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With the single click of a button, Death falls victim to itself.
It’s so simple. So easy.
There’s practically nothing to it — no thought, no effort. It’s as simple as taking out the trash, or doing the dishes, or any other ordinary chore that needs to be done every once in a while. It’s routine. Impermanent. Sure, it can get a little bit tedious under certain scenarios — like, for example, resurrecting multiple people one at a time. But ‘a little bit tedious’ is the most it gets to be in the game.
No one remembers what it’s truly like.
No one remembers what’s so scary about it at all.
After all, what is there to fear about Death when you’ve already experienced it a million times over? When it ends up being no different to falling asleep? Fear might have existed, once. But if it did, it’s long subsided into nothingness. When in the game, when playing by Mephone’s rules, a click of a button is all it takes to defy the laws of the universe.
But nothing stays dead in the game.
Not even Death.
There’s an X that keeps appearing in Lightbulb’s dreams.
It’s big, bright and ugly, and comes in a garish red colour that makes her stumble and fall to the ground. The mark of death draws itself across her face as she attempts to get back on her feet — a little too long, and a little too late.
Oh, she thinks, this is it, isn’t it?
She’s never thought this would be how she’d go — on the grass, with Death just a few feet ahead of her. Distantly, somewhere, she can hear Paintbrush scream for her to run, and she can barely hear their voice.
But they’re so close. Lightbulb knows they are. And all she wants to do is get up, and hold their hand in hers one last time before the inevitable comes to pass.
They’re so close.
So, so close.
How can they be so close, yet so far away?
“Painty,” she starts, mustering up what she hopes is a smile for Paintbrush’s sake. “I know you’ve obviously never wanted this before. But it’s time for you to be the leader.”
Paintbrush looks at her, eyes wide and mouth quivering, and it breaks her heart.
There’s everything she wants to say to them.
( I love you. I’m sorry).
But there’s nothing she can do.
Lightbulb finds that for her, Death feels hollow. It hides in the air and seeps into her lungs, silently stealing every breath. It feels empty, akin to itself in the way a body no longer moves, in the way a heart stops beating. She remembers it now — the brutal simplicity of non-existence.
Lightbulb dies, yes, but she doesn’t wake up.
Not yet.
When Death arrives, Life becomes a movie. The scenes play out in front of her eyes without care, and the only thing she can do is watch. Watch as Paintbrush crumples to the ground in a heap. Watch as they weep bitterly over her motionless body. Watch as they take her into their arms, and cry, and cry, and cry. Watch as they grieve, and as she can’t do anything about it.
It’s torture — the worst kind. She’s never known before how a heart can break more than once. That it even can, once it stops beating. Then again, for Paintbrush, Lightbulb’s heart would do just about anything.
Even what she doesn’t want it to do.
Fragments rise and fall, lodging deep into the remains of her heart; fragments into fragments into fragments into dust, those of her broken heart, mingling with theirs. They twist, twist, and twist, tearing apart what little she has left, until finally, she’s left with nothing.
Nothing at all.
It’s then that Lightbulb wakes up.
The first thing that registers is that she’s crying. Tears slip down her face unceremoniously, accompanied by short hiccups and sobs. Lightbulb blinks as they fall down, one after the other, never-ending, her breathing caught in ragged gasps. Her chest is taut, something squeezing her rapidly beating heart, compressing it further and further as though to get rid of it entirely.
It hurts, she thinks. It hurts so much.
Desperately, she claws above her chest, like if she tries hard enough, she might be able to reach in and save it. But of course, there’s no such thing, and Lightbulb’s nausea only grows.
The second thing that registers is how dark it is. For a moment, she panics, mind flooding with questions — where is she? Is she dead? The pressure on her chest becomes more and more unbearable with each second that passes by, even when her vision adjusts and she can make out her surroundings — bed, desk, nightstands, doors.
She’s in her room. She’s safe.
