Chapter Text
Sapnap is starfished on someone else’s bed.
The sheets are tight fitted, too pristine, taut under the cloudy white comforter which also shines in perfection. Strong floral scents rise from the blankets when he shifts to dip his ripped nails into a tray by his head. He’s messy; the powder, bluer than those lapis lazuli paint pigments only used in the most exquisite historical art pieces- a fact he vaguely remembers from third grade- spills from his shaky fingers. The beautiful bed-set is now stained, forever. Maybe it’s meant to be a painting of his sorrows, reflecting on a stranger’s mattress.
A manga lays half open by his legs, stuck on a page he can’t get out of his mind. He feels like the main protagonist: his head is now a blank triangle wrapped in his stupid bandanna. Eyes appear, then a mouth to take his fingers laden with a taste he can’t quite remember.
Blue loves to hold memories right on the tip of his tongue.
Sapnap’s phone is somewhere buried in his camo bag, AirPods connected as he blasts a select few songs over and over. Strobe lights go off in his mind, bathing him in neon iridescents while he soaks up the wonderful flashing colors.
Colors reminding so much of him.
“You’re supposed to smoke that,” a languid voice repeats. He was told this twenty minutes ago by the stupid British accent.
A man who materialized in the doorway, taller than him by a few annoying inches, holds a bottle in his hands cradling it like a lost baby. It’s a mix of Blue and some alcohol, so Sapnap really doesn’t understand why the British fuck wants him to smoke the powder if he’s mixing it into his Pot. Short for Potion.
“Don't wanna,” Sapnap slurs.
“Your music’s very loud.”
He goes to pause one earbud, only to realize they were never really connected in the first place. His phone’s been on full blast for at least an hour.
“Depressing emo ass songs,” the British fuck comments.
“Who the fuck are you?!” Sapnap shouts, attempting to sit up.
“Your muse,” the man smirks, wobbling over to him.
“Whoah!”
The Brit flops himself down on the bed face first, dropping the bottle on the floor as he goes.
The container of Blue bounces upon the man’s contact with the firm mattress, throwing the dust all over their clothes. It really won’t come out of the comforter now, though the man doesn’t seem to care. Instead he looks longingly at the duvet, fist curled in its softness as if he were robbed of something.
“I might have to evict you,” the man states.
Sapnap goes rigid as the ceiling blurs.
“Please don’t make me leave.”
“From the bed, idiot. I’m not your bloody parents. You just… remind me so much of him.”
The two lay in silence, lost in their own worlds.
“Stupid fuck went to Florida,” the man continues, losing his accent in the process.
“Mhm,” is all Sapnap replies with. “At least you didn’t kill him,” he then adds.
They’re silent again.
“In a way, maybe I did.”
Sapnap has no comment for that. He knows this man isn’t haunted by death. This Brit didn’t kill whoever he’s talking about physically; there’s still warmth in his brown eyes. Or brown eye. One is also blue? It suddenly hits him that he really doesn’t know how he ended up here. Or who this stranger is. Nothing about him rings a bell. Pavlov.
“Where the fuck am I?”
“My house.”
“Who the fuck are you? I don’t know you.”
Sapnap attempts to sit up, immediately being hit with interference in his brain. His head hurts like someone aggressively shoved cotton up through his eyelids. A glimpse in the mirror, and he knows it’s about to happen.
Fuck.
The manga has fallen to the floor, the spine fucked up enough for the book to flip open and show its pages. The little bird character stares at him from the floor on all panels. His reflection is messed up. He’s hella messed up.
“Fuck, no no,” he spits out, closing his eyes.
“Goodnight PunPun? What’s this?” The Brit scoffs, grabbing the book and flicking through its contents. He’s ignored the other’s questions, body language giving into a bit of indifference and fear. Hesitation.
“Tell me who you are! Before he comes!”
Sapnap is gripping both fists into the blanket, wrinkling its perfect completion. His eyes refuse to open, because if they do, the world will spin endlessly and he’ll throw up.
