Synopsis: What was once found could be lost once again.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, reader has nicknames, CW food mentions, CW dark themes. CW recreational drug use, CW suggestive. Eventual Bobby romance, slow burn, Part 6 of my Bobby series. Set during the movie (spoilers)
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Bobby Franklin Masterlist
Part 5 <<< Part 6 >>> Part 7
The days go on like usual. You and Bobby both continue like always, like you’re not stuck in limbo where the days are slower and the only bright side is that he has you with him.
Bobby usually wakes up first, fixes some breakfast for you just in time for you to come downstairs. You get your first pick, a raspberry scone, or a chocolate eclair, and Bobby has whatever you choose, citing that he wanted to have a taste too, only for you both to share one plate, eating the same pastry and fighting for the last bite with a fork.
You always greeted Mr. Kitty who watches in the corner of the kitchen. It watches like it’s lonely, not observing to learn but because it wants to be included, to be seen. So one day, you fix it a plate, some crumpets and a cupcake on the side. It looks at it, then it looks at you, head cocked to the side, learning something new.
Bobby watches every interaction with curious eyes, watching how you grew fond of the being slowly, day by day, he notices the entity coming closer to you. You feel the fuzzy static atop its skin, humming just above your own.
Mr. Kitty has been a part of the routine as much as Bobby is a part of it. Sometimes Bobby would humour it by talking to it, asking why it likes Hello Kitty so much, or asking why it likes to watch. Not once has he gotten an answer from it when you once told him that you heard Mr. Kitty huffed out a laugh at you and even closed the bedroom door when you asked it to.
Even then, even when Bobby has gotten used to the added shadowy presence, Bobby doesn’t leave you alone with Mr. Kitty. Maybe he’s paranoid, or maybe there is a chance that his fear could become true when he’s scared that it’ll take you somewhere he can’t follow. He can never fully trust it, especially when it comes to you when it seems to have grown extremely fond of you. Either way, his eyes don’t stray too far from you and the being, not even while you’re both in the living room whilst you make daisy chains from the gathered wild flowers outside for it, talking to it like it could answer you.
“I think he’s in love with you.” Bobby once blurted out before bed, head resting on the silky pillow, eyes staring at the edge of the bed, waiting for you to peek over like always.
“Who is?” Just like he thought, you look over the edge and over to him.
“Mr. Kitty, who else?”
“Oh,” your lips smacks together, eyes glancing at the closed door, expecting for the being to appear out of nowhere from the mere mention of its name you bestowed upon it. “Why would you think that?” You ask softly, a hand falling over the edge, fingers brushing along the top of his chest.
Bobby takes it as an invitation to hold you, an occurrence that has become the norm for you both. His fingers grasp onto your own, and you let out that satisfied hum from the back of your throat that he always pretended not to hear lest you grow conscious of it. “Because he’s always with you, and he’s always watching you.”
“Maybe he just thinks I’m more interesting than you.” Your attention is fully on Bobby’s fingers as he plays with your own, brushing, kneading, just holding onto you for comfort.
“Or he’s in love with you.” Tugging at your hand, he makes you look at him with a roll of your eyes and with him raising a brow at you.
“He is not in love with me, Bobby.” You scoff, chuckling tiredly. “You’re seeing things.”
“How would you know? Did he tell you that?” What started off as a teasing remark has turned into a full conversation. “I mean, I once saw his big fucking hand hover over your head like it wanted to pet you.”
“Why?” You tilt your head to the side of the mattress, cheek pressed against it with a cheeky yet exhausted smile. “Are you jealous, Robert Franklin?”
Bobby scrunches his brows, scoffing out and looking anywhere but at you. “No, I’m just fucking with you.”
“Well, in that case, I can tell you that I have a massive crush on him.”
When he looks at you with a grimace, he sees your growing smile, a playful expression painted in dusty pink, like a Monet painting that was painted with deep longing. “You little shit.”
“Why not?” You utter in between laughs. “He can bake, he’s nice and he listens. Basically the perfect guy.”
“It’s because he doesn’t speak, hero.”
“Whatever, you’re just jealous of our blossoming love.” Pressing your face into the pillow, hiding from him with a not-so-hidden smile, he could hear you laugh against it.
“He’s an alien.”
“Different genres, Bobby.” You poke his forehead, and he rolls his eyes, turning away to stifle his grin.
He fell asleep with a smile on his face then, and would wake up with your hand in his again. He’ll never admit the fact that his arm aches every morning, he’d rather tell Mr. Kitty that its pastries are dry right to its face rather than admit that and have you shrug off his hand.
Bobby fell into step with you, he finds that it’s easier this way, to not fight it anymore when his hope dwindles in finding the exit. He lets it happen, he tries to make the most of the situation without giving you the same feeling of hopelessness that slithers around his throat. That’s the last thing he would want, to make you feel hopeless, to make you feel that there is nothing to be done. So he follows the routine, keeping you comfortable and at the least content.
After every breakfast you and Bobby go outside to go on a fruitless search again. Every stone turned and tree observed, you both come up with nothing again.
You lumber back inside the house, the house that has been properly lived-in now, where the bed smells like you, and where there are dishes in the sink. Where he’s comfortable, content and safe.
With aching bones, Bobby opens the door for you. His muscles are pulled taut with the throbbing pain of fatigue and yet he still finds the time to fix up a fresh plate and cup of tea for you, courtesy of the entity that loves to watch you eat the treats whilst he lets you shower first. He brings it upstairs and sits on the floor beside the bathroom door and talks, waiting for you to finish whilst taking bites of tarts and eclairs. Then you do the same when it’s his turn. Rinse and repeat, always on schedule, a tight routine that is getting tiring with every identical day that passes.
You try to pass the time by filling the empty books on the shelf with various doodles and musings, whatever that comes to mind, you put it into the book. Sometimes it’s the map you remembered drawing on the wall of the sailboat room, the same routes you took, the same landmarks, drawing the ones that are potentially dangerous and the ones that are safe to stay in. Maybe you’ll need it someday. Or maybe someone else would come across the same notebook with your writings and it would help them better than it could for you.
You’re starting to miss the internet and real books that have actual stories in it. The covers on the bookshelves here look like the covers back at home, only with the words garbled, almost alien, like it misremembered what the title was supposed to be. You’re holding onto a copy of what was supposed to be Goldilocks but with its pages blank like the others when you hear a muffled thump upstairs.
Looking up at the pink ceiling, you decide to head upstairs to check on Bobby. He wanted to take a nap last you saw him, so you let him sleep in, giving him some alone time. Sometimes it’s needed here when you two spend almost every waking moment together.
Creeping in slowly, hammer in hand, you crack open the door. Expecting to see Bobby still sleeping on the bed, what you don’t expect is for Mr. Kitty looming over him, watching him craft a beaded bracelet on the floor.
You don’t even know where the beads came from, but you suspect it came from Mr. Kitty. You once asked for some coloring supplies, an offhanded comment, a loud wishful thinking while you were bored out of your mind. The next morning, you see a box of colorful markers right on the bedside table, placed right there just for you. Maybe you were wrong about the entities here.
“Do you think she’ll like this one? Is it too pink?” He asks Mr. Kitty, holding out the half finished bracelet in front of him casually like he’s asking a friend and not a faceless being that is probably older than you and Bobby. The shadow responds with a lopsided head tilt like a curious puppy. “It’s not my fault everything in here is pink.”
Bobby talks to him normally, you find it adorable.
“Y’know some other color would do this place some good.” He mutters, placing each bead after the other meticulously in the string. The being beside him just leans closer, maybe a threat or a tease, Bobby took it as the latter. And your hand around the hammer tightens in case it was the former. “I’m not judging your interior design, calm down. But maybe a bit of green or orange, y’know? Spice things up a bit?”
Mr. Kitty straightens up, moving his head from side to side slowly. You and Bobby have a similar look of surprise on your faces. It doesn’t want to spice things up a bit it seems.
Bobby’s lips stretch into a grin. “Damn, you do respond.” Is all he could say, chuckling to himself.
Before you could make your escape, Mr. Kitty turns its head over to you at the doorway, a parallel to him keeping watch there every night but the positions are switched.
Bobby notices, of course he does as he looks over his shoulder, eyes softening after noticing you.
“You look like a peeping tom.” His smirk is blanketed by the pink light filtering through the curtains.
“I heard a bump and I thought you fell from the bed.” Showing yourself, you enter the threshold. “What are you two doing, hm?” You can’t help but smile, hiding the hammer behind your back, gaze flicking between the shadow and back to Bobby hunched over the mess of beads on the floor.
“Nothing.” He fails to hide his plans by shoving the beads closer to him with his legs, only for it to clink together, revealing his surprise. “Fuck.” Huffing, he looks at the entity like it made fun of his hair. “I told you to be quiet.”
“You’re blaming Mr. Kitty?”
“Yeah,” shrugging, the being just stays there, standing still, observing the interaction. “C’mere, I need help.”
“What for?” You’re already crossing the short distance over to him and sitting beside him on his makeshift bed. You hide the hammer underneath a pillow.
“I don’t know your size.”
“Oh.” You fluster, blinking owlishly at him, cheeks aflame.
“May I?” Bobby’s voice is softer, fingers brushing along your own gently, like water upon your skin.
“Y–yeah, sure.” Smiling, you slide your hand over to his palm whilst he wraps the beaded bracelet around your wrist, tying it together and cutting the excess wire off. You admire it underneath the eternal light shining through the windows. It has star shaped beads, iridescent pink pearls, and beads shaped like hearts that spell out your name. It’s adorable, and your heart soars that your eyes turn glossy, painting him in water coloured lights.
“D’you like it?” Ducking down to meet with your eyes, Bobby smiles, albeit wobbly, a nervous smile. “I can change some things around if you don’t like it.”
“No, no, I—” clearing your throat, you lift your head up and nudge your knee with his own. “I like it, I love it, Bobby, thank you.”
“That’s good.” Sighing in relief, Bobby knocks his knee against yours, smiling bashfully as he stares into your eyes. “I mean, I thought it would be too childish for you.”
“No,” shaking your head, you turn your wrist from side to side, admiring every detail under the light. “I don’t see it like that, it’s adorable, you’re sweet for making one for me.” With your wrist right on your chest, you hug it close to you.
“Yeah, I uh,” Bobby licks his lips, scratching his nape and blinking at the floor, right on a half made bracelet that he has no idea why he started to make. “I remember making a few when I was a kid, I guess it stuck.”
“I bet you made lots for your friends.” Your easy smile eases him as his taut shoulders visibly relax.
“Maybe, I don’t really remember.”
“Can I make you one too?” You blink away the happy tears, grabbing a string and wiggling it in front of him.
“Yeah.” The haze of feeling like he forgot something fades away from your smile alone.
“Do you want to pick your beads?” You’re sorting through the assorted beads on the floor that clinks together.
“No, I trust you.” His hand holds up your hair that was falling over your face, a sweet gesture that comes easy for him, almost out of instinct as you shudder out a breath.
“I’ll make one for Mr. Kitty too after this.” Straightening up, you swallow down your shyness, eyes glancing at the being standing over the two of you patiently, waiting his turn.
“He doesn’t need one.” Bobby blurts out.
“Don’t be jealous.” Your hand pats his cheek briefly before inserting a sun shaped bead into the string.
“I’m not jealous of a faceless bean stalk.” He watches you work, while still keeping a close eye on the being.
“Sounds like you are though.” With a lilt, you chuckle at him, eyes shining from the light, and Bobby, poor Bobby, feels like his heart stopped.
—
Bobby walks ahead of you, stretching his back, wincing at the throbbing ache that rolls under his strained muscles. You can tell that it’s bothering him when he reaches behind, kneading at the small of his back, painted nails scratching into the skin to try to alleviate the pain. Despite that, he seems to be more comfortable here now, his jean shorts hang lower than usual, belted lower. The small of his back is in full show, and so is his midriff with a trail of dirty blond hair below his navel that creeps underneath the waistband of his jeans. It’s very distracting, and you always find yourself looking away with cheeks as warm as Mr. Kitty’s pastries.
“You okay, Bobby?” Your hand pauses from writing, the beaded bracelets he made for you clinking against each other. “Do you have an itch or something?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” Rolling his shoulder, hammer in hand, you could see the fatigue in his muscles as his crop top hitches up with every stretch.
“Maybe you should take the bed tonight.” Sliding beside him, you nudge his bicep.
“I’m fine, hero.” Your companion gives you a tight smile. “It’s all this walking, it’ll ease up when we get some rest.”
“You’re not a very good liar, Bobby.”
He pauses mid step, neck craning slowly over to you. “And you know this, how?” His brow rises, nose scrunched with a barely hidden smirk.
“You look away when you lie.” Now in front of him, you stare him down, matching his barely there smirk.
Bobby steps forward, the tips of his shoes kissing yours, breath fanning your cheek as his hair falls over his eyes. It’s gotten longer.
“And you can’t stomach lying, hero. You’re too good for it.”
“Not true, I lie all the time.” Your breath hitches when his finger loops around the bracelets he made for you, using it to pull you closer to him until he could see himself in your eyes. You should pull away, and yet you don’t. You’re savouring it, languishing in the moment.
“Okay, name one lie.”
“You stink.”
His lips tugs into a slow lopsided grin, a laugh rumbling his chest that reverberates through you. “Like how I smell or in general?”
“Both.”
“You big fucking liar.”
A smile splits on your face, laughing, head tilted down at your feet that meets with his own atop the green grass. “Alright,” you turn to him again, seeing that his gaze never left yours. “Can you tell if this is a lie?”
“I like a challenge.”
“I want you to take the bed for tonight.”
“A half truth.”
“Only a half truth?” You scoff out and his blue eyes follow yours when you turn away for a beat.
“Yeah, because you also want to sleep in the bed tonight.” His thumb plays with a bead in the bracelet, rolling it around in the pads of his fingers.
“I do love the bed too much.” Skin aflame, you bite the inside of your cheek, taking a tentative deep breath for what comes next. “We can share it, it’s big enough for two, hell, Mr. Kitty can fit in there.”
Bobby’s chest heaves, breath stuttering as he blinks owlishly at you. “You sure?”
“I thought you could tell if I’m lying or not.” You tease, looking directly into the pools of light in his eyes. “I can put a pillow between us. A hotdog in between if—”
“Sure.” He says instantaneously, jaw clamping up immediately before clearing his throat. “Yeah, sure. My back hurts, it’ll help.”
“Okay.” Looking at him through your lashes, you back away slowly, leaves crunching underfoot whilst the smile remains on your face. “C’mon, My gut tells me that we’re close to a door.”
He hopes not, not yet anyway.
—
You lay on the bed pin straight, hands atop your stomach, staring up at the ceiling whilst you feel the familiar warmth beside you.
Suddenly, Bobby’s fingers come up to your forehead, flicking you. “Ow.” You move to grimace at him. “What was that for?”
“You’re doing it again.” Bobby gazes at you softly, cheek atop the pillow you two placed in between your bodies, the yellow light softens his features as a strand of dark blonde hair falls over his eye.
It’s good to be looked at without pity, without shame.
“Doing what?”
“Getting lost in your thoughts.”
“I wasn’t, I was just zoning out.”
“Sure.” Rolling his eyes, he turns his attention away towards the door. “Did you know that he keeps watching us at night?”
“Yeah, from the start.”
“What a creep.”
“Maybe that’s why you two get along so well.” Chuckling, he looks at you with mock offense.
“Oh, fuck you.” Turning his back to you, he hides his wobbly grin and curls around a pillow. “Go sleep, hero.”
“Bobby?” You lean closer, looking at his dirty blond hair that curls over his nape as your fingers hover above it, restraining yourself from touching him. “You need a haircut.”
That sounded familiar to him, those exact string of words once echoed in the back of his mind like a residual memory that he had forgotten, said by someone else. Not you, a different voice, someone he knew, probably knew. But he can’t recall as he finds himself twisting towards you, the tension thickening as he hears your breath hitch. You’re much closer than he thought.
“What’d you say?”
“You need a haircut?” Brows knitted, you blink at him, lips slightly agape with his sweetened scent wafting over you. “Are you okay? I could move to the floor—”
“No, no, it’s okay.” He immediately shakes his head, dismissing how he looked at you so intensely like he was trying to see a different face on you. “I just didn’t hear you. Do you know how to cut hair?”
“Just my own, I never liked salons.”
“Maybe you can try to cut mine.” He tries to wave away the fleeting tension that permeates between you two like a third person, a ghost that lingers.
“I might make you bald.” Biting your lip with a wince, the vision of him that flickered in your mind made you chuckle. “But you’ll probably look good without hair.”
“Thanks, babe, now go to sleep.” He doesn’t notice the slip of the tongue as he turns away again with a smile. Or maybe he really meant to call you that, that his subconscious was already calling you by that before he spoke it loudly. Fatigue catches up to him as he leaves you staring at his back befuddledly with your heart racing.
Bobby wakes up to Mr. Kitty looming over the bed. Dread and unease filling him. Its faceless head cranes over to you and he follows the turn of its head, seeing you sleep soundly, face slack, peaceful as your hand rests atop his chest and over the pillow in between.
After all this time, something in him tells him that the being standing over him couldn’t be trusted, that he should take you and run even when he knows that this entity shouldn’t be feared. He can’t help it when it’s inherently built into his very being to be afraid of the uncanny valley and the things that creep in the dark.
“W–why are you watching us?” Bobby asks, hands slightly trembling as it moves above your own, grasping onto the back of your hand.
Mr. Kitty flickers out and over to the foot of the bed, in an instant it was beside him, feeling the static on its skin then it wasn’t. It turns its head again, this time over to the opened door.
“Do you want me to follow?”
Blinking, the shadow is gone and is now standing in the hallway within a half second.
Bobby checks on you, still sleeping, still peaceful. A peace that he’d rather not disturb.
The being hums in a low crooning sound, calling for him, taking his attention away from your sleeping form.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming.” Slowly and carefully, he takes your hand off of him with some reluctance before placing it atop the pillow. He then gets out of bed, fixing the blanket over your chin and taking one last look at you before he follows the shadow downstairs.
The whole house is completely lit like always, blinding him as his eyes adjust to the light. All the windows are open, he specifically remembers you always closing them before bed out of instinct, paranoid that something outside will crawl inside the house. No matter how many changes you do to the house, it goes back to its original state. Like how the bed would be made immediately every time you leave the bedroom to wash your face, you always thought it was Bobby who does it, but he never really told you that it wasn’t him so as to not make you feel uneasy. That’s the last thing he wanted to make you feel inside the only room you’re comfortable in to rest your eyes and let your guard down completely.
Mr. Kitty flickers in and out of existence, telling him to follow him outside into the garden and out into the clearing with the grass that aren’t grass, and where the fake sun shines with its same temperature and artificial warmth.
Bobby stands there in the doorway of the front door, gazing at this tall shadow as it settles in the middle of the clearing. Its skin flickers in and out, like television looking for a signal with its static fizzing in and out. Then it settles, returning to normal, as if it was fighting something invisible just to stay outside its domain. The orb of light shines on its skin, absorbing the light, not even reflecting the shine.
“What do you want, man?” Bobby blearily looks at him, a hand braced on the doorway. All he wants right now is to settle back beside you, feel your warmth, and fall asleep to the sound of your soft snores.
Mr. Kitty lifts his arm straight, pointing at the left side of the woods, where the fallen tree trunk you both rested at is placed. He stills eerily, statuesque, waiting for Bobby to move.
He swallows down his nerves, walking over to it, grass crunching underneath him as the light casts down his own shadow before him. Inching his way over to the trunk, it’s the same as before, hardened oak, rough around the edges, moss growing on the sides, nothing out of the ordinary. Lifting his head, he sees the entity stand beside the wall with the painted valley, a fake hill with a blue sky as its backdrop.
“We checked that already.” His voice is low, laced with trepidation, as if he’s afraid of waking you up with the noise even when you’re so far away.
Mr. Kitty cocks its head once again, looking as if he’s pointing at the wall with its craned head. The edges of its shadow turns into static, humming, a fizzle of red and blue before returning back to the void.
Bobby doesn’t know if it’s angry at him or frustrated by his disobedience, either way, the entity doesn’t seem like it’s having the grandest of time with him.
Sucking in his teeth, fingers flexing on his side, Bobby crosses the distance over to the painted valley, a palm reaching over to it, hand trembling slightly. Mr. Kitty watches on by his side as he could feel its skin fizzle atop his own, like a forcefield pushing away from him.
He expects to hit a solid wall, until the tips of his fingers touch nothing, going through the fake hill, phasing through it like putting your hand in water. Turning to the entity beside him, he could hear the hum from its skin, a low dissonance, a droning tone like the harsh fluorescent lights.
From where he stands, he could smell the familiar damp carpets, that mildew scent that settles in the back of his throat. The simple whiff of it sends his flight or fight response into haywire. Panting, his heart races, eyes blown wide.
He found the exit. Where the air is still and stale, and where the walls enclose around him, where something lurks in every corner. And the entity guided him to it, like it wanted him to leave. Specifically, to leave you here all alone with only this shadow as your only company.
“I’m not going to leave her here.” He says with his whole chest, taking his hand back to his side abruptly.
It looks at the house, head raised up, staring at the bedroom window, almost longingly, wistfully. It doesn’t have a face, but it says everything in that small movement.
“I am not going to leave her here. Do you understand?” Despite his trepidation, Bobby stands up to the faceless being that is probably as old as this place, primordial, something so ancient that has found you interesting, that latched onto you like a ghost that haunts your waking moment. It has grown fond of you. He says your name through gritted teeth, fighting for you. “She doesn’t belong here with you.”
But does he belong with you?
Bobby feels the same thrumming underneath his skin from when you accidentally cut your palm. Mr. Kitty is furious, or is it sorrow when it hums a song deep beneath from its heartless chest.
Bobby thinks he’s done for, that it ran out of patience for him, that it’s going to kick him out of his dominion or worse, rip him apart.
With a pop in his ears, Mr. Kitty disappears before him.
Bobby shudders at the encounter, staring right at the wall with his jaw clenched and tearful eyes. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Looking at the unassuming wall beside him, his brows furrow, jaw tightening as he turns his back against it.
He returns to the house with its obnoxious pink walls, and loud decor.
He goes up the steps for what seems to be the hundredth time and opens the door quietly.
He returns to you.
Bobby looks at the sleeping you curled around the pillows you placed in the middle of the bed, chest rising and falling, sleeping soundly, and at peace. He doesn’t want to ruin that peace, not yet, he’s not ready to go out just yet. He knows he’s being selfish, cowardly, but no one else in the world deserves to have the peace of mind more than you do. This place grants you that peace, as much as he wants to get out of here together with you and watch all the theater that you want and eat all the savory junk food that you crave— you need your rest, to smile for once, to let your guard down when it’s slowly being chipped away with every touch and smile you grant him.
Even if it means staying here and sharing your attention with an entity that seems to have latched onto you.
Bobby carefully gets into the covers beside you, sitting up, gazing at your sleeping face with a far away look. When you’re ready, he’ll tell you, when he’s ready, he’ll go through the doorway with you hand in hand like always.
Bobby doesn’t sleep that night.
—
Bobby hasn’t smoked in days, or has it been weeks? But now he smokes by the doorstep the morning after, back haunched, a Hello Kitty pillow on his lap and ashes slowly drifting down onto the ground before him.
You find him sitting by the front door, staring at the fallen tree as wisps of the earthy smoke wafted in the air. You woke up earlier than usual, only to find his side of the bed empty and cold.
He felt you before he heard your footsteps, peering up at you, you tilt your head down, whilst the fake sun shines right behind you.
“Didn’t sleep well?” Your gaze falls on the bags under his eyes. “Did I snore?”
“No,” shaking his head, he lifts up the joint over to you, offering it as you smile and take it gingerly. Your warm fingers brushes along on his own. “And no, you didn’t snore. I just couldn’t find sleep.”
“Well, did you count sheep?” You sit beside him, breathing it in before exhaling smoke out in soft wisps. He watched you the whole time, observing how your shoulders ease, expression softening underneath the light. “Thanks.” You hand it back to him, and his touch lingers a second longer than he realized.
