Work Text:
Plink
Plink
His eyes stay locked onto his blank computer screen. It automatically shut off a few minutes ago, and he hasn't been able to bring himself to turn it back on since he wasn't doing anything. He had planned to do homework, but his fingers never moved to touch the keyboard, so he never got to it.
Plink
Plink
Spoke grinds his teeth. He can't figure out where that sound came from and what's causing it. He even threw a plastic water bottle across his room a while ago in an attempt to stop the noise (which wouldn’t have done anything useful since he doesn't even know where the sound is coming from). Obviously the only thing it did was explode on impact, and now there's just water spilling all over his floor.
But it doesn't matter since the noise is as loud as ever, and water has to be cleaned off of his floor—which probably won't be happening in the near future. He’ll let it seep into the floor. It’ll leave behind mold and mildew as it lingers, and eventually it’ll make its way through his floor and into the dorm below him.
He blinks, eyes refocusing on his unpowered computer screen.
He sees himself—well, not him, but what seems to be him. His skin still resembles the dark emptiness of the void, like always—and that’ll never change no matter how much he deteriorates. His eyes, which are usually an excruciatingly blinding shade of white, are as dull as ever. His black wispy hair seems to be barely growing past his chin, though it seems to be thinning—or is it just his face?
He brings his hand up to his cheekbone, lightly caressing it. He doesn't know why, or what, he’s checking for. If he finds it to be hollower than normal, what is he going to change? Is he suddenly going to start going to the dining hall to eat three meals a day, or is he going to allow himself to fall deeper into this abyss?
Suddenly, he rakes his fingers across his cheek, deep enough to make his eyes squint and body tense. When he takes his hand off, there are no little specks of blood peeking through. There aren't even marks of his fingers' path.
Oddly enough, he finds himself to be a little upset at that.
Plink
Plink
Recently, he’s found himself in weird emotional hazes, where he can barely control himself. And every time they finish, he doesn’t remember what happened, only being able to see the aftermath. Like the destruction of his room—he still hasn't brought himself to buy a new bedsheet after his black one mysteriously ripped, or the plastic water bottle that's still seeping into the floor. But after every incident, he always feels so, so tired afterward, like the short emotional outburst took every ounce of energy he had.
Maybe that's why his eyes seem to be drooping all the time. Is he struggling to stay awake so much so he can barely keep his eyes open?
He really hasn't been doing anything to warrant this exhaustion. He wakes up, goes to classes, eats whatever is still in his fridge, does (some) homework, and repeats.
At least, that's what he's been doing for the past few weeks. Yeah, the repetitive schedule is slightly tiring, but it’s nothing Spoke hasn't handled before.
Plink
He misses Mapic.
He really shouldn’t though. Since the reason he hasn't seen Mapic is unsurprisingly his own fault. They had an argument, which is typically the norm between the two of them, but it wasn't about something stupid like it usually was. It was about Rose.
How Mapic found out about what he did to Rose is beyond him. That was something he thought he’d take to the grave with him, and somehow Mapic got word of that atrocity.
The one thing he kept thinking about that argument wasn't how his body began to glitch out, or how he couldn't actually tell Mapic the truth—it was how Mapic looked at him.
It was that same angry look Mapic wore when they confronted Leowook, or when Lettuce tried to become “king of the school”—whatever the fuck that meant. He just never expected to be the one who was on the receiving end of those piercing red eyes.
He brings his head down onto the table, trying to ignore the tears beginning to form. He doesn't know why he’s breaking down. Whatever he had with Mapic is done, and it's all his fault…
BANG
His door slams open and he lets out a pathetic squeal. He flinches at the hallway lights shining through his unlit room, barely able to open his eyes and identify the figure at his door. Soon enough his eyes adjust, and in the archway stands Mapic.
“…What are you doing here?” he asks. He intends for his tone to come out as intimidating and demanding, but his voice cracks in the middle of the sentence and he definitely sounds like he hasn't spoken in days.
“Does it matter? I’m coming in either way.”
“Can you leave instead?” He asks weakly. He doesn't know why he asks that, he wants nothing more than for Mapic to run up to him and hug him.
Mapic just scoffs. “Yeah, no.”
Immediately, Mapic huffs a breath and steps into the room while closing the door. The door slams with a loud creak, bright light creeping through the bottom of his door. It takes his eyes a second to adjust to the darkness of his room, and when it does, he brings himself to look at Mapic.
His breath hitches as he catches the other's eye. They stare at each other in silence. Mapic—always the one who knew what to do—takes the first step forward. It was timid and unsure, but still one step closer to Spoke. When Spoke doesn’t immediately protest, he takes another, then another, until he is face to face with Spoke.
