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Yellow tends to keep his room dim. The lack of light is no help when working on projects, but it wards away the headaches he gets so frequently. It makes it harder to notice himself, when his room is so dark, and he prefers it that way.
As of this moment, the only light in his room is the glow of his laptop, idled on a streaming service with a movie he watched to fill the empty time.
Now that the movie is done, now that his laptop sits idle, it feels empty again. It's hard to describe, maybe like sand slipping through his fingers, or water draining between the cracks of a cup. Something he tries to contain, comprehend, yet eluded him.
He can't quite recall what feels empty. Time, or him? Or his room, dim because he can hardly stand the light.
It can't be his room. It's far from empty. Half-finished machines litter the floor like detritus, paired with fallen or plucked feathers and dirty clothes he keeps forgetting to put in the right spots. It can't be time either, time is not something that can be full nor empty, it's a simple concept given a name because the mind cannot comprehend not having some sort of rule to follow.
So it's him, then.
It's him, Yellow—master coder, engineer, drummer, natural fighter, useless Yellow—who is empty.
It makes him feel sick to be so empty. Something about that feels ironic.
It's a certain kind of emptiness. It's something that gnaws mercilessly on his insides, on his mind, digging into all the spots he likes about himself and stripping those spots of everything good. It creeps up on him when he thinks he's fine, reminds him of how devoid of meaning he is.
That certain kind of emptiness likes to remind him of how he'll never be who he wants to be.
It likes to remind him of who, what he used to be.
He used to be weak. He still is.
Weak in fights, weak to his own curiosity, weak to criticism. Weak to the very thought of not being paid attention to. Of not being seen as who he wants to be. But he isn't who he wants to be.
So scared of being seen, yet desperate for people to just look at him. See him for who he is, but what he is is something ugly, nobody will see who he is. Not what he wants so desperately to fit into the shoes of. Only that pitiful, old version of himself.
He knows he's wrong. Caught in his own head. Letting the emptiness eat him inside out, letting it whisper things he knows are objectively wrong, and yet he listens.
He knows if he were to just walk out of his room, whisper his worries for anyone to hear, those horrible thoughts and that gnawing emptiness would be gently brushed away just like his tears.
When had he started crying?
He wonders, briefly, if he were to follow through with that easy-to-obtain solution, who would be there to see him. It's 2AM, and the only one with a sleep schedule bad enough to rival his is Purple. But Purple is home with King, not on the desktop, and while Yellow knew Purple of all people would understand he didn't want to bother him this late at night. He certainly didn't want to drag Purple all the way over here, and everyone else would lose their minds if he vanished in the middle of the night to go to Purple himself. Not because visiting Purple was odd, but simply because he knew he wouldn't give any warning.
He wanted to be seen, be known. And yet the thought terrified him.
Yellow let out a soft sigh. Finally switching tabs on his laptop, to search for another distraction from the emptiness that sought to hollow him out. His hands were shaking too much, his mind too dizzy, to consider picking up one of those half-finished machines scattered about his room. Instead, he just opened a YouTube tab, mindlessly scrolling his homepage. After a minute of nothing interesting, the silence felt too loud, so he put a song on loop as background noise.
He didn't hum along, he knew he wouldn't get the notes right. What did it matter, when this song was more spoken prose than singing? He was tempted, mouth moving to words, orders from that corner where that shadow always lived, but the thought of voicing those words out loud seemed to choke him.
Ironic. He recalled, distantly, that another song from this particular album was named Choker. Green had showed him one of their popular songs, not one of the radio ones, something from their second—third if counting the demo—album. Yellow had never been the music connoisseur of the group, that title belonged to Green and Purple, but the song Green showed him—saying he might like the rap-heavy lyrics—seemed to call to him. In some odd way.
He listened to that band's entire discography. Green even got him hoodies about it. And now he retreated back into their songs like it was a shield.
But he couldn't voice it. Not today. Other days, when that emptiness seemed small and everything wasn't quite as blurry, he'd tout about muttering the fast-paced rhythms under his breath until someone caught him and drew him into showing off. He could rap, he could drum, and he liked a duo band from Ohio. That was his extent of musical knowledge.
Other than that, he paled in comparison to the others.
It was like that with everything but his skill with technology.
...He feels like he's spiralling. His mind can't seem to land on a single coherent thought, jumping from place to place, yet always trails back to a simple fact.
He's not who he wants to be.
Not good enough. Not...
Yellow stares blankly at YouTube. The song plays in the back of his mind, output from laptop speakers, quiet enough to not escape the soundproofed walls—made that way after he'd woken everyone else up too many times while working late in the night.