The third thing that registers is the weight of the body next to her. It’s Paintbrush, she realises distantly. They’re snoring lightly and sprawled across the bed, eyes covered by their favourite sleeping mask. Impulsively, she reaches out, grabbing their outstretched hand in hers.
It’s only then she doesn’t seem to have to fight for air so hard anymore.
Paintbrush stirs, murmuring something inaudible in their sleep — it sounds like her name — and Lightbulb stills. She bites down on her tongue, hard enough to bleed, and reluctantly lets go of their hand to slap hers across her mouth. Sobs still manage to squeeze their way out, albeit muffled, but it’s enough it doesn’t wake Paintbrush up. And that’s enough for her. She can’t possibly force them to deal with this mess.
Carefully and quietly, she peels off sweat-stained sheets, setting them in a messy little pile that bunches up against Paintbrush’s back. They look beautiful, she off-handedly thinks to herself, and has to resist the urge to reach out and touch their face.
Instead, Lightbulb makes her way out of their shared bed, and to their bathroom.
She fumbles for the door handle, and then fumbles for the switch, sight still slightly blurred. Soon enough, fluorescent lights beam down from the ceiling in a flash, burning and burning in her sore eyes. Once she reaches the sink and switches on the tap, Lightbulb squeezes them shut.
She stands over the sound of rushing water hitting the ceramic basin for God knows how long, maybe seconds or maybe minutes, doing nothing but listening. It sprays on her face slightly, overlaying her slowly drying tears, but she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t have it in herself to, anyways.
The water washes the dream out from her memory, blocks it out the way a dam does with a river. It doesn’t rid her of it entirely, of course. It can’t, no matter how much she wants it to. A dam can only hold back the river. Not discard it. Water cleanses, but dirties itself all the same, after all.
Still, it’s better than basking any longer in a vivid aftermath.
“Lighty?”
Lightbulb freezes.
Frantically, she wipes her face before turning around, shutting off the tap and plastering the biggest smile she can manage on her face. (Which isn't a very big one but she tries her best).
“OMGA! Painty, hi! What brings you here?” she chirps.
Paintbrush rubs their eyes and yawns, shooting her a funny look. “... We live together.”
“No way, really? Wow, what a coincidence!”
Paintbrush gives her another look. “Have you been crying?”
Lightbulb sputters and snorts, her voice pitching to an unnaturally high tone. “Me, cry? What reason would I have to cry, what kind of silly question is that!”
Paintbrush ignores her yapping and moves closer, faster than Lightbulb has the chance to back away. They grab her hands — probably so she won’t try to hide her face — squinting, and then frowns. “You have . What happened?”
“Nothing!” she fibs, uselessly. “Just got something in my eye.”
There’s silence, as Paintbrush’s frown further deepens.
“Do you think I’m stupid?” they deadpan.
Lightbulb sighs. “No…”
She looks down, refusing to meet their eyes as hers begin to well up for the second time. The dream rings clearer in her mind now without anything to block it out — more than a dream really has any reason to.
It isn’t as if this is the first time she’s had a nightmare. No, she’s had plenty throughout the week. But most times, nightmares fade into obscurity. The scenes are blurred, and she’s hit with relief of its fictionality. Memory fails her, and she’s able to go back to sleep not long after it first wakes her up. There had been none of that this time. There’s nothing that made it feel like what, logically, she knows it was.
It felt real.
Too real.
Lightbulb blinks, and the tears begin to spill.
“Lightbulb?”
It’s so stupid.
So, so stupid.
“Sorry,” she blurts out. “Sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Hey, hey,” Paintbrush says softly, slipping their hands away from hers. There’s a moment where Lightbulb mourns the loss of that feeling, but then Paintbrush cups her face, and everything seems a little more okay again. She leans into their touch, hiccuping as they run their right thumb underneath her eye, gingerly wiping away her tears. “It’s gonna be okay, alright? I’m here.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” she mutters, sniffling. “‘S’not a big deal.”
“Doesn’t look that way to me,” they shoot back. “Was it a nightmare?”
Lightbulb shrugs, averting her gaze. “Maybe.”
