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Paper is on his hands and knees, clawing at his chest.
The room is empty save for him. The darkness that surrounds him suffocates him like nothing he’s ever felt before. Pitiful moonbeams shine through the shut curtains to try and alleviate the pain, but they’re ultimately a failed attempt at comfort.
This is awful.
Paper isn’t quite sure what time it is, or what day it is, or what month it is, but he is pretty sure none of that actually matters right now. It’s just another disorienting thought that plagues him suddenly, as suddenly as this… moment he’s having.
He heaves like he’d just climbed the Kilimanjaro. Bent over the floor that sways under him even though he’s relatively sure he’s planted firmly to the ground.
Are his eyes playing tricks on him? Is the hotel rattling from an earthquake? Is that why he can’t stop shaking?
He takes in a deep breath and holds it and thinks. Where was OJ right now? Would he walk in on this, ready to greet his husband, only to find the object a crumpled mess on the floor?
No, no he couldn’t have that. It was time to pull himself together.
What even led him here, he wonders. He remembers being in bed one moment and being in shambles on the floor the next. Was it a dream? A dream he had that sent him spiraling onto the ground, breaths shallow and ragged?
…Speaking of which, he should probably breathe.
Paper lets out the huge breath he forgot he was holding and pants. What could he even have dreamt about to leave him like this? He’s used to his normal nightmares, all violent in nature and unpleasant to share, but they usually left him a bit shaky and cautious around others. Not like this. Nothing like this.
With extensive effort he sits on the floor, finally giving his limbs a break from holding himself up. Even if he was as light as a feather, he also wasn’t very strong. The elongated time he’d spent curled in on himself had done a number on his knees, the thinly carpeted floor only doing so much to cushion them.
While trying to return his breathing to normal, he picks apart his brain for any thread he can follow. There had to be something he remembered. Anything.
He closes his eyes and thinks.
And thinks.
And thinks.
And when he grows tired of that, he spreads onto the floor, this time on his back.
He’s tired, he doesn’t know what happened, and he doesn’t really want to deal with any of it right now. He wishes he could just go back to bed. He wishes OJ was here. He wishes it wasn’t so dark. He wishes…
He wishes the sudden thought of Idotic Island didn’t seize him.
Just like that, he jolts upright. That must’ve been it. That must’ve been his dream.
Just accepting it is enough for the blinders to remove themselves, flooding him with the memory of the nightmare he’d pushed away without even realizing it.
Balloon popped, Bow ripped in half, Taco smashed into smithereens, just a taste of the crimes he saw himself committing. Reliving the rage that had filled his heart, his very being, was too much to handle.
Paper trembles, holding himself. They had called him evil, like he was the one who put himself on that dumb island and drove himself crazy by his own volition. As if he wouldn’t have given anything to leave the moment he was put there. As if he didn’t spend countless nights trying again and again and again to keep himself sane.
As if it was his fault when he finally snapped.
“Paper!” OJ’s voice sounds, muffled through the door and accompanied by a knock, “I’m coming in!”
Oh no. Oh no, no, no.
The door pushes open before Paper can even try and gather himself again. He’s forced to watch OJ’s bright smile drop almost instantly, replaced with sorrow and worry.
“Paper?” he asks carefully, flicking on the lights. They’re likely to burn his eyes, but he’s thankful to be out of the miserable darkness he’d woken up in. “Are you alright…?”
“I—” creaks out of Paper’s mouth, cracking and activating something deep within him, forcing him to take a breath and immediately start crying.
“Paper!” OJ yelps, dropping down next to his husband, hands hovering over him. “Can—can I—?”
Through cascading tears and quiet wailing, Paper crashes into OJ’s waiting arms, holding on as tightly as he can. OJ returns the embrace, rubbing the other’s back gently.
“They—They’re—They were—” Paper sobs, trying his hardest to get out a full thought. OJ simply shushes him.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he soothes quietly. “You don’t have to explain anything right now, okay?” He tries to pull back, probably to try and look Paper in the face, but the thought sends the object into another frenzy. Paper holds on tighter, whining.