The repeated ringing within the song's instrumental echoes in his mind. The song loops over. Words from a letter speak in muted tone. The ringing, like the dull tap of a cow bell, continues. If only he could put his cares to rest. One of his hands finds a steady pattern against his wings, timed with the song, but slower and off-kilter, while the other meaninglessly scrolls past videos he'd watch in any other moment.
And suddenly it's broken.
Flowing lyrics dull as though dropped into a pit of water, a sharp ping-ping plays from the speakers, and then the hook snags and the song is reeled back up, crystal-clear and ringing, bells and whistles no longer drowned. His hand stills, a feather sliding out of his loose hold.
He blinks. Stares at his screen, as though the glow might consume him. A notification sits in his taskbar. Maybe he was playing that music too loud, or maybe someone was reminding him to go sleep. He tabs onto the app, at the two messages sent in DMs, a profile picture of orchids and cherry blossoms.
nice song
you alright, though? most people only loop that one if they're not having a great time last i checked
He stares. Processing slow, through the haze that fills his mind. Oh, the song he was listening to was displayed. Right, Purple listened to their music too. More than Green did, enough to recognize when Yellow had mumbled the lyrics to an unreleased song. Purple knew what the songs meant. Knew how other fans interpreted them.
Knew how Yellow might. Because Purple shared with Yellow one of the common interpretations of this one.
He hesitates, before finally typing a response. Slower than usual, though not very slow in retrospect, only slow for him.
I'm fine
He could almost hear Purple's sharp laugh of disbelief. If the moth stick were here, he knew it'd be ringing loud and clear, not meant to be rude but simply an immediate reaction to a clear lie.
nice try starry
you're listening to redecorate on loop and you're fine? talk to me. i'll listen
The nickname makes the emptiness seem a little smaller. Purple called him that upon first meeting him, some part of that flirtatious princely persona he put on before he truly warmed up to everyone. Poked at the star marking on his forehead and dubbed him starry, because he had one and was yellow like one. It felt like a taunt at first. Now it made him feel warm and fuzzy, not the bad kind of hazy but something soft. It made him not hate the marking as much.
He was still crying. That seemed to make him aware of that fact.
It just happened to be the first song that played, I'm really fine
yeah and my mom's still alive. i'm coming over
Somehow, the dark joke draws a laugh out of him. The noise is so sharp and sudden that it makes his ribs hurt. Salt finds its way into his mouth and he rubs at his face, the laugh dying away, fizzling off out of existence. He places his hands against the keyboard, watching as tears fall down onto the keys.
You really don't have to
too late, i'm already through the first portal. see you in a minute, starry
...Right. Purple was fast when he wanted to be. Green had decided the current trip between Purple's home and the desktop was too long, he had worked with Yellow to wire up a new portal system that shortened the trip to only a few minutes.
In all likelihood, Purple was already jumping from the files folder down to the individual rooms built for when anyone wanted their alone time or grew bored of the sticksfight house. In all likelihood—a sharp knock confirmed his next thought.
"C'mon, starry, I know you're in there."
Purple's voice was soft. Remarkably gentle, smooth and quiet. The sort of voice that Yellow would listen to all day if he had the chance. He knows Purple likes to hear Yellow's voice too, he said it once and the comment never left his mind, but when Yellow opens his mouth to respond nothing comes out.
It only makes more tears fall.
"...Yellow? I can hear the music through the door. I know you can hear me. Answer, please?"
It only makes his throat tighten. The thought of speaking, of hearing his own voice, makes him feel disgusted. It's stupid, he knows it is. But he can't just leave Purple out there.
Against all his urges to be alone, he types a message and sends it, then pushes his laptop away from himself and buries his face in his hands. Unthinking, he tugs on his hair. The pain against his scalp clears his mind the slightest bit.
cant talk. sorry. you can come in
There's the distant sound of a notification. A quiet shuffle. A quiet hum of concern, then the creak of a door.
"Oh, starry..." There's something about that tone that breaks down his already crumbling walls. It's not pity, it's sympathy. He's never been good with tone, but Purple is blunt and clear, and that concern so palpable he could nearly touch it. "..It'll be okay. Can I touch you?"
He asks, waiting patiently. Slowly, Yellow shifts his hands away from his head, fingers twitching as though trying to pull on something they no longer grasp. He nods. It's a small thing.
By Luck Herself, he feels so agonizingly small.
But Purple takes his hands, shuffles onto the bed, pulls him close. He slots so perfectly into Purple's arms, cold enough to quell the constant near-fever Yellow's body has been stuck at since the Orb first caught him in its light, and it makes him feel like being small isn't such a bad thing.