“Y’know what I miss?” He mutters above the joint, eyes flicking towards the light, squinting at it like you have. You wish you didn’t leave his shades in the bedroom so you could place it over his eyes this time around.
“What?”
“Potato chips, steak, pizza—” he takes a deep inhale, letting the smoke settle inside his mouth before exhaling. “fucking anything that isn’t sweet or has custard in it.”
“I miss those too, plus the internet.” You giggle, actually giggled at him as you shake your head, unknowingly making his heart jump. His brow quirks up at the latter but doesn’t mention it. “I make a really good mac and cheese. Not the ones that came from the box, but from scratch.”
“Yeah?” His reddened eyes sparkle, perking up as he gives you a lopsided smile. “That sounds fucking good. Add some grilled cheese and tomato soup and you have my heart.”
“Mm-hmm.” Nodding, you take the joint from him, eyes crinkling in the corners as you smile at him, an easy smile that he’ll never get used to, a smile that he wants to etch into his mind forever. “You men are simple creatures, huh?”
“Guess so.” Bobby watches you again with a keen eye as you smoke, how your lips pucker around it, how your glazed eyes are softer, and how your fingers hold onto it daintily. “Just feed us and make out with us from time to time then we’re yours forever.”
You laugh, a sound that comes out of you easier, right from the belly, a wholehearted one. “How about I cook for you when we get out of here?” We, not just him, we, something you never thought you’d actually believe in. “And if it’s shit I’ll take you somewhere that has greasy food that makes your cholesterol spike. How about that? Does that sound good?”
“Best thing I’ve ever heard.” He takes the offered joint, breathing it in, tasting you on it, saccharine like the chocolate croissant you had.
Bobby really meant what he said, it sounds like heaven to him. He could see it now, you accidentally burned the pasta on the stove after he distracted you too much with his stories like always and you both had to resort to going to a local diner. He knows the perfect one with the cracking leather seats and old jukebox in the corner, and milkshakes to share. He would slide into the booth beside you, not adjacent, he wants to be near you, to hold your hand underneath the table and argue with you on who can eat the most burgers and fries.
Tilting your head, you second guess, before sighing and finally placing your head on his shoulder, cheek nuzzling, inhaling the strawberry scent upon his skin. His hand hovers above your knee, and you take him gently in your hold, playing with his fingers absentmindedly.
“Do you like the beach, Bobby?” You whisper, thumb running along the length of his life line right on his palm.
“Yeah, I surf sometimes.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” He could feel your smile against his sleeve. “I used to…” you pause with trepidation before exhaling. “I used to sail with my grandpa.”
“That’s cool.” Ducking his head, he faces you, nose grazing along your forehead from how close he is to you. “Were you good at it, sailing, I mean?”
“I— I don’t remember.” Flicking your gaze to him, you could see yourself fully in the reflection of his blue eyes, like you’re drifting in the sea again and feeling the sun on your back as you bask in his warmth, a real warmth. “I think…I think I want to go sailing again…with you.”
Bobby nods, eyes closing as he rests his head against your own. “I’d love that, hero.”
“I want to feel the waves again, and the sand between my toes.” Your lips are dangerously close to his skin, and yet you don’t pull away even when something inside of you tells you to.
You could just see him at the helm, standing under the sun. Or struggling with the sails, dodging flinging rope as you laugh at him before helping him wrangle it. And at night you’d watch the stars with him, not the oddly shaped ones, the real twinkling stars as you both point out constellations together.
“I’ll take you to the beach.” His voice is a mere whisper, leaning impossibly closer to you, basking in your warmth and inhaling you in.
Your heart soars, eyes closing and letting the moment settle around you. You both stay there, holding onto each other, hearing you breathe as it mixes with his own. Hand in hand, heartbeats syncing together.
“Do you know the history of french fries?” You mumble out after a few minutes of sitting in silence. You still don’t pull away.
“No, tell me.” He mutters, voice soft, eyes hazy, breathing slowly as his knee knocks against yours, looking deeply into your eyes that he got lost in them whilst you talk.
The days went on like usual. He finds that your smiles are easier, your laughter is more genuine, more wholehearted that he always seeks it out throughout the day. He’d make shitty jokes, ‘accidentally’ hit his hip against the edge of the table just to see you smile and hear the chime of your laugh that is growing familiar to him like the sound of your footsteps.
You eat breakfast with him like always, his foot nudging you underneath the table like a kid trying to be annoying first thing in the morning just so you’d nudge back with the adorable scrunch of your nose, cheeks puffed and full of pastry. Then you’d hand him his tea, two sugars and a splash of milk, a fact that you learned just from observing him. It’s almost intimate, knowing him on a fundamental level that he didn’t even need to tell you his preferences but you just knew, you noticed it, even if it’s such a small part of him, but that fact makes it more personal. And he would do the same, he makes your tea after every search outside and gently plucks out the pine needles stuck in your hair and sticking out of the fabric of your jacket. Then you would talk, laughing whilst the entity watches on in the corner, as still as the decor around it that it could pass off as one.
Mr. Kitty stopped being around him, he continues to just observe, a third thing between you and him. The being is like air, just fluttering through from room to room, observing your behavior, mostly yours these days. After it gave Bobby the one thing you have been looking for, it doesn’t give him attention like it does for you. You’ve joked that it really did fall in love with you whilst you were chewing your pastry. Bobby wiped the jam in the corner of your smiling lips, and you have forgotten what you were talking about immediately after.
After a meal, you would wash up with him sitting by the bathroom door, talking about some nonsense back home. A teacher he hated in middle school, his mom’s job, his dreams and sometimes, just sometimes, he stops mid sentence, like he lost his train of thought, like he forgot one small detail before changing the subject. It feels weird, like he forgot to lock the door or left the oven on, wanting to go back home to check it but there is nothing to check, home isn’t here. But home could be wherever you are.
You would come out of the shower smelling like a dream, hair damp and sticking to your forehead, framing your smiling face as you looked down at him with a glimmer in your eyes. And you would say, “your turn, stinky.” And he’d laugh, take your helping hand and his touch would linger, your gaze would stay for a second longer before you both would pull away.
Bobby lets the water wash his guilt away whilst you talk about your favorite song that he has never heard of, or a funny commercial you once saw but he has no clue about. You’d talk from the other side of the wall, and it sounds like you’re inside with him, close, a breath away.
The routine soothes you both, no matter how boring and languid the days are, it’s better than being out there in the open yellow rooms with danger lurking in every corner. It’s repetitive, but never tiresome. Bobby never has to worry about food when it appears out of nowhere, always warm, always sweet. He doesn’t have to think about his future here, he doesn’t need to when all he needs is you, to wake up beside you, to hear you laugh at a shitty joke he made. To see you safe.
Bobby would linger by the doorway after a shower, standing there, watching you fix the bed, gazing at you long and hard with a fluttering feeling in his stomach. He doesn’t blame Mr. Kitty anymore or he’s a hypocrite when it also likes watching you flit about the house when you smile so softly, a subtle one as your hands work whilst you hum to yourself.
Slowly, day by day, the wall of pillows in between you two melted away, you two would sleep with your backs against each other and he would wake up with your cheek pressed against his shoulder, your hand atop his chest, and your body unconsciously wrapped around him. And his hand would be under you, a palm grasping onto your jacket, crinkling the fabric, keeping you beside him when you’re not going anywhere. As if your bodies sought each other out in sleep, honing onto each other’s warmth like moths to a flame, instincts making a decision for the both of you to hold onto each other. Then he would wake up before you, savouring the heat and warmth beside him selfishly before you awaken blearily, blinking at him before recognizing him in your sleepy state with a slow growing smile on your scrunched sleep crusted face.
“Morning,” you always said, index twirling around a strand of his hair on his nape, not mentioning how your legs are wrapped around his own underneath the blanket.
“Morning.” Bobby breathes it out, pulling you closer as you settle on his chest and his chin atop the crown of your head. His hand rubs along the inside of your arm, right above the scars and yet you don’t fracture, you don’t break nor flinch away, you let his touch soothe you as if it’ll smooth the raised scars away.
You both would just lay there, chest aching from the tenderness, listening to each other’s heartbeat.
On some days where you would be the one waking up before him, you would do the same, breathing quietly, gazing at his sleeping face and softened features with longing. But it still feels wrong, that you shouldn’t be curled up in bed with him, that he shouldn’t hold onto you so affectionately. On those days, Bobby would wake up to the other side of the bed empty, and the emptiness doesn’t feel quite right for him.
Why does it feel so complicated? You have no idea why that is, why it feels so wrong to be sweet with him, why it feels he shouldn’t be like this with you. It feels like there is something unspoken between you two, like a festering wound that throbs and burns with lingering pain that writhes around its reddened skin. It refuses to heal, but how would you heal something that you don’t even know how to heal? Or where it even is on your body?
Bobby always turns to his side throughout the day, expecting you. And you would do the same, a look over your shoulder, a simple crane of your head and there he is, already looking at you with an expectant smile, brow raised, asking if you’re okay. He seeks you like how you seek him, a need, not a want, a need to feel his presence, a need to see your eyes that smiles at him.
The shattered seeks out the broken. You know it when you find yourself holding onto Bobby more, whether it’s his wrist or the hem of his crop top, you’re clinging to him as he clings to you at night. You both have found solace with each other, and you wanted it all. You wanted his hand around your own, to wake up to him stirring awake, the slow mornings where you both dawdled, not wanting to face the day ahead just yet. But you wanted reality too, to go to the cinema with him, to eat at a restaurant with him, to read a book with actual words printed on it with him, only for you to wait for him to finish reading a page before you could flip to the next one. You’re patient, you would wait for Bobby. You would wait for him to finish showering, you would wait in the queue with him at the bank or at a concert with overpriced water bottles and merch. You have waited for him, and you would wait forever if it’s Bobby, even if it means staying here forever, waiting for the exit that hasn’t appeared in months. It’s probably been months, you both have stopped counting.
It’s selfish, you thought, to want to be with someone so bad that you’re dreaming of a life with him. To do chores together, shop for groceries, wash dishes whilst he dries them, where the mundane could be extraordinary with him.
You think that you need Bobby more than he needs you, but being needed feels good, being there for someone gives you a reason to wake up in the morning and face the fact that you’re both probably stuck here forever. It doesn’t seem so bad if you think about it. Nothing’s after you here, nothing’s coming to kill you. It’s just you and Bobby with his soft touches and lopsided grin. And Mr. Kitty, who just observes in the corner, not bothering, just there. There’s food here, warm water, and no expectations to participate in society.
The whole woods have been combed, no stones were left unturned, you two have checked every crevice, every tree and yet no doorway has shown itself to either you or Bobby. You think that you two kept searching for what’s not there because you got used to it, it was routine. Now that it’s finished, no space left to search, it feels odd, like the day isn’t complete. It has been two days since the search was complete. Leaving you both in a state of Limbo.
But Bobby has other plans. He’s planning on telling you two things today, one he hopes that you’ll reciprocate. One he hopes you’ll forgive him for.
“Careful.” Bobby smiles, guiding you outside the house.
Your eyes are blindfolded, and his hands are on yours, the calloused fingers wrapped around your scarred hand as you see the light seeping through the pink fabric of the blindfold.
“Bobby—”
“There’s a rock there,” he leads you away from an invisible rock just to lengthen the time he has his hand around yours. The simple joy of his hand in yours makes him giddy. “Okay, are you ready?”
“I’ve been ready.” Chortling, you can’t help the smile on your face as he unties the blindfold. It takes a minute for your eyes to adjust to the brightness, blurred as you blink it away.
“What do you think?” His arms are raised to his sides, now standing in front of you, a Bobby shaped blur. Chuckling, he moves closer, thumbs gently kneading your eyelids. “Do you want my shades?”
“Please.” His breath fans your heated cheeks, raising gooseflesh around your arms as you feel the sunglasses placed over your eyes.
“There, you look good, babe.”
Opening your eyes, your vision has adjusted, and you see Bobby before you, standing beside a picnic blanket with a vase and flowers inside. There are pink plates and various pastries around the blanket, the light paints it all in a glorious sight as he waits patiently for you. Your heart soars at the sight of it all.
“Bobby, did you do all of this?”
“Yeah,” he licks his lip bashfully, gesturing around it. “The whole thing, except for the food, I’ve got a catering company to do that for me.”
“I hope Mr. Kitty was properly compensated.” You feel the familiar warmth in the back of your eyes.
“He was paid in full.” Nodding, Bobby gives you a smile that creases the corners of his blue eyes. His face falls at your reaction, tears flowing down your cheeks freely that you haven’t noticed until he was already walking over to you. His hands are on your bicep, touch tender. “Hey, hey, none of that. It’s okay, you’re okay.”
“No, I’m—” sniffling, you reach out to him, pulling him over to you. “I’m sorry, Bobby, I couldn’t— there’s no exit, I got us stuck here. And you made me a picnic…” for the first time in a while, you cry, you weep in front of him without restraint, letting it all go. “I failed you, I’m so sorry.”
Bobby’s knuckles brush along the length of your back, chin resting atop your shoulder and rocking you in his arms from side to side. “That’s—” he stops himself, swallowing down the rock in his throat. “Let’s sit down for a bit, okay? Can you do that for me, hero?” Leaning away, he moves the glasses up to your head gently, palms right on your cheeks where he brushes away the loose tears gingerly, he then dips his chin, leaving a quick peck to your brow. Something that feels so natural to him, something incredibly real that he didn’t spare a second thought to the action.
Your heart stutters as your eyes chase his face, following him as he leans away. You suddenly forget how to talk. You cry some more and he pecks your temple more, with every tear there’s a kiss followed by it until his tender affection bleeds over to you, replacing the sorrow and guilt with his soft warmth.
After a moment when your breathing evens out, Bobby pecks you again for good measure, then again, before finally pulling away, hands still lingering on your damp cheeks.
“C’mon, Mr. Kitty’s going to get mad if we let the food go to waste.” Bobby sits you down, careful, gentlemanly, but filled with apprehension, like a first date.
The utensils clink together as he places a slice of red velvet cake on your plate. It’s bright crimson, almost bloody. You’re wiping your face with your sleeve, desperately trying to look presentable when he looks devastatingly handsome under the light.
He looks out of place in his crisp white crop top and jeans shorts that hangs loose around his hips, more skin shown, a midriff that has the familiar trail of hair that always has you looking away whenever you catch yourself ogling it.
You two eat in awkward silence, letting the bird song flit around you both whilst the fake sun shines on your nape.
The shadow lurks in the front doorway, keeping watch as always. Bobby notices, he has an idea that he might regret later. He then cups his hands around his mouth, and you startle at the sudden loudness.
“Join us!”
“Jesus, Bobby!” A grin creeps its way onto your face whilst he laughs at your reaction. That broke the awkward bubble around the two of you.
“What? Mr. Kitty looked like he wanted to join.” Gesturing towards the house, you see the entity stay where he was, standing still like usual. “Well, I thought he was.” It’s not much of a disappointment for him.
“He probably didn’t want to intrude.” You answer with a sigh. Shrugging, Bobby takes a generous bite of his cake, hair falling over his eyes, loose wavy strands of hay coloured hair obscuring his vision and brushing along the icing. “Hold on— may I?” You scooch closer.
Bobby freezes as he was told by you, he’s mid bite, mouth wide open. You giggle, a sound he has been chasing ever since he told you an awful joke.
“You always know my answer to that.” He has a small smile on his red tinted lips from the frosting. Placing down his plate with a light clatter, his full attention is on you. “Why bother asking?”
“Because,” you reach over the blanket and over to him as he leans closer, helping you. “I don’t want to intrude in your space. So, may I, Bobby?”
“Yeah,” he lets out a longing sigh, your fingertips grazing the top of his cheek. “Go ahead.”
With your fingers taking his strands gently, you put the sandy hair behind his ears. Tucking it carefully with a faint smile, his earring catching the light like the glint in his eyes whilst he watches you wistfully.
“There, handsome.” You bravely comment, a knuckle brushing along his jawline briefly before pushing away. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
“I uh…” shaking his head, chin dipping down to his clavicle, he chuckles. “I don’t remember.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” His attention is immediately on you.
“Do you still want to make movies after this?” Your tone is smaller, tentative as you take small bites of the cake.
“Yeah, I mean…” Taking a flower from the vase, he snaps the stem in half, thumb brushing along the petals. “It’s been my dream, but you don’t just need talent these days, you need money, luck, a shit ton of money. And connections. I don’t have either of those things.”
“It doesn’t have to be, you know? You could make an indy film. Have it play in local film festivals. I mean, I have a feeling you have an eye for it.” You encourage genuinely, planting the seeds of hope for him to reap.
“Who would watch it?” Bobby scoffs a laugh, one without humour and without the crinkle in the corner of his eyes. His fingers glide along the silky petals of the flower that’s too smooth, too brightly coloured to be a real one.
“Me.” Your answer is instantaneous, an immediate response that has him stilling from his movements.
“Yeah?” Beaming, he smiles that crooked smile with his gums peeking out, a boyish kind of smile.
“Yeah. I’ll watch the shit out of it.” Cocking your head to the side, you smile back, cheek pressed on your shoulder as the sun shines on the curve of your neck, illuminating your skin as he finds himself unable to look away. “What kind of movie do you want to make, Mr. Director?”
His head dips down, tongue dragging along his lips, a nervous tick of his. “Something about life. Y’know, what goes around someone’s life, birth, love, death, grief.” He backtracks, lifting his head and looking at you with a weighted gaze, as if he’s afraid to be perceived for who he truly is. “If not then probably something that has killer robots in it. Like Terminator.” His genuine words are covered hastily, an attempt at a joke.
You’re aware of what he’s doing and yet you don’t mention it. “Both are good. I’d watch both.”
Reaching for you, flower in hand, he tentatively asks. “May I?”
Your face breaks into a bashful smile, heart thudding in your chest while you lean closer to him. “Yeah.”
Bobby sweeps your hair away from your ear and tucks the flower right above the shell of your ear. The tip of his tongue poking in between his lips as he concentrates, as if he’s trying to defuse a bomb. Careful and gentle, afraid to poke you with the stem.
“You know this would be easier if you’re sitting beside me, Bobby.” Your gaze hasn’t left him since you swept his hair away from his eyes.
His movements cease, freezing as he vaults from his feet, scrambling closer to you and sits beside you a second after your invitation. You giggle, nudging your knee against his own whilst he fixes the flower on your ear. Making sure it’s secured and perfect.
“You good, Bob?” Teasing, you poke his side.
“Yeah, s–shut up.” His whole neck is red, and so are his ears. “Stop wiggling.”
“I’m not.”
He makes the mistake of looking at your eyes when he feels his heart stutter. “D–do— nothing, sorry.” His hands drop to his lap, eyes completely blown out at the sight of you with the flower on your ear.
“No, what were you about to say?” You ask softly, weirdly enough, a wind flutters your lashes, only to realize it was him exhaling loudly. “Bobby?” Palm placed atop his chest, you grasp his cheek with the other. His heart beats quicker underneath your hand. “Are you okay?” You ignore the nagging feeling of wrongness from how you hold onto him.
“My favorite movie is Star Wars.” Blurting out, Bobby clears his throat and rubs a hand over his reddened neck. “I was trying to remember which one. What’s yours?”
“My Fair Lady.” You could feel his heart calm down underneath your palm with every gentle knead.
“I’ve never seen it.” His hand holds onto the back of yours, keeping you there as his thumb rubs along the back of your hand.
“I don’t think you’ll like it.”
“Maybe I could, you never know.” His nose scrunches, scooching closer as subtly as he could until he feels your warmth bleed over to him. “Favorite horror movie? Mine is, uh, Halloween.”
“What’s your favorite scary movie?” You utter in a crackly tone, trying to copy the one in the movie. “Get it? Scary movie.”
His brows furrow, huffing a laugh. “I don’t get it, babe.” Bobby says the term of endearment with a tender tone, so used to calling you that it already comes naturally to him now.
“You’ve never heard of Scary Movie?” You make a face, chuckling as you notice the closeness. And yet you don’t push away, nor feel the need to despite the persistent ache in the back of your mind. “That’s a huge pop culture thing, Bobby. And you call yourself a movie connoisseur.”
“We can watch it together,” his voice lowers, eyes glancing over to the figure standing by the doorway before gazing into your eyes once more. “when we get out.”
“Yeah?” He’s still hopeful, and you like that about him. It’s contagious.
“Yeah, there’s a Blockbuster near my place, we can get any movie you want.”
“A Blockbuster?” Brows lifting, you give him a wobbly chuckle. “Didn’t they go bankrupt years ago?”
“What?” Bobby raises a brow, scoffing. He still holds onto you, heart synching with yours. “No.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it isn’t.” He playfully mocks your tone. “I definitely remember renting a movie there just days before I fell in this place. There are like…a thousand branches.”
“You live in a town stuck in time, Bobby Franklin.” Voice saccharine, you utter with a lilt in your tone, eyes sparkling underneath the fake sun.
“Calling me by my full name after I made you this spread?” Feigning offense, he rolls his eyes, gesturing around the picnic blanket. “Okay, fuck you too.”
“Technically it was Mr. Kitty that made this.” You say in between laughs.
He thinks that you look alive, happy, unabashedly you. And Bobby is giddy at the thought, that all your walls have finally fallen for him, that he could finally see you as you are— bright, full of life. Maybe there was a time in your life that you were like this. He wishes that you would always be like this for the rest of your life, and he hopes that he’s there by your side to witness it.
His mind turns, cogs moving, and he thinks, sitting beside you in that moment, holding onto your hand that rests atop his heart because you thought he was panicking, that your first thought was to hold him, to calm him, to show him that you’re there by his side and he thinks— he knows that he’s utterly in love with you.
“Okay,” Bobby had to take a deeper breath, as if he finally surfaced from the rolling tides just to gather his courage. “What’s your favorite movie trope?”
You think for a moment. “I know it’s cliché, but, best friends to lovers.”
“Is that even a trope?”
“Yes, it is!” Defending yourself, you pat his chest whilst he grins at you. “Okay what’s yours, film geek?”
Sucking in his teeth, and biting the inside of his cheek, Bobby ignores the strange pang in his chest. “When a character goes, ‘don’t fall in love with me,’ before going on an adventure with the love interest and he…he falls in love with her at the end of the movie.”
“That’s a good one, I admit. I can see why you love Star Wars.”
“You know I—I just remembered one of the rules.”
“What?” His heartbeat quickens against your palm.
“Don’t fall in love with me.” Bobby utters with his whole chest, hiding the fact that his breath staggered and his hand is turning clammy around your own. “Get it? I–I think I failed it though.”
“You fell in love with yourself?” You take it as teasing, the usual Bobby kind of teasing that you have no idea is a genuine flirtation or not. “I don’t blame you, you’re cute—”
“No, I—” he pauses, blinking at you. “you think I’m cute?”
“This conversation isn’t going anywhere, Bobby.” A laugh rumbles in your chest, amused, endeared. “What are you trying to say?”
“Yeah, can–can I try something?” Bobby’s expression softens, eyes gazing at your lips and a hand reaching for your cheek. He needs to show you his affection the only way he knows how when his words have failed him. “May I?”
You know, you immediately knew the moment his eyes flickered down to your smiling lips and how his blue eyes softened at the edges. Your heart flutters, you stop resisting completely. “You may.”
Bobby tilts his head, moving slowly, tentatively leaning closer to you until the tip of his nose brushes along your own. You don’t move, freezing in place as your eyes close and the warmth of his breath fans over your lips.
His lips brushes atop your lips, featherlight, just hovering there, waiting for you to pull away, giving you enough space to lean away. And yet, even when the tug pulls at the back of your mind ceaselessly, you don’t move away from his kiss. So he continues on, inhaling before completely pressing his lips to yours. He’s warm against you, and his hands cradle your cheeks, whilst you grip onto his crop top, bunching up the fabric until it crinkles.
You let go of him, and he thinks that’s it, that’s the only kiss he’ll ever get, that he ruined it. But then your hand finds the back of his head, fingers raking through his tresses, nails scratching softly before giving him a small tug. A shiver rolls through his body that you could feel underneath your palm. Then he lets out a low groan, an unsteady whimper from his throat, rumbling over to you as you feel it through your teeth. So you do it again, tugging, he gasps sharply into the kiss and you grant him the one thing he wants— you kiss him back.
