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Roblox couldn’t take it anymore.
He couldn’t.
He couldn’t.
How much longer could he live like this? How much longer could he sit and breathe in Builderman’s scent, hear his voice, share his space, his air, and just be expected to sit there in that, let it stew in his chest until it rotted and soiled into nausea that pooled under his Adam’s apple. How much longer could he wrap himself around his bedding, snaking himself around it, strangling it, hoping, imagining, praying, dreaming, that he was there too. How much longer? How much longer?
He didn’t know if he could once more handle the sound of Builderman’s voice, whispering how he loved him, and knowing he meant it in a way Roblox didn’t. He didn’t know if his brain would eventually tire of the needless, constant thinking, analyzing every syllable and tone that came from Builderman’s mouth, every movement of his hands, every twitch of his fingers. He didn’t know if, eventually, he would give in to himself, losing the self-inflicted constant argument between his heart and his brain—one half whispering that he loved him, the other whispering that he didn’t, and he couldn’t tell which one was which. Was it his brain or his heart that told him he hated him? Perhaps both, perhaps neither.
Roblox knew he was selfish. He wanted to be with Builderman every second of the day, awake and asleep; he would say that he wanted Builderman any way he would have him, but that would be a lie; Roblox wanted to wake with Builderman beside him every morning, push the hair from his face, and wake him at dawn with a kiss and a smile; he wanted to walk to HQ with him every morning and let him sit in a chair reserved for Builderman and Builderman only, and they could talk while he worked, and Builderman, unknowingly, would hold back that deep, sickening corruption that dug its way through Roblox’s body (Even in his own fantasies, Roblox couldn’t even fathom telling Builderman about it—the awful, vile thing taking hold of him); he wanted to sit beside him at lunch and eat the same food every day and drink the same, bitter office coffee with him; he wanted to eat dinner with him every evening and crawl back into bed beside him every night; he wanted to garden and relax with him on the weekends; he wanted—no that was too far, he needed to control himself.
He couldn't get ahead of himself; Builderman was his friend, his coworker, he couldn't sully such a wonderful, platonic partnership with thoughts of something like that—so sickingly beautiful, domestic, sweet, saccharine little visions that swam through his brain uninvited; such hope was unbefitting of someone like Roblox. It would be horrible of him to pass on such a curse through his DNA, regardless, no matter how perfect his brain tells him that the outcome would be.
The wind howled outside his bedroom window, brushing through the now fully-grown hydrangeas. Compassion and understanding, that’s what the purple variety meant: “I want to understand you deeply.” Roblox had mulled over so many different resources about what the bloom had meant—compassion, wealth, nobility, pride, elegance, harmony, respect—realistically, Builderman had probably just liked the flowers, of course, but that didn’t stop Roblox from searching for meaning where there was none.
If Builderman was going to do that with anyone, Roblox certainly didn’t expect to be his first choice, never in a million years. Builderman was strong, handsome, powerful—he could get almost anyone he wanted, surely.
Roblox wished he could talk to someone, maybe. Some third party could sort through this, something analytical, unfeeling, something that would tell him it was all in his head, or if it was…
Real.
He tightened his grip on his blanket, bringing it further into his face. His expression was blank; he couldn’t really tell how he was feeling or force himself to emote one way or the other. Was he flustered at the thought, saddened? He didn't know. His face was warm but not flushed, and there was some kind of nausea swirling in his gut that he couldn't discern if it was “butterflies in the stomach” or anxious guilt for once again imagining Builderman there with him.
He always felt guilty about it, dirty. Builderman didn’t deserve to be fantasized about like that; he didn’t know that he was sharing a roof with a man who imagined holding him like a lover, kissing his face in his sleep; he didn't know that Roblox had to stop himself from brushing a hand along his peaceful, sleeping face when he was vulnerable on the couch, just to see him better. Disgusting, how vile of him; it was sick, really. Roblox didn’t even want to imagine the look on Builderman’s face if he found out how he couldn't sleep without imagining that he was there, how he would zone out and just think about being with him, talking to him, how he dreamed each night of him, just being there, talking to him.
And he still had that dream; that god-forsaken dream. He couldn’t get it out of his head, it was addicting—Roblox wished, absently, that he could’ve been addicted to something normal—it clung to every square inch of his insignificant, plastic brain, worming its way through each fold like some kind of queer parasite. It made him sick to think about it now, but, at the same time, he just couldn’t stop himself. He needed it, he needed that stupid little fantasy, that dream, that hope; he didn't know what he would do without it, without Builderman. It was just in his head, anyway, despite the fact that he could still feel Builderman’s hands on his body, he could still smell him in his bed, hear him snoring just a room away. But it was just a dream now, memory or not, a one-time thing, a dream.
It was a stupid dream.
He really needed to get a grip; this was going to kill him one day—Builderman was going to kill him one day.