For roughly five seconds, Purple just holds him, slowly rubbing a hand over Yellow's arm, a reassuring and consistent motion. His hands are lightly calloused, yet still soft, full of that same chill that cooled Yellow down.
Yellow could only slump against him, fingers still twitching, the only thing stopping him from plucking his feathers being Purple's secure hold. Those five seconds pass, and Purple shifts, placing his hand in Yellow's, a quiet offer of something to fidget with. Something to keep himself busy with.
It's those quiet motions. The silent things to help. Those tiny things, they break his crumbling walls completely.
Yellow took in a shuddering, quiet breath, as though to recapture air in his lungs. He can't tell if he's been breathing or not. Judging by the way Purple hums softly, a gentle approval and encouragement, he can deduce he hasn't been breathing. When he stopped, he isn't quite sure.
After only a moment, Purple shifts to pull Yellow's laptop closer, tabbing onto Spotify and pausing the song. Quiet, only filled by trembling breaths and the tap of his mouse wheel, lasts for what feels like forever to his spiralling mind. Then, a click, and a familiar piano. The same artists, a different song, different album.
Purple shifts to hold him even closer, rocking him back and forth slowly, trying to help soothe him. Humming along to the song, until finally he sings a line, ducking his head low, his breath warm against Yellow's forehead.
"Stay alive, stay alive for me..."
Something in him seems to break.
He's listened to this song so many times. He loops the entire discography as background noise while working, just to fill the silence. He never sings it, it's one of the only songs without the rhythmic rap sections he can actually perform, but he knows the lyrics by heart either way.
Yet this time, whatever fragile thing that stopped him from completely shattering vanishes in an instant, and he can't help but sob.
He can feel Purple freeze against him, quiet singing stuttering to a stop, before slowly Purple returns to gently rocking Yellow, letting him cry against him.
Yellow hates the sound of his own sobs. It's too high-pitched, too wrong, it sounds like him and it sounds nothing like what he should sound like. It sounds like everything Yellow never wants to be, but exactly what he is. Each hiccup that tears itself out of his mouth makes him want to claw at his throat until he can't make these sounds any longer.
But Purple is here. He can't do that, not when Purple is here, not when Purple is up at 2AM trying to comfort him when he doesn't even know what caused this. All Yellow can do to calm the storm in his mind is press his face against Purple, trying to muffle the sounds he made.
"Hey, starry, love, you aren't going to be able to breathe like that. I need you to keep breathing, okay?" Purple murmured softly, shifting one hand up to cradle Yellow's head, tilting him away just slightly so he could breathe. But Yellow still couldn't shake how wrong he sounded, pressing his hands against his mouth in an instant.
His act of muffling himself seemed to let something click in Purple's mind. Maybe it was just the straw on the camel's back. The song, the entire album, the way he couldn't speak, the way he forced himself into silence as though hearing himself was like nails against a chalkboard.
But Purple didn't hold him like glass. Instead, he held tighter, combed his hands through Yellow's hair slowly. Whispering quietly the whole time, soft reassurances that he was so much more than he thought.
Gently, Purple tugged Yellow's hands away from his mouth. Brows furrowing when Yellow only returned to his efforts to mute himself by freeing his hands and covering his mouth once more.
"...I know, starry. I know you don't want to hear yourself right now. But please, it's just going to be harder to breathe if you keep doing that. I don't want you hurting yourself over this. Let me help you, please."
A moment more of struggle, and Yellow finally let his hands drop. He hated breakdowns like this, he hated being unable to speak or breathe, being stuck crying and useless. What he hated even more was someone watching it happen, because Yellow knew he was unsalvageable. How could someone feasibly help a sobbing mess who could barely hear the world around him through his stress? How could anyone help such a stubborn idiot? Breakdowns like this felt like the only way to truly get all his emotions out anymore, and he despised it.
And yet, Purple still tried to help.
"Okay, you're doing good. Can you try to follow my breathing? You don't have to get it right. Just try to follow along, no matter how long it takes." Purple gently guided Yellow's hands to rest on his chest, breathing in deep and slow.
All Yellow can think about is his unmuffled cries, so dreadfully wrong. It's all he can focus on until Purple wipes away his tears, still speaking in that perfect voice of his, trying to draw Yellow's focus onto him. It's working, somehow.
"I know, I know, but please. I need you breathing, I don't want you to pass out. I've got you. Just focus on my voice, focus on breathing. I know you can do it."
Yellow can only wonder why Purple is so kind to him. He knows all the logical reasons why. Yet he still doubts if it's truly earned.
