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Part 1 of PAYJAY!!!!
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Published:
2025-07-30
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2025-09-20
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3,780
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3/?
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second-hand guilt

Summary:

oj finally reads the note paper left him before the latter took his world away.
READ THE DAMN TAGS PLEASE!!!!!!!!

Notes:

dont read this if anything mentioned in the tags triggers you. youre more important than my crusty ii fanfic

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Ring. Ring. Ring.

OJ didn't want to get up.

He had no clue why he even bothered to set an alarm. Why he even bothered to wake up at all. There wasn't any point if he wasn't going to see that warm, excited smile on his lover's face after he made his morning coffee. It would be so wrong to just pretend that nothing happened, to continue with his daily routine.

As much as he disliked such a change, it happened anyway. It was so sudden, yet not so sudden as well. Like a tornado that only got an alert for it a couple seconds before it actually hit. There were signs, but there weren't enough for OJ's ridiculous, clueless mind to catch onto them in time to save his boyfriend.

Not just his boyfriend, his whole world. His everything, the only one who loved him so dearly, so deeply that he knew the wound of losing him could never be stitched up again. It severed his still-beating heart into two lame parts that couldn't be pieced back together in a million years.

He tossed and turned in his bed, hugging himself pathetically as if it could ever replace the cuddles that Paper gave him. It simply wasn't able to replicate the way his arms wrapped around OJ's body, the way his face nuzzled into his neck as he slept soundly.

It was the only good part of ever lying down and trying to get rest. All that was left were the empty, bland bedsheets that chafed against OJ's thighs like sandpaper. The mattress that felt as hard as a rock. The empty, gaping space beside him that was so suffocating it gave OJ a claustrophobic feeling.

Tears stung his eyes for the 21st time this week; it was only Wednesday. That fateful night had happened 7 whole agonizing days ago. His room was disheveled and messy, the note that Paper left him crumpled up in a cardboard box in the corner. He didn't want to read it. He hadn't yet, and he mentally kicked himself for it. They were the last words Paper would ever leave him, and he cast them aside like he did with MePhone's chocolate chip cookies.

He wanted nothing more than to finally take it and let the words that danced across the torn page really sink into his already ruined mentality, but he could probably "bet his marsh" that his lungs would run out of air before he'd stop sobbing. He knew he could manage it. It wasn't the worst he'd been through; finding Paper's cold, lifeless husk of a body bleeding out for what seemed like an eternity, his lack of response to OJ's helpless wails and screams was far more awful than some stupid letter.

No.

It wasn't just some stupid letter. He was a piece of shit for even thinking that. His lover probably poured his blood, sweat and tears into that note, and the only thing OJ had ever done to it was shove it away like he did to Paper himself beforehand.

He supposed it was about time to do something relatively productive. He had been incapable of doing anything other than rotting in bed for the past days, and the guilt was eating him alive like a parasite. He stretched his limbs a little as he sat up slightly.

His back hurt. Not very pleasant, but it clearly wasn't the worst thing he'd been through recently. He shuffled up to the corner where he had tossed away Paper's letter, and reluctantly grabbed it from the trash-littered floor into his calloused hands.

Was he really ready?

As he read through, OJ began to feel nauseous as his heart dropped further and further at each syllable he registered.

His fingers trembled violently, his vision blurred with unstoppable tears, and his body wracked with the most painful sob of the century as he collapsed on the floor, an absolute mess. He pressed his knees to his chest, memories of him bonding with his beloved boyfriend flashing across his brain while he finally began to truly realize he'd never feel that warmth again. He bawled even more, shedding tears that Paper's shoulder would have caught only in his wildest fantasies.

He begged for the comfort that could only be given by someone who was gone, whose soul had disintegrated into the whistling wind that blew fiercely out his bedroom window, mixing with the fresh spring air that Paper would never be able to breathe in again. The air that OJ was choking and suffocating on, the air that would have actually let OJ breathe if the latter's loneliness wasn't strangling him like a noose wrapped tightly around his neck, like a knife that ruthlessly pierced his torso.

Like the knife that broke his whole universe by breaking the person that it revolved around.

God, did he wish Paper wasn't dead. He felt so guilty.

 

 

Dear OJ

You were the first person that came to my mind when I wondered who to write these special little notes for.

Thank you, first of all. You've done so many positive things for me. You've loved me in a way nobody else could or ever will, and I really do hope you keep on doing that even when I'm super dead. Not saying you shouldn't move on, just don't forget me!