It’s noncommittal, but it’s enough. Nobody knows her the way Paintbrush does.
“Wanna tell me what happened?” they ask gently.
She shrugs again. “I… I don’t know.”
Paintbrush doesn’t say anything, only pulls her closer, and presses a short kiss to the top of her head — and bad dream be damned, she just about melts in the warmth of their embrace. Lightbulb exhales, then inhales, nuzzling further into them as her tears slowly begin to halt. Paintbrush smells tangy and sweet, like firewood and freshly made cookie pizza. She thinks she could live in their arms for the rest of her life.
“That’s okay,” Paintbrush murmurs. “Just… tell me when you’re ready, yeah?”
She pauses, then nods. “... Okay.”
Paintbrush pulls away from her, and takes her hand again. Theirs are cool amidst her sweat-drenched palms, and if they notice — which, they most definitely do — they don’t say anything. It makes Lightbulb love them all the more, something she’s always so sure isn’t possible, and is always proven wrong about.
“I’m sorry. For making you deal with this.”
Paintbrush shakes their head, and moves forward to plant another kiss on her head. “I can promise, you’re not ‘making’ me deal with anything.”
“You always say that,” she scoffs.
“And I always mean it.”
Lightbulb smiles weakly at their response, holding back a laugh.
“I love you.” is what she says, instead of an equally quick retort, voice soft.
“I know,” Paintbrush hums. “I love you too.”
“I dreamt that I died.”
The admission hangs in the air, heavy and tight. It screws around the lump in Lightbulb’s throat like a noose, accusing of her confession. It’s a little funny, she thinks. Once, she heard confessions are meant to be freeing. That they took the weight off of your chest, and let you breathe with ease. It’s a little funny, she thinks, because never has she known before how someone can be so wrong.
Confessions are anything but.
She turns to her side, and Paintbrush adjusts their arms around her when she does.
Paintbrush is warm, the opposite of confession. It soothes the ache in her chest effortlessly, and she’s able to muster up more words: “I was running to you, and you to me. But we didn’t reach each other in time. Not before the X showed up again. You couldn’t see it — I don’t know why, but you couldn’t. You still tried to fight it though. Which, pretty accurate.”
Paintbrush makes an indignant noise at her jab, and she laughs.
“It’s true!” she defends, looking up at them, something like a grin forming on her face. “... You told me to run. I didn’t. I guess dream me felt it was pointless, and she was kinda right? Either way, I would’ve died. And… I did die.”
She partially expects tears to start forming in her eyes when she finishes talking, and she can only thank whatever God that might exist they don’t. How embarrassing it would be, to cry that many times in one night. And all over some dumb dream? She’s burdened Paintbrush enough with her ridiculous tears and tales of night terrors, and she doesn’t need to burden them more.
Half of her considers shutting her mouth now, to both save herself the guilt and to let Paintbrush get the well-needed sleep that they deserved. The other half knows she’ll never be able to rest herself until it’s off of her chest. It’s the annoying part of being alive, she finds. Sometimes, more than most, your mind had more control over you, than you did over it.
“It’s stupid,” she finally whispers, groggy. “But it felt so real.”
She buries her face in Paintbrush’s chest, in case she starts crying again. Of course, they’d be able to tell regardless, but at least this way she can pretend they don’t.
“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Paintbrush responds softly, stroking her back. “That sounds awful.”
Lightbulb sighs. “It’s not the first time, to tell you the truth. That X’s been appearing in my dreams for the last — what, week? Like some sort of omen. It’s just — It’s never been this bad before, you know? Like, when I wake up, most of my memories of the dream are usually gone. Mostly. But, for some reason, it… it was different this time. This time it involved you.”
She inhales, gathering herself and her words together.
“The worst part wasn’t even seeing myself die,” she confesses. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying it wasn’t bad because it was but… it wasn’t the worst of it, you know?”
“Then what was?”
“It was…” She hesitates. “It was you.”
Paintbrush blinks. “Run that by me again.”
