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“I can’t believe I’m trapped in my own personal elevator with you,” Squidward snapped. Then he blinked, realizing what he just said. “Actually, nevermind. This scenario is so predictable and cliché that I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”
Strangely enough, Spongebob seemed equally distraught for once. He was backed up against the opposite wall, fretting over a large bulging sack and whatever it contained. Hopefully not rope and chloroform, he thought uneasily.
“What’ve you got there?”
“Nothing!” Spongebob replied, his voice an octave too high.
“Whatever,” he sighed. He secretly hoped there was a shovel of sorts so that later on he could ask to be put out of his misery.
Spongebob finally stopped rummaging through the sack, seemingly content with what he reorganized. He sat down, facing Squidward, and rested his hands on his knees. “You know, Squidward,” he began. “When I was young—“
“I don’t care,” he cut in, and turned away, ending this contrived bonding session prematurely.
“It’s getting kind of toasty in here,” Spongebob said, as if his panting wasn’t self-explanatory enough. To Squidward’s dismay, he started unbuttoning his shirt.
“Do you mind? I’d prefer my view to be a lot less obscene.”
“But it’s so hot,” Spongebob whined, fanning himself.
“We’ve only been here for two minutes,” he replied, but he could feel the sweat pooling around his brows.
“Come on, Squid,” Spongebob coaxed, already bare-chested and folding up his shirt. He assumed – no, hoped that Spongebob hadn’t meant to sound so suggestive. “It’s not like I’m telling you to strip it all off, you just have to remove your shirt.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, all I’m wearing is a shirt!” He yelled. Spongebob blushed in realization, then looked away, suddenly quiet.
“Moron,” he muttered under his breath. He couldn’t do anything else other than cross his arms and stew in his own sweat and misery.
At first, Squidward tried to ignore the strange sounds that started emanating from his companion, but curiosity got the best of him. He looked at the sponge, who appeared to be holding his breath. His cheeks were puffed out, his hands balled into fists at his sides, his face turning an ugly shade of blue. But bubbles were drifting in and out of his pores.
“Do I even want to know?”
“Holding – my – breath,” Spongebob gasped. “To – conserve – oxygen. Breathing – through – pores – instead.”
“Great,” he sighed. “Well, maybe a sponge corpse will be better company than a live one.”
It became very inconvenient when his claustrophobia kicked in.
The elevator seemed to shrink, and the walls were pressing inward. Squidward’s breathing quickened until he was inhaling in shallow gasps.
“No one’s gonna rescue us,” he said out loud in a horrifying realization. “No one knows we’re here, we’re trapped, we’re–“
“Squidward, remember what I always say?” Spongebob asked, suddenly at his side and patting his back.
“This isn’t the time for your catchphrases! No, I’m not ready, and this is the worst day ever!” He punctuated his rant with a lengthy scream.
“No, I’m talking about Imagination! Close your eyes… And imagine yourself on a sunny beach… Relaxing…” Squidward didn’t quite know why he always followed the sponge’s suggestions even though they had a one hundred percent chance of making things worse. Nevertheless, he shut his eyes, and did as he was told. He pictured white sand, and coconut trees, a wooden lounge chair that he was sprawled on, wearing his favorite sunglasses. It was working. He could feel warmth in his belly, as if he was really sunbathing far away from here.
“That’s right,” Spongebob continued in a soothing voice. He was rubbing his back for good measure. It was kind of nice, he had to admit. “You’re on a vacation… Enjoying the peace and quiet… In your private island… With me!”
Squidward’s eyes quickly flew open. He screamed louder.
He woke up with a start and was reminded of the grim reality: that he was still in an elevator with Spongebob and they were most likely going to die here.
But there was a strangely pleasant stirring in his abdomen. He was still groggy, having fallen asleep sitting against the wall. He was surprised to find he was leaning on something soft to his side, and when he looked, spied a yellow shape.
Spongebob was snoozing beside him, curled up under his arm. In his sleep he had started tugging at the hem of Squidward’s shirt.
Squidward noted that he looked a lot more innocent while he slept.
He let his tentacle remain wrapped around Spongebob, and leaned against him to go back to sleep. He figured, if ever they were found in this compromising position, he could just blame the other, anyway.
He was curled in on himself, huddled against the corner, when a sharp noise caught both of their attention. Squidward reddened and touched his traitorous stomach. It growled again.
“Squidward, you should’ve told me you were hungry!” Spongebob said, and started rummaging through his bag again. He pulled out something that immediately made his mouth water.