My people-pleasing was kind of getting too far, now that i think about it when ive finalized everything. i was such a failure to everybody else so i was convinced that disappearing and wiping myself off the face of the planet would work to make everybody happy.

i really really hope it did, because you all deserve nothing but the best, and "the best" would be without me. i know it might not seem like it, but trust me, in a few months you'll be grateful i did it. i'll miss you, so so much, my love. please be glad and don't cry and grieve about me.

you'll be okay without me, you really will. It hurt so bad to keep hurting others. I'm saving myself too, so dont be miserable about it like i said before. I was in pain. This was like the euthanasia, i guess. i'll miss the days we spent together, not a single second of our time wasted at least in my opinion.

i clung onto others too much, especially you, OJ. i fear that i relied excessively on you and other people to the point i started like, stealing your personality or something. now with me gone, you guys can all be yourselves to the fullest. love you lots. i'll always be rooting for you in your biggest endeavors, the ones you can finally achieve without me getting in the way. i don't want to seem like i'm guilt tripping you though, so please still remember that i exist and i love you beyond anything else ever ever ever! <3 i really wish i could cuddle you and comfort you for the last time, but i think that you've given me enough of that to last a billion more of my future lives, and i'll be eternally grateful for your empathy.

i'll always think of you now that i'm dead. sorry.

~ paper, your biggest fan 4ever no matter what salt says!

Chapter 2

Summary:

The funeral was a blur. Maybe OJ wished it was more than that, a broad memory more complete than he was, something he could suffer with for the rest of his life.
He didn’t, really; there was nobody to help him shoulder the burden of existing anymore. He didn’t need more difficulty to add on to it.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

OJ hoped that nobody would blame him for not writing a eulogy. He couldn't bring himself to, not to win another million dollars, not for anything.
Except for Paper coming back, but that wouldn't happen.

He wished he could contribute more to this…whole thing, but he found that whenever he tried to pick up a pen and try to spill out all his agonizing emotions into words formed with navy blue ink that would never in a trillion lifetimes get close to the mental torture he was going through, his entire body began to throb with excruciating misery that made his head spin and his brain fog with a mixture of loneliness and anxiety.

He shouldn't even be here. Why couldn't he be in an alternate timeline, where everything was okay? Maybe instead of attempting to pen down some subpar essay that was supposed to encapsulate the empty hole in his heart that caved in after his lover's passing, he'd be under the covers snuggling with him like he was supposed to. Like he deserved…? No, that would've been another lie to add to the many that spilled out of his mouth over the years.

But now, he was sitting with his forehead leaned against the car's raindrop-stained window, staring off into the foggy distance as tears brimmed in his tired eyes, making a good impression of the aforementioned window.

He was all alone in the car, minus Soap who was at the wheel; he could perfectly drive all by himself, thank you very much, but he feared he wouldn't be able to perform as well as he should if he was literally going to attend the death party of the person who his world had pretty much revolved around for the past months.

His fingers drummed idly against the car seat, doing anything he could to distract himself from the raging train wreck that was his thoughts.

He was used to this feeling of emptiness, so used to it in fact that the endless void of grief was starting to consume him whole, considering he hadn't done jackshit for the hotel since he found his boyfriend's corpse empty of anything that really made Paper, well, Paper, on that filthy orange carpeted floor.

He wished he didn't make it orange sometimes. Maybe white would be nice. But then the fabric would be as stained as that stupid letter was with OJ's tears, still sitting in the corner of his bedroom where he left it to rot, nothing but a bitter reminder of what could've been.

The rest of the car ride was a blur, and as OJ stepped out at the graveyard he felt a wave of nausea hitting him as he spotted those rows upon rows of graves, a cruel reminder yet again of the flash of memories that was what he tended to call the "discovery". He didn't want to think about it, but now that he was here, he was sort of forced to. It made him want to puke again. The atmosphere was so dark, more hopeless than OJ had felt when he had realized the final time that he'd ever see Paper's eyes, they were riddled with exhaustion and some sort of…guilt.

Guilt that OJ thought he'd never know in his life, guilt that OJ swore Paper would never need to experience.

The guilt of leaving it all behind. Was OJ leaving Paper behind? Did he have any other choice? He wasn't sure, because if there was anything OJ could do to not abandon Paper, not to ditch him in the dust like he did the first ever time they talked to each other, years and years ago.

"OJ. We need to hurry up."