“I’m not letting you go, Paper. I promise, okay?” OJ reassures. “I just want you off the floor, alright? I don’t know how long you’ve been down here and that worries me.”
With a laborious amount of effort, Paper calms himself enough to nod and loosen his grip, hiccuping and sniffing all the way.
OJ pulls back once again, this time successfully achieving his goal of looking over his spouse.
Paper shuts his eyes tightly. He can’t bear to see whatever emotion lays on OJ’s face at the sight of him. His breathing picks up speed again without his permission.
“Shh, shh,” OJ whispers. “C’mon, let’s sit on the bed.” Paper feels the man’s fingers slip into his and pull him up like it’s nothing (because it is).
With all the carefulness in the world, OJ guides him to the mattress where he sits heavily, another sob falling out of him.
“I—I’m sorry, OJ,” Paper murmurs pathetically. “I—in my dream, I—”
“You don’t have to tell me if it’ll only make you think about it more,” OJ says, a small, concerned frown on his face.
You deserve to think about it more, taunts something in the back of Paper’s mind. You and everything about you needs to be put under a microscope. Maybe then people will see you for who you really are.
Who he really was?
A poor, feeble excuse for a person, continues the voice booming through his head. Not to mention your murderous tendencies. How long before you do actual, irreversible damage? How long until you do something drastic and kill someone you actually care about? How long until you can’t stop yourself anymore?
Paper wants to scream.
“Paper!” OJ’s panicked voice breaks through his intense thoughts, “Paper, please! Let me know you can hear me!”
Whimpering, eyes closed so tightly it almost hurts and trembling like a leaf, Paper shakes his head. He could hear the other, yes, but responding was a whole other ordeal entirely.
“Okay, okay. It’s okay. I promise.” OJ’s panicked voice immediately turns soft again, the glass wrapping Paper in a sideways hug, squeezing him enough to provide a grounding presence, but not enough to upsettingly crinkle him. “I’ve got you, okay?”
Paper mumbles an, “O-okay,” but he’s unsure if the message got across through his tears. Instead of a verbal reply, Paper feels OJ’s free hand once again fill his and he holds it, tenderly giving a small squeeze.
They sit like that for a good, long while. Paper trying and failing to calm himself down repeatedly, always somehow bursting into a new onset of tears the moment he seems fine, and OJ right by his side, trying to help in every way he can.
Useless, floats scorchingly through Paper’s mind. You can’t even stop yourself from bawling like a baby who lost their pacifier. Is that what you need? Something to pacify you like the big, bad homicidal baby you are?
“Stop!” Paper cries, clutching his head. “Please, stop!”
OJ jolts back, pulling away his comforting presence along with him. “What?” he asks, fearful tone in his voice. “A-am I doing something wrong?”
Look, you’ve already got someone else scared of you.
“Shut up!” Paper squeaks, banging his hands against his head. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
Ohh, is the big baby mad? Paper can almost feel how scathing the voice is, like hail ripping him into shreds. Why don’t you go kill somebody over it? Maybe that’ll help.
“I’m not going to kill anybody!”
Might as well. There’s an implied shrug in there somewhere, Paper can practically see it in his mind’s eye. After all, there’s no way OJ will care for a freak like you.
“I’m not a freak!” Paper’s voice cracks again. He’s going hoarse.
Oh yeah? The voice—his voice?—challenges. Since when do normal people talk to themselves when someone else is in the room, staring at them like they’re crazy?
What?
Paper’s eyes fly open and, lo and behold, OJ has the most frightened look on his face. He even flinches when Paper whips his head around to face him, if only a little.
Oh.
Oh no.
See? reverberates through his head. Freak.
Paper fights the urge to break something. Fights the urge to tear something apart. Fights the urge to make a scene and destroy everything in his path, and maybe everyone too.
But most importantly, he fights the urge to be mad at OJ.
OJ, who had most likely come in to sleep peacefully with his spouse, who now sits on the edge of the bed, cowering. It’s upsetting in a multitude of ways, and Paper does everything he can to stomp the feelings down.
It was his fault OJ was so scared right now. He was the one talking to himself. He was the one acting crazy. He was the problem.
He couldn’t let himself be the problem anymore.
