[Markus’ remains unmoving, feet rooted to the ground, as he watches Fitz withdraw into himself. Hears that paroxysm of an acquiescence, the way the other man hangs his head and casts his eyes to the ground. A more prideful individual would take some victory in that, even if it were only the barest whisper of success, of his point being made and his own stance unshaken. But Markus can’t. Can’t see anything but someone lost, someone still trying to find a solid path to walk upon after having been so completely diverted — as if he had been split in two, and now expected to fit the two halves together when the pieces would no longer align.
A part of Markus wants to correct Fitz. His friend claims that he knows who he is, when the reality is that he knows who he needs to be. A leader or a guiding hand. A man who can’t falter, who has to appear like he can hold the weight of the world and the problems of others, let them press greatly into his back, and not stumble as he moves forward. That sometimes he can’t completely differentiate who the real him is supposed to be, versus what expectation will mold him to become.
But it isn’t the same. Markus can’t hope to compare himself to Fitz’s situation, the latter possessing two lives, two sets of experiences. He wishes he could relate. He wishes he could truly understand.
He wishes he could help.]
I realize… that we don’t know each other that well. And I won’t do you a disservice by claiming that I know what it feels like, that I know exactly what it is you’re experiencing. What you’re trying to sort through.
[The space is non-existent between them, and Markus adds the connection of touch; a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. A gesture that Fitz has provided for him in the past.]
But you can’t do it alone. You can’t leave yourself in the thrall of your own mind, and expect for… guilt to do anything but self-deprecate. To apply all the blame to yourself, because you might feel like you deserve it. We’re all our own worst critics, you know. [Sentiment of art, applied to sentiment of the soul.]
Talk it through with someone. With your friends, with someone you trust. Give yourself time and the benefit of the doubt, and most importantly, be willing to forgive yourself. I know you’re a good person. You’ve proven that to me already.
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A part of Markus wants to correct Fitz. His friend claims that he knows who he is, when the reality is that he knows who he needs to be. A leader or a guiding hand. A man who can’t falter, who has to appear like he can hold the weight of the world and the problems of others, let them press greatly into his back, and not stumble as he moves forward. That sometimes he can’t completely differentiate who the real him is supposed to be, versus what expectation will mold him to become.
But it isn’t the same. Markus can’t hope to compare himself to Fitz’s situation, the latter possessing two lives, two sets of experiences. He wishes he could relate. He wishes he could truly understand.
He wishes he could help.]
I realize… that we don’t know each other that well. And I won’t do you a disservice by claiming that I know what it feels like, that I know exactly what it is you’re experiencing. What you’re trying to sort through.
[The space is non-existent between them, and Markus adds the connection of touch; a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. A gesture that Fitz has provided for him in the past.]
But you can’t do it alone. You can’t leave yourself in the thrall of your own mind, and expect for… guilt to do anything but self-deprecate. To apply all the blame to yourself, because you might feel like you deserve it. We’re all our own worst critics, you know. [Sentiment of art, applied to sentiment of the soul.]
Talk it through with someone. With your friends, with someone you trust. Give yourself time and the benefit of the doubt, and most importantly, be willing to forgive yourself. I know you’re a good person. You’ve proven that to me already.