…

And it was over. And he was going home. And he hadn't shed a single tear, surprisingly. He didn't know why; probably because his stupid clueless brain was convinced that afterwards he'd go back to the hotel and he'd be able to run up the stairs to his room and he'd see Paper. And then they'd greet each other. And they'd talk and talk well into the night, until they'd had enough and they fell asleep together, legs tangled as they rested their sorrows away.

But as he creaked open the door, Paper did not perk up from his spot on the bed, flipping through his all-time favorite Warriors novel to kill time. He didn't smile cheerily and ask him how his day was going, and if he was able to be as productive as he planned to be. That would only happen in his wildest dreams, his deepest fantasies, the ones that seemed so plausible and regular because they had happened before.

He sat down on his bed, shivering as the icy breeze of January blew through the window. He yearned to have one final conversation with Paper, to right all his wrongs, fix all his mistakes, hold onto his lover so tightly that it would seem like he'd never let go.

He probably shouldn't have. If he had just talked to Paper the night before the discovery instead of heading straight to his room and hitting the hay, even though he knew full damn well that Paper wasn't there. He had been too tired to even care, winded after that day's workload. If he thought he was a bit down that day, he couldn't even begin to imagine the living hell Paper had been through. Every single time somebody made a rude remark, a scathing comment, or the slightest criticism whether it be constructive or not, Paper would practically deflate into OJ's arms, sobbing as he ranted about how useless and pathetic he felt.

It had happened a lot. And when it did, OJ could hardly ever find the words to comfort his boyfriend, doing nothing but the bare minimum and allowing Paper to sleep the pain off and come back the next morning with his excited grin and his will to take on the challenges that life threw at him on the daily.

He probably should've realized that once a man starts breaking down every night, riddled with misery and a fruitless longing to be perfect for everyone else, he won't simply wake up one fine summer day and realize how everybody loves him and the birds are singing and the grass is the greenest on this side of the fence. That if he doesn't get what he needs, what he deserves, he'll lose all the reasons he'd gathered up in his lifetime to live.

Had Paper felt like OJ never cared for him enough? Not enough to perservere, not enough to recognize that one day it'd get better because it just had to. Paper had rarely done a bad, inconsiderate thing in his life. He didn't do anything to deserve this, so why should it happen to him? Why not some real jerk?

So many questions left unanswered, so many in fact that it made OJ's head throb with another wave of pain as he buried his face into his pillow, pulling the bedsheets closer to his chest.

He didn't get a "goodnight, sweetie," nor a "rest well, 'JJ," before he drifted off.

He got eerie silence that blanketed the room with a feeling of dread, another unforgiving sign that perhaps OJ's hope and sanity was trickling away like it had before with his interpretation of the most perfect person that there ever could be.

Notes:

I got INFINITE tung tung sahurs in STEAL A BRAINROT 😱

Chapter 3: cupid

Summary:

1 month

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

A month had passed since the discovery. Since OJ's world had fallen apart at the seams and left nothing but a violent, bleeding wound in its place.

February 14th. Valentine's day.

As soon as OJ woke up he instantly felt worse than usual, like he had some sort of internal calendar telling him on how "special" today was supposed to be. Like he was in a video game with a Valentine's day event that came with a bonus of 2x the depression! Hooray! He turned over in bed and groaned loudly to nobody in particular; except for maybe himself.

"Fuck this…" He muttered, failing to sit up since he felt like there was an anvil pinning him down to the mattress. "Paper, are you there…?" He murmured instinctively, feeling for his lover's warmth beside him that had disappeared many nights ago.

"Oh."

Tears welled up again, a few falling down his face for the trillionth time. He rubbed his eyes like it would make up for the hours of sleep he had lost over the past month, but he stayed lying down nonetheless. He had barely talked to a soul since the funeral, the only people bothering to check up on him being Soap and Pickle.

OJ didn't know why they still cared. They were dragging it, in his opinion. He hadn't done a thing to contribute to the managing of his own hotel, thus he was entirely useless. He was just dead weight.

…Had he eaten anything over the past week? He had sipped some water every now and then, but only now did he realize that he was absolutely starving, not to mention that he was out of granola bars to bite into so that he wouldn't have to leave the sanctity of his ridiculously untidy bedroom; one that was uncharacteristic of his usual self.

Paper would never approve of it. If he was here, he'd tell OJ off as he picked up bits of trash from the carpeted floors, making sure that his lover pitched in every now and then too. But even then, in OJ's little mind movie at the very least, his gaze would soften and he'd take OJ's hands in his. Then he'd flash that adorable little smile of his and remind his boyfriend that they'd always be together, from now until the end of time.