Like a bat out of hell, Paper leaps up and absconds from the hotel room, barely hearing his husband call after him.
He couldn’t do this. He really couldn’t do this.
Where are you even going, moron? Scoffs the voice in his head. No one’s going to listen to you whine about how you want to hurt people. Not to mention it’s the middle of the night. What’s the big plan, genius?
“To leave!” Paper shouts, rushing down the three flights of stairs he needs to descend to reach the ground floor. “If I leave, I’ll never hurt anyone again!”
And where does that leave you in a couple days? Hungry, thirsty and alone? There’s something that could pass for a laugh that flits through Paper’s mind. Yeah. Real smart plan, Einstein.
The thought actually halts Paper in his tracks, hand hovering over the doorknob of the hotel’s entrance. “W-what else am I—What else am I supposed to do!?” He stumbles over to the nearest wall and crumples in on himself against it, head between his knees. “What else am I supposed to do…?”
“Paper!” OJ’s voice calls, the sound of panting following it. Paper hears the other scramble across the room and feels his presence once he’s close enough. But he doesn’t look up. He can’t.
“Paper…” the glass breathes. “I’m so glad… I caught you…”
That catches Paper off guard. He snaps his head up and looks at OJ, his husband, his wonderful husband, with eyes so worn and tear tracks making him oddly warped around his face and limbs that won’t stop shaking no matter how hard he tries and realizes a couple things at once.
1) OJ, who was just sitting across from him, scared out of his mind, was now happy that Paper hadn’t left the hotel.
2) The voice in his head was a dirty, no good liar.
And 3) OJ was here. He was really and truly here. And he was here for him.
The need to run, to hurt, to isolate so he never does anything harmful again ebbs away. In its place is a flood of tiredness.
Paper doesn’t really feel himself smack against the wall, but he does feel his eyes glaze over and his entire body give up.
There’s not a single snarky remark to fill his mind about it, and he sighs with relief and exhaustion.
“What’s wrong?” OJ finally asks, breath caught. “You… you bolted out of the room after yelling about some stuff I didn’t understand… A-are you alright?”
Weakly, Paper shakes his head.
“No, no of course you’re not,” OJ mumbles to himself. “Stupid question, sorry.”
“‘Sokay,” Paper manages. “Tired.”
“Yeah?” OJ chuckles lightly. “I’ll bet.” He hooks a hand behind him. “Wanna go back to bed?”
The idea of sleeping fills Paper with both bliss and dread. No longer being conscious sounded like a dream, but the prospect of having another nightmare like the one that sent him in such an awful spiral to begin with makes him shudder.
“We don’t have to sleep yet,” OJ soothes, like he could read his mind or something, “But I think having you lay down on a comfortable bed is better than having you slumped against the stiff wall, don’t you think?
After a moment’s deliberation, Paper finds he has to agree. He was a little sick of the floor right now, anyways. “Yeah…” he nods, trying to lift up but finding his legs too wobbly to support himself properly. He slips back down. “Ah… um…”
“You can’t stand?” OJ asks, eyebrows knitting together in worry. Sadly, shamefully, Paper shakes his head.
“Sorry…”
“Hey, it’s okay!” OJ smiles, although it’s a little forced. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Before Paper can even ask what he means, he’s being hoisted up in his husband’s arms.
“There we go,” we grins, a little more genuine. “We’ll take the elevator.”
Paper blinks, still a little dumbfounded. “O-okay.”
The ride up is made in silence, save for Paper’s slightly shallow breathing. He was fighting off the seconds of sleep he kept falling into, the warmth of OJ and the swaying motion of being held making him even more tired than he already was.
Before long, the sound of the door creaking open fills the air and Paper watches as the ceiling overhead is broken up by the lower threshold of the door, only to return a second later.
Gingerly OJ lays Paper in bed, and it’s like a spell was cast upon him. If he thought he was tired before, he was bone weary now. His limbs felt like jelly and his entire body felt like someone had chewed him up and spit him back out.
He waits patiently, staring hazily at the high, dimly lit cream colored ceiling, while OJ goes about plugging himself for the night. It’s not a very long task, and before he knows it, the weight of his husband is present on the mattress next to him.
