Chapter Text
Light seeped into the dim room, crawling up the cracks of the bed frame, reflecting off the glass of stale water on the nightstand. The room was filled with stale air, undisturbed for some time now. Dust was collecting along every flat surface, sticky and gross as trapped humidity lingered sickeningly, suffocatingly in the small box-shaped room.
The door opened more, a lanky silhouette exposing itself against the shadows that raced to leave. Gentle, clacking footsteps painstakingly entered the room, uncertain and slow, with a long, unkept tail dragging on the floor behind them. The fur at the end of it collected the dust that settled on the floor like a broom, but he didn't notice, and he didn't really care.
Hooves moved sluggishly, like they didn't really know where they were going. He didn't really know what he was doing here anymore, just that he had to get away, had to leave. It was shameful. A cowboy doesn't turn tail and run. A cowboy is strong, a cowboy is brave, a cowboy is admirable.
Yellow is not a cowboy. Yellow isn't even a man. He's a sorry excuse for a "human.”
He pauses before the bed. Does a criminal and a liar deserve to lay on a bed? Does he deserve anything at all? Whatever. It doesn't matter. He knows he doesn't deserve comfort. Not after shutting everyone out and ignoring their pleas for him to talk to them. He knew it was wrong to turn away from them, but what could he do?
Yellow slumps to the floor, back pushed against the edge of the bed. The dim light trails up his body, exposing his eye bags and greasy hair. Bandages snake their way around his arms, wrapped in panic and embarrassment. He's disgusting, really. It's a real shame he couldn't be the man he was supposed to be. Maybe it’s better to give up now than to keep pathetically trying. Yellow let go of the gun in his hand, resting it on the cold floor. He wasn’t really sure why he brought it here, a subconscious need to keep it on him for protection maybe.
He didn’t really like being in this room, an area hidden in his punishment chamber that he retreated to when he couldn’t face anyone. He wasn’t sure anyone knew it existed—if they did, they didn’t dare go inside.
He sinks into himself, smelling the stupid tee-shirt Aqua had given him for his birthday—black with a “eat sleep serve justice repeat” decal on it. His nose scrunched at the smell almost immediately, the invasive smell of salty sweat and dust chasing his senses down. It was a sweet gift, but for some stupid reason it made him angry. He wasn’t serving anyone justice. He was hardly a good person at all, he was in no place to be upholding the law.
At least he wasn’t in his usual getup of cowboy clothes and adornments. Instead he was in long shorts and his aforementioned tee shirts . He couldn’t bring himself to put anything proper on today.
Dust dances with the light, falling and twirling in a beautiful dance as the air around Yellow remains still, only moving with his breath as his chest begins aching with a deep, sickening feeling. The dance is a sputtering, spitting image of the gentle, spinning pirouettes he had grown so used to finding comfort and light in. The way it shimmers in the light and cascades downward like petals is almost a perfect mirror to Blue's own dance routine, between his twirls and bows that always had Yellow in some sort of trance.
Blue would be so ashamed. Yellow promised the ballerino he was getting better, he swore up and down. He felt disgusting for lying, lying to Blue's beautiful face. Blue believed him, too. Held him close and told him he was so proud and happy to see him improving. That was the real crime. He lied and kept lying. Now he's here, he’s here in this room again, this cage, locking every door so that his beautiful bluebell won’t find his decaying body.
Yellow sunk his head into his hands, shoulders trembling as his fingers gripped his hair. He felt like such an embarrassment, such a failure, what was he doing? Back in this isolation room, where he promised he'd stop going to hide away. He can't help but hide. It's what he does best, really.
His breath hitched as a sob choked at his throat. His stomach churned, guilt and shame flooding his thoughts. It might just be easier if he never talks to anyone again, never shows his face, never burdens anyone with his presence. He's a real piece of work. He knows that. He knows Blue is tired of him. So are all of his friends.
Blue's voice echoed in his mind.
"You haven't changed."
"You're exhausting."
"I just can't keep dealing with you."
He never really said those things, no, not to Yellow's face, but Yellow felt it. It had to be true. If he were Blue, he would've left long, long ago.
His mind drifted towards his gun. Its reflective golden material, the six bullets packed within the cylinder, the sooty smell of the barrel. He gripped his hair tighter, sniffling loudly. Maybe there was one thing he could do right. His hand shakily shifted to the floor, uncertainly wrapping his calloused fingers around the grip of the gun. His stomach sank as he removed it from the holster. Was he really doing this?
He winced, finally looking at the weapon. All he had to do was stick in his mouth and shoot.
The hardest part would be shooting it.
Yellow began wondering, thoughts unspooling like he’d lost his steady hold of them. Would anyone miss him? Would they feel bad? He didn't think so, and he hoped not. He frowned and looked behind him, eyes falling on the still made bed and clean wooden frame. He didn't want anyone to have to pick up after his mess. He couldn't even kill himself without leaving something for someone to have to deal with. Maybe it'd be worth it. One last thing, then that’s that—no more messes to clean up, no more wrongs to right.
He stood up, leaving the gun on the floor. His hooves moved without direction, pacing in circles as he weighed the pros and cons inside his mind. If he killed himself now, he wouldn’t have to worry about any future mistakes or fuckups. If he kills himself now, he won’t have to take the heavy blow of Blue’s disappointed face when he sees Yellow in this state of disgusting shame. If he kills himself now, it means he doesn’t have to kill himself in the future.
If he kills himself now, he’ll never see his beautiful bluebell again. If he kills himself now, he’ll never feel the joy of sinking into bed with his lovely ballerino. If he kills himself now, he’ll never play around with Aqua or Orange ever again. He bites his cheek, his hands clutch his stomach as anxiety rips at his insides.