Paper fucking lied. He fucking lied to OJ's face.

The latter felt a wave of anger overwhelm him for a split second as it shot through his veins, but he eased again as he remembered it was all a fake.

Subsequently, guilt sent a shiver down his spine. He could never feel any negative emotion to Paper now that he was gone, with the exception of layers upon layers of grief that tore at OJ's flesh and made his gut hurt like parasites were gnawing at his intestines, for every single second he spent longing for the love of his life to come back and embrace him one last time.

Nonetheless, he peeled the blankets off of himself, stretching his limbs for the first time in ages and flinching when he heard a crack. His clothes were creased in every possible place, and as he gazed at himself in the dusty mirror, he really took in how disgusting he looked—and felt. Moping wasn't going to fix his hunger problem, though; he'd know, he had been doing this aforementioned moping for weeks on end, moping that would only get worse and worse. There was no getting out of this dark pit he'd dug for himself.

He threw his bedroom door open, reeling back a little at the glaring lights of the hallway like some sort of vampire. Casual voices echoed into the hall, all the way from the lounge.

OJ couldn't help but sigh, knowing he'd have to make his way through this lounge to get to the kitchen. Absolutely fantastic! He shuffled down the hallway, hands in his pant pockets, suddenly feeling terribly self-conscious about everything from the dark circles under his eyes to his torn sweatpants.

The noises got louder and louder, until he reached the opening that lead to the living room.

There, were Pickle, Bomb, Cheesy, and Nickel.

"And he told me—" There was a laughing look on Pickle's face, one that screamed pure, unfettered joy. OJ felt a jolt of genuine rage drop onto his shoulders, shoulders that were already weighed down by what felt like eternities worth of misery and grief. It had only been a month since Paper died. Why was everyone okay!? It wasn't like a month was a long time, at least not compared to the seemingly endless amount of time that stretched ahead of OJ, time that should've been spent with Paper.

Cheesy was the first to notice the new presence in the room, and it seemed to catch him quite off-guard. "Oh! Hey, OJ! Haven't seen you in a while." He cracked a grin, one that even OJ and his pathetically limited amount of social knowledge could tell wasn't fake.

OJ returned it with a feeble wave. "Yeah." He muttered.

He hung his head and didn't talk to anybody else as he hurried into the kitchen. Soap was there, but he paid no mind to her as he reached into the cupboard and grabbed a few more bags of chips and granola bars that he hadn't been expecting to be stocked up.

He was just about to half-jog, half-walk back to the sanctity of his bedroom until Soap stopped him in his tracks.

"Hey, OJ! Where do you think you're going?" She snapped.

OJ choked back an irritated groan. "Soap, I-I really need to go," He tried to reason, his voice shaky after weeks of only being used to bawl until OJ couldn't breathe or random grumbles that OJ liked to dub "talking to himself sessions."

"No, no," Soap shook her head, "you can go, but not before making a proper meal for yourself! Here, I was just making toast…"

Her voice faded away as she bustled around the kitchen, looking for ingredients to make some food. Accepting that he couldn't possibly leave until he had gotten that stupid toast, OJ reentered the lounge and threw himself down on an armchair in the corner of the room, attempting to block out the excited shouts of the friend group in front of him.

He tucked his knees up to his chest, staring at the orange carpeted floor and wrapping his arms around himself, waiting for Soap to call his name.

"Good god, Pickle, that's not just platonic!" Nickel lashed out, stomping his foot like a little kid. "He's clearly in love with you, come on…" Cheesy agreed, "he sneaks in every night anyways, and it's Valentine's too, so why don't you just confess—"

Pickle rolled his eyes. "I'm not risking losing anybody again, you know that." He walked into the kitchen, striking up a brief conversation with the other person in there as he grabbed some snacks.


Minutes that felt like hours flitted by, and before he knew it, OJ was sitting in his room again, but this time clutching a plate of scrambled eggs and toast as he settled into bed. The laptop in the corner of his room that had laid unused for a month seemed to be calling his name, movies stored on its drives, ones that he and Paper used to love, but he shoved it aside and grabbed his phone instead. He was so tired now that he was back in bed, that all he could do was bite into his meal a few times while scrolling through old photos of him and his lover.

As he drifted off to sleep, the last thing he thought was that that was the best he'd felt since the discovery.

But even then, he still prayed that he wouldn’t wake up the next day.

Notes:

peepeepoopoo

Notes:

ooh ooh swalala

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