Chapter Text
Paintbrush wouldn’t say they’ve been avoiding Lightbulb since they returned to Hotel OJ. They’ve just been… too busy to talk to her! Yeah, sitting in their room with their headphones turned up staring at the roof is very draining, and very time consuming.
…Yeah. And it’s not because they’re avoiding her, because they’re not— but they’re not exactly keen on discussing all the stuff that they said about her on live TV; or at the very least implied to the viewers, if the trending hashtag on Twitter was anything to go by.
Okay. Yeah, Paintbrush might be avoiding Lightbulb a little. But can you blame them? They have a major dire situation on their hands!
“You look like you’re about to freak out again,” Fan provides from his spot on the other bed, pausing his frantic scribbling into a notebook. Presumably, he’s sending another complaint letter to Paper— Or, as Paintbrush likes to call it, a “complaint letter” with extremely cryptic, specific flirts sprinkled throughout.
“I’m not freaking out,” Paintbrush said, choosing not to comment on the note-making and… whatever other weird rituals Fan had with the Hotel OJ residents. “I’m just… thinking.”
Fan shot them a knowing look; Paintbrush withered under it, for a fraction of a second. “Whatever you say, buddy; just know I’m here to talk, yeah? I got you.”
That last line was definitely not intentional on Fan’s part; in fact, as soon as it finished falling from his lips, his eyes widened in realization of what he’d said.
Paintbrush had recognized it instantly, of course; how could they not? That final interaction with Lightbulb was something they turned in their head over and over, looking for something, anything that they hadn’t poured over relentlessly in those few lines.
Is that just showbiz? Or is it because Paintbrush has inconvenient, not-so-platonic feelings bubbling underneath the surface for someone they haven’t seen in months upon months?
“I’m gonna go take a walk,” Paintbrush declared boldly, putting on the dramatic act they’d gotten so very good at. It was almost perfected, the mask they put on; only a few people were able to see through the cracks of it, and that was something to be proud of, for sure.
Regrettably, one of those people was Fan, who simply raised an eyebrow and looked at them skeptically. “A walk,” he said.
“A walk,” Paintbrush repeated, not sounding as confident in the remark as they were only a few moments ago.
Fan inspected them for a moment, his gaze scrutinizing, before he waved a hand in a flippant gesture toward the door. “Go on, then; don’t be out too late. OJ’s doing barbecue tonight.”
Paintbrush smiled; that was another one of Fan’s cryptic messages, one that says be safe, I’ll miss you if you’re not around.
“I’ll be back,” Paintbrush says, and then they’re out the door walking the Hotel OJ halls.
One thing about them is that they’re very inorganically lit; for as many windows as the place had, you’d expect more natural lighting. But no, the fluorescent lights above them hummed and the place looked like an extremely orange hospital as Paintbrush walked through it.
They had insisted on going on a walk, but their confidence began to waver as they realized they didn’t really have anywhere to go; it wasn’t planned in any sort of way, and Paintbrush didn’t work well with spontaneity.
So all they really did, for the next fifteen minutes or so, was circle the Hotel OJ with music blasting through their ears. They tried to walk in time with the rhythm, but every song in their playlist was at such a different tempo that it was a lot harder than they had imagined.
After a little while of this, they grew bored; the sun was beginning to set, and OJ was setting up the barbecue outside the hotel. Fan wasn’t lying about that then, huh, Paintbrush thought, staring over at the growing crowd and contemplating if they should join them.
As much as they talked about this place being their home, Paintbrush found that everything had changed a lot since they’d left for the third season of Inanimate Insanity. The couches were replaced, rooms were shuffled around and rearranged (Paintbrush was still rooming with Fan, and Test Tube was still with Microphone; the thought of that awkward conversation made Paintbrush giggle a little to themselves) and everyone’s personalities had just changed… a lot.
Paintbrush didn’t really know if this place was home anymore; if they had played it up for the cameras subconsciously, or if there was someplace else—someone else, their mind supplies helpfully—that they were thinking about throughout the whole ending to that episode of Inanimate Insanity.
Home is where the Heart Is, It was titled once it premiered. Paintbrush’s feelings laid bare on the big screens, once again. They were getting better at handling themselves, they believed, but just when they let their guard down… off they go again, on a heartfelt tangent that really shouldn’t have been left in the final cut, if you asked them.
And that was just the problem, wasn’t it? These feelings always circled back to the same place; the fact that just the mere mention of a name could send them on a complete tangent that ended with them practically voting themselves out…
It was Lightbulb, obviously. It had always been.
So why are you still being so avoidant? A traitorous voice in the back of their mind whispered. You say all these things so proudly to anyone who asks; why can’t you tell the one person who it should concern the most?
Paintbrush mulls over their mind’s rhetorical question for a moment, as if they didn’t already have the answer lined up. Because I’m scared.
---
They head over to the barbecue eventually, not wanting to break their promise to Fan that they’d be back soon enough. OJ welcomes them with an around-the-shoulder hug, and Fan waves from the other side of the celebration.
Paintbrush used to find themselves at the sides of these parties, when season one was freshly ended and all of them were a few years younger. They’d sat with Marshmallow, mulling over the loss of her best friend, while the lights flashed in rainbow colors and someone squealed because they’d unintentionally set the kitchen on fire.
Now, though? There were a lot less lights, a lot less chaos, and Paintbrush found themselves chatting amicably to the fellow residents. It was alienating, how much they’d missed out on whilst they were out, but being able to share their own adventures in turn with everyone else who had missed out was fun for a while.