Spoke awaits for Mapic to say something. Instead, he is met with that red glare he remembers oh so vividly.
His lips begin to wobble as time goes by, unnerved by Mapic’s random visit, his demeanor, and this weird tension that should have never been here in the first place.
“…I’m sorry,” he mutters. Better to just apologize rather than staying silent forever. He expects Mapic to have a positive reaction to his apology. Instead, that just makes him even more annoyed. Spoke watches anxiously as Mapic drags his hands down his face.
He groans, “Spoke stop—“ he takes a deep breath before continuing, “Spoke stop, don't apologize for no reason.” His heart stops for a second before he forces it to beat again—lest he let these voidling instincts get the better of him—is Mapic forgiving him right now?
“I'm not here to talk about that. Yeah, I'm still mad at you—like beyond pissed kinda mad, but we are going to talk about it. Just later.” Spoke’s heart stops again before he digs his fingers into his palms and forces it to beat again.
”But I don't—I can’t watch you just do this.” Mapic’s hands gesture toward his room, and Spoke’s eyes follow his hands.
He’s always liked how warm Mapic’s hands were. When they were friends, he’d run up to him and shove his freezing voidling hands into the pocket of his red hoodie that Mapic always wore. Their hands would interlock just so Spoke could feel a slightest bit of warmth.
Then Mapic would act like he didn't enjoy Spoke being in his personal space, or how their hands intertwined. Then Spoke would drag him into whatever mischief came his way, and Mapic would always follow, despite how busy he always was.
“Oh,” he breathes out, somewhat happy that Mapic doesn't completely hate him.
Spoke shivers as Mapic’s arm shoots across his face, which doesn't take him by surprise since Mapic never really cared about personal space, randomly grabbing one of the many papers littered over his desk.
“Dude, this is from 3 weeks ago—when was the last time you cleaned this place?” Mapic doesn't wait for him to reply as he continues to look through his papers—it's mostly just school papers with the occasional letters that always consisted of overdue payments, so he’s not too worried about Mapic rummaging through his stuff.
Mapic sighs as he continues to look through the mess. “Alright bro, we’re not doing this—get up.”
Spoke continues to stare at nothing. A second later, he’s blinking rapidly, hands rubbing at his eyes. Mapic had turned on the lights. Spoke looks at him through blurry vision, and Mapic’s suddenly back in front of his face.
“C’mon, Spoke,” Mapic grits out.
He grabs Spoke's arm and drags him to his feet. Spoke stumbles out of his chair, and his feet clips into the ground before he stands somewhat straightly (he ignores the slight shake in his knees that almost drags him to the ground).
“Dude, please. Your room is a genuine mess. It won't take long to pick up.” Spoke doesn't reply, still focused on staying upright. He keeps his head hanging low as Mapic retrieves a trash bag from under his bed.
Immediately, he dumps all the papers from his desk into the trash. Spoke stays motionless as Mapic continues to scurry around his room, picking up his mess. Eventually, Spoke brings himself to move, and he begins to clean alongside Mapic (all while ignoring the glares and shuffles Mapic would make when he moves too slow, or when he comes too close.)
At some point, Mapic found himself in front of the minifridge—which Spoke hasn't opened in a good few weeks. His stomach twists as Mapic pulls at the handle. They both gag immediately after Mapic opens the door.
“Holy shit! Dude—you're dealing with this. Fuckkkk that.” Mapic coughs out as he shuffles to the opposite side of the room.
Spoke slowly makes his way over to the minifridge and sees why Mapic reacted so violently. Apple juice somehow spilled all over the sides, mysterious green foam—which is most definitely ammonia leakage that miraculously reached the inside of the frige—is growing from the back, and lastly a month old take out box from Texas Roadhouse that Spoke isn't too sure what's its contents are since it fogged up. Despite the mess, his eyes lock onto the small empty ice cream box that's crumpled in the back corner of his fridge.
He remembers buying that pack of 4 popsicles at 1 am with Mapic. Their random 7-Eleven runs were always full of buying random shit they’d probably hate. They arrived with the intention of buying pizza. Instead, they found themselves in front of the freezers looking at ice creams.
Mapic wanted a different brand, but Spoke didn't like how that brand made their chocolate, so they bought the one Spoke chose—even though it was a shitty 7-Eleven knockoff version of Ben & Jerry's. It tasted horrible, but Mapic liked it, so they continued eating it. He doesn't know why he’s reminiscing about this, since he won't ever go to 7-Eleven late into the night with Mapic ever again. It doesn't happen anymore and certainly won't be happening anytime soon.