“It’s just that — ” Lightbulb pauses and shifts, adjusting her position to rest her back against them. She sighs and sinks further into their arms, savouring the sensation. “ — I was gone, Painty. I was gone, and so were Test Tube and Fan — and nearly everyone else! But you… you were still here. You were crying, and holding me and — and I couldn’t stand to look at it. It… ”
It hurt more than dying did, is what she wants to say, but doesn’t.
“You were in so much pain,” she adds on, voice cracking slightly. “Maybe it’s conceited to think you’d react that way, but I hated it. I hate when you’re in pain like that, I hate it more than anything.”
At that, Paintbrush is silent. They stay quiet for the next few moments, brow furrowed in thought, as if thinking of the right words to comfort her. Lightbulb doesn’t know how to tell them their presence alone is comfort enough. But she hopes they know, or will know, one day.
“It’s not conceited,” Paintbrush intertwines their fingers with Lightbulb while they speak, running their thumb over hers. “And your dream isn’t far off, honestly. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost Test Tube or Fan. I… I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”
They sigh, and bring Lightbulb’s hand up to their mouth, kissing it softly before continuing. “I mean, a life without you? That… isn’t exactly something I'm interested in.”
A lump grows in Lightbulb’s throat, and for the third time that night, tears make their way into her eyes. Maybe she’s overly emotional tonight, but God, does Paintbrush know how to pull at her heartstrings. She blinks furiously, refusing to cry yet again, and sits up to face them properly.
“You mean I mean that much to you?” she asks, almost shy.
Paintbrush snorts and looks at her incredulously.
“Of course you do. What kind of question is that?”
Lightbulb falters. “I guess I never realised.”
Paintbrush raises a brow. “Well, realise it. Because you’re not getting away from me anytime soon.”
(Not again).
Oh.
Oh.
A pause.
A beat.
Then, a smile splits across Lightbulb’s face.
There’s only a few seconds of quiet left before she tackles Paintbrush — who yelps out in surprise — and kisses them on the mouth. Paintbrush tastes sweet, if a little sour. She can catch a hint of cookie pizza and something lemony in there, though the latter she has no idea where from. Paintbrush didn’t exactly regularly snack on lemons. (Not that Lightbulb minds).
“I love you,” she breathes out, peppering more kisses over the rest of their face. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
“I know, I know!” Paintbrush laughs out, squirming underneath Lightbulb’s stream of attacks. “I know. I love you too.”
Lightbulb hovers above Paintbrush’s face, cupping it with one hand. Strands of their bristles fall into their face, flushed with the prettiest shades of pink. All Lightbulb wants to do is kiss them, until she runs out of breath, until they both grow old and Death comes knocking on their doorstep.
So, she does. She kisses them, again and again and again.
To die like this would be heavenly.
Kissing Paintbrush never gets old, no matter how many times she does it. It’s one of her favourite pastimes in the world. Paintbrush, Lightbulb realises, makes up a lot of her favourites. Their voice, her favourite sound. Their kisses, her favourite taste. The way they smell, her favourite scent. They’re her favourite person, and most of all, they’re her favourite feeling.
Because what else would it be, if it wasn’t loving them?
I love you. I love that we exist.
I love that I love you.
As she kisses them, she can feel the corners of Paintbrush’s mouth quirks upwards, like they can hear her thoughts.
When they finally part, Paintbrush leans back in, letting their foreheads touch. There’s a little clink! noise when they do, and the two of them burst into a fit of tiny giggles, Lightbulb’s arms wrapping around Paintbrush’s waist, and Paintbrush’s hands rising to hold her face in their palms.
“We have our whole lives ahead of us,” Paintbrush murmurs once laughter dies down, and moves to briefly kiss her one last time. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
In another life, she doesn’t wake up.
In another life, Paintbrush carries her body to a house not quite home.
In another life, she’s laid next to Test Tube and Fan, the three of them together even in death.
In another life, Paintbrush is left behind, the last of the four.
In another life.
But not this one.