck spiking under even the gentlest pressure of his thumb. It’s clear as day from the idle shimmer dancing across the very canvas of her eyes that the idea is alluring to her, and yet…
“I— listen,” she says in a stone cold serious tone, reaching her own hand upwards to glaze across his. “I’m not gonna lie. The thought of having to see you like that again… all split in two… well, it terrifies me.”
Long pause.
Long, shaky exhale.
Her eyes flutter shut. In a trembling burst of courage, she leans in closer to press their foreheads together, her warm breath tickling the baby-soft hairs of his cheeks.
“But… I trust you, okay?” she finishes, the sheer strength of her affections nonetheless ringing true. “And if you think this could be a beneficial experience for us, then I’m at least willing to try.”