Your lips part for him with a breathy tone, moving with his in tandem as the sounds of the saccharine kiss echoes around the clearing.
His mouth is desperate, needy, starved against yours the moment you kiss back, the second you reciprocate his kiss. He kisses you like he means it, as if he wants this kiss etched into your mind, never to be forgotten.
Right in the middle of the clearing, you’re just two people chasing each other’s lips, two people who have survived everything that was thrown at them, two people who desperately needed this. Needed the contact, the warmth, just two people starved for touch.
You want this, you needed this. You desperately want it as much as he did. It’s bliss, and you want this forever, a kiss, an embrace, his warmth, to lay on his chest and play with his hands while you listen to him talk about his day without the gnawing feeling that what you’re doing is wrong. Like a third faceless person between the two of you that taps your shoulder and tugs at your sleeve whenever you get too close to him.
But this doesn’t feel wrong, the feeling of his lips moving against your mouth doesn’t feel wrong. How could it feel wrong when it feels so right? When it feels so good, freeing, saccharine and genuine. You love him, you’re facing that fact now as you kiss him fervently like you’ve been poisoned and the cure is right on his lips. You tried to hide it before, how you have fallen for him, but Bobby makes it so easy to fall harder for him. Loving him is easy, loving him is anything but wrong.
Breathing through your nose, fingers curling around his hair, your breath hitches, and you feel the familiar warmth of need from the pit of your stomach with every peck. He tastes like the red velvet cake, sweet as it melds with the lingering taste of icing on your tongue. And his hands wander to your sides, gliding along the fabric of your jacket, before his fingers find the hem, lifting it up slightly to feel your skin underneath. Goosebumps rise on your skin from the contact, shuddering from how his calloused fingers pinch your hip tenderly, squeezing, tugging as you tug at his hair.
Bobby feels how your breathing has turned shallow, still kissing even when you’re running out of breath, so he reluctantly gives you reprieve, pulling away. He leaves a sheen over your lips, when he sees how kiss bitten your mouth is, he resists the urge to pull you against him again and kiss you until he suffocates in your scent, until he overdoses on your taste.
A curse slips from your tongue, heaving, completely melted against him. If not for Bobby’s hold on you, you would’ve fallen backwards onto the grass by now, and you know that would’ve started another kiss, and another and another.
The sight of his eyes blown out, almost black from the kiss sends your mind into a tizzy. You desperately want to kiss him again.
“You kissed me.” You mutter the words and yet it’s muffled in your ears, your mind saying his name over and over again. His kisses leave marks into the folds of your brain.
“You kissed back.” Bobby sighs out, almost smug. “Do…do you want to…? Again?”
“What about…?” Looking over your shoulder, you’ve found that the shadow lingering in the house has disappeared. Bobby tucks your chin between his forefinger and thumb, pulling your attention towards him. “Bobby?”
Something’s missing.
“Yeah,” he starts off with your cheek, kissing, pecking, leaving little pockets of warmth right on your skin. Then in the corner of your eyes, over to your forehead, kissing a line down the hinge of your jaw and over to your throat. You’re alight, he sets you aflame as you let out a croaked exhale, fingers gripping onto his hair, and a palm, fingers splayed right on his stomach where his crop top doesn’t cover. “Babe, fuck…” his tone reverberates through your neck, shivering from your touch. “Please,” pulling himself off of your throat, he looks at you desperately. “One more, please.”
“What about, shit, what about…?” There’s a bright spot in your vision.
“What about what?” He pecks you again on your lips, then another and another, each deeper than before. You kiss him back, unsure, filled with apprehension and not at all easy like the last. Pressing his forehead against yours, his breathing stutters, mouth agape, chasing your lips. “Don’t go inside your head, don’t disappear where I can’t follow.”
“I just—” Thinking gives you a headache, the pull in the back of your mind going stronger, trying to recall a third person that haunts you and Bobby.
Something is missing. Someone is missing.
“You okay?” Bobby’s needy expression curdles into worry, a palm pressing against your forehead gently. “Headache? Did my kisses give you a headache?” Joking, he chuckles, still happy, still unaware.
A name appears in your head, sudden, an abrupt stop to your warm thoughts of Bobby. There’s a soft voice, a blurry face that once listened to you, and a severed hand with a beaded bracelet on the floor.
Someone with chopped short hair appears in your mind, slowly, a face builds on the head, brown eyes, nose, a mole under her eye. Her, she used to be here, she was here before you, here in Bobby’s arms, holding onto his chest just like you had.
“Kat.” Realization flickers on your face, pained, ashamed. “Kat, we forgot about Kat.”
“Who’s Kat?”
Sheer horror marrs your face, breath taken right from your lungs as you scramble up to your feet. Bobby’s hands chase your shaking fists, he’s utterly confused, calling your name with a fleeting chuckle in between.
“Kat, your— your girlfriend.” You then remember her fully, how she was kind to you, how she understood you from the moment you appeared behind a corner even when she shouldn’t. And you remember the lie you have been harboring inside you from Bobby— Kat’s dead, she has been dead this whole time while you were playing house with her boyfriend. Kissing her boyfriend like he was yours to begin with. “You don’t remember her?” Your tone is serrated at the edges.
“Wait— wait, babe, hold on—” Bobby tried to capture your trembling hands from below, fingers brushing with yours for a moment. “I don’t have a girlfriend.” He laughs, shaking his head. “Come sit down, you’re making me worry. What’s wrong?”
“I think we need to get out of here, Bobby.” Hands in your hair, you could still taste him on your tongue, and feel the ghost of his touch on your bare skin.
“Baby—”
“Don’t call me that.” His expression falls, hurt, heartbroken. You’re immediately kneeling before him, hands right on his shoulders. “Bobby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— you have to remember, you have to remember why you’re here in the first place, remember Kat.” You grasp at his face. “Remember the missing posters? Kathrine Taylor, Robert Franklin. Try to remember, Bobby, please. Remember Clark? Remember how you fell?”
Sheer incomprehension is in his expression. The cogs in his head turning, he looks like trying to remember hurts him, and for a moment you wanted to tell him to stop, to stop trying to remember, to continue the way you both were before you remembered.
Realization swirls in his blue eyes. He closes them, inhaling through his nose, fingers pressing in between his brows, as tears prickle underneath his eyelids.
“Oh, fuck.” His head falls on your shoulder, fingers digging into the fabric of your jacket, rustling it, clinging onto you desperately. “How— how did I forget her?” When his head lifts to face you, there’s tears in his blue eyes.
“I don’t know, Bobby, I’m sorry I don’t know.” You cradle him in your arms, letting him cry as you stifle a sob threatening to spill from your throat that you want to cleave open with your nails. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
—
You feel ashamed.
But it felt so right that you had to ignore the nagging feeling in the back of your head. And Bobby reciprocated your affection with the same intensity, he kissed you first and you kissed back like you were starving and he was the only thing that could stave off that hunger. And he looked at you like you hung the stars, he listened to you like there is nothing more interesting in the world and he was kind, he was safe. He made you feel safe and wanted and loved.
You haven’t been loved in a long time and you have forgotten what it was like. How it was like to he held, to be touched with reverence, to be kissed as if you’re the only person left in the world. You might as well be for him. You’re the only person within his vicinity, is that the reason why he kissed you? Because you were the only one near him this whole time? Because there was no one else that he could hold? Or is it because he forgot about Kat?
“I know where the door is.” Bobby says in the middle of the kitchen, hands holding onto the dirty plates whilst you fold the blanket neatly. You freeze, eyes slowly turning in his direction. “He showed me. And he wanted me to leave you here. I–I should’ve told you days ago. We should’ve left days ago.” He mutters your name in a broken tone, placing the plates on the kitchen island where you two once shared a laugh. The edges of his eyes are still red, and so are yours as you nod. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Nodding, you breathe in the smell of pastries that has always permeated through the air.
“I just— I just wanted to give you the peace you needed.”
Taking a step forward, you instinctively reach for him before reining yourself in. Your shaking hand hovers over his arm, filled with trepidation until he takes your wrist and places your touch on him. Letting you stay.
“Bobby—”
“You just looked so happy here, and I wanted to give you that happiness as long as I could.” Tears prickle in the corner of his eyes again as he squeezes your hand in his. “I wanted you to be happy.”
“I understand.” You’d do the same, you’re doing the same thing, you’re lying to him right now to protect him, just he had done for you. “Bobby, I understand.”
“I fucked up.”
Shaking your head, you give him a tight-lipped smile, heart sinking to your stomach. “I’m sorry too. I should’ve stopped kissing you when I felt that something was off.”
“No, that’s not what I meant—” His eyes flicks over your shoulder.
Turning around, you see Mr. Kitty’s looming form behind you. His sheer presence alone takes the air out of the kitchen, a tension building as he stands there, faceless, as dark as the void.
“We have to leave.” You stand in front of Bobby, unconsciously protecting him. “Mr. Kitty, you have to let us leave.”
The edges of his skin fizzle, twisting and changing into tiny pin pricks of blue and red static, like a TV without a signal. The sheer forcefield around him presses against your skin. It doesn’t want you to leave.
“I can’t stay here.” You stand your ground despite the fear burrowing deep in your marrows. “I don’t belong here, do you understand?”
The entity hums, a sad thrum that strikes right at your chest. Behind you, you feel Bobby shiver, his fingers curled around the hem of your jacket in case he needed to pull you away from it.
“I know you’re lonely.” Instead of stepping back, you’re crossing the distance over to it. You could feel Bobby panic from behind you as his grasp tightened. “Being alone…it gets to you, doesn’t it?”
It tips its head down, shoulders hunched, making itself small for you. It faces you fully as you see its shadow of a face move, a gentle swirl of darkness inside the void that reminds you of the gentle lapping of waves.
“You’re beautiful…” muttering, enthralled, you reach for it— his face, this being that is so close to you that you could feel his primordial age over your skin.
“Don’t touch him.” Bobby mumbles in the shell of your ear.
Your fingers twitch just a hair’s width away from his shadow, catching yourself before your skin meets the static of his flesh. “Thank you for letting us stay.”
He stretches to his full height, the top of his head grazing the ceiling. The entity is calmer, his edges are still as his arm extends for you, palm open, expecting something.
“I think he wants something.” Bobby continues to hold onto you as if you’ll try to touch Mr. Kitty again. “Don’t hold his hand.”
Jaw clenching, you take a deep breath before shrugging off your jacket. The chill hits your skin the moment you shrug it off. Your arms catch the light, shining right on the jagged lines around your forearm.
Bobby breathes out your name quietly.
“You can have this.” Folding the jacket, you gently place it above his palm. “I don’t need it anymore.”
Mr. Kitty accepts it with a curt nod, his arm folding to his chest, placing the flowery bomber jacket right above his heart.
You hear him sing, a croon inside your head, a tone akin to a thank you said in a hum. “You’re welcome.”
—
Bobby showed you the way out, you stand in front of the painted hill, feeling the song of the walls call out for you from behind it.
Holding out your arm, you’re stopped by Bobby when he calls your name. Turning to him, you see him wielding the hammer, and the same backpack slung over his shoulder.
“I need to tell you something.” He looks tired. “I don’t regret it. Kissing you, I don’t regret it. I don’t regret any of this.”
“Bobby…”
“I— I loved Kat,” his words are broken at the edges. “but I have to accept that she’s gone.”
“We need to go.” Your walls are built up again, eyes guarded, jaw clenched and a gaze that doesn’t fully look at him because of your own shame and guilt that is burrowed too deep in your bones to ever understand his confession.
Mr. Kitty stands in the doorway, a hand up in good-bye.
Bobby says your name like an unanswered prayer. Heartbroken, alone.
You don’t turn back to look at the being, but Bobby does before the two of you enter the threshold.
The bird song is replaced by the droning of the fluorescent lights, the scent of pastries fades away and makes way to the smell of damp carpets and mold that settles in the roof of your mouth. The pink and the artificial sun is now all mono yellow wallpaper that has haunted your dreams.
The hum in the walls welcomes you back in its embrace.
got me hooked for an hour and a half (probably since i’m also binging a show while reading) and it was the best hour an a half of my entire week.
the tension and i repeat THE TENSION between them while bobby confesses. and i mean i get R for brining kat and everything up, but she could’ve waited a second more, nonetheless i stand with my queen
katy portrays bobby exactly how i see him given his 10 minute screen time and this chapter was just a cherry on the fucking top, absolute masterpiece give me fourteen of these right now
and the way he’s so shy around R and will NEVER admit that he’s jealous will make me giggle over and over
Synopsis: What was once found could be lost once again.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, reader has nicknames, CW food mentions, CW dark themes. CW recreational drug use, CW suggestive. Eventual Bobby romance, slow burn, Part 6 of my Bobby series. Set during the movie (spoilers)
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Bobby Franklin Masterlist
Part 5 <<< Part 6 >>> Part 7
The days go on like usual. You and Bobby both continue like always, like you’re not stuck in limbo where the days are slower and the only bright side is that he has you with him.
Bobby usually wakes up first, fixes some breakfast for you just in time for you to come downstairs. You get your first pick, a raspberry scone, or a chocolate eclair, and Bobby has whatever you choose, citing that he wanted to have a taste too, only for you both to share one plate, eating the same pastry and fighting for the last bite with a fork.
You always greeted Mr. Kitty who watches in the corner of the kitchen. It watches like it’s lonely, not observing to learn but because it wants to be included, to be seen. So one day, you fix it a plate, some crumpets and a cupcake on the side. It looks at it, then it looks at you, head cocked to the side, learning something new.
Bobby watches every interaction with curious eyes, watching how you grew fond of the being slowly, day by day, he notices the entity coming closer to you. You feel the fuzzy static atop its skin, humming just above your own.
Mr. Kitty has been a part of the routine as much as Bobby is a part of it. Sometimes Bobby would humour it by talking to it, asking why it likes Hello Kitty so much, or asking why it likes to watch. Not once has he gotten an answer from it when you once told him that you heard Mr. Kitty huffed out a laugh at you and even closed the bedroom door when you asked it to.
Even then, even when Bobby has gotten used to the added shadowy presence, Bobby doesn’t leave you alone with Mr. Kitty. Maybe he’s paranoid, or maybe there is a chance that his fear could become true when he’s scared that it’ll take you somewhere he can’t follow. He can never fully trust it, especially when it comes to you when it seems to have grown extremely fond of you. Either way, his eyes don’t stray too far from you and the being, not even while you’re both in the living room whilst you make daisy chains from the gathered wild flowers outside for it, talking to it like it could answer you.
“I think he’s in love with you.” Bobby once blurted out before bed, head resting on the silky pillow, eyes staring at the edge of the bed, waiting for you to peek over like always.
“Who is?” Just like he thought, you look over the edge and over to him.
“Mr. Kitty, who else?”
“Oh,” your lips smacks together, eyes glancing at the closed door, expecting for the being to appear out of nowhere from the mere mention of its name you bestowed upon it. “Why would you think that?” You ask softly, a hand falling over the edge, fingers brushing along the top of his chest.
Bobby takes it as an invitation to hold you, an occurrence that has become the norm for you both. His fingers grasp onto your own, and you let out that satisfied hum from the back of your throat that he always pretended not to hear lest you grow conscious of it. “Because he’s always with you, and he’s always watching you.”
“Maybe he just thinks I’m more interesting than you.” Your attention is fully on Bobby’s fingers as he plays with your own, brushing, kneading, just holding onto you for comfort.
“Or he’s in love with you.” Tugging at your hand, he makes you look at him with a roll of your eyes and with him raising a brow at you.
“He is not in love with me, Bobby.” You scoff, chuckling tiredly. “You’re seeing things.”
“How would you know? Did he tell you that?” What started off as a teasing remark has turned into a full conversation. “I mean, I once saw his big fucking hand hover over your head like it wanted to pet you.”
“Why?” You tilt your head to the side of the mattress, cheek pressed against it with a cheeky yet exhausted smile. “Are you jealous, Robert Franklin?”
Bobby scrunches his brows, scoffing out and looking anywhere but at you. “No, I’m just fucking with you.”
“Well, in that case, I can tell you that I have a massive crush on him.”
When he looks at you with a grimace, he sees your growing smile, a playful expression painted in dusty pink, like a Monet painting that was painted with deep longing. “You little shit.”
“Why not?” You utter in between laughs. “He can bake, he’s nice and he listens. Basically the perfect guy.”
“It’s because he doesn’t speak, hero.”
“Whatever, you’re just jealous of our blossoming love.” Pressing your face into the pillow, hiding from him with a not-so-hidden smile, he could hear you laugh against it.
“He’s an alien.”
“Different genres, Bobby.” You poke his forehead, and he rolls his eyes, turning away to stifle his grin.
He fell asleep with a smile on his face then, and would wake up with your hand in his again. He’ll never admit the fact that his arm aches every morning, he’d rather tell Mr. Kitty that its pastries are dry right to its face rather than admit that and have you shrug off his hand.
Bobby fell into step with you, he finds that it’s easier this way, to not fight it anymore when his hope dwindles in finding the exit. He lets it happen, he tries to make the most of the situation without giving you the same feeling of hopelessness that slithers around his throat. That’s the last thing he would want, to make you feel hopeless, to make you feel that there is nothing to be done. So he follows the routine, keeping you comfortable and at the least content.
After every breakfast you and Bobby go outside to go on a fruitless search again. Every stone turned and tree observed, you both come up with nothing again.
You lumber back inside the house, the house that has been properly lived-in now, where the bed smells like you, and where there are dishes in the sink. Where he’s comfortable, content and safe.
With aching bones, Bobby opens the door for you. His muscles are pulled taut with the throbbing pain of fatigue and yet he still finds the time to fix up a fresh plate and cup of tea for you, courtesy of the entity that loves to watch you eat the treats whilst he lets you shower first. He brings it upstairs and sits on the floor beside the bathroom door and talks, waiting for you to finish whilst taking bites of tarts and eclairs. Then you do the same when it’s his turn. Rinse and repeat, always on schedule, a tight routine that is getting tiring with every identical day that passes.
You try to pass the time by filling the empty books on the shelf with various doodles and musings, whatever that comes to mind, you put it into the book. Sometimes it’s the map you remembered drawing on the wall of the sailboat room, the same routes you took, the same landmarks, drawing the ones that are potentially dangerous and the ones that are safe to stay in. Maybe you’ll need it someday. Or maybe someone else would come across the same notebook with your writings and it would help them better than it could for you.
You’re starting to miss the internet and real books that have actual stories in it. The covers on the bookshelves here look like the covers back at home, only with the words garbled, almost alien, like it misremembered what the title was supposed to be. You’re holding onto a copy of what was supposed to be Goldilocks but with its pages blank like the others when you hear a muffled thump upstairs.
Looking up at the pink ceiling, you decide to head upstairs to check on Bobby. He wanted to take a nap last you saw him, so you let him sleep in, giving him some alone time. Sometimes it’s needed here when you two spend almost every waking moment together.
Creeping in slowly, hammer in hand, you crack open the door. Expecting to see Bobby still sleeping on the bed, what you don’t expect is for Mr. Kitty looming over him, watching him craft a beaded bracelet on the floor.
You don’t even know where the beads came from, but you suspect it came from Mr. Kitty. You once asked for some coloring supplies, an offhanded comment, a loud wishful thinking while you were bored out of your mind. The next morning, you see a box of colorful markers right on the bedside table, placed right there just for you. Maybe you were wrong about the entities here.
“Do you think she’ll like this one? Is it too pink?” He asks Mr. Kitty, holding out the half finished bracelet in front of him casually like he’s asking a friend and not a faceless being that is probably older than you and Bobby. The shadow responds with a lopsided head tilt like a curious puppy. “It’s not my fault everything in here is pink.”
Bobby talks to him normally, you find it adorable.
“Y’know some other color would do this place some good.” He mutters, placing each bead after the other meticulously in the string. The being beside him just leans closer, maybe a threat or a tease, Bobby took it as the latter. And your hand around the hammer tightens in case it was the former. “I’m not judging your interior design, calm down. But maybe a bit of green or orange, y’know? Spice things up a bit?”
Mr. Kitty straightens up, moving his head from side to side slowly. You and Bobby have a similar look of surprise on your faces. It doesn’t want to spice things up a bit it seems.
Bobby’s lips stretch into a grin. “Damn, you do respond.” Is all he could say, chuckling to himself.
Before you could make your escape, Mr. Kitty turns its head over to you at the doorway, a parallel to him keeping watch there every night but the positions are switched.
Bobby notices, of course he does as he looks over his shoulder, eyes softening after noticing you.
“You look like a peeping tom.” His smirk is blanketed by the pink light filtering through the curtains.
“I heard a bump and I thought you fell from the bed.” Showing yourself, you enter the threshold. “What are you two doing, hm?” You can’t help but smile, hiding the hammer behind your back, gaze flicking between the shadow and back to Bobby hunched over the mess of beads on the floor.
“Nothing.” He fails to hide his plans by shoving the beads closer to him with his legs, only for it to clink together, revealing his surprise. “Fuck.” Huffing, he looks at the entity like it made fun of his hair. “I told you to be quiet.”
“You’re blaming Mr. Kitty?”
“Yeah,” shrugging, the being just stays there, standing still, observing the interaction. “C’mere, I need help.”
“What for?” You’re already crossing the short distance over to him and sitting beside him on his makeshift bed. You hide the hammer underneath a pillow.
“I don’t know your size.”
“Oh.” You fluster, blinking owlishly at him, cheeks aflame.
“May I?” Bobby’s voice is softer, fingers brushing along your own gently, like water upon your skin.
“Y–yeah, sure.” Smiling, you slide your hand over to his palm whilst he wraps the beaded bracelet around your wrist, tying it together and cutting the excess wire off. You admire it underneath the eternal light shining through the windows. It has star shaped beads, iridescent pink pearls, and beads shaped like hearts that spell out your name. It’s adorable, and your heart soars that your eyes turn glossy, painting him in water coloured lights.
“D’you like it?” Ducking down to meet with your eyes, Bobby smiles, albeit wobbly, a nervous smile. “I can change some things around if you don’t like it.”
“No, no, I—” clearing your throat, you lift your head up and nudge your knee with his own. “I like it, I love it, Bobby, thank you.”
“That’s good.” Sighing in relief, Bobby knocks his knee against yours, smiling bashfully as he stares into your eyes. “I mean, I thought it would be too childish for you.”
“No,” shaking your head, you turn your wrist from side to side, admiring every detail under the light. “I don’t see it like that, it’s adorable, you’re sweet for making one for me.” With your wrist right on your chest, you hug it close to you.
“Yeah, I uh,” Bobby licks his lips, scratching his nape and blinking at the floor, right on a half made bracelet that he has no idea why he started to make. “I remember making a few when I was a kid, I guess it stuck.”
“I bet you made lots for your friends.” Your easy smile eases him as his taut shoulders visibly relax.
“Maybe, I don’t really remember.”
“Can I make you one too?” You blink away the happy tears, grabbing a string and wiggling it in front of him.
“Yeah.” The haze of feeling like he forgot something fades away from your smile alone.
“Do you want to pick your beads?” You’re sorting through the assorted beads on the floor that clinks together.
“No, I trust you.” His hand holds up your hair that was falling over your face, a sweet gesture that comes easy for him, almost out of instinct as you shudder out a breath.
“I’ll make one for Mr. Kitty too after this.” Straightening up, you swallow down your shyness, eyes glancing at the being standing over the two of you patiently, waiting his turn.
“He doesn’t need one.” Bobby blurts out.
“Don’t be jealous.” Your hand pats his cheek briefly before inserting a sun shaped bead into the string.
“I’m not jealous of a faceless bean stalk.” He watches you work, while still keeping a close eye on the being.
“Sounds like you are though.” With a lilt, you chuckle at him, eyes shining from the light, and Bobby, poor Bobby, feels like his heart stopped.