Maybe some things are better off being memories. Maybe he should just get it over with. He looks at the gun, watching dust float around around it as the cracked door still lets light illuminate the room best it can. He remembers how the ice cold metal lingers on his fingers, the smooth curve of the trigger, the gravelly texture of the grip.
He lets out an angry sob, thrashing his lanky tail around as he throws his hands in the air, turning away from the gun resting on the floor. He stomps one hoof, frustrated sobs forcing their way out of his throat. He’s angry with himself. Angry he’s nothing more than a pathetic excuse for a man. Can’t even muster up courage to kill himself.
Yellow marches around the room, gripping at his hair as hard as he can, starting to kick anything too close to him. First the wall, then the bed frame, then the dresser. He huffed as salty tears trickled down his flushed face, soaking his freckled skin and leaving his eyes puffy. With a loud crash, he threw the lamp and glass of water off the dresser, then kicked the dresser one final time. The lanky tail attached to his body made a thwack sound as he waved it around wildly, colliding with the edge of the bed painfully. He let out a pathetic yelp, immediately turning and clutching it as more tears pooled at the corner of his eyes.
A gentle knock pushes the door open, Yellow almost screams as his adrenaline rushes throughout his body. He didn’t think anyone would be coming to check on him. The door creaked unceremoniously, a pale hand pushing on its wooden color.
“Yellow? Is that you in here?” Flowery’s voice felt alien on Yellow’s ears. A few days of isolation always did that to him. Left every voice and every noise not made by him sound fresh, unheard of.
“Urggh...” Yellow groaned, turning his back to the other, still clutching his aching tail. It throbbed in the spot that made contact with the bedframe, and Yellow fought the tears that threatened to keep spilling out. Flowery walked further into the room, opening the door fully as he inched closer to Yellow.
“Hey, man! What’s going on? Talk to me, you know you always can!” Flowery spoke with a care-free joy that made Yellow jealous. He wasn’t perfect like Flowery was. He wasn’t strong like Flowery was. He wasn’t brave like Flowery was. It made a ball of frustration catch in his throat before he could force any words out in response to the other flower.
“Yellow?” Flowery pushed closer, brows furrowed. Worry was audible in his tone, an invisible attempt to pull Yellow out of the headspace he was in.
“Can yew… Just—Leave me alone! Get outta here!” Yellow hollered, turning to face his fellow darkener while pointing towards the door with a shaking hand. Flowery flinched back, eyes opening in surprise. They stayed like that for a moment before Flowery began backing up. Yellow huffed, fists clenched, head lowered in an attempt to hide his face.
“S…” His voice trailed off first, then came back softer than before. “I’m sorry, Yellow. I’m here if you need anything, okay?” Flowery spoke gently as he exited the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
Still inside, Yellow’s breath grew more rapid and frantic. His hands returned to his sore scalp, gripping his hair once more as familiar sobs returned.
“God dammit!” The cowboy screamed through sobs as he collapsed to the floor, cursing himself under his breath.
“Can't—Can’t even… Be nice to my friend… I’m the worst kind of criminell.” Yellow stammered to himself through sobs, coughing as saliva caught in his throat. He sluggishly moved his head up, first towards the ceiling, then to the floor near him.
The gun.
Well, now he really gots to do it. No coming back from this. Too deep in it now.
Yellow stretched his arm over and grabbed the weapon, not moving his body from the spot he had sunken into. It found its way into his hand quickly, he was more certain this time. This time he knew what needed to happen. It had to happen.
Shaky hands fiddled with the gun, moving it around until it was comfortably staring him down. The man swallowed hard, closing his eyes tightly for a moment, trying to take deep breaths and calm his jittery nerves.
“This is for the better,” he thinks, “It’s what everyone would want,” he assures himself.
With eyes open, he opens his mouth and shoves the gun inside. His whole body is shaking now, it practically feels numb from the adrenaline powering his body. Fingertips tingling, hands shaking, he tries to force himself to think of something nice. Something peaceful. Something to block out the concept of how badly this is going to hurt.
Blue.
Yellow closes his eyes as tight as he can, but the tears push past, and he lets out a muffled cry. He’s afraid. Afraid Blue will find him and be angry, afraid of what it’s going to feel like, afraid of himself. It shouldn’t matter but he’s terrified.
He tries to push his fear down, shoving it as far as it will go.
This is for the better.
It’s what everyone would want.
Finger over the trigger. Breath paused.
It will be worth it when it's over
*CLICK!*
The bullet was jammed.
Yellow pulled the gun out of his mouth and choked out an ugly sob, uncontrollably breathing and trembling as his arms went slack, fingers still wrapped around the gun. He sniffled grossly, coughing and letting out whimpers as he pulled his legs back up to his chest.
Maybe it’s divine intervention. Maybe it’s some higher being telling him not to do it.
That doesn’t matter.
When his breathing slowly ever so slightly, he peeled open his eyes and brought the gun close again, inspecting it. He fiddled with it for a few moments, trying to adjust the position of the bullet. His hands shook as he adjusted it, certain he couldn’t mess up this time. Yellow would not back out of this so easily. He was strong.
Once again, he was staring down the eye of the barrel, his fate hidden by a shadowy chamber, containing the bullet that would take it all away.
The cowboy let out another uncontrollable sob, closing his eyes and hanging his head. He was no justice. No sheriff. Truly, he was nothing at all. Tears flowed like a raging river, fast and uneven, dripping onto his shirt, snot joining the salty stream. He was such a damned coward.
Shaking his head and wiping his ears, he ignored the throbbing headache that drilled into his skull. Eyes opened once more, hand lifting the gun.
Hands jittering, entire body trembling, Yellow shut his eyes tight. Finger hovering over the trigger, he gulped hard.
It’ll be over soon.