“I made us some apple p—“ Squidward couldn’t help himself. He snatched it and gobbled it in one bite while Spongebob gawked, but then returned to his sack and pulled out more food.
“Well, it’s a good thing there’s still some lasagn—“ Again, Squidward ate it. When Spongebob brought out another piece of food, he uncontrollably went for that, too.
“Um, Squidward,” Spongebob said. “That was the picnic mat.”
“Sorry,” he replied, embarrassed. “What do you have to drink?”
Acting as if Squidward hadn’t just depleted all their food stores, Spongebob produced some beverages.
“Wine coolers!” he said cheerfully.
“Don’t you have anything else?”
“Champagne. Scotch. Rum. Beer. Vodka. Tequila?”
“Cheers,” Squidward said glumly as he downed the first wine cooler.
“I’m so wasted,” Spongebob giggled.
“You had half a teaspoon of jello,” Squidward pointed out. But Spongebob hiccupped and a stream of bubbles burst out of his pores. It was weirdly fascinating to watch.
“Let’s play a drinking game! We need to pass time.”
“I’d rather you pass out, or better yet, I just pass away.”
“Cards!” Spongebob suggested, bringing out a deck. He then proceeded to throw a few cards on the floor. “Go fish!”
“You’ve never played ‘go fish’ in your life, have you?”
“Nope! Let’s play strip poker instead.” He started doing a series of complicated card-shuffles in his typically annoying Spongebob way. “Every round one of us loses, he has to remove one article of clothing.”
“How many times do I have to point out that I only wear a T-shirt?”
“Oh” Spongebob blushed again, and fell quiet. Again. Squidward slapped a tentacle to his forehead and groaned in frustration.
Eventually, a miracle happened: light flooded the elevator as it roared to life, a rumbling noise alerting them both.
“It’s moving!” Squidward said happily.
“We’re saved!” Spongebob added, arms outstretched. But they had spoken too soon, for the elevator started lurching. They both lost their balance as it swung, the floor suddenly uneven. Squidward had a sinking feeling that they were literally, hanging by a thread. The cable was going to snap any second.
“It’s… Falling?”
“We’re doomed!” He found himself with an armful of sobbing Sponge.
“Squidward, before we die, I just wanted to tell you that I’m in love with you!” Spongebob abruptly announced, which only served to worsen Squidward’s anxiety.
“We had all the time in the world and you pick now to tell me?! When I’m hysterical?!” He was still trying to pry Spongebob off, but the other male had stuck to him like glue. The elevator swung again, and luck had him falling on top of Spongebob in a very awkward position.
“I was nervous!” Spongebob confessed, peering up at him with wide eyes.
“You don’t know what you’re saying!”
Another swing, and their positions reversed, Spongebob pinning him against the floor.
“Yeah, I do! I may be the slightest bit tipsy and somewhat panicked, but otherwise I’m of perfectly sound mind right now!” Just like that, his sad face morphed into a grin. “I was actually planning this fun day to end with me telling you my feelings!”
Squidward wasn’t prepared for this many revelations. The whole universe seemed to be conspiring to send him to an early grave and it was torn between doing so via cardiac arrest or blunt force trauma. “Now’s not the time to discuss this!” He shrieked amidst the snapping noise overhead.
“But I need to know how you feel before we—“
It was too late. The last thread of cable tore and the lights went out as the elevator descended at a breakneck speed. They were both screaming, and clutching each other for dear life as death quickly approached.
And then everything stopped and only then did Squidward recall that the elevator they were trapped in happened to be located in his two-storey house.
He rejoiced anyway, jumping to his feet and lifting Spongebob in the air.
“We’re okay. Spongebob,” he said, relieved. “We’re… Spongebob?” The other male wasn’t moving. Squidward looked closer and noticed the steady rise and fall off his chest.
“I swear, if this is some idiotic ploy to get me to give you mouth-to-mouth…” He said loudly, but there was no response. Spongebob’s eyes were shut, looking like he had earlier while asleep: innocent and pure.
He couldn’t believe he had just thought of Spongebob that way.
“Guess the idiot finally ran out of oxygen,” Squidward observed with a wry smile. He pried the doors of the elevator open and was greeted by the gorgeous sight of his living room. Returning to the prone figure, he gently picked up Spongebob off the floor and cradled him to his chest.
“You’re not getting off that easy, Squarepants. We’re having a long talk once you wake up.” And then he was going to have that cursed elevator removed from his house.