—
Bobby walks ahead of you, stretching his back, wincing at the throbbing ache that rolls under his strained muscles. You can tell that it’s bothering him when he reaches behind, kneading at the small of his back, painted nails scratching into the skin to try to alleviate the pain. Despite that, he seems to be more comfortable here now, his jean shorts hang lower than usual, belted lower. The small of his back is in full show, and so is his midriff with a trail of dirty blond hair below his navel that creeps underneath the waistband of his jeans. It’s very distracting, and you always find yourself looking away with cheeks as warm as Mr. Kitty’s pastries.
“You okay, Bobby?” Your hand pauses from writing, the beaded bracelets he made for you clinking against each other. “Do you have an itch or something?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” Rolling his shoulder, hammer in hand, you could see the fatigue in his muscles as his crop top hitches up with every stretch.
“Maybe you should take the bed tonight.” Sliding beside him, you nudge his bicep.
“I’m fine, hero.” Your companion gives you a tight smile. “It’s all this walking, it’ll ease up when we get some rest.”
“You’re not a very good liar, Bobby.”
He pauses mid step, neck craning slowly over to you. “And you know this, how?” His brow rises, nose scrunched with a barely hidden smirk.
“You look away when you lie.” Now in front of him, you stare him down, matching his barely there smirk.
Bobby steps forward, the tips of his shoes kissing yours, breath fanning your cheek as his hair falls over his eyes. It’s gotten longer.
“And you can’t stomach lying, hero. You’re too good for it.”
“Not true, I lie all the time.” Your breath hitches when his finger loops around the bracelets he made for you, using it to pull you closer to him until he could see himself in your eyes. You should pull away, and yet you don’t. You’re savouring it, languishing in the moment.
“Okay, name one lie.”
“You stink.”
His lips tugs into a slow lopsided grin, a laugh rumbling his chest that reverberates through you. “Like how I smell or in general?”
“Both.”
“You big fucking liar.”
A smile splits on your face, laughing, head tilted down at your feet that meets with his own atop the green grass. “Alright,” you turn to him again, seeing that his gaze never left yours. “Can you tell if this is a lie?”
“I like a challenge.”
“I want you to take the bed for tonight.”
“A half truth.”
“Only a half truth?” You scoff out and his blue eyes follow yours when you turn away for a beat.
“Yeah, because you also want to sleep in the bed tonight.” His thumb plays with a bead in the bracelet, rolling it around in the pads of his fingers.
“I do love the bed too much.” Skin aflame, you bite the inside of your cheek, taking a tentative deep breath for what comes next. “We can share it, it’s big enough for two, hell, Mr. Kitty can fit in there.”
Bobby’s chest heaves, breath stuttering as he blinks owlishly at you. “You sure?”
“I thought you could tell if I’m lying or not.” You tease, looking directly into the pools of light in his eyes. “I can put a pillow between us. A hotdog in between if—”
“Sure.” He says instantaneously, jaw clamping up immediately before clearing his throat. “Yeah, sure. My back hurts, it’ll help.”
“Okay.” Looking at him through your lashes, you back away slowly, leaves crunching underfoot whilst the smile remains on your face. “C’mon, My gut tells me that we’re close to a door.”
He hopes not, not yet anyway.
—
You lay on the bed pin straight, hands atop your stomach, staring up at the ceiling whilst you feel the familiar warmth beside you.
Suddenly, Bobby’s fingers come up to your forehead, flicking you. “Ow.” You move to grimace at him. “What was that for?”
“You’re doing it again.” Bobby gazes at you softly, cheek atop the pillow you two placed in between your bodies, the yellow light softens his features as a strand of dark blonde hair falls over his eye.
It’s good to be looked at without pity, without shame.
“Doing what?”
“Getting lost in your thoughts.”
“I wasn’t, I was just zoning out.”
“Sure.” Rolling his eyes, he turns his attention away towards the door. “Did you know that he keeps watching us at night?”
“Yeah, from the start.”
“What a creep.”
“Maybe that’s why you two get along so well.” Chuckling, he looks at you with mock offense.
“Oh, fuck you.” Turning his back to you, he hides his wobbly grin and curls around a pillow. “Go sleep, hero.”
“Bobby?” You lean closer, looking at his dirty blond hair that curls over his nape as your fingers hover above it, restraining yourself from touching him. “You need a haircut.”
That sounded familiar to him, those exact string of words once echoed in the back of his mind like a residual memory that he had forgotten, said by someone else. Not you, a different voice, someone he knew, probably knew. But he can’t recall as he finds himself twisting towards you, the tension thickening as he hears your breath hitch. You’re much closer than he thought.
“What’d you say?”
“You need a haircut?” Brows knitted, you blink at him, lips slightly agape with his sweetened scent wafting over you. “Are you okay? I could move to the floor—”
“No, no, it’s okay.” He immediately shakes his head, dismissing how he looked at you so intensely like he was trying to see a different face on you. “I just didn’t hear you. Do you know how to cut hair?”
“Just my own, I never liked salons.”
“Maybe you can try to cut mine.” He tries to wave away the fleeting tension that permeates between you two like a third person, a ghost that lingers.
“I might make you bald.” Biting your lip with a wince, the vision of him that flickered in your mind made you chuckle. “But you’ll probably look good without hair.”
“Thanks, babe, now go to sleep.” He doesn’t notice the slip of the tongue as he turns away again with a smile. Or maybe he really meant to call you that, that his subconscious was already calling you by that before he spoke it loudly. Fatigue catches up to him as he leaves you staring at his back befuddledly with your heart racing.
Bobby wakes up to Mr. Kitty looming over the bed. Dread and unease filling him. Its faceless head cranes over to you and he follows the turn of its head, seeing you sleep soundly, face slack, peaceful as your hand rests atop his chest and over the pillow in between.
After all this time, something in him tells him that the being standing over him couldn’t be trusted, that he should take you and run even when he knows that this entity shouldn’t be feared. He can’t help it when it’s inherently built into his very being to be afraid of the uncanny valley and the things that creep in the dark.
“W–why are you watching us?” Bobby asks, hands slightly trembling as it moves above your own, grasping onto the back of your hand.
Mr. Kitty flickers out and over to the foot of the bed, in an instant it was beside him, feeling the static on its skin then it wasn’t. It turns its head again, this time over to the opened door.
“Do you want me to follow?”
Blinking, the shadow is gone and is now standing in the hallway within a half second.
Bobby checks on you, still sleeping, still peaceful. A peace that he’d rather not disturb.
The being hums in a low crooning sound, calling for him, taking his attention away from your sleeping form.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming.” Slowly and carefully, he takes your hand off of him with some reluctance before placing it atop the pillow. He then gets out of bed, fixing the blanket over your chin and taking one last look at you before he follows the shadow downstairs.
The whole house is completely lit like always, blinding him as his eyes adjust to the light. All the windows are open, he specifically remembers you always closing them before bed out of instinct, paranoid that something outside will crawl inside the house. No matter how many changes you do to the house, it goes back to its original state. Like how the bed would be made immediately every time you leave the bedroom to wash your face, you always thought it was Bobby who does it, but he never really told you that it wasn’t him so as to not make you feel uneasy. That’s the last thing he wanted to make you feel inside the only room you’re comfortable in to rest your eyes and let your guard down completely.
Mr. Kitty flickers in and out of existence, telling him to follow him outside into the garden and out into the clearing with the grass that aren’t grass, and where the fake sun shines with its same temperature and artificial warmth.
Bobby stands there in the doorway of the front door, gazing at this tall shadow as it settles in the middle of the clearing. Its skin flickers in and out, like television looking for a signal with its static fizzing in and out. Then it settles, returning to normal, as if it was fighting something invisible just to stay outside its domain. The orb of light shines on its skin, absorbing the light, not even reflecting the shine.
“What do you want, man?” Bobby blearily looks at him, a hand braced on the doorway. All he wants right now is to settle back beside you, feel your warmth, and fall asleep to the sound of your soft snores.
Mr. Kitty lifts his arm straight, pointing at the left side of the woods, where the fallen tree trunk you both rested at is placed. He stills eerily, statuesque, waiting for Bobby to move.
He swallows down his nerves, walking over to it, grass crunching underneath him as the light casts down his own shadow before him. Inching his way over to the trunk, it’s the same as before, hardened oak, rough around the edges, moss growing on the sides, nothing out of the ordinary. Lifting his head, he sees the entity stand beside the wall with the painted valley, a fake hill with a blue sky as its backdrop.
“We checked that already.” His voice is low, laced with trepidation, as if he’s afraid of waking you up with the noise even when you’re so far away.
Mr. Kitty cocks its head once again, looking as if he’s pointing at the wall with its craned head. The edges of its shadow turns into static, humming, a fizzle of red and blue before returning back to the void.
Bobby doesn’t know if it’s angry at him or frustrated by his disobedience, either way, the entity doesn’t seem like it’s having the grandest of time with him.
Sucking in his teeth, fingers flexing on his side, Bobby crosses the distance over to the painted valley, a palm reaching over to it, hand trembling slightly. Mr. Kitty watches on by his side as he could feel its skin fizzle atop his own, like a forcefield pushing away from him.
He expects to hit a solid wall, until the tips of his fingers touch nothing, going through the fake hill, phasing through it like putting your hand in water. Turning to the entity beside him, he could hear the hum from its skin, a low dissonance, a droning tone like the harsh fluorescent lights.
From where he stands, he could smell the familiar damp carpets, that mildew scent that settles in the back of his throat. The simple whiff of it sends his flight or fight response into haywire. Panting, his heart races, eyes blown wide.
He found the exit. Where the air is still and stale, and where the walls enclose around him, where something lurks in every corner. And the entity guided him to it, like it wanted him to leave. Specifically, to leave you here all alone with only this shadow as your only company.
“I’m not going to leave her here.” He says with his whole chest, taking his hand back to his side abruptly.
It looks at the house, head raised up, staring at the bedroom window, almost longingly, wistfully. It doesn’t have a face, but it says everything in that small movement.
“I am not going to leave her here. Do you understand?” Despite his trepidation, Bobby stands up to the faceless being that is probably as old as this place, primordial, something so ancient that has found you interesting, that latched onto you like a ghost that haunts your waking moment. It has grown fond of you. He says your name through gritted teeth, fighting for you. “She doesn’t belong here with you.”
But does he belong with you?
Bobby feels the same thrumming underneath his skin from when you accidentally cut your palm. Mr. Kitty is furious, or is it sorrow when it hums a song deep beneath from its heartless chest.
Bobby thinks he’s done for, that it ran out of patience for him, that it’s going to kick him out of his dominion or worse, rip him apart.
With a pop in his ears, Mr. Kitty disappears before him.
Bobby shudders at the encounter, staring right at the wall with his jaw clenched and tearful eyes. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Looking at the unassuming wall beside him, his brows furrow, jaw tightening as he turns his back against it.
He returns to the house with its obnoxious pink walls, and loud decor.
He goes up the steps for what seems to be the hundredth time and opens the door quietly.
He returns to you.
Bobby looks at the sleeping you curled around the pillows you placed in the middle of the bed, chest rising and falling, sleeping soundly, and at peace. He doesn’t want to ruin that peace, not yet, he’s not ready to go out just yet. He knows he’s being selfish, cowardly, but no one else in the world deserves to have the peace of mind more than you do. This place grants you that peace, as much as he wants to get out of here together with you and watch all the theater that you want and eat all the savory junk food that you crave— you need your rest, to smile for once, to let your guard down when it’s slowly being chipped away with every touch and smile you grant him.
Even if it means staying here and sharing your attention with an entity that seems to have latched onto you.
Bobby carefully gets into the covers beside you, sitting up, gazing at your sleeping face with a far away look. When you’re ready, he’ll tell you, when he’s ready, he’ll go through the doorway with you hand in hand like always.
Bobby doesn’t sleep that night.
—
Bobby hasn’t smoked in days, or has it been weeks? But now he smokes by the doorstep the morning after, back haunched, a Hello Kitty pillow on his lap and ashes slowly drifting down onto the ground before him.
You find him sitting by the front door, staring at the fallen tree as wisps of the earthy smoke wafted in the air. You woke up earlier than usual, only to find his side of the bed empty and cold.
He felt you before he heard your footsteps, peering up at you, you tilt your head down, whilst the fake sun shines right behind you.
“Didn’t sleep well?” Your gaze falls on the bags under his eyes. “Did I snore?”
“No,” shaking his head, he lifts up the joint over to you, offering it as you smile and take it gingerly. Your warm fingers brushes along on his own. “And no, you didn’t snore. I just couldn’t find sleep.”
“Well, did you count sheep?” You sit beside him, breathing it in before exhaling smoke out in soft wisps. He watched you the whole time, observing how your shoulders ease, expression softening underneath the light. “Thanks.” You hand it back to him, and his touch lingers a second longer than he realized.
“Y’know what I miss?” He mutters above the joint, eyes flicking towards the light, squinting at it like you have. You wish you didn’t leave his shades in the bedroom so you could place it over his eyes this time around.
“What?”
“Potato chips, steak, pizza—” he takes a deep inhale, letting the smoke settle inside his mouth before exhaling. “fucking anything that isn’t sweet or has custard in it.”
“I miss those too, plus the internet.” You giggle, actually giggled at him as you shake your head, unknowingly making his heart jump. His brow quirks up at the latter but doesn’t mention it. “I make a really good mac and cheese. Not the ones that came from the box, but from scratch.”
“Yeah?” His reddened eyes sparkle, perking up as he gives you a lopsided smile. “That sounds fucking good. Add some grilled cheese and tomato soup and you have my heart.”
“Mm-hmm.” Nodding, you take the joint from him, eyes crinkling in the corners as you smile at him, an easy smile that he’ll never get used to, a smile that he wants to etch into his mind forever. “You men are simple creatures, huh?”
“Guess so.” Bobby watches you again with a keen eye as you smoke, how your lips pucker around it, how your glazed eyes are softer, and how your fingers hold onto it daintily. “Just feed us and make out with us from time to time then we’re yours forever.”
You laugh, a sound that comes out of you easier, right from the belly, a wholehearted one. “How about I cook for you when we get out of here?” We, not just him, we, something you never thought you’d actually believe in. “And if it’s shit I’ll take you somewhere that has greasy food that makes your cholesterol spike. How about that? Does that sound good?”
“Best thing I’ve ever heard.” He takes the offered joint, breathing it in, tasting you on it, saccharine like the chocolate croissant you had.
Bobby really meant what he said, it sounds like heaven to him. He could see it now, you accidentally burned the pasta on the stove after he distracted you too much with his stories like always and you both had to resort to going to a local diner. He knows the perfect one with the cracking leather seats and old jukebox in the corner, and milkshakes to share. He would slide into the booth beside you, not adjacent, he wants to be near you, to hold your hand underneath the table and argue with you on who can eat the most burgers and fries.
Tilting your head, you second guess, before sighing and finally placing your head on his shoulder, cheek nuzzling, inhaling the strawberry scent upon his skin. His hand hovers above your knee, and you take him gently in your hold, playing with his fingers absentmindedly.
“Do you like the beach, Bobby?” You whisper, thumb running along the length of his life line right on his palm.
“Yeah, I surf sometimes.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” He could feel your smile against his sleeve. “I used to…” you pause with trepidation before exhaling. “I used to sail with my grandpa.”
“That’s cool.” Ducking his head, he faces you, nose grazing along your forehead from how close he is to you. “Were you good at it, sailing, I mean?”
“I— I don’t remember.” Flicking your gaze to him, you could see yourself fully in the reflection of his blue eyes, like you’re drifting in the sea again and feeling the sun on your back as you bask in his warmth, a real warmth. “I think…I think I want to go sailing again…with you.”
Bobby nods, eyes closing as he rests his head against your own. “I’d love that, hero.”
“I want to feel the waves again, and the sand between my toes.” Your lips are dangerously close to his skin, and yet you don’t pull away even when something inside of you tells you to.
You could just see him at the helm, standing under the sun. Or struggling with the sails, dodging flinging rope as you laugh at him before helping him wrangle it. And at night you’d watch the stars with him, not the oddly shaped ones, the real twinkling stars as you both point out constellations together.
“I’ll take you to the beach.” His voice is a mere whisper, leaning impossibly closer to you, basking in your warmth and inhaling you in.
Your heart soars, eyes closing and letting the moment settle around you. You both stay there, holding onto each other, hearing you breathe as it mixes with his own. Hand in hand, heartbeats syncing together.
“Do you know the history of french fries?” You mumble out after a few minutes of sitting in silence. You still don’t pull away.
“No, tell me.” He mutters, voice soft, eyes hazy, breathing slowly as his knee knocks against yours, looking deeply into your eyes that he got lost in them whilst you talk.
The days went on like usual. He finds that your smiles are easier, your laughter is more genuine, more wholehearted that he always seeks it out throughout the day. He’d make shitty jokes, ‘accidentally’ hit his hip against the edge of the table just to see you smile and hear the chime of your laugh that is growing familiar to him like the sound of your footsteps.
You eat breakfast with him like always, his foot nudging you underneath the table like a kid trying to be annoying first thing in the morning just so you’d nudge back with the adorable scrunch of your nose, cheeks puffed and full of pastry. Then you’d hand him his tea, two sugars and a splash of milk, a fact that you learned just from observing him. It’s almost intimate, knowing him on a fundamental level that he didn’t even need to tell you his preferences but you just knew, you noticed it, even if it’s such a small part of him, but that fact makes it more personal. And he would do the same, he makes your tea after every search outside and gently plucks out the pine needles stuck in your hair and sticking out of the fabric of your jacket. Then you would talk, laughing whilst the entity watches on in the corner, as still as the decor around it that it could pass off as one.
Mr. Kitty stopped being around him, he continues to just observe, a third thing between you and him. The being is like air, just fluttering through from room to room, observing your behavior, mostly yours these days. After it gave Bobby the one thing you have been looking for, it doesn’t give him attention like it does for you. You’ve joked that it really did fall in love with you whilst you were chewing your pastry. Bobby wiped the jam in the corner of your smiling lips, and you have forgotten what you were talking about immediately after.
After a meal, you would wash up with him sitting by the bathroom door, talking about some nonsense back home. A teacher he hated in middle school, his mom’s job, his dreams and sometimes, just sometimes, he stops mid sentence, like he lost his train of thought, like he forgot one small detail before changing the subject. It feels weird, like he forgot to lock the door or left the oven on, wanting to go back home to check it but there is nothing to check, home isn’t here. But home could be wherever you are.
You would come out of the shower smelling like a dream, hair damp and sticking to your forehead, framing your smiling face as you looked down at him with a glimmer in your eyes. And you would say, “your turn, stinky.” And he’d laugh, take your helping hand and his touch would linger, your gaze would stay for a second longer before you both would pull away.
Bobby lets the water wash his guilt away whilst you talk about your favorite song that he has never heard of, or a funny commercial you once saw but he has no clue about. You’d talk from the other side of the wall, and it sounds like you’re inside with him, close, a breath away.
The routine soothes you both, no matter how boring and languid the days are, it’s better than being out there in the open yellow rooms with danger lurking in every corner. It’s repetitive, but never tiresome. Bobby never has to worry about food when it appears out of nowhere, always warm, always sweet. He doesn’t have to think about his future here, he doesn’t need to when all he needs is you, to wake up beside you, to hear you laugh at a shitty joke he made. To see you safe.
Bobby would linger by the doorway after a shower, standing there, watching you fix the bed, gazing at you long and hard with a fluttering feeling in his stomach. He doesn’t blame Mr. Kitty anymore or he’s a hypocrite when it also likes watching you flit about the house when you smile so softly, a subtle one as your hands work whilst you hum to yourself.
Slowly, day by day, the wall of pillows in between you two melted away, you two would sleep with your backs against each other and he would wake up with your cheek pressed against his shoulder, your hand atop his chest, and your body unconsciously wrapped around him. And his hand would be under you, a palm grasping onto your jacket, crinkling the fabric, keeping you beside him when you’re not going anywhere. As if your bodies sought each other out in sleep, honing onto each other’s warmth like moths to a flame, instincts making a decision for the both of you to hold onto each other. Then he would wake up before you, savouring the heat and warmth beside him selfishly before you awaken blearily, blinking at him before recognizing him in your sleepy state with a slow growing smile on your scrunched sleep crusted face.
“Morning,” you always said, index twirling around a strand of his hair on his nape, not mentioning how your legs are wrapped around his own underneath the blanket.
“Morning.” Bobby breathes it out, pulling you closer as you settle on his chest and his chin atop the crown of your head. His hand rubs along the inside of your arm, right above the scars and yet you don’t fracture, you don’t break nor flinch away, you let his touch soothe you as if it’ll smooth the raised scars away.
You both would just lay there, chest aching from the tenderness, listening to each other’s heartbeat.
On some days where you would be the one waking up before him, you would do the same, breathing quietly, gazing at his sleeping face and softened features with longing. But it still feels wrong, that you shouldn’t be curled up in bed with him, that he shouldn’t hold onto you so affectionately. On those days, Bobby would wake up to the other side of the bed empty, and the emptiness doesn’t feel quite right for him.
Why does it feel so complicated? You have no idea why that is, why it feels so wrong to be sweet with him, why it feels he shouldn’t be like this with you. It feels like there is something unspoken between you two, like a festering wound that throbs and burns with lingering pain that writhes around its reddened skin. It refuses to heal, but how would you heal something that you don’t even know how to heal? Or where it even is on your body?
Bobby always turns to his side throughout the day, expecting you. And you would do the same, a look over your shoulder, a simple crane of your head and there he is, already looking at you with an expectant smile, brow raised, asking if you’re okay. He seeks you like how you seek him, a need, not a want, a need to feel his presence, a need to see your eyes that smiles at him.
The shattered seeks out the broken. You know it when you find yourself holding onto Bobby more, whether it’s his wrist or the hem of his crop top, you’re clinging to him as he clings to you at night. You both have found solace with each other, and you wanted it all. You wanted his hand around your own, to wake up to him stirring awake, the slow mornings where you both dawdled, not wanting to face the day ahead just yet. But you wanted reality too, to go to the cinema with him, to eat at a restaurant with him, to read a book with actual words printed on it with him, only for you to wait for him to finish reading a page before you could flip to the next one. You’re patient, you would wait for Bobby. You would wait for him to finish showering, you would wait in the queue with him at the bank or at a concert with overpriced water bottles and merch. You have waited for him, and you would wait forever if it’s Bobby, even if it means staying here forever, waiting for the exit that hasn’t appeared in months. It’s probably been months, you both have stopped counting.
It’s selfish, you thought, to want to be with someone so bad that you’re dreaming of a life with him. To do chores together, shop for groceries, wash dishes whilst he dries them, where the mundane could be extraordinary with him.
You think that you need Bobby more than he needs you, but being needed feels good, being there for someone gives you a reason to wake up in the morning and face the fact that you’re both probably stuck here forever. It doesn’t seem so bad if you think about it. Nothing’s after you here, nothing’s coming to kill you. It’s just you and Bobby with his soft touches and lopsided grin. And Mr. Kitty, who just observes in the corner, not bothering, just there. There’s food here, warm water, and no expectations to participate in society.
The whole woods have been combed, no stones were left unturned, you two have checked every crevice, every tree and yet no doorway has shown itself to either you or Bobby. You think that you two kept searching for what’s not there because you got used to it, it was routine. Now that it’s finished, no space left to search, it feels odd, like the day isn’t complete. It has been two days since the search was complete. Leaving you both in a state of Limbo.
But Bobby has other plans. He’s planning on telling you two things today, one he hopes that you’ll reciprocate. One he hopes you’ll forgive him for.
“Careful.” Bobby smiles, guiding you outside the house.
Your eyes are blindfolded, and his hands are on yours, the calloused fingers wrapped around your scarred hand as you see the light seeping through the pink fabric of the blindfold.
“Bobby—”
“There’s a rock there,” he leads you away from an invisible rock just to lengthen the time he has his hand around yours. The simple joy of his hand in yours makes him giddy. “Okay, are you ready?”
“I’ve been ready.” Chortling, you can’t help the smile on your face as he unties the blindfold. It takes a minute for your eyes to adjust to the brightness, blurred as you blink it away.