Their social battery is pretty big, but even Paintbrush began to grow tired after such a long barrage of questions— none about the latest episode, thankfully. It was a bit of a sore spot, and Paintbrush didn’t really want to talk about any of it quite yet.
As Paintbrush waved goodbye to everyone, continuing their aimless walk around the sides of the hotel, the wind began to pick up. Their hair was tousled, draping aimlessly wherever it could reach and then flying off again; just what they needed to end off their already-awful day.
There were windy days back at the Island, obviously, but they were a lot more humid and tackier than the dry cuts of wind against Paintbrush’s cheeks now, like ice.
“God damn- wind,” Paintbrush muttered to themselves, walking through the door into the hotel OJ lobby. They didn’t have a hair tie, all of them up in their room, so they trekked up flights upon flights of stairs with their hair draped around their ears, looking like they’d just been electrocuted.
Their room was empty when they walked into it, so Paintbrush continued to mumble angrily as they tied their hair up carelessly behind them. It was already ruined; leave tidying it up to a Paintbrush who wasn’t extremely agitated and might set it on fire if they tug too hard.
After a little while of bemoaning their own life’s difficulties—consisting of the embarrassing things that even Paintbrush knew should not be said on national television—the door creaks.
Paintbrush expects it to be Fan—one look outside tells you how late it’s become, and who else would be coming over so late?
“Hiya,” A voice says, so minute that Paintbrush barely heard it over the static in their own head. But they recognized the sound; the vowels curling around the lips, in a way that could only belong to one person.
Paintbrush jumped about twenty feet in the air, knocking their head against the headboard of their bed.
“Oh!” Lightbulb exclaimed, taking a few brisk steps toward Paintbrush; although it was clear that she was wary of getting too close. So she’s definitely seen the episode, Paintbrush thinks bitterly, holding a hand to the back of their head where they can feel a bump forming. There goes the ‘pretend it never happened’ strategy of getting out of admitting you’ve totally got a crush on her.
“Sorry—you scared me, sorry,” Paintbrush sighed, lying down on their side, keeping their eyes on Lightbulb. She had put so much distance between the two of them; but was it really her doing, or was it Paintbrush’s for saying all that when they really shouldn’t’ve?
Regardless of who made it, the space between the two of them stung.
You’ve been ignoring her ever since you came back, the stupid, “rational” part of their brain said. She’s going to be a bit hesitant, obviously. She can’t read your mind.
“Um,” Lightbulb said, quite eloquently if Paintbrush could say so themselves. “So.”
“So,” Paintbrush repeated, feeling their face grow hot as the situation made itself clearer to them. Lightbulb was here, in front of them, and they just hit their head on the back of a headboard. Not a very good first impression.
(But this wasn’t a first impression, was it? That was the problem. That their history ran so deep.)
“Fan and Knife were hanging out in our room, so Fan told me to come here…” Lightbulb said, trailing off as she looked around. Baxter was in his cage, tapping at the glass, and Paintbrush suddenly felt very guilty for keeping him away from his original owner for so long because of their silly emotional issues. “I can go, if you want?”
Paintbrush clears their throat, laying in a more comfortable position. “No, stay,” they said, hoping that the desperation they felt didn’t leak into their tone. “Um. I think Baxter’s missed you..?”
I’ve missed you, they think, but don’t say. Why didn’t you come sooner? Why don’t you bug me all day like you used to, no matter how much I pushed you away?
“Yeah,” Lightbulb said, walking toward the aquarium where Baxter is rolling to and fro, clearly happy and content. “I, uh, took care of him, while you were… away.”
“At season three,” Paintbrush finishes. It was clearly what Lightbulb wanted to say; why did she shy away from the subject so much? Just rip the goddamn band-aid off, Paintbrush thinks, face getting hot once again. Tell me what I said was weird, I’ll apologize, and we’ll keep ignoring each other. It’s that simple.
(Is it?)
The silence between the two of them is tense, sharp enough to cut a brick in clean halves. Paintbrush huffs, rolls over on their bed. Lightbulb walks over so she’s back in their vision. She sits cross-legged on the floor and sends a shaky smile. “Baxter missed you too, you know,” she says. Her eyes don’t even flick over to the crab for a fraction of a second; a channel of understanding passes through. I missed you too. You don’t have to say it, but I know you wanted to tell me.
Paintbrush sighs. “…What are we doing?”
The gentle, porcelain smile on Lightbulb’s face absolutely cracks. She frowns, hands balling into the carpet. “What do you mean…?” She asks, voice wavering. Paintbrush hates the way it breaks their heart into pieces.
“This. Why are you still hanging around?” Everyone else left. It was only a matter of time, really, before Lightbulb goes and does the same—Marshmallow left, OJ left, Silver…
“Can you please just go? I… I don’t want to talk, right now.”
The increasingly large hole in their chest screams otherwise. Lightbulb’s face falls even more than it already had, and Paintbrush thinks, for a fraction of a second, that they might be in love with her; that they want to keep that expression off her face forever.
She’s going to leave, they rationalize.
But what if she stays? What if she doesn’t leave?
As soon as they’re about to call out, tell her that no, please, let’s talk—the door clicks, and Lightbulb’s gone.
Too late. She already has.
Paintbrush just wishes it didn’t leave them feeling so hollow.