He swallows the lump in his throat and begins to throw away the contents into the black bag on the floor. He feels Mapic’s eyes on him as he shakily throws away the ice cream box. He closes the fridge and stays seated on the ground while Mapic sits too far away.
Plink
Plink
He blinked, eyes immediately turning towards Mapic, asking—begging that he heard that too.
He didn't. Of course he didn't.
Has that sound been stuck in his head? Had he made it up? Was he so lost in his head that he’d subconsciously make up imaginary sounds to hear something other than static?
The constant reminder of the lack of commotion in his room was driving him crazy, ironically this is something that would’ve been unheard of months ago. It's gotten so quiet in his life that he could hear that stupid plink plink he never heard before was taking over his sanity.
Was he going crazy?
“Dude, why do you have a broken water bottle in the corner of your room?” Spoke jumps at the sudden voice, quickly remembering it's just Mapic.
Plink
“Oh, uh, ignore that,” he says instead of explaining his earlier outburst. His arm is starting to get itchy. He wiggles it instead of itching it.
“I can't. That whole area is soaked. It's bugging me—like, mentally bugging me.”
“...Oh,” he huffs stupidly. He should probably walk over and pick it up since it's bothering Mapic.
Mapic lightly groans, and then he stands up. “I’ll just pick it up.” He bends over to pick it up, checking if there’s any water left inside the bottle; there isn't, and he swiftly throws it away. Too late, now Spoke just looks like a loser who likes leaving broken plastic water bottles around his room.
Spoke begins to scratch lightly at his arm. His knees still ache from him sitting in the corner last night.
“Okay, uh, let's get something to soak some of the water up. If mold grows in there, that's like a five hundred dollar fine.” Spoke doesn't really care about the five hundred dollar fine, his dad can pay it off, but if Mapic is saying that cleaning up the water is probably a good idea, he will listen.
He goes to take off his hoodie, but immediately remembers that his chest is littered with evidence of his body quite literally dematerializing—as one’s body typically does after someone goes crazy.
“I have a pink sweater in my closet, use that,” he breaths all too quickly.
Thankfully, Mapic didn't see any of that—or he just didn't care—which probably isn't true. Mapic quickly makes his way over to the closet.
“Because of course you don't have a spare towel,” he grumbles beneath his breath.
Mapic quickly finds the pink sweater and begins soaking up the water. Spoke watches him flip the sweater around to maximize the amount that's absorbed, as Mapic put it.
“So, why’d you come?” he asks before thinking about it. He doesn't really regret it, even with his nerves at an all time high. The question has been weighing on his mind since the second Mapic opened his door, and he’s never been one to leave a question unanswered.
“I told you already, it's because I'm not fine with watching you do this to yourself.”
“Mapic, I’m doing fine.”
“You call this fine?”
“Thriving actually.”
“Stop fucking joking. Why can't you just admit you’ve been going crazy for the past few weeks? You barely show up to classes, you look depressed ninety percent of the time, and have you seen how skinny you’ve gotten?”
“Sooo, you’re exaggerating all of that.”
“Your room was a mess, literally straight out of Hoarders.” Spoke wants to snicker at that, it was a realistic comparison and pretty funny, but he’s in the beginning of another argument with Mapic and not in the mood to let Mapic get the upper hand.
“Why do you always have something to say about me?” he mutters.
“Dude, what.”
“This is the same reason we got into an argument about Rose! You always have—“
“Are you seriously comparing this to Rose?!” Mapic scoffs, ”You manipulated her for a month so she could make you—”
“I wasn't really manipulating her like you keep saying,” Spoke quickly interrupts, not liking what was about to come out of Mapic’s mouth.
“I gave her a few recommendations to improve quicker—and she took them to heart! It’s not my fault she ruined her chance and got kicked out.”
“You’re insane,” Mapic says shakily. Spoke just chuckles at his accusation.
They stare at each other in a small moment of silence before Mapic breaks it all too quickly.
“To think I actually came here because I missed you. You’re sick, like mentally ill type of sick,” Mapic spits out, and Spoke immediately recognizes that tone.
“Mapic, wait—” but Mapic is already turning around and walking to the door. Ironically, he reaches out, his hand twitching around air. But Mapic doesn't slow down—he doesn't even turn around as he reaches the door, he doesn't even hesitate as he grabs the door handle.
The door whips open, and Spoke is hit with a small burst of wind. It goes straight to his face, quickly drying his eyes out. He tries to blink them back to normal, but he just begins to cry.
The door slams as Spoke falls to the ground.
______
Plink
Plink
Later, Spoke hears a knock and finds a container of rice, with a sticky note on it, at the foot of his door.
It reads: talk to me after you’ve realized what you’ve done
He eats the rice as tears run down his face.