“What do you think?” His arms are raised to his sides, now standing in front of you, a Bobby shaped blur. Chuckling, he moves closer, thumbs gently kneading your eyelids. “Do you want my shades?”
“Please.” His breath fans your heated cheeks, raising gooseflesh around your arms as you feel the sunglasses placed over your eyes.
“There, you look good, babe.”
Opening your eyes, your vision has adjusted, and you see Bobby before you, standing beside a picnic blanket with a vase and flowers inside. There are pink plates and various pastries around the blanket, the light paints it all in a glorious sight as he waits patiently for you. Your heart soars at the sight of it all.
“Bobby, did you do all of this?”
“Yeah,” he licks his lip bashfully, gesturing around it. “The whole thing, except for the food, I’ve got a catering company to do that for me.”
“I hope Mr. Kitty was properly compensated.” You feel the familiar warmth in the back of your eyes.
“He was paid in full.” Nodding, Bobby gives you a smile that creases the corners of his blue eyes. His face falls at your reaction, tears flowing down your cheeks freely that you haven’t noticed until he was already walking over to you. His hands are on your bicep, touch tender. “Hey, hey, none of that. It’s okay, you’re okay.”
“No, I’m—” sniffling, you reach out to him, pulling him over to you. “I’m sorry, Bobby, I couldn’t— there’s no exit, I got us stuck here. And you made me a picnic…” for the first time in a while, you cry, you weep in front of him without restraint, letting it all go. “I failed you, I’m so sorry.”
Bobby’s knuckles brush along the length of your back, chin resting atop your shoulder and rocking you in his arms from side to side. “That’s—” he stops himself, swallowing down the rock in his throat. “Let’s sit down for a bit, okay? Can you do that for me, hero?” Leaning away, he moves the glasses up to your head gently, palms right on your cheeks where he brushes away the loose tears gingerly, he then dips his chin, leaving a quick peck to your brow. Something that feels so natural to him, something incredibly real that he didn’t spare a second thought to the action.
Your heart stutters as your eyes chase his face, following him as he leans away. You suddenly forget how to talk. You cry some more and he pecks your temple more, with every tear there’s a kiss followed by it until his tender affection bleeds over to you, replacing the sorrow and guilt with his soft warmth.
After a moment when your breathing evens out, Bobby pecks you again for good measure, then again, before finally pulling away, hands still lingering on your damp cheeks.
“C’mon, Mr. Kitty’s going to get mad if we let the food go to waste.” Bobby sits you down, careful, gentlemanly, but filled with apprehension, like a first date.
The utensils clink together as he places a slice of red velvet cake on your plate. It’s bright crimson, almost bloody. You’re wiping your face with your sleeve, desperately trying to look presentable when he looks devastatingly handsome under the light.
He looks out of place in his crisp white crop top and jeans shorts that hangs loose around his hips, more skin shown, a midriff that has the familiar trail of hair that always has you looking away whenever you catch yourself ogling it.
You two eat in awkward silence, letting the bird song flit around you both whilst the fake sun shines on your nape.
The shadow lurks in the front doorway, keeping watch as always. Bobby notices, he has an idea that he might regret later. He then cups his hands around his mouth, and you startle at the sudden loudness.
“Join us!”
“Jesus, Bobby!” A grin creeps its way onto your face whilst he laughs at your reaction. That broke the awkward bubble around the two of you.
“What? Mr. Kitty looked like he wanted to join.” Gesturing towards the house, you see the entity stay where he was, standing still like usual. “Well, I thought he was.” It’s not much of a disappointment for him.
“He probably didn’t want to intrude.” You answer with a sigh. Shrugging, Bobby takes a generous bite of his cake, hair falling over his eyes, loose wavy strands of hay coloured hair obscuring his vision and brushing along the icing. “Hold on— may I?” You scooch closer.
Bobby freezes as he was told by you, he’s mid bite, mouth wide open. You giggle, a sound he has been chasing ever since he told you an awful joke.
“You always know my answer to that.” He has a small smile on his red tinted lips from the frosting. Placing down his plate with a light clatter, his full attention is on you. “Why bother asking?”
“Because,” you reach over the blanket and over to him as he leans closer, helping you. “I don’t want to intrude in your space. So, may I, Bobby?”
“Yeah,” he lets out a longing sigh, your fingertips grazing the top of his cheek. “Go ahead.”
With your fingers taking his strands gently, you put the sandy hair behind his ears. Tucking it carefully with a faint smile, his earring catching the light like the glint in his eyes whilst he watches you wistfully.
“There, handsome.” You bravely comment, a knuckle brushing along his jawline briefly before pushing away. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
“I uh…” shaking his head, chin dipping down to his clavicle, he chuckles. “I don’t remember.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” His attention is immediately on you.
“Do you still want to make movies after this?” Your tone is smaller, tentative as you take small bites of the cake.
“Yeah, I mean…” Taking a flower from the vase, he snaps the stem in half, thumb brushing along the petals. “It’s been my dream, but you don’t just need talent these days, you need money, luck, a shit ton of money. And connections. I don’t have either of those things.”
“It doesn’t have to be, you know? You could make an indy film. Have it play in local film festivals. I mean, I have a feeling you have an eye for it.” You encourage genuinely, planting the seeds of hope for him to reap.
“Who would watch it?” Bobby scoffs a laugh, one without humour and without the crinkle in the corner of his eyes. His fingers glide along the silky petals of the flower that’s too smooth, too brightly coloured to be a real one.
“Me.” Your answer is instantaneous, an immediate response that has him stilling from his movements.
“Yeah?” Beaming, he smiles that crooked smile with his gums peeking out, a boyish kind of smile.
“Yeah. I’ll watch the shit out of it.” Cocking your head to the side, you smile back, cheek pressed on your shoulder as the sun shines on the curve of your neck, illuminating your skin as he finds himself unable to look away. “What kind of movie do you want to make, Mr. Director?”
His head dips down, tongue dragging along his lips, a nervous tick of his. “Something about life. Y’know, what goes around someone’s life, birth, love, death, grief.” He backtracks, lifting his head and looking at you with a weighted gaze, as if he’s afraid to be perceived for who he truly is. “If not then probably something that has killer robots in it. Like Terminator.” His genuine words are covered hastily, an attempt at a joke.
You’re aware of what he’s doing and yet you don’t mention it. “Both are good. I’d watch both.”
Reaching for you, flower in hand, he tentatively asks. “May I?”
Your face breaks into a bashful smile, heart thudding in your chest while you lean closer to him. “Yeah.”
Bobby sweeps your hair away from your ear and tucks the flower right above the shell of your ear. The tip of his tongue poking in between his lips as he concentrates, as if he’s trying to defuse a bomb. Careful and gentle, afraid to poke you with the stem.
“You know this would be easier if you’re sitting beside me, Bobby.” Your gaze hasn’t left him since you swept his hair away from his eyes.
His movements cease, freezing as he vaults from his feet, scrambling closer to you and sits beside you a second after your invitation. You giggle, nudging your knee against his own whilst he fixes the flower on your ear. Making sure it’s secured and perfect.
“You good, Bob?” Teasing, you poke his side.
“Yeah, s–shut up.” His whole neck is red, and so are his ears. “Stop wiggling.”
“I’m not.”
He makes the mistake of looking at your eyes when he feels his heart stutter. “D–do— nothing, sorry.” His hands drop to his lap, eyes completely blown out at the sight of you with the flower on your ear.
“No, what were you about to say?” You ask softly, weirdly enough, a wind flutters your lashes, only to realize it was him exhaling loudly. “Bobby?” Palm placed atop his chest, you grasp his cheek with the other. His heart beats quicker underneath your hand. “Are you okay?” You ignore the nagging feeling of wrongness from how you hold onto him.
“My favorite movie is Star Wars.” Blurting out, Bobby clears his throat and rubs a hand over his reddened neck. “I was trying to remember which one. What’s yours?”
“My Fair Lady.” You could feel his heart calm down underneath your palm with every gentle knead.
“I’ve never seen it.” His hand holds onto the back of yours, keeping you there as his thumb rubs along the back of your hand.
“I don’t think you’ll like it.”
“Maybe I could, you never know.” His nose scrunches, scooching closer as subtly as he could until he feels your warmth bleed over to him. “Favorite horror movie? Mine is, uh, Halloween.”
“What’s your favorite scary movie?” You utter in a crackly tone, trying to copy the one in the movie. “Get it? Scary movie.”
His brows furrow, huffing a laugh. “I don’t get it, babe.” Bobby says the term of endearment with a tender tone, so used to calling you that it already comes naturally to him now.
“You’ve never heard of Scary Movie?” You make a face, chuckling as you notice the closeness. And yet you don’t push away, nor feel the need to despite the persistent ache in the back of your mind. “That’s a huge pop culture thing, Bobby. And you call yourself a movie connoisseur.”
“We can watch it together,” his voice lowers, eyes glancing over to the figure standing by the doorway before gazing into your eyes once more. “when we get out.”
“Yeah?” He’s still hopeful, and you like that about him. It’s contagious.
“Yeah, there’s a Blockbuster near my place, we can get any movie you want.”
“A Blockbuster?” Brows lifting, you give him a wobbly chuckle. “Didn’t they go bankrupt years ago?”
“What?” Bobby raises a brow, scoffing. He still holds onto you, heart synching with yours. “No.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it isn’t.” He playfully mocks your tone. “I definitely remember renting a movie there just days before I fell in this place. There are like…a thousand branches.”
“You live in a town stuck in time, Bobby Franklin.” Voice saccharine, you utter with a lilt in your tone, eyes sparkling underneath the fake sun.
“Calling me by my full name after I made you this spread?” Feigning offense, he rolls his eyes, gesturing around the picnic blanket. “Okay, fuck you too.”
“Technically it was Mr. Kitty that made this.” You say in between laughs.
He thinks that you look alive, happy, unabashedly you. And Bobby is giddy at the thought, that all your walls have finally fallen for him, that he could finally see you as you are— bright, full of life. Maybe there was a time in your life that you were like this. He wishes that you would always be like this for the rest of your life, and he hopes that he’s there by your side to witness it.
His mind turns, cogs moving, and he thinks, sitting beside you in that moment, holding onto your hand that rests atop his heart because you thought he was panicking, that your first thought was to hold him, to calm him, to show him that you’re there by his side and he thinks— he knows that he’s utterly in love with you.
“Okay,” Bobby had to take a deeper breath, as if he finally surfaced from the rolling tides just to gather his courage. “What’s your favorite movie trope?”
You think for a moment. “I know it’s cliché, but, best friends to lovers.”
“Is that even a trope?”
“Yes, it is!” Defending yourself, you pat his chest whilst he grins at you. “Okay what’s yours, film geek?”
Sucking in his teeth, and biting the inside of his cheek, Bobby ignores the strange pang in his chest. “When a character goes, ‘don’t fall in love with me,’ before going on an adventure with the love interest and he…he falls in love with her at the end of the movie.”
“That’s a good one, I admit. I can see why you love Star Wars.”
“You know I—I just remembered one of the rules.”
“What?” His heartbeat quickens against your palm.
“Don’t fall in love with me.” Bobby utters with his whole chest, hiding the fact that his breath staggered and his hand is turning clammy around your own. “Get it? I–I think I failed it though.”
“You fell in love with yourself?” You take it as teasing, the usual Bobby kind of teasing that you have no idea is a genuine flirtation or not. “I don’t blame you, you’re cute—”
“No, I—” he pauses, blinking at you. “you think I’m cute?”
“This conversation isn’t going anywhere, Bobby.” A laugh rumbles in your chest, amused, endeared. “What are you trying to say?”
“Yeah, can–can I try something?” Bobby’s expression softens, eyes gazing at your lips and a hand reaching for your cheek. He needs to show you his affection the only way he knows how when his words have failed him. “May I?”
You know, you immediately knew the moment his eyes flickered down to your smiling lips and how his blue eyes softened at the edges. Your heart flutters, you stop resisting completely. “You may.”
Bobby tilts his head, moving slowly, tentatively leaning closer to you until the tip of his nose brushes along your own. You don’t move, freezing in place as your eyes close and the warmth of his breath fans over your lips.
His lips brushes atop your lips, featherlight, just hovering there, waiting for you to pull away, giving you enough space to lean away. And yet, even when the tug pulls at the back of your mind ceaselessly, you don’t move away from his kiss. So he continues on, inhaling before completely pressing his lips to yours. He’s warm against you, and his hands cradle your cheeks, whilst you grip onto his crop top, bunching up the fabric until it crinkles.
You let go of him, and he thinks that’s it, that’s the only kiss he’ll ever get, that he ruined it. But then your hand finds the back of his head, fingers raking through his tresses, nails scratching softly before giving him a small tug. A shiver rolls through his body that you could feel underneath your palm. Then he lets out a low groan, an unsteady whimper from his throat, rumbling over to you as you feel it through your teeth. So you do it again, tugging, he gasps sharply into the kiss and you grant him the one thing he wants— you kiss him back.
Your lips part for him with a breathy tone, moving with his in tandem as the sounds of the saccharine kiss echoes around the clearing.
His mouth is desperate, needy, starved against yours the moment you kiss back, the second you reciprocate his kiss. He kisses you like he means it, as if he wants this kiss etched into your mind, never to be forgotten.
Right in the middle of the clearing, you’re just two people chasing each other’s lips, two people who have survived everything that was thrown at them, two people who desperately needed this. Needed the contact, the warmth, just two people starved for touch.
You want this, you needed this. You desperately want it as much as he did. It’s bliss, and you want this forever, a kiss, an embrace, his warmth, to lay on his chest and play with his hands while you listen to him talk about his day without the gnawing feeling that what you’re doing is wrong. Like a third faceless person between the two of you that taps your shoulder and tugs at your sleeve whenever you get too close to him.
But this doesn’t feel wrong, the feeling of his lips moving against your mouth doesn’t feel wrong. How could it feel wrong when it feels so right? When it feels so good, freeing, saccharine and genuine. You love him, you’re facing that fact now as you kiss him fervently like you’ve been poisoned and the cure is right on his lips. You tried to hide it before, how you have fallen for him, but Bobby makes it so easy to fall harder for him. Loving him is easy, loving him is anything but wrong.
Breathing through your nose, fingers curling around his hair, your breath hitches, and you feel the familiar warmth of need from the pit of your stomach with every peck. He tastes like the red velvet cake, sweet as it melds with the lingering taste of icing on your tongue. And his hands wander to your sides, gliding along the fabric of your jacket, before his fingers find the hem, lifting it up slightly to feel your skin underneath. Goosebumps rise on your skin from the contact, shuddering from how his calloused fingers pinch your hip tenderly, squeezing, tugging as you tug at his hair.
Bobby feels how your breathing has turned shallow, still kissing even when you’re running out of breath, so he reluctantly gives you reprieve, pulling away. He leaves a sheen over your lips, when he sees how kiss bitten your mouth is, he resists the urge to pull you against him again and kiss you until he suffocates in your scent, until he overdoses on your taste.
A curse slips from your tongue, heaving, completely melted against him. If not for Bobby’s hold on you, you would’ve fallen backwards onto the grass by now, and you know that would’ve started another kiss, and another and another.
The sight of his eyes blown out, almost black from the kiss sends your mind into a tizzy. You desperately want to kiss him again.
“You kissed me.” You mutter the words and yet it’s muffled in your ears, your mind saying his name over and over again. His kisses leave marks into the folds of your brain.
“You kissed back.” Bobby sighs out, almost smug. “Do…do you want to…? Again?”
“What about…?” Looking over your shoulder, you’ve found that the shadow lingering in the house has disappeared. Bobby tucks your chin between his forefinger and thumb, pulling your attention towards him. “Bobby?”
Something’s missing.
“Yeah,” he starts off with your cheek, kissing, pecking, leaving little pockets of warmth right on your skin. Then in the corner of your eyes, over to your forehead, kissing a line down the hinge of your jaw and over to your throat. You’re alight, he sets you aflame as you let out a croaked exhale, fingers gripping onto his hair, and a palm, fingers splayed right on his stomach where his crop top doesn’t cover. “Babe, fuck…” his tone reverberates through your neck, shivering from your touch. “Please,” pulling himself off of your throat, he looks at you desperately. “One more, please.”
“What about, shit, what about…?” There’s a bright spot in your vision.
“What about what?” He pecks you again on your lips, then another and another, each deeper than before. You kiss him back, unsure, filled with apprehension and not at all easy like the last. Pressing his forehead against yours, his breathing stutters, mouth agape, chasing your lips. “Don’t go inside your head, don’t disappear where I can’t follow.”
“I just—” Thinking gives you a headache, the pull in the back of your mind going stronger, trying to recall a third person that haunts you and Bobby.
Something is missing. Someone is missing.
“You okay?” Bobby’s needy expression curdles into worry, a palm pressing against your forehead gently. “Headache? Did my kisses give you a headache?” Joking, he chuckles, still happy, still unaware.
A name appears in your head, sudden, an abrupt stop to your warm thoughts of Bobby. There’s a soft voice, a blurry face that once listened to you, and a severed hand with a beaded bracelet on the floor.
Someone with chopped short hair appears in your mind, slowly, a face builds on the head, brown eyes, nose, a mole under her eye. Her, she used to be here, she was here before you, here in Bobby’s arms, holding onto his chest just like you had.
“Kat.” Realization flickers on your face, pained, ashamed. “Kat, we forgot about Kat.”
“Who’s Kat?”
Sheer horror marrs your face, breath taken right from your lungs as you scramble up to your feet. Bobby’s hands chase your shaking fists, he’s utterly confused, calling your name with a fleeting chuckle in between.
“Kat, your— your girlfriend.” You then remember her fully, how she was kind to you, how she understood you from the moment you appeared behind a corner even when she shouldn’t. And you remember the lie you have been harboring inside you from Bobby— Kat’s dead, she has been dead this whole time while you were playing house with her boyfriend. Kissing her boyfriend like he was yours to begin with. “You don’t remember her?” Your tone is serrated at the edges.
“Wait— wait, babe, hold on—” Bobby tried to capture your trembling hands from below, fingers brushing with yours for a moment. “I don’t have a girlfriend.” He laughs, shaking his head. “Come sit down, you’re making me worry. What’s wrong?”
“I think we need to get out of here, Bobby.” Hands in your hair, you could still taste him on your tongue, and feel the ghost of his touch on your bare skin.
“Baby—”
“Don’t call me that.” His expression falls, hurt, heartbroken. You’re immediately kneeling before him, hands right on his shoulders. “Bobby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— you have to remember, you have to remember why you’re here in the first place, remember Kat.” You grasp at his face. “Remember the missing posters? Kathrine Taylor, Robert Franklin. Try to remember, Bobby, please. Remember Clark? Remember how you fell?”
Sheer incomprehension is in his expression. The cogs in his head turning, he looks like trying to remember hurts him, and for a moment you wanted to tell him to stop, to stop trying to remember, to continue the way you both were before you remembered.
Realization swirls in his blue eyes. He closes them, inhaling through his nose, fingers pressing in between his brows, as tears prickle underneath his eyelids.
“Oh, fuck.” His head falls on your shoulder, fingers digging into the fabric of your jacket, rustling it, clinging onto you desperately. “How— how did I forget her?” When his head lifts to face you, there’s tears in his blue eyes.
“I don’t know, Bobby, I’m sorry I don’t know.” You cradle him in your arms, letting him cry as you stifle a sob threatening to spill from your throat that you want to cleave open with your nails. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
—
You feel ashamed.
But it felt so right that you had to ignore the nagging feeling in the back of your head. And Bobby reciprocated your affection with the same intensity, he kissed you first and you kissed back like you were starving and he was the only thing that could stave off that hunger. And he looked at you like you hung the stars, he listened to you like there is nothing more interesting in the world and he was kind, he was safe. He made you feel safe and wanted and loved.
You haven’t been loved in a long time and you have forgotten what it was like. How it was like to he held, to be touched with reverence, to be kissed as if you’re the only person left in the world. You might as well be for him. You’re the only person within his vicinity, is that the reason why he kissed you? Because you were the only one near him this whole time? Because there was no one else that he could hold? Or is it because he forgot about Kat?
“I know where the door is.” Bobby says in the middle of the kitchen, hands holding onto the dirty plates whilst you fold the blanket neatly. You freeze, eyes slowly turning in his direction. “He showed me. And he wanted me to leave you here. I–I should’ve told you days ago. We should’ve left days ago.” He mutters your name in a broken tone, placing the plates on the kitchen island where you two once shared a laugh. The edges of his eyes are still red, and so are yours as you nod. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Nodding, you breathe in the smell of pastries that has always permeated through the air.
“I just— I just wanted to give you the peace you needed.”
Taking a step forward, you instinctively reach for him before reining yourself in. Your shaking hand hovers over his arm, filled with trepidation until he takes your wrist and places your touch on him. Letting you stay.
“Bobby—”
“You just looked so happy here, and I wanted to give you that happiness as long as I could.” Tears prickle in the corner of his eyes again as he squeezes your hand in his. “I wanted you to be happy.”
“I understand.” You’d do the same, you’re doing the same thing, you’re lying to him right now to protect him, just he had done for you. “Bobby, I understand.”
“I fucked up.”
Shaking your head, you give him a tight-lipped smile, heart sinking to your stomach. “I’m sorry too. I should’ve stopped kissing you when I felt that something was off.”
“No, that’s not what I meant—” His eyes flicks over your shoulder.
Turning around, you see Mr. Kitty’s looming form behind you. His sheer presence alone takes the air out of the kitchen, a tension building as he stands there, faceless, as dark as the void.
“We have to leave.” You stand in front of Bobby, unconsciously protecting him. “Mr. Kitty, you have to let us leave.”
The edges of his skin fizzle, twisting and changing into tiny pin pricks of blue and red static, like a TV without a signal. The sheer forcefield around him presses against your skin. It doesn’t want you to leave.
“I can’t stay here.” You stand your ground despite the fear burrowing deep in your marrows. “I don’t belong here, do you understand?”
The entity hums, a sad thrum that strikes right at your chest. Behind you, you feel Bobby shiver, his fingers curled around the hem of your jacket in case he needed to pull you away from it.
“I know you’re lonely.” Instead of stepping back, you’re crossing the distance over to it. You could feel Bobby panic from behind you as his grasp tightened. “Being alone…it gets to you, doesn’t it?”
It tips its head down, shoulders hunched, making itself small for you. It faces you fully as you see its shadow of a face move, a gentle swirl of darkness inside the void that reminds you of the gentle lapping of waves.
“You’re beautiful…” muttering, enthralled, you reach for it— his face, this being that is so close to you that you could feel his primordial age over your skin.
“Don’t touch him.” Bobby mumbles in the shell of your ear.
Your fingers twitch just a hair’s width away from his shadow, catching yourself before your skin meets the static of his flesh. “Thank you for letting us stay.”
He stretches to his full height, the top of his head grazing the ceiling. The entity is calmer, his edges are still as his arm extends for you, palm open, expecting something.
“I think he wants something.” Bobby continues to hold onto you as if you’ll try to touch Mr. Kitty again. “Don’t hold his hand.”
Jaw clenching, you take a deep breath before shrugging off your jacket. The chill hits your skin the moment you shrug it off. Your arms catch the light, shining right on the jagged lines around your forearm.
Bobby breathes out your name quietly.
“You can have this.” Folding the jacket, you gently place it above his palm. “I don’t need it anymore.”
Mr. Kitty accepts it with a curt nod, his arm folding to his chest, placing the flowery bomber jacket right above his heart.
You hear him sing, a croon inside your head, a tone akin to a thank you said in a hum. “You’re welcome.”
—
Bobby showed you the way out, you stand in front of the painted hill, feeling the song of the walls call out for you from behind it.
Holding out your arm, you’re stopped by Bobby when he calls your name. Turning to him, you see him wielding the hammer, and the same backpack slung over his shoulder.
“I need to tell you something.” He looks tired. “I don’t regret it. Kissing you, I don’t regret it. I don’t regret any of this.”
“Bobby…”
“I— I loved Kat,” his words are broken at the edges. “but I have to accept that she’s gone.”