Paper doesn’t waste a moment. As soon as he can force his body to cooperate, he all but flings himself onto OJ’s side, holding him as strongly as he can (which was not very, but OJ didn’t say anything about it, so it must’ve been fine).
The glass chuckles quietly. “I hope this means you’re feeling a little bit better.” Paper doesn’t respond verbally, simply nodding his head into OJ’s side. He can feel OJ carefully turn himself so that he’s facing his spouse proper, and Paper sighs.
“S-sorry f’r that,” he mumbles. “I dunno… what happ’ned…”
“It’s alright, Paper,” OJ assures, the soft smile evident in his voice. “All that matters now is it’s over and you’re safe.”
But what if it happens again?
Paper stiffens. No, no, no, it couldn’t be back already. Please, he’d just laid down with OJ, he was supposed to have some peace and quiet for a while!
“Paper?” OJ murmurs quietly, “You’re breathing became weird again. What’s happening?” He moves his arm around until he can find and grasp one of Paper’s hands. “Tell me, please? I hate not knowing how to help.”
There’s no way to help you, the voice says mockingly. You’ll always be like this. I’ll always be here.
“Voice,” Paper says, fighting through the cold, loud, echoing abyss that he seems to find himself in mentally when the voice speaks. “T’lling me… stuff.”
“A voice is telling you stuff?” OJ repeats, most likely for confirmation that he didn’t just mishear his spouse just admit in plain speech that he’s crazy. Paper cringes a bit but nods. “What kind of stuff?”
“Bad stuff,” Paper replies immediately. “‘M crazy. ‘M a freak. You’re g’nna leave me, ‘cause…” Paper takes a deep breath. “‘Cause you’re scared o’ me. ‘Cause I’mma murderer.”
“Well, that’s dumb,” OJ says rather bluntly, catching Paper by surprise.
“Wh—huh?”
“I said, that’s dumb,” OJ repeats again, a little smile on his face. “Paper, if I was scared of you for any reason, do you think we’d be here right now? That we’d be married?” OJ nuzzles closer to Paper, chuckling. “Through sickness and in health, remember? I meant that.” He pulls back just enough to look Paper directly in his eyes. “I really did.”
It takes a moment for the words to really sink in, but once they do, Paper softens immensely.
“Th’nk you,” he says, voice a little raw.
“No problem at all, Paper. No problem at all.”
The two stay huddled in a pile like that, breaths matching one another, until Paper finds he can’t keep his eyes open any longer.
The object’s dream is full of nothing but static. There’s bits and pieces of things that feel tangible, but then it dissolves again. Shapes congregate and shatter if he looks at them too long. Wind howls but it’s not cold. It’s all extremely overwhelming and disorienting.
But there’s no voice.
When Paper finally cracks his eyes open again, OJ is right in front of him, snoring like a boar. He smiles wearily.
The man hadn’t moved an inch from their previous position. It was like they were perfectly glued together.
It’s right then and there when Paper realizes, even if the voice held up their threat and returned, he wouldn’t be alone. OJ would be here to help him through it.
Overjoyed tears slip out of Paper’s eyes and he sniffs, causing OJ to stir a bit.
“Wh… wh’t’s h’ppenin’?” He opens his eyes blearily, the sight of Paper crying seemingly sobering him fairly quickly. “Paper? Wh’t’s wrong?”
Paper shakes his head. “I love you.”
Clearly confused yet just as clearly relieved, OJ smiles dumbly. “I love you too, hun.”
Paper presses himself against and grins into OJ’s chest. OJ just wraps sleepy arms around him and begins to very obviously doze off again.
It won’t last, snarks the voice.
“It will,” Paper mumbles back.
He’ll leave you.
“He won’t.”
I’ll always be here.
“Don’t care.”
With that, Paper is greeted with blessed silence. He sighs happily.
Maybe something like last night would happen again. Maybe it would be worse. Maybe Paper would end up doing something drastic.
But with the warmth of the man next to him surrounding him, he knows he has nothing to worry about. He wasn’t alone. He wasn’t trapped on an island. He was here. He was safe.
He would be okay.