It feels like hours, when it's only minutes. He struggles and struggles, the sound of his own sobs catch in his throat, his shaking hands pull back to tug on feathers or hair. Purple always draws him back, murmurs those sweet words, wipes away his tears. Keeps him there, despite how badly Yellow wanted to just fade into the background. Finally, after what feels like forever, he catches onto the rhythm Purple kept, and his breathing stabilises. Purple is quick to praise him, ensuring he knows that he's doing good. It serves to make him focus more on breathing correctly, all too eager to know that he's doing something right for once.
Finally, when Yellow finds himself coherent enough to no longer be a crying mess, Purple holds him tight in his arms. Asking quiet questions, wanting to know how to fix the root of the issue.
"...What exactly caused that, starry? If you're okay with telling." He prodded gently, pulling Yellow's laptop closer so he could type his responses. Adjusting how the two sat so it'd be easier to reach. Yellow hesitated for a moment, before finally pulling his laptop close enough.
i dont know. i just felt empty and then i couldnt stop thinking about other stuff. im tired
He couldn't even put in the effort to bother with grammar. His hands were shaking.
But Purple didn't judge at all. He only kept his arms around Yellow, resting his head on top of the avian stick's, humming.
"I'll stay with you tonight. You can rest, starry. I'll be here." Purple continued to comb one hand through Yellow's hair, carefully picking out small tangles, remarkably careful to not tug too hard. "Do you want to sleep, or would some sort of distraction be better?"
Yellow only shrugged, another bout of hesitation making his movements lag before he could type out his thoughts.
both? distraction until i fall sleep if thats okay
"Of course, starry. Of course it's okay." Purple tabbed onto YouTube, shifting the mouse over to Yellow to select what he wanted. But he only stared blankly at the screen.
Nothing felt appealing. Nothing felt right. It was one of those pits he got stuck in, where not even coding videos really caught his attention. Like everything was dull and boring. Instead, unthinking, he whispered.
"..You can pick." His voice was soft, too soft. Too high-pitched and too quiet and too wrong. He bit his lip, clenching his hands into fists. One of Purple's hands came to hold his, carefully prying his hands open so his claws wouldn't dig too far.
But Purple smiled, upon hearing him. He smiled so sweetly, like hearing Yellow speak was the best thing to happen, as though this horrible voice was just as perfect as his. Somehow, Yellow felt as though Purple could make him believe that if he tried hard enough.
"Your voice is so nice to listen to, you know?" Purple seemed intent on trying, scrolling for a moment before selecting a video on interesting game code. The narrator's voice droned on as Purple shifted his hand away from Yellow's hair to his wings, brushing over feathers gently. "I like the way you sound, even if you don't. I could listen to you for hours on end."
Yellow made a flustered whine, shifting his wing slightly to give Purple more space. Pressing his feathers against Purple's hands. He couldn't deny that it felt nice, a drastic difference from the pain his wings were normally in. Even with everyone's attempts at making sure his wings were well preened and taken care of, between his constant mechanics work and plucking habit it was rare for his wings to feel good. And yet...
"Feels good, huh starry?" Purple asked, a giggle hidden in his tone, starting to comb his fingers through Yellow's feathers rather than only over them. Slow and methodical, he began to rub dirt and grime off of feathers, adjusting them as he went to ensure they were in the right positions. A quiet chirp tumbled from Yellow's mouth, shifting to hide his face against Purple, though tilted slightly to see the video playing.
Yellow could do nothing but melt in Purple's arms, struggling to keep his eyes open within seconds. All the itchiness and pain in his wings seemed to fade, a warm haze covering his thoughts. He was already tired, but finally, sleep felt like something safe. Here in Purple's arms, he was safe from his own mind.
"You can sleep, love." Purple whispered, leaning down to kiss Yellow's forehead. Shifting to carefully pluck Yellow's glasses off of his face, placing them off to the side. He continued to card his fingers through Yellow's feathers, only lulling him closer to sleep. "I'm here, starry. You'll be okay."
"..'m sorry. For dragging you all the way over here." Despite Purple's reassuring words, Yellow couldn't help but feel guilty. It slipped through the cracks, muttered quietly as he closed his eyes, more sleepy chirps and coos escaping his throat. Purple hummed softly in response.
"You have nothing to apologize for. You're okay."
Yellow knew Purple was speaking the truth. For all the lies the moth was known for, he never lied about this.
"..Mkay. Thank you."
"Of course, starry. I've got you."
The last thing Yellow processed was Purple turning down the audio of the video, lowering the brightness of his laptop. The coolness of Purple's hands against his wings, combing through feathers, through his hair. A soft humming, repetitive and sweet.
That emptiness felt so small, now.