“We need to go.” Your walls are built up again, eyes guarded, jaw clenched and a gaze that doesn’t fully look at him because of your own shame and guilt that is burrowed too deep in your bones to ever understand his confession.
Mr. Kitty stands in the doorway, a hand up in good-bye.
Bobby says your name like an unanswered prayer. Heartbroken, alone.
You don’t turn back to look at the being, but Bobby does before the two of you enter the threshold.
The bird song is replaced by the droning of the fluorescent lights, the scent of pastries fades away and makes way to the smell of damp carpets and mold that settles in the roof of your mouth. The pink and the artificial sun is now all mono yellow wallpaper that has haunted your dreams.
The hum in the walls welcomes you back in its embrace.
got me hooked for an hour and a half (probably since i’m also binging a show while reading) and it was the best hour an a half of my entire week.
the tension and i repeat THE TENSION between them while bobby confesses. and i mean i get R for brining kat and everything up, but she could’ve waited a second more, nonetheless i stand with my queen
katy portrays bobby exactly how i see him given his 10 minute screen time and this chapter was just a cherry on the fucking top, absolute masterpiece give me fourteen of these right now
and the way he’s so shy around R and will NEVER admit that he’s jealous will make me giggle over and over
SUMMARY - your neighbour peter parker has a knack for stumbling in past midnight with bruises, offering lame excuses. you only meant to lend a hand, but one thing leads to another and you discover something shocking
CONTAINS - fluff, mild to severe injuries (peter), spoiler-free (?), not proofread oops
A/N - wrote this right after watching bnd. He has bewitched me once more (not that he's ever stopped)
It is twenty past two in the morning. Your laptop screen glows on the kitchen counter, and you are halfway through a cold mug of tea that should have been tipped down the sink hours ago.
A dull thump vibrates right through the paper thin partition wall, followed immediately by the metallic clatter of a bin taking a beating. Then comes a low, winded groan.
You set your mug down before yanking your jumper tighter around your shoulders, and head into the corridor. The hallway smells of damp carpet. You step up to 4B, fold your knuckles, and rap four beats against the door.
A violent rustle erupts inside.
Someone scrambles blindly over a piece of furniture, trips, curses under their breath, and finally unlatches the deadbolt. The door opens a paltry three inches, held fast by the brass security chain.
Peter Parker peers out through the vertical gap. His curls are plastered to his forehead with sweat, a fresh purple streak blooming right along his jawline. He looks as though he had just finished wrestling.
“Hey,” he rasps, voice sounding like he swallowed a handful of gravel. He pulls a faint, utterly hopeless squint, resting his forehead lightly against the edge of the door. “Is... is everything alright out there?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” you say, leaning your side against the doorframe. “Considering you sound like you’re tossing all sorts of things around your flat.”
Peter winces, his hand tightening on the edge of the timber. “Right. Sorry. I just... lost my balance.” he nods, more to himself than to you. “My shoelaces were untied.”
“Your shoelaces.”
“Yeah. Double knot failed me.”
“Right. And the shoelaces hit you in the face?”
Silence fills the corridor. Peter blinks, his brain clearly grinding its gears to manufacture a backup lie, but the bone deep exhaustion in his eyes catches up to him. He lets out a defeated breath that rustles his messy fringe. “It was a very aggressive knot.”
“You are a dreadful liar.” Your eyes drop to his knuckle where he grips the door. “Is everything okay? You look like you’ve been through it.”
“Appreciate the honesty.”
“I’m serious. You look about one breath away from collapsing onto the floor.” You turn on your heel without waiting for his rebuttal. “Don’t lock the door.”
You disappear into your kitchen, grabbing a make shift ice pack that is frozen peas wrapped in a towel out of the freezer compartment. When you return, Peter hasn’t moved an inch, though his eyelids are half closed, his weight propped against the doorframe just to stay upright.
You shove the wrapped pack through the narrow gap, causing him to jolt back to life. He fumbles it, his rough fingers scraping against yours as he secures a grip.
“Hold it against your face.” you order, stepping back. “And if you’re going to keep dragging yourself home in pieces at midnight, at least learn how to fall properly.”
A crooked smirk cuts through his exhaustion, tugging at the corner of his split lip. “I’ll uh add soft landings to my list.”
“Do that.” You tap the wood of his door with a knuckle.
“Night,” he calls out, his tone dropping into something surprisingly quiet as you turn away.
You don’t linger to watch him shut the door, but the click of the lock follows you back to your flat, accompanied by the muffled sound of him finally sliding down against the wall to rest.
Three nights later, the knock comes on your door.
It's a tentative, almost apologetic tap—two soft thuds against the timber at a quarter past one in the morning.
You pull your headphones down around your neck, shoving your laptop aside on the sofa before padding over. When you swing the door open, Peter is standing in the dim light of the corridor, looking remarkably clean compared to his last appearance. His curls are damp from the rain outside, and the purple bruise along his jawline from earlier in the week has already faded to a dull yellow.
A ridiculously fast recovery that you brush off.
In his hands, folded into a neat, lopsided square, is your towel.
“I washed it,” he explains immediately. “And I bought my own ice pack. A proper gel one this time. So your frozen peas are safe.”
You take the laundered cloth with a slow tilt of your head. “You know it’s past one, right? Normal people exchange laundry during daylight hours.”
“Yeah, well, my schedule isn’t exactly normal,” he admits, shifting his weight between his feet. He rubs the back of his neck, his fingers tangling briefly in his messy hair. “Plus, I saw the light under your door. Figured you were still awake.”
“I work better when everything else has settled,” you shrug. “What’s your excuse?”
Peter offers a small, self deprecating grin, though his eyes wander past you into the warm glow of your flat. “Odd jobs. Whatever pays cash under the table. Late night shifts keep me out of people’s way.”
He shifts again, and as he does, a sharp wince catches in his throat. His left shoulder hitches up unnaturally high, his right hand instantly snapping up to brace his elbow.
You don’t miss the subtle flinch. “What did you do now?”
“Nothing,” he says a fraction too fast, eyes locking back onto yours. “Just pulled something. Lifting heavy boxes.”
“Heavy boxes.” You raise a brow and take a step back into your entryway, leaving the door wide open. “Come in.”
Peter hesitates on the threshold, his eyes widening slightly. “Oh, no, I really don’t want to bother you–”
“You’re already bothering me by standing there,” you cut in, heading straight for the kitchen counter. “In. Before the cold freezes the whole flat.”
With a quiet exhale, he steps across the entryway. Having him inside your tiny space immediately alters the air. He’s broader than his oversized clothes let on, his presence instantly filling the narrow entry. He stands awkwardly by the coat rack, his lips forming into a thin line as he watches you retrieve a tub of muscle rub from a cabinet.
“Shirt stays on, don’t worry,“ you break the silence, turning back to face him with the jar in hand. “Just turn around and sit on the edge of the sofa.”
Peter blinks, a charming flush creeping up from the collar of his jumper, tinting his face a faint pink. “You really don’t have to do this–”
“I know I don’t,” you answer, gesturing toward the cushions. “Sit.”
Peter sinks onto the cushion, perching on the absolute edge. You sit down beside him on the sofa, unscrewing the small jar in your hands. The crisp scent of eucalyptus instantly fills the space between you.
“Lean forward,” you instruct, rubbing a dollop of the cool cream across your palms. “And try to actually relax for five seconds.”
Peter ducks his head without argument, resting his elbows on his knees. His messy curls drop over his forehead, exposing the skin at the nape of his neck. When you press your hands against the base of his neck, working your thumbs into his left shoulder through the wool of his jumper, he stiffens instantly. A ragged breath hitches in his chest, his whole frame going solid beneath your touch. It’s like pressing your hands into solid granite. Beneath the knitwear, there is no give—just dense hard muscle wrapped tight with strain.
“Breathe, Peter,” you murmur, digging your thumbs in harder to work around a stubborn knot near his shoulder blade. “I’m not gonna break you.”
“Right. Yeah,” he rasps, though his knuckles turn white where his hands grip his knees. He swallows hard, his shoulders slowly dropping under your steady pressure. “Sorry. Just... not really used to it.”
“Not used to what? Basic self care?”
“People…” He hesitates, the word hanging heavy in the room before he quickly catches himself. “People touching my shoulders, I guess. Usually it’s just someone shoving past me on the subway.”
The answer is delivered with a light chuckle and yet it hits with an unexpected sting. At that, you slow the rhythm of your hands, smoothing the warmth of the cream deeper into the stiff muscle.
“Well, you have dreadful posture anyway,” you joke softly, “so you’re going to have to suffer through it.”
Peter lets out a genuine laugh that vibrates right through his back and into your fingertips. His head dips lower, his breath hitching once more, not from pain this time, but from something far quieter, his eyes fluttering shut as he finally lets his full weight sink back against the cushions.
For a few minutes, neither of you speaks. The only sound in the flat is the rhythmic hum of your fridge and the pattern of Peter’s breathing as your thumbs work out the tension in his upper back. The heat radiating through his clothes is almost absurd. Beneath your palms, the stiff line of his spine finally relaxes.
“Better?” you ask quietly, lifting your hands.
Peter turns his head slowly, looking back over his shoulder. Up close, without the shadows of the draughty corridor hiding him, his brown eyes are calm and unguarded. Near his collarbone, a faint, restless pulse flutters, beating far too fast for someone sitting completely still.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. “Yeah, actually. A lot better.” He nods.
You wipe the excess cream off your palms onto a tissue, maintaining a steady posture despite the sudden spike in atmospheric pressure. “Good. Because I’m not making a habit of running a wellness centre out of my living room.”
A smile tugs at his lip. He shifts his frame on the cushion, angling his knees toward yours in the narrow space between you. He looks down at his scraped knuckles for a brief second before his gaze travels back up to your face, tracing the line of your jaw before settling firmly on your eyes.
“I could pay you,” he offers, his tone light, though the way he is watching you is anything but casual. “I mean... not in money. But I could do your heavy lifting. Or fix your radiator. It rattles at three in the morning, by the way.”
“You’re listening to my radiator at three in the morning?”
Peter goes dead still, his mouth parting as if to instantly retract the statement. A deep, telltale flush surges right up to the tips of his ears. “I–well, paper thin walls. I just hear things. I’m not... I promise I’m not lingering outside your wall like a creep.”
“I know, Peter.” a quiet laugh bubbles in your throat as you tilt your head. “Relax.”
He exhales a breath that seems half relieved and half flustered, running a hand through his hair. Then, as if suddenly remembering himself, he pushes off the sofa with fluid grace that seems too fast for a guy who claims to be clumsy.
“I should um... probably get out of your hair,” he stammers, taking two quick steps back toward the entryway. “It’s late. Or early. Whatever it is.”
You follow him at a more leisurely pace, resting against the archway as he unlatches the front door.
“Try not to fall on your journey back to 4B,“ you call out.
Peter pauses and looks over his shoulder. “No guarantees,” he chuckles, his gaze lingering on your face for one beat, two beats, before he finally steps out into the corridor. “Night.”
“Night, Peter.”
The following evening, you’re standing in the overcrowded aisle of the corner shop down the block, debating between two identical jars of pasta sauce, when a shadow falls over you.
“The basil one,” a voice says from right behind your shoulder. “The garlic one tastes like cardboard.”
You turn around to find Peter precariously balancing three trays of meat, a carton of milk, and a loaf of bread in his arms.
“No basket?” you breath a laugh, putting the garlic sauce back and taking his recommendation.
“I wasn’t planning on buying much,” he awkwardly clarifies, “I came in for milk. The rest were an impulsive buy.”
Another soft laugh escapes your lips before you reach over to pluck the meat trays out of his arms and drop them into your own basket. “Here. Give me the rest.”
Both his brows raise in surprise. “Thanks.” he falls into step beside you as you head toward the till. “I actually… I owe you one anyway. For the shoulder thing.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I could carry your groceries,” he insists, tapping the side of your plastic basket. “If–if you want.”
True to his word, he waits for you by your checkout counter immediately after paying for his own groceries, taking your brown paper bag the second the cashier finishes packing it up. The sun warms your skin as you walk side by side back to your building.
When you reach the fourth floor, he hands the bag back, his fingers brushing against yours for a second longer than necessary.
“See?” Peter says smoothly, leaning his back against his front door with a proud smirk. “Not one bruise. Flawless execution.”
“Impressive,” you tease as you tilt your head, unlocking the door to your flat. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late,” he chuckles lightly, eyes staying on you until you step inside. “I’ll um see you around.”
Three nights pass without a squeak from him.
Outside, a relentless deluge lashes against the glass, drumming a chaotic rhythm across the roof. It is nearly three in the morning when the sound hits. A heavy impact that rattles the picture frames on your partition wall.
You drop your phone onto the desk, sprinting across the cold floorboards to the front door. When you yank it open, Peter is on his knees in the dark corridor.
He is completely drenched, water pooling around his worn trainers. His chest heaves in wheezing gasps, one arm pinned tightly against his ribs while his forehead rests against your doorframe. Worse still, the grey hoodie he is wearing is torn open down the left side, heavily saturated in a dark, terrifying crimson.
“Peter,” you breathe, dropping to your knees beside him without a second thought.
“Hey,” he manages, though his voice is barely a thread of sound. He tries to force a reassuring smile, but his face is ghostly pale, his skin shivering violently from shock and cold rain. “Sorry... didn’t mean to... hit the door so hard...”
“I don’t give a shit about the door,” your brows furrow in disbelief as you take his uninjured arm, looping it over your shoulders, and hauling him up with every bit of strength you possess. “Get inside. C’mon.”
He weighs far more than anything you’ve ever carried— dense muscle unanchored by energy—but somehow, you manoeuvre him across the threshold, kicking the door shut behind you. You guide him toward the sofa, letting him slide down onto the cushions.
“I need to see where it’s coming from,” you warn, grabbing a clean towel, a pair of scissors, and a first aid kit from your drawer. Your heart is hammering rapidly against your ribs, pure adrenaline wiping out any lingering fatigue.
“It’s just a scratch. Looks... worse than it is,” he slurs, his hand rising weakly to intercept yours as you reach for the hem of his ruined jumper. “Seriously. I... I heal ridiculously fast–”
“You are bleeding all over my house, Peter, so stop arguing!”
You cut cleanly through the soaked cotton of his jumper, peeling the wet fabric back to assess the tear. But as the dark material parts, your fingers go still.
Beneath the ruined clothes, there is no bare skin or cotton undershirt. Wrapped tightly over his chest and shoulders is a sleek, textured fabric of vibrant red and deep blue—badly torn at the waist, where a shallow, nasty laceration is weeping blood down his side.
Silence drops over the kitchen like blunt weight.
Slowly, your eyes travel up from his torn suit, past his bruised collarbone, to meet his eyes.
Peter’s breath hitches in his chest. His eyes are blown wide with raw, terrifying panic as he looks down at the exposed suit, then back up at your face. He looks braced, desperately searching your expression as if waiting for you to do something crazy.
“Wait–I–” he struggles, his voice cracking with frantic concern. “it’s not–I can explain, please don’t–”
But you simply stare at the web pattern for a long moment, taking slow breaths to steady the overwhelming thumps of your heart.
“Right.” you pick up the antiseptic. “A really aggressive shoelace knot, was it?”
He lets out a breathless laugh, though it quickly falters. “... Wait, you’re not–you’re not freaked out?”
“Of course I’m shocked, Peter.” You unscrew the cap of the bottle. “But you’re currently losing blood, so maybe right now isn’t really the time for questions.”
A gasp escapes him, a mixture of laughter and a sob of sheer relief. The crushing tension in his posture snaps, his head thumping back against the sofa cushions. “You have no idea how hard it was coming up with those lies.”
“I do, actually. They were terrible.”
You work carefully, dousing a pad of gauze in warm water and antiseptic. Peter winces as you clean the edge of the wound, but he stays completely still for you. Once the side cut is cleaned and neatly bandaged, you shift up to sit beside him, bringing a damp cloth to his face.
“Hold still,” you mumble softly.
Peter doesn’t move a muscle. His eyes trace your face with focus as you gently wipe a streak of grime from his temple, moving down the sharp line of his jaw. Right at the corner of his lower lip, there is a tiny, fresh split. You dab delicately at the split on his lip with the corner of the warm cloth. Peter’s breath hitches, his lower lip trembling ever so slightly under the subtle touch of your thumb.
He looks undone. Unmasked, battered, and stripped of every defense he usually hides behind, sitting in half of a spider man suit in your living room while the rain lashes against the glass outside.
“Does it hurt?”
“No,” Peter whispers. He exhales a long breath, leaning his head back with a weary chuckle. “Pretty sure I can’t even move right now.”
You look up for a second, catching the intensity in his gaze. His eyes are no longer on yours, but staring straight at your lips.
A sharp flutter hits your chest, catching the breath in your throat as the air between you turns thick. Your own gaze helplessly drifts downward, tracing the curve of his lips, the faint tremble of it, and the tiny cut you were just tending to.
His hand reaches up, fingers sliding around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your pulse point. He pulls you forward with patience, closing the narrow gap between your faces until your breath fans warm over his skin.
The second his lips meet yours, everything fades into the background. The kiss is unhurried and soft at first—careful of the split on his lip—that is before his grip in your hair tightens just so to pull you flush against him. A shuddering sigh escapes him against your mouth.
When he finally parts from your lips, staying close enough that your noses brush, a tinge of crimson colours both your faces.
You take a steadying breath, a teasing smile curving your lips. “I thought you couldn’t move?”
“For this?” His thumb gently strokes your jawline. “I can manage.”
“You’re unbelievable.” a smile grows across your face as you reach over the armrest to grab the soft fleece blanket from the back of the sofa.
You drape it over his broad shoulders, tucking the edge around him to keep the draft off his skin. Peter fully settles into the cushion, the exhaustion finally catching up to him. He doesn’t move away, instead letting his weight shift until his head comes down to rest comfortably against your shoulder.
“You’re staying here tonight.” you guide your fingers through his damp curls. “No arguments.”
“No arguments,” he repeats against the fabric of your clothes, his eyelids fluttering shut as his breathing slows into a steady pattern.
Within minutes, the guy who holds the weight of the city on his shoulders is fully asleep beside you, warm, safe, and finally resting.
Synopsis: The house in the middle of the clearing pulls you in. A brief reprieve from the horrors but you find that you and Bobby are not truly alone.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, reader has nicknames, CW blood and injury, CW food mentions, CW dark themes. Eventual Bobby romance, slow burn, Part 5 of my Bobby series. Set during the movie (spoilers)
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Bobby Franklin Masterlist
Part 4 <<< Part 5 >>> Part 6
It must’ve been a dream. It couldn’t have been you, it couldn’t have been a version of yourself. It was all crooked, a lumbering form that stinks of mold and mildew. It shouldn’t even exist, and yet you felt its arms around you, you heard it cry out for you.
It was a residual memory, the past, a shattered mirror of yourself.
But it was as real as the scars on your arms.
You could still remember how it held onto you, desperate, clinging to you like a child to its mother. You are not its mother, that thing tried to kill you, tried to take you down with it. It shouldn’t be pitied even when it wears your face, it’s a monster, grotesque, a monstrosity and monsters are merely that— monsters.
It doesn’t have cohesive thoughts inside its head, it doesn’t even breathe nor speak, and most of all, it’s not you, not really, just a fucked up version of you that this yellow hell tried to copy right from your memories. Like how it did with Janet, your grandfather, and the stranger in the bathroom, and even pirate Clark. They’re not human, they’re not the real thing, just a cheap imitation that went wrong somewhere in the process.
It shouldn’t bother you, you should stop thinking about what happened and how you almost ended up falling to your death. And yet you find yourself scratching at your neck, nails picking at the healing scabs, opening the wounds again.
Grimacing, you pull your hand away, seeing your blood caked underneath your fingernails has you stifling the bile rising from your throat that coats your mouth in saliva. You take a sip of the sweetened almond water to tamp it away, taking deep breaths through your nose as you listen to the recording of birdsong echoing around the clearing.
The fallen tree trunk behind you feels rough as it scratches your back. You’re resting on it, head held up, not minding the roughness against your nape as you stare at the artificial sky that is painted across the high ceiling. There are fluffy clouds, too symmetrical, too similar from each other for it to be real. The clouds don’t move unlike the real thing, the blue sky remains the exact same even though you have been laying here for hours.
The whole false sky is painted as realistic as possible to fool you, but the clouds hang by clear threads, and it reminds you of a studio where movies were shot in. A mere studio lot made my man, but you highly doubt that human hands painted the sky and placed the still clouds above. Maybe if you unravel the blue paint you’ll see the yellow wallpaper underneath, if you could just scratch the surface, break the mold, maybe just maybe, you’ll see the real sun under all of it.
Your mind has gone wobbly, turned around, body clock telling you to sleep but the light above tells you that it’s not time for it yet. There are no mornings or nights here, time is pliable here, no day and night cycle, just the permanent light from the artificial sun above.
The days you have spent in this hell have blurred together through trudging along different rooms. From the boiler rooms to the pools and dilapidated buildings and mono yellow wallpaper, you have no sense of time anymore. Before it was your phone that helped you see how many hours or days it’s been but after it broke, you’re drifting through the days with only sleep determining if a day has passed. But you know it’s been two hours since you almost fell through the floor and to your death, you counted the minutes, grounding yourself onto the grass that doesn’t really smell like grass but more akin to plastic, but it feels real, awfully real under your open palms. Two hours since you saw a version of you with its broken neck. Two hours since Bobby saved you, two hours since the bruise around your wrist appeared from how hard he held onto you.
How badly he wanted to save you.
Your whole body aches, a slight tremble in the muscles of your limbs, a flinch under your flesh, as if the memory of what transpired shakes your insides, engraved into your bones and in the fibers of your muscle. You could just sleep here and let the world forget you.
The sun above, or what seems to be like the sun shines on you, is eternally warm, it doesn’t fade nor wane, but that’s how you know it isn’t real. The temperature stays the same, not warm nor cold, just right, like a spring afternoon, like someone locked the thermostat to stay the same temperature forever. The light comes from the painted ceiling, a mere orb that blurs at the edges from the light it emanates, a mere imitation of the real thing.
“We have to go in eventually.” Bobby rasps, voice hoarse and deeper, shoulders resting against the tree trunk, chest rising and falling as his eyes stay on the lone pink house at the center of the clearing.
He lays beside you, you thought he was still asleep, you have no idea how someone could sleep after that but perhaps that’s how his body reacted to the horror, to sleep it off and pretend it was just a dream just like you have years ago.
His eyes were closed last you checked on him, sunglasses over his eyes as he slept. The two of you are too afraid to cross the distance over to the pink house with its pink chimney that billows white smoke. It has a little garden with pretty white wooden picket fences all around it. It’s warm and looks cozy, inviting, too welcoming.
“What horrors lie inside for us?” You mutter back, licking at your dry lips as you lay limp beside him.
“Dolls.”
“What?” Your head cranes in his direction, eyes narrowed, vision blurry and adjusting when you’ve been staring at the light for too long.
“Dolls.” Bobby flutters his lips, glasses hitched up to his head casually, sandy hair sticking up all over the place. “It looks like a place where it would have those creepy antique dolls.”
You crack a smile that falters immediately. “I think you’re still a little bit high, Bobby.”
“The shit we went through sobered me up.” The corners of his lips tug into a soft smile, neck turning towards you, cheek pressed against his shoulder. His blue eyes stare right at you, heavy and tired. “I wanna get high after that.”
“Save it when we survive this one.” Heaving yourself up, you stand up on wobbly legs, using his knee for leverage as you feel his searing skin underneath your palm. “Come on, Bobby, it’s now or never.” You give him a helping hand, palm open, ready to receive him.
“Can it be never?” Looking up, his eyes squint at you with the artificial sun lighting you up from behind, cloaking your face in shadows and lining your silhouette in light.
“I wish. But I don’t see any doors here except for the front door.”
“Fuck my life.” Extending his hand, Bobby takes yours, gently clasping his fingers around you as you help lift him up, and he shakes the sleep away from his muddled mind.
Will it be like this forever? Running from room to room and dodging violent entities until some miracle happens? Until your luck runs out?