Dream isn’t here this time to help him through it. In fact, the bitch was mean last time Sapnap went to him for comfort.
“Stop dabbing Blue.”
“Dude, I don’t want to deal with your tweaking episodes.”
“Don’t call me next time you do this. If you overdose, It’s not my problem.”
That last one stung. Like Dream stopped caring about him.
“Who’s coming?” There’s a bit of a joking manner tumbling from the Brit’s mouth, and Sapnap wants to slap him across the face.
“NOT FUNNY!”
Tears are coming down Sapnap’s cheeks now, and he lets out a sound akin to a wrecked sob. A shifting movement responds to his embarrassing noise, but he can’t process what comes next.
He’s finally arrived, swirling around Sapnap’s weightless body presenting a funnel of colors. Pink, purple, teal, orange, yellow. Everything is glittery. The strobe lights dissipate as the music drips fainter into his conscious. Everything is focused on him now- the bubbly boy floating around him- face unseen. Or, Sapnap can’t remember what he actually looks like.
The colorful outline of him morphs suddenly into the wrecked body crumpled in the passenger seat of a red Dodge Charger. Sapnap’s Dodge Charger, because Dream had a green one. Kandi beads strewn about his car. Blood on the dash. Hair clips had flown into the windshield and pierced the glass. He only remembers the extreme pain in his nose causing his eyes to water. He viewed that entire night through swimming tears, unable to get a clear picture. His seat somehow reclined back, while the passenger was shoved all the way forward. You couldn’t even see his body; that side of the car had completely compacted into a tiny sardine can. Just an arm limply melting out of the wreckage, turning blue and yellow, the little bracelet strangling his wrist. The beads spelling out Sapnap’s name. Their shared white Monster exploding all over the car, and besides the sticky globs of blood, that’s all the ravenette could smell.
“Look at what you did to me.”
The familiar, high-pitched voice is harsh, nails on a chalkboard of truth.
Sapnap watches himself morph into PunPun, still laying in the void of twinkling stars. Still laying in the drivers seat as Juice WRLD blasts from the untouched radio. The ghostly little bird has his bandana on, the only staple of his identity.
Dream gave him the idea one day when they were skateboarding. Years in the past, somewhere around the time they first met, tiny hands holding each other up as they traversed the tricky art of wheels on pavement. When they still lived in the same neighborhood.
He had just gotten a cool, shiny chain with a little instrument on it. A drum, if he remembers correctly. A snare drum, which he remembers factually. Sapnap wanted something cool like that too, so Dream gave him the stupid cloth the necklace came wrapped in, because it was fancy. Because they wanted to share that moment together, and Sapnap didn’t care what he got. He just wanted to be as cool as Dream.
The blond was the older brother he never had. Never belittling him, always helping the younger through the hardships the older already experienced. Even when they argued, it was in good spirits.
“Don’t call me next time you do this. If you overdose, It’s not my problem.”
The man made of colors says it this time. The words echo in Sapnap’s mind.
“Karl,” he breathes out.
PunPun, still reclined in the leather seats, doesn’t move his bird mouth when Sapnap speaks.
“I Want To Make Your Life Miserable.”
Karl still speaks to him, disregarding the bird caged in the crumpled car.
But wait. Those aren’t Karl’s words.
The ghostly little bird morphs again, this time back into Sapnap. He sees himself sitting on a chair, dressed in the same ripped jeans, band T-shirt poking out under the black hoodie embroidered with a flame. His hands are clasped together in front of his face… yet, his face isn’t present at all. It’s elongated. His whole head has elongated into a blob with curved horns, accompanied by a vertical line of four eyes opening and close at different times. They ponder his own hands, one finger fiddling with the countless silver rings decorating his fingers. The only golden one sticks out, sore on his thumb.
“I Want To Make Your Life Miserable,” He, PunPun, says again. To himself.
Both Dream and Karl appear on either side of the chair, giving him the same disgusted face.
“Don’t call me next time you do this. If you overdose, It’s not my problem.”
It’s really not their problem.
Sapnap’s just really selfish.
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