Guilt coats the inside of your mouth, bitter and acrid like acid on your tongue. This is all your fault.
“Maybe there’s another exit somewhere.” He cuts through the silence as you two trek towards the house, grass crunching underfoot. “I came out of a different room from yours, so there might be other exits out of here.” Despite his hopeful words, he sounds dejected, hopeless as his hand brushes along your own whilst you two walk side by side. “There has to be.” He says your name, laced with trepidation and sorrow. “You good?”
“Trying my best to be, Bobby.” Inhaling, you give him a weak smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “You know, you never really finished telling me your rules. Might help with this encounter.”
“My rules?” He pauses by the fence, a hand grasping at the wood as he tilts his head at you.
“Yeah, you were telling me about some rules before we found the cereal and water in the sail boat room.” Shrugging, you’ve found yourself staring into his eyes more than before. “You’ve only told me one, ‘don’t split up.’”
His eyes turn up, thinking, trying to remember. Realization appears on his face as his mouth curves into an ‘o’, “Let me get back to you on that.”
Huffing a laugh, you shake your head as sweat forms on your nape. “All this time you haven’t thought of more rules?”
“No, more like, I can’t fucking remember it.” His brows are furrowed together, nose scrunched at trying to recall the thoughts. “I blame this place, I’ve always got a good memory but…I don’t know, somehow being here made me stupider.”
“You are not stupid.” With a hand grazing along his own, you reassure him with a gentle smile. You could hold his hand, but you decide not to, it still feels wrong to hold him. “Far from it.”
“Thanks.” Bobby has a tight-lipped smile, collarbone catching the light as the chain around his neck shines, the light bouncing from the metal onto his skin. “Just don’t ask me any chemistry related questions.”
“Don’t worry.” You scoff out a laugh that still weighs heavy for the both of you. “I won’t give you a pop quiz.”
“Thank fuck for that.” Pushing the garden gate open, he steps through, looking over his shoulder to you immediately once he’s on a stone step. Nothing is unusual, not yet anyway. “Do you think this place has a bed?”
You fall in step with him, jaw clenched, hands suddenly clammy. “What? Why?”
“To sleep in? What else?” Bobby flicks your forehead and you glower at him. “Get your mind out of the gutter, it’s just that we haven’t slept in a real bed in days.”
“I wasn’t thinking about that.” You roll your eyes, unclenching your jaw. “I’d rather have a real shower, and not smell like sweat and chlorine. I could sleep anywhere.”
He chuckles lightly. “Yeah, I’ve seen you sleep wherever. If I had my camera it would have a dozen of you sleeping in odd places.” You two make it in front of the door, he holds onto the doorknob and you could feel Bobby’s trepidation snaking under his skin.
“You can make a collage out of it. Sleeping anywhere is a talent.” You stare at his hand grasping the brass doorknob, and you cup his shoulder, taking his attention away from it for a moment. “Before we go in, I have to tell you something.”
“Are you gonna go sappy on me?” He could just tell, he knows you that much already.
“Yes, very sappy.” Chortling, your smile falters as you gaze into the blue depths of his eyes, almost drowning in them. “Thank you, Bobby, for everything, you have saved me more times than I’ve saved you.”
“Who’s keeping count, hm?” He nudges you gently, mirroring your smile. “It’s no problem, you would do the same. Ready?”
“Never, but with you?” Your breath hitches before you speak the simple word. “Yes.”
Bobby’s lips ticks up into that lopsided smile that you find adorable. Gums peeking, eyes crinkling in the corners despite his fatigue and the fear still hanging onto the fibers of his muscle. Chortling, his eyes flick away from you before shaking his head. “Ready that hammer, hero.”
Nodding, you take a steady stance, a palm tightly wound around the hammer as it weighs heavy in your hand.
Bobby’s Adam’s apple moves, swallowing down his nerves as he twists the doorknob open.
The door doesn’t let out a creak nor a squeak. It opens without a sound, a door that is seemingly well tended to unlike the others you’ve encountered.
The first thing you see is pink, different shades of it, from hot pink to a lighter hue, a baby pink, a more tolerable pink than the neon shade of the plush couch inside.
Bobby glances at you with furrowed brows, a mirror of your expression when you both get hit by the smell of freshly baked bread that wafts from the inside over to the cracked open door.
“What the fuck?” He whispers, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm.
“Let me go first.” Muttering back, you nudge him with your shoulder, taking a step into the threshold with one foot inside, the other beside Bobby’s.
“No.” His answer is instantaneous, a hand around your wrist. “We might get Hansel and Greteled.”
“Do you think there’s a fucking witch inside or something?”
“No, I think we’re getting lured into a goddamn trap.” His eyes narrow, laden with nerves.
“All the entities we’ve seen so far don’t lure people, they stalk and run after you but they’re not smart, Bobby.” You stand tall, looking him directly in his blue eyes. “They’re not capable of human thought.”
“What do you think this is then?” He doesn’t back down either.
“Our chance of finding a way out and back into the yellow wallpaper rooms. The door we went through closed behind us, would you rather walk around the woods and try your luck there?”
“Actually, yeah.” Nodding, he scoffs, licking at his dry lips, peeking through the crack, eyes roaming around the decorated walls. “There aren’t any dolls—”
“Bobby.” Inhaling, the scent of baked goods makes your stomach rumble, but the smell is buried under the chlorine still sticking to Bobby’s skin that is glowing underneath the fake sun. “Remember the theater room?”
His attention is on a decorative clock that is shaped like a cat on the wall. It stays on the same numbers, eleven thirty, the seconds hand not moving, nor the hour hand, it just ticks, shuffling up and down on the clock face of a cartoon cat. “Yeah.”
“I have the same feeling that this one is safe.”
“Your gut tells you that?” Those blue eyes hone in on you once again, and your cheeks turn warm.
“Yeah, if we die then you can blame me in the afterlife.”
Shaking his head, stifling a smile, Bobby reluctantly moves aside for you. “Not funny, hero.”
“It’s a little bit funny.” Knocking your knee with his in an attempt to reassure him, you step inside, trying to hide the way your hand shakes around the hammer. In truth, you can’t have him go first, you can’t find it in yourself to let him go inside first. So if there is something inside, you’re the first person to get mutilated, or worse.
“Go slow.” His voice lowers against the shell of your ear, tone rumbling, breath fanning your cheek.
Goosebumps rise on your arms when you feel his tone reverberate through you in waves. “Will do.”
Slowly, one foot after the other, you go through cautiously. The smell is stronger inside, there is no familiar scent of mold or damp carpets, the whole house smells like a café. And it even looks like one of those gimmicky cafés that pulls customers in with the cutesy decor rather than for their coffee and cakes.
“Looks like a little girl decorated this place.” Bobby remarks before you do. He’s close behind you, fingers curled around the hem of your jacket as it rustles faintly, reminding you of the entity that eerily looked like you.
The place has a regular floorplan like any other house, the door opens to a living room, walls painted in light pink, decorated with adorable pictures of woodland creatures that have pretty frames of filigree and flowers. There’s a big painting of kittens in a basket right across the frilly pink couch that reminds you of a grandmother’s couch with the bright pink flowers patterned fabric covering it. Everywhere you look you see cute decorations, from the lamps shaped like tulips and sunflowers, to the pillows that have Hello Kitty prints on them. There are a lot of Hello Kittys, too many Hello Kitty themed stuff that any crazed fan would kill for in the real word.
“Why are there so many Hello Kitty?” Nose scrunched, you continue to look around.
“I thought you’d be into this shit.” You could see the smug look on his face from his tone, whilst you stare at a collection of porcelain Hello Kittys inside a glass cupboard that is of course painted pink.
“I like Hello Kitty, but not this much.” You enter the kitchen, it’s as pink as the living room, the cabinets and even the utensils are all pink and Hello Kitty themed.
“I dig it.”
Looking over your shoulder, you tilt your head at him with a stifled smile. “This is more your scene then?”
“I didn’t mean that,” rolling his eyes, Bobby nudges his shoulder against yours, copying your head tilt playfully. “I just thought that this is better than the yellow hell we went through—” his eyes flicks behind you, confusion right on his face. “Were those there before?”
You follow his line of sight, twisting around. Your mouth waters from the sight. Right on the table are plates upon plates of baked goods. Raspberry tarts, chocolate chip cookies, macaroons, and crumpets to pair up with the steaming cups of tea beside it. The plates, down to the tea cups are all adorable, and are all Hello Kitty trademarked.
“No, I think you’re right, we’re getting Hansel and Greteled.”
“Yeah, we should go, Gretel.” Bobby tugs at your sleeve, hand sliding down your bicep to your wrist, fingers curling around it. “C’mon.”
“Should we at least try it out?” You linger in place, focused right on the cookies that are still hot.
“No fucking way,” he pulls at you again, and yet you stay. “do you know the fae story? That you shouldn’t eat any of the food they offer or you’ll get stuck in their world forever?”
“Of course, I know.” You scoff, turning to face him. “But we’ll soon run out of the stale cereal and almond water. Who do you think got the munchies and ate most of it?”
“Us, hero, the both of us did.” He answers matter of factly. “I’d rather eat the stale cereal first before I grab a suspicious looking eclair.”
You relent, cheeks puffed with air before exhaling out. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“C’mon then.” When you don’t move, Bobby sighs and looks at you again. He finds you staring at his hand wrapped around your wrist and he pauses, glancing at you warily. “May I? Sorry.”
Your eyes gazes into his own, and you see those blue eyes of his falter for a moment, and you have no idea why. “Okay.” With your hand opening, Bobby slides his palm on yours, fingers interlocking without a second thought as your fingers curl above his own. “Are we going upstairs?”
“Yeah,” Bobby unsticks his gaze at the intertwined hands, nodding and turning on his heel to lead you away. “The exit better be up there.”
“Or at least one that leads back to the yellow wallpaper.”
“Why do you want that?” His brow rises to his forehead, slowly making his way up the steps with you following closely behind with your hammer.
“Because it’s where we both entered from. That means we have a bigger chance of finding the door you came from over there than here.”
“Huh, that actually makes sense.” His lips smacks together, boots thumping against the steps. “But I’d rather find the real exit.”
Before he could make it to the top step, you move ahead of him, maneuvering around him, quickly making it to the top, and surveying the second floor and putting yourself out into possible danger before him. He could only huff at your behavior, if it reassures you then he lets you, unless there is actual danger ahead that is.
Bobby peeks over the pink and white bannister of the stairs, scanning the environment and the opened doors of each room whilst you do the same. Hammer in hand, weighing it in your hold, you see three rooms. Two bedrooms, one bigger than the other, and a bathroom, all decorated and in theme as the rest of the house.
“Bobby, there’s a shower.” You look at the bathroom that has pink soaps and shampoos on the racks like you found gold.
“And a bed.” He’s more focused on the opened bedroom door with the plush bed and fluffy comforter.
The two of you turn to the other at the same time, smiles tugging at the corners of your lips, eyes shining. Finally, some reprieve, a sense of normalcy.
—
The warm water against your bare skin feels like heaven. You’re in paradise as you let the water fall on you like raindrops. The air around you smells like strawberries and cream, the only available shampoo and soap in the place. It has a strong and sweet scent that reminds you of the perfume counter at the local dying mall. You don’t mind the strong smell when you smelled like sweat and grime for who knows how long. It’s a welcome reprieve, a sense of normalcy.
You and Bobby checked every crevice of the house, from the cabinets to even the oven, no stone was left unturned. Bobby didn’t want another surprise like last time. And as per his rules, you both didn’t separate the whole time. You both moved like one unit, one organism, every move was in sync, one heartbeat shared. If he was going to look under the bed, you would be standing guard behind him, hammer at the ready. The two of you learned a hard lesson from the incident at the pool rooms, you would rather not have a repeat of it if some lanky entity managed to slip inside the cupboard and jumped to surprise Bobby while he’s on the toilet.
The thought makes you laugh to yourself. You find that you have to laugh despite it all, or else you’ll end up spiraling, thinking heavily about everything that weighs you down. You can’t afford to freeze in this place when you’ve got Bobby to worry about.
The you from before you fell into this place would’ve buckled over what happened. But this present version of you, who has survived horrors after another didn’t. You’ve found yourself recalling it whenever the quiet lulls your mind into itself, remembering how it felt to dangle from a hundred feet in the air, remembering how the hounds snarled, how the being wrapped its arms around you, and how the walls sang. But just one look at Bobby, one huff or call of your name slipping from his lips and you’re back to the present. He grounds you, he helps bring you back from the depths of your mind that you found it once impossible to slip out of.
You should be calling him hero, not the other way around.
Stepping out of the shower, the damp pink shower curtain sticks to your leg, making you shake it to untick the damned thing.
“Little shit—!” Your leg slips on the wet tiles, but you manage to get a hold of the sink beside you before you tumble down harshly.
A loud knock hits the door, and Bobby’s frantic voice echoes from behind it, muffled by the pink girly door. “Fuck, you okay?!”
“Yep,” you instinctively grab the towel on the rack, it’s weirdly warm as you wrap it around yourself, as if someone heated it and anticipated your visit. “I’m okay, I almost slipped but I’m okay.”
“Thank fuck.” His voice falters, sighing in relief.
“I thought you fell asleep already. Were you behind the door the whole time?” Your heart warms at the thought whilst you start getting dressed in the same clothes you came in. Unfortunately there’s no washing machines in this place or fresh clothes in the wardrobes. You can’t have everything you want it seems.
A minute passes before he answers. “...yeah. This place made me paranoid.”
“No, it’s okay.” Your voice bounces off the tiles as you find yourself smiling at the mirror whilst you brush your teeth with a Hello Kitty toothbrush that was still sealed in plastic right inside a plastic cat shaped cup. “I can do the same for you if you want?”
“Yeah?” He sounds ecstatic at your offer, but he’s still trying to act like he’s not embarrassed about it.
“Yeah, of course.” Mouth filled with toothpaste, you hurry up so he could freshen up. You could just tell he wanted to go shower first but gave the first dibs to you.
“So what’s the verdict on the shower? Is there hot water?”
“Yeah!” Spitting out the toothpaste, you smack your lips together, looking at your teeth and finding yourself smiling from how good it made you feel now that you’re clean, leaving all the remnants of blood and grime to swirl down into the drain. You really needed that shower when the last time you washed up was in the pool rooms and the water there smelled like chlorine that stuck to your skin like glue. “There’s toothbrushes and toothpaste too.”
“What?” Bobby scoffs out a chortle. “What if someone used it already?”
“It was sealed, Bobby.” The towel is soft in your hold as you dry your hair with it.
“Really?”
“Yep, the towels are warm too, I saved you one. They’re pink though, like the rest of this place.”
“D’you think I care if it’s pink or blue?”
“Yeah, because you’re a manly man.” You tease, hanging the towel to dry beside the other that’s more hot pink than the baby pink towel you used. You’re going to get sick of all this pink.
Bobby chuckles behind the door, probably rolling his eyes at you. “Yeah, yeah, hurry up, I can feel the oil on my scalp.”
Fully dressed, jacket around you and hair still damp, you go to open the door, twisting the doorknob and pulling at it.
Out comes Bobby, tumbling backwards and landing onto your feet. You look down, biting at your lip to stifle the guffaw bubbling in your throat. “Well, hello there.”
“Hi?” His eyes are blown wide, smiling crookedly, awkwardly as he looks up at you through his lashes, neck craning up where a vein pops up from underneath his skin, right beside his throat. “Come here often?”
“Did you magically turn into a doormat?”
Bobby scrambles away, hopping up to his feet, trying and failing to act nonchalant. “You done?” He keeps his eyes on your face and not at the falling water droplet right on your clavicle.
“Yeah,” you move away, giving him the space as you grin. “Your turn, stinky.”
“I nickname you hero and I get stinky, great.”
“It fits though.”
“Shut up.” The door slams at your face, and your laugh is muffled by the door while Bobby groans into his hands.
—
“Are you sure you don’t want to take the bed?” You ask whilst you help him place the pink and white comforter on the floor beside the bed. “You said you wanted to sleep on a proper bed this time.”
The fabric flutters down, and Bobby smooths it out on the floor, crouched down, hair still damp as it sticks to his forehead. He looks much better under the warm yellow Hello Kitty lamp now that he had a shower and you both ate the last of the cereal. You two smell like each other, both sweet, both drenched in strawberries and cream scented soap.
“Yeah, I told you we can switch next time.” Shrugging, he crawls on the comforter, arms open as you throw a furry pillow at him. “Really, hero?” He glowers at the pillow in his hands as you climb up the bed. “This looks uncomfortable.”
“It’s to put on your side so you don’t bump into the bed.” Stifling a grin, you throw him another pillow, this time it’s bigger and has a silk pillowcase that is of course pink. “D’you want a hotdog too?”
“A what?” He looks up at you and you plop down on your stomach, looking down from the bed. The view from below makes Bobby regret not sleeping in the other room when the sight made his stomach do flips. You look happier, comfortable despite seeing another version of yourself that tried to kill you.
“A hotdog pillow.” Somehow you procure a long pillow with a frilly pillowcase, pulling it to your side. “To hug.”
“That’s what you call it?” The corner of his lips ticks up into an endeared smile. “Right, give me the hotdog.”
“I’ve got another one here.” You let it fall on him as he catches it. “Whoever decorated this room is a girl’s girl.”
“I’m too tired for this shit. I have no idea what that means.” Shaking his head with a hidden smile, Bobby plops down on his makeshift bed, head landing on the silk pillow with a soft thud. His arm is looped around the longer pillow, gazing up at you as you continue to peek over the edge of the bed. Eyes narrowing, the light from the windows glares right in his eyes. “Damn it.”
Bobby starts to move but you beat him to it.
“I’ll get it.” You hop off the bed to close the curtains, snuffing out some of the eternal light outside. There’s no hum here, as if the singing abruptly stopped after it fell. Or perhaps the song in the walls just doesn’t reach this place. You could feel Bobby’s eyes following you while you shut all the curtains inside the room, leaving the only light from the Hello Kitty lamps in the corners to illuminate the place. “There.”
“D’you think this place has a day and night cycle?” He mutters, face pressed against the long pillow as you climb back into bed.
“I don’t think so. Watch out.” You drop the spare blanket over to him as it lands right on his chest. “Sorry.”
“You’re good.” Unfolding the blanket, he settles in, looking comfortable under the covers. Looking out of place in a nest of pink and furs. “I hope we get to see the moon again.” He thinks loudly, jaw tightening, hugging the pillow to his chest.
The yellow light from the lampshade shines right on his face, illuminating his sharp profile, and the single hoop earring and chain around his neck catches the light. The other half of his face is blanketed in shadows, painting him in a more sorrowful look. You admit that he looks beautiful this way, like a painting in a museum.
“I hope so too.” You missed the warmth of the sun so much that you’ve forgotten about the moon and how beautiful it was to look out the laundromat windows and see it shine brightly down on the empty parking lot. You miss your only companion that accompanied you through every night shift, how it changes every night and yet beautiful all the same. “Are you sure you don’t want to sleep in the other room?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. No separating, remember?” You locked the door behind you again, and Bobby wants to open it, to see the unbridled smile and the unguarded laugh with your eyes shining once again.
“Yeah,” you settle in, hugging your own long pillow and sighing at how soft the bed is, its softness enveloping you in a warm comfortable embrace. “No separating.”
You don’t want to separate from him either, even when you deem this place safe. Being alone in this place even for just a moment scares you. This place, this house and this room isn’t so bad, but there are a few reminders that tell you that you are not in a normal place. Like how the towels are warm when no one warmed it beforehand, how there is always food ready at the table, and why you and Bobby need to block the door with a chair right under the doorknob.
This place is off, odd, like it was specifically built to appease wanderers, to let your guard down and strike when you’re fully unaware.
“You asleep?” Bobby cuts through the silence, tugging at your blanket gently when you find yourself staring at the door, as if you’re waiting for something to appear.
“Almost.” You lie.
“I—I’m glad you’re here.” He utters it so quietly that you thought you dreamt it. “Try not to think about it too much, okay?”
You know what it is supposed to be. You decide to dismiss the latter and peek over the edge of the bed again, gazing down at him with softened eyes. “I’m glad you’re here too, Bobby.”
He smiles that same smile that made your heart skip a beat.
“Sleep, we’ll be fine here.” His eyes look into your own with mirrored softness before twisting around with his back turned away from you. “I’ll keep one eye open for the both of us.”
“Don’t let the bed bugs bite, Bobby.” He quietly responds with a chortle.
You lay back down, listening to Bobby’s soft breaths. The ceiling is in light pink, almost white as you stare at a light fixture shaped like a cartoon cloud. This room is a teenage girl’s dream, one that you have probably seen in an early 2000’s TV show back in the day. The ones you would race back home from school to watch with its corny jokes and laugh tracks. Maybe back then you wanted a room like this, but you don’t remember much of yourself before you started drowning in the harsh freezing waves of your own mind.
You wanted to stay up for Bobby, to keep watch in case something phases through the locked door or something kicks it open. But you couldn’t help it when your heavy lids start to close, the bed is so comfortable, so soft under you. Sleep takes you in its warm embrace, enclosing you in darkness.
You don’t dream of the yellow walls, you don’t dream of your grandfather nor the real world. You dream of that crimson city, a city draped in blood red, and how you dangled above it. For a moment you just hang there, looking from above, dangling, staring at every concrete skyscraper and still cars on the street. Then you start to move, floating above like a dove soaring in the fake clouds.
Fluttering from building to building, you weave around and you smile, finally weightless, finally peaceful.
Until you turn your head towards a building with glass windows that has your reflection. But it’s not you, it’s the wrong version of you. The being that has a broken neck, its head dangling over its chest, and arms that are too long with its red ropes slithering around. You try to scream, only to let out a huff, a mere breathless gasp, before you finally fall to your death.
You wake with a start before you hit the ground, sweating under the covers as your hands fly to your neck, trying to gulp in air. “Fuck.” Turning instinctively at the bedside table to look at the clock, it stayed the same, frozen. You forgot where you were for a moment.
Nails digging into your skin, you look down on the floor to check on Bobby. He’s still sleeping, cuddling the long pillow as he drools on it. His hair is a mess, and his cheek is pressed flushed on the pillow, completely out of it. At least one of you is having a good night’s rest. Bobby could sleep anywhere it seems, even after he almost lost you. Maybe this is really how he copes, sleeping it off, leaving it all to his awake self.
Laying against the headboard, you inhale deeply, a hand kneading at your sternum to calm your breathing. When you open your eyes, your heart stops.
The door is wide open.
Right in the opened doorway is a shadow, long, lanky limbs stretched out abnormally, fingers grazing the top of the pink carpet.
It’s just a mere shadow, the dark, a void staring right at you.
It doesn’t move to get you, it doesn’t lunge or enter the room. It just stays at the doorway, watching you, face obscured by the top of the doorway when it’s too tall for it. The chair Bobby used to lock the door is neatly placed beside it, as if it was observing you before you even woke up.
The thing unnerves you, skin prickling as it stands there as still as a rock. Like your grandfather in the sailboat room, eerie, uncanny. Not human.
It tilts its head to take a look at you when it’s too tall for the doorway, vision obscured but it doesn’t need eyes to see when it has no eyes. Its face is chillingly blank, a deep dark void to get lost into.
“What?” Your face scrunches into confusion, breathing hard, heart beating rapidly against your ribcage. Your mind tells you to run but your body refuses to move. Where would you even run when it stands in the only exit? “Bobby.” Calling for your companion, you languidly move to wake him up, body awkwardly folded whilst you don’t turn your gaze away from it as if it’ll start moving once you look away. “Bobby—fuck, Bobby.”
He groans into the pillow, burying himself further into the bed.
‘Sleep with one eye open my ass.’ You think to yourself, chest rising and falling in a panic, fingers digging into the sleeve of his shirt.
Something huffs at your thoughts. A laugh exhaled through the nose, something so familiar and yet in this situation terrifies you as the hair on the back of your neck stands on its ends.
“What the fuck.”
You heard it in your head, and around the room at the same time. It was as clear as day.
You were sure it heard your thoughts and laughed at it.
It heard your thoughts. It laughed at you.
“Bobby, Bobby, wake the fuck up.” Shaking his shoulder, he only stirs for a moment, dismissing you with a slap to your hand before stilling. “Shit, Bobby—”
It tilts its head back again, it hums deeply, a thrumming tone akin to tumbling rocks upon a mountain. You blink and it’s gone from the doorway.
“Fuck me.” Heaving, hand on your chest and tears filling your eyes. You wait for a second before scrambling to the door to close it and lock it again with the chair. Standing back, hands up, you feel your limbs go numb.
Did it laugh from your thoughts? Did it actually hear you think?
He wakes up to you standing there, still frozen, shoulders taut, fingers twisted like tree branches.
“Hey?” Bobby mumbles groggily, voice addled with sleep, timbre lower and gravelly. “You good? You’re standing in the middle of the room like a creep.”
Your feet moved before you could think. A second later, you’re now sitting beside him on the comforter, legs tucked against yourself, staring right at the door like a kid who had a nightmare.
Bobby’s half lidded eyes look at you curiously. “Were you sleep walking?”
You could only shake your head.
Sitting up, Bobby flings the blanket away from him and scooches closer to you. His hand stops halfway from touching you. “Did you have a nightmare?”
“I don’t— I don’t know if it was real, Bobby.” Head craning towards him, you peer up at him with glassy wet eyes.
“I’m here and I’m real.” He nods, swallowing thickly, brows knitted in concern. “Can I sit with you for a bit?” Even though he wants nothing more but to go back to sleep, you need him, and he’d rather sit with you in silence than regret not being there. Like he was with her.
Nodding, you pull your legs impossibly closer, forehead resting atop your knees. He’s here and he’s real.
Instead of drowning in your thoughts, you listen to him breathe, you feel his warmth bleed through his clothes and how it ebbs over to your side. You count in your head, counting all the things around you, at the forefront is Bobby, how his hair is mussed, how his shirt is wrinkled. Then you count the things you could smell, the strawberry shampoo and soap that lingers on his skin and right on the pillow, how this place smells eternally saccharine. You count your breaths, syncing it with Bobby’s inhales and exhales.
One, two, three.
And another, three, two, one. Inhale and exhale, like how you were taught.
Your fingers grip onto your trousers until you could feel your nails digging into your skin underneath.
Bobby has no idea how to comfort you, so he stays, the only way he knows how, and he fights to keep his eyes open, fixing the blanket over his legs to drape it over you instead. But when he tugs at it, you move and rest your head on his shoulder, cheek pressed softly against his deltoid without trepidation, without uncertainty. Your skin is clammy, sticking to his sleeve but he doesn’t care when you’re the one leaning on him this time. Bobby hasn’t noticed until now that you run incredibly warm.
You trust him enough to lay on him, to rest your eyes and break down your walls that you’ve carefully built around you. His breath is shallow, the simple movement from you knocked the wind out of him, surprised, glad, and proud of you when he knows that took a lot out of you to do. What seems so simple, a small act of affection doesn’t come so easily for you. He knows that, he knows you.
Bobby stills, like how a cat finally sat on his lap after months of gentle coaxing and he refuses to move lest it scampers away from him.
He sits there, watching your fingers twitch before it relaxes, until your breathing calms, and the tension in your muscles eases. Until you fall asleep against him, your breath fanning against his neck as you snore softly.
—
You and Bobby decided to stay for a little while to recuperate, as if you two had any choice in the matter when there are no other doors inside the house that leads back to the yellow wallpaper hell or at least any of the places you’ve been in.
You both know this place is better than any of the other rooms you’ve been through. At least the house is cozy despite its gaudy decor, and it has running water and comfy beds to sleep in. You hate to admit it but you’d rather be stuck here than in the pool rooms or the boiler rooms. At least here it’s safe, so far that is.
You’re waiting for the shoe to drop, waiting to see the creature from your nightmares to saunter inside and break every bone in your body. Especially after what you saw last night. You’re both on high alert despite the feel of the welcoming house, rightfully so when time and time again you’ve been surprised by the entities that live in this hellscape. The hammer is always on your hip, if not on you then around Bobby’s hold. You’d find a weapon for him in the house but there aren’t any, not even kitchen knives or even a plunger. Bobby’s thinking of making his own makeshift weapon using the Hello Kitty merchandise around the house.
After talking it out on the floor of the bedroom surrounded by pink and canned chicken soup that you two shared, you both come up with a plan. The two of you would set up perimeters around the woods, drawing up zones to make the searching easier. If the exit isn’t in the house then it must be around the woods surrounding it. So with Bobby armed with a Hello Kitty fountain pen, he uses it to carve numbers on the trees, marking each zone to be explored. Whilst you draw a map on a blank notebook you found on the shelf, the cover reminds you of the early 2000’s Lisa Frank aesthetic with the rainbows and sparkly dolphins. It took you both about three hours to map the surface just to make it easier for you two to explore the next day.
You quickly fell into routine with Bobby.
You would shower first with him sitting by the doorway, standing guard and chatting with you as you lather the soap onto your skin that smelt like pine needles. He would talk about his life back on the surface, his cameras that littered the small apartment, the numerous tapes filled with various footage. Some were of his friends, most of them are stuff he randomly came across on his commute— a large dog being walked by a small old woman, a school bus filled with glum children, or a cloud that was shaped like a pair of sunglasses. He told you that he would lug his camera around like he was filming some sort of documentary that never went anywhere. He just liked filming things, how the light would shine on a park bench, the dappled light through the trees, the rain drenched sidewalk, or a bird flying by. He called it practice for the real deal, and you listened with a soft smile on your face, imagining all of it in your head.
“I’d film you.” He blurted out on day three after talking to you about the day he followed a squirrel for an hour at the park because it was lugging around a whole bag of peanuts.
“What?” You almost choked on the toothpaste.
“Not like that—shit, I mean—!” He backtracks, realizing that saying those exact words while you’re in the bathroom as naked as the day you were born doesn’t sound right. “I mean like in a nice artsy way!”
You could just tell that his face is pressed against the door from how loud his voice has become. “Ah.” Biting the inside of your cheek, you tamp a laugh. “Yeah, no, I–I get it, Bobby. That would be nice.”
There’s a soft thump from his side of the door.
“You okay?” You pause from your silent giggling.
“Yep.” He groans into his hands. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Can you hurry up?” Good thing that there is a door in between the two of you.
“That depends, can you tell me more about how you’ll film me?” Teasing, it earns a loud groan from the other side.
“Oh, fuck off, hero.” You could just hear the stifled laugh behind the door.
After a shower, you would climb into bed, and with him on the comforter right on the floor. Bobby seems to have forgotten the fact that you would do alternating days with him, that he would be on the bed tonight and with you on the comforter. But every time you remind him he would dismiss you with a wave of his hand and say, “tomorrow.” You would press him of course, but he’d distract you with another story until you felt your eyes grow heavy and fall asleep to the sound of his voice.
Bobby never complained through the search for the exit. The woods are vast but not thick enough that you would get lost in it if you take a wrong turn. The trees are properly spaced out, like it was planted like that on purpose. And they’re all identical, copy pasted onto the ground meticulously.
On day four you found ribbons inside a cabinet when you were looking for some sort of detergent to wash the clothes with. The ribbon is bright red with pink glitters, and you used it to tie it around the trees, marking the territories that you already searched. Bobby would be at the front, wielding the hammer this time around as you follow close with your notebook, jotting down the route. You would take turns on who leads and who follows, either way you two would watch each other’s backs.
You searched high and above, from the grass covered ground to the top of the trees that Bobby climbs to take a look at. You protested at first, but he claimed that he’s a better climber than you. Stubborn as he is he still tried to climb, until the halfway point when his hands started to get clammy and he felt vertigo. He beat himself up for it, but you reassured him with a gentle pat on his bicep. It seems that your touch is some sort of miracle cure for him when he smiles and continues to trek along the zone for that day.
It wasn’t so bad getting stuck at this level especially when you have Bobby around. He makes surviving more tolerable, without him you would’ve gone mad days ago. But despite the deep conversations and the shared smiles and occasional laugh, you feel it stare. You feel its presence, the shadow in the doorway, the tall figure that seems to only appear for you. It’s making you feel insane whenever you see it lurking in the corner of a room while Bobby’s in the bathroom and he hasn’t noticed how you went silent. It just watches, mostly you, you’ve tried to ignore it, to let it linger there like an itch you can’t scratch.
But it’s not always there, the entity is mostly in the kitchen, right in the corner of the dining room, as if it waits for you to take one of the warm pastries right on the table. Anticipating the moment you bite right into it like it baked the treats itself, as if it baked it just for its guests. Maybe Bobby is right to not let you eat a raspberry tart or a cookie when it could possibly keep you in here forever if you do. But as the days go on, it becomes more tempting, the old cereal and repetitive canned goods are getting tiring as the supplies dwindles. You want something sweet, something new to taste. As long as you two still have supplies left, eating the suspicious pastries is a last resort.
The entity doesn’t seem malignant, it doesn’t seem to want to hurt you or Bobby. As long as it doesn’t come near you or over to him, you let it stay in its corner like some creep. But it doesn’t intrude on your space, it lets you be, like a benevolent steward of the pink house, making sure that you or Bobby aren’t making a mess of this place. You always make sure that you clean up after yourselves, which Bobby just naturally followed suit because you once swept some crumbs off the floor.
Once on one of the silent nights, where Bobby’s soft snores echo around the room, and you lay awake in bed, it appears again in the doorway. It just stands there, the chair neatly placed on one side with it looking right at you. Its head is tilted, peeking under the doorway again, like a parent checking on their kid during a sleepover.
You sit up, looking right at it directly, showing no fear but the way you hold the blanket tightly atop you says otherwise. “Are you going to hurt us?” Your words are calm, soft but frayed at the edges with fear. Maybe talking to it won’t do anything, but it’s worth a try. You did it with the version of your grandfather, he didn’t reply either. But this one seems different from the others, like it could think, comprehend, maybe even speak when it wants to. “We’re just trying to find our way out of here.”
You’re met with silence. It stays there, a shadow listening to every word.
You tell it your name, jaw clenched as you introduce yourself. “And this is Bobby,” gesturing over to him, he still sleeps soundly. “We won’t make a mess, I promise. Thank you for letting us stay.”
The edges of its skin fizzle into red and blue dots like static, before disappearing and returning to normal. You don’t know what that means, but you do know that it understands you to an extent.
“Can you close the door on your way out?”
Its head straightens up, and the door closes gently with a soft click. The sheer shock on your face stays until you can’t keep your eyes open.
This one understood you unlike the others you’ve encountered. Somehow, beings in this place are capable of thought, capable of understanding language. It intrigues you. Maybe this place is truly the odd one out, a safe space like a save room in a game where you can catch your breath and rest. Bobby needs to know about it.
—
You’ve never told Bobby about the shadow. Not yet anyway. You’re too afraid of him not believing you when you’re the only person who has seen this lurking shadow. There’s still a part of you that thinks the shadow was just a figment of your imagination.
The fear is unfounded when it’s Bobby, he’ll believe you if you told him that the sky is suddenly green and the grass outside has turned blue. It’s just Bobby, the Bobby who still talks even while he’s washing his hair and got shampoo inside his mouth more times than you can count. After everything you two have been through, telling him about some lanky friendly entity shouldn’t be a problem when he would be the only person in the world that would understand you. You’re going to tell him when it’s unfair for him to be left in the dark. You just need to find the right moment.
You stare at the glowing orb between the branches in the trees, watching the dappled light filter through the leaves. You half expect for wind to brush along your cheek, a warm yet refreshing air that flutters your lashes, and yet there is none, the air is as still back in the yellow walls, at least here it’s open, giving you an illusion of freedom.
The rustling from the canvas backpack takes your attention as Bobby hisses in between his teeth. He’s rummaging through the contents, taking out empty bottles and empty biscuit packaging onto the grass beside him.
“What is it?” You ask, feeling the rough blades of grass between your fingers whilst you two rest after hours of searching the perimeter. Sweat trickles your back, but you refuse to take off the jacket.
Bobby exhales loudly, groaning and tipping his head back in frustration. “We ran out of almond water.”
Your eyes narrow at him, still adjusting, vision blurred in the corners. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” Bobby runs a hand through his messy hair, the scent of heavy strawberries and cream wafting in the air. “I—” he mirrors your squint, head tilted when he turns to you. “What did I tell you about looking directly at the light?”
“That I might go blind?” Blinking owlishly at him, you wince, vision returning slowly as you see him look at you disappointedly. “Sorry.”
Clicking his tongue, he takes the sunglasses hanging from the collar of his crop top before opening it and reaching for you. “May I?”
You chortle. “What for?”
“So you don’t go fucking blind.” He’s already putting the glasses over your eyes, gentle and mindful as he places the glasses over your ears and onto the bridge of your nose. “There.” Leaning back, he smiles. “Looks better on you actually.”
You gaze at him through the dark tinted glasses, smiling at him bashfully. “Thanks, Bobby.” You contemplate telling him about the being, but it doesn’t feel like the right time for it.
“No problem.” Sighing and resting his arm on his knee, he leans against the tree trunk and stares into the thicket, over to the house that peeks in between the trees. “We’re going to starve too. We only have a can of pudding and peaches left. I’ll take the peaches.”
“No, it’s okay, I can stomach it.”
“You hate peaches, hero.” Craning his neck to you, Bobby balloons his cheeks and lets go a huff of air. “You take the pudding for tonight.”
“Or we can eat the pastries on the dinner table.” You suggest, nudging his arm with your elbow. “It doesn’t look too bad.”
“Really?” His expression flattens. “Or it’s poisoned or locks us in here forever once we take a bite.”
“This place is the farthest thing from being magical. Wrong genres, Bobby, you of all people should know.” He cracks a smile from that. “It’s like comparing Lord of the Rings to fucking…” you try to find the right thing to compare it to. “Silent Hill.”
“What the fuck is the other one?”
“I highly doubt that you don’t know about Lord of the Rings.”
“I know what that is, nerd, but I have no idea what the fuck a Silent Hill is.” His confusion is evident on his handsome face. “Is that a book or something? Sounds like a town in bumfuck nowhere.”
“It’s a famous horror game, Bobby.” You scoff out a laugh, brows furrowed. “You seriously don’t know what Silent Hill is?”
Bobby shrugs, cleaning up the bottles and putting them inside the backpack. “I’m not that kind of nerd, I guess.”
Shaking your head, you wonder if he’s just not in that kind of scene. “Well it’s close to our situation, a psychological horror.”
“Is that why you’re so good at surviving this shit? Because you’re a big fucking geek?” A slow smile tugs at his lips from his teasing, nudging your foot with his own whilst wiggling his brows.
“A geek, really?” You can’t help but smile back. “I haven’t heard of that term in years.”
“Whatever, geek.”
After a beat of listening to the repetitive bird song, you hear Bobby’s stomach grumble. He groans, thumping his head against the tree trunk. He doesn’t need to look at you to know that you’re grinning at him.
“So the food in the kitchen then?”
—
Bobby dawdled, but the sounds that his stomach is making is getting harder to ignore. He took his sweet time showering and now he has a headache. Feeling faint when he hasn’t eaten anything the whole day other than the last of the stale cereal and a drop of almond water last night, or what he thinks is nighttime when he uses sleep to determine if a day has passed.
Empty plastic bottles lay on the pink kitchen island, right beside the two plates and cups of tea you prepared. You’re starving too, Bobby knows this when your gait turned slower and how your hands shook whilst you two were out looking for a door that probably doesn’t exist.
You’ve placed a buttered croissant on each plate, which looked to be the safest bet between the other warm pastries on the dining table. You’re pouring him a cup of tea, the liquid is light brown, and smells like any other tea you’ve had before. It doesn’t look odd in the slightest. Bobby is standing adjacent to you, right on the other side of the island, gazing at his plate and cup with increasing trepidation, but the tremble in his arms and legs makes him want to devour the whole thing.
“Okay.” Taking a deep breath, you take your croissant from its plate. Bobby stops you with his hand around your wrist. “We’re starving, Bobby.”
“I know, it’s just that— we do it at the same time, okay?”
If it was truly poisoned, you two would perish at the same time. How romantic, you thought, a tragedy worthy of a Shakespearean play.
“Okay, cheers?” You tap the flakey pastry with his before you two take a bite at the same time.
The pastry is crunchy on the outside, warm and soft on the inside, just like how you remember it. It doesn’t taste weird, it’s good, buttery, until the after taste emerges just like in the other food you had from this place. The taste of stale bread lingers on your tongue, leaving a thin sheet of the staleness. It’s good to have something warm at least. Swallowing, you look at Bobby as he chews slowly.
“I feel fine.” You mutter, taking a swig of the sweetened tea to help the bread go down easier. “You?”
Bobby swallows and makes a face. “That…that was actually good, it’s like the cereal and the other shit we had though. Like it was left outside for too long. How’s the tea?” He has a crumb clinging to his lower lip.
“It’s good, I’m not thirsty anymore at least. May I?” You reach over to him, gently wiping away the crumb from his lip with your knuckle. “Sorry it was bothering me.”
Bobby looks at you with his wide blue eyes, still holding onto the half eaten croissant as his Adam’s apple bops up and down.
“So what’s the verdict?” Taking another bite, you dismiss his expression as shock when you nonchalantly took a drink of the suspicious tea. “Bobby?”
“Yeah, uh…” clearing his throat, he stuffs the rest of the pastries into his mouth. “Eight point five out of ten.” He tries to speak with his mouth full.
“Bobby, you’ll choke.” You’re stifling a laugh.
“You know what would go well with it though?” He’s chewing quickly, fidgeting with the can of pudding that has an easy open pull tab. “Shit, hold on.” His shorter nail can’t get a hold of the tab so you take it from his frantic hands.
“Let me try.” Shaking your head and biting your lip to quiet down your laugh, you manage to take the tab and pull. But you pull too hard and too fast that the corner of the metal can snags at your palm, cutting the still healing skin from when you burned it. “Fuck!”
“Hero, shit!” Bobby grabs a table napkin on his way over to you and quickly takes your hand in his whilst the white napkin embroidered with kittens slowly turns red. “You’re clumsy, did you know that?”
You’re wincing and laughing at the same time, the ache throbbing from your thumb to your pinky. The sight alone would’ve made you freeze, hyperventilating and panic setting in. But with Bobby holding onto you, grasping and tending to the cut, you feel fine, there’s no numbness running through your limbs, and no fear.
“Yeah, it’s hard to accept it as fact though.” Smiling, you flick your gaze to Bobby, who has a far away look in his eyes, staring right behind you with horror. “Bobby?”
He’s moving closer to you, an arm over your back as you turn around, finding the tall shadow looming over the other side of the dinner table. Its edges are frayed, static running all over it. It hums inside your head, an angry dissonance that rings in your ears. Bobby can feel the hum as it shakes the floor he’s standing on.
Its head tilts down, seemingly looking at your bleeding hand despite never needing eyes to see. You just know it was looking at it, like how Bobby is standing before you, acting like your shield. It was mad that you got hurt, and it thinks Bobby was the cause.
The being is furious. Furious at Bobby.
It cocks its head to the side, moving in front of him without you two ever seeing it move.
“What the fuck.” Bobby heaves, fear in his eyes and yet he still stands in front of you protectively.
“Wait!” You hold out your injured hand in between them as the hum turns ear piercing. “I’m fine! It was an accident!” You talk to it like it would understand, gambling Bobby’s life and perhaps yours on something that doesn’t have any basis. It probably doesn’t like you as much as you thought. You wipe the blood away from your hand, showing it to the being, showing how it’s just a nick that doesn't run too deep. “It wasn’t his fault! I’ll heal! Okay, I’ll heal.”
Its dark edges still, calming down with every reassurance from you.
“I’m okay.” Uttering softly, its skin is an inch away from your opened palm, you feel it, like holding out your hand above an old TV after you turned it off, feeling the fizzy buzz of static brushing along your skin despite the space in between. “See? I’m okay.”
Bobby looks at you then at the entity like he’s high and sees some deep-seated hallucination brought out by the horrors of real life. He mouths a confused, ‘what the fuck?’ underneath his breath, a hand grasping onto your jacket, dimpling the fabric.
It backs off, leaning away, completely calmed when the strange hum fades away, leaving only a faint ringing in your ears.
It stands tall, the top of its head grazing the pink ceiling as it flickers out of existence like it was never there to begin with.
Bobby flicks his eyes over to you with sheer horror and confusion on his face.
Now is the best time to tell him you guess.
—
Your gaze stays on the nail polishes lined neatly on the vanity whilst you zone out, completely lost in your own mind when Bobby enters the room with his shoulders haunched, eyes half lidded.
“Hey,” his hand brushes along the small of your back briefly before plopping himself onto the bed. “I’m going to take a nap. I have a headache.”
Bobby took the news pretty well considering that the entity almost ripped him apart. He understood why you hid it from him when you told him that you weren’t sure that it was even real and not a combined figment of your imagination and your declining sanity. He took a minute to just breathe after what happened, and you gave him time to just take it all in before you explained everything to him, from the theory that it’s the steward of this house, to how it watched you like a parent looking after a toddler. You expected for him to hurl a plate at the wall and call bullshit, but all he did was grab another pastry and eat it all in two bites before turning to you, patting your arm and laying his forehead atop your shoulder whilst you rub a hand over his back reassuringly. It scared the soul out of him that he had to lie down for the rest of the day. You did too as he let you lay your head upon his shoulder whilst you two rested on the makeshift bed on the floor.
It’s been a few days since then, the entity started to appear for Bobby too, giving him a heart attack every time. It doesn’t move to hurt him, it just stands there, watching him like it watches you. Like it’s making sure you won’t accidentally get hurt again. Every time you or Bobby would reach for a pastry or a cup of tea, it appears, waiting for your reaction. Maybe it was the one who truly made the treats. Bobby’s getting used to it, like the entity is a pet he didn’t want to get at first but still lets onto the couch to sit beside him.
Bobby huffs against the pillow, sighing for the umpteenth time today.
You could just tell that Bobby is increasingly getting annoyed at how pink everything is, not because it’s pink but because it’s everywhere around him. Bobby wants something new, something nice to look at. Maybe that’s why he always looks forward to going outside and searching for the door because there are trees and greenery instead of Hello Kitty and fluffy pink decor. Something more relaxing than the ‘in your face’ decorations. And where the entity can’t go as far as the front door, either giving you space or it can’t leave. But even then, even when you’re outside, you could see the shadow look out from the kitchen window and watch you trek along with Bobby.
“All this pink is giving you a headache, huh?” Turning to him, you see him press his cheek against a Hello Kitty pillow you embrace every night, the heel of his palm digging into the crease between his brows.
“No, I think I’m crashing from the sugar rush.” His blue eyes are dull as he embraces the pillow against his cheek tighter. “I ate too many cookies.”
You chortle, “I think Mr. Kitty would be ecstatic that you like his baking.”
“Mr. Kitty?” Bobby scrunches his nose.
“Yeah, I named it. Took a page from your book. It’s better than what you came up with, what was it again? The shuffler?”
“Yeah,” Bobby hugs your pillow closer, eyes fluttering close. He probably doesn’t want to think about that mirrored version of you right now. The one that tried to take you away from him.
Bobby sounds defeated. You could attribute it to his headache but he sounds utterly hopeless. You know it has something to do with the grim situation when you still haven’t found a doorway back. It’s been a week and a half since you entered this place together, hand in hand. Or maybe it’s been more than that.
You thought he fell asleep and that was the end of the conversation until he huffs out a breath.
“I’ve got an idea.” His eyes open, gaze flickering to the polishes on display in front of you. The light through the pink curtains illuminates him in dusty pink. “D’you want me to paint your nails? I’m pretty good at it.” He blinks like he’s trying to recall something, the tip of his tongue poking in between his lips. “I think I am?”
Smiling tenderly, you glance at the nail polishes that are all in different shades of pink. “Only if you let me paint yours.” You answer with a teasing smirk.
He thinks for a few seconds, cheek flushed against the Hello Kitty pillow that he’s still hugging that smells like you. “Sure, but only the darkest pink, the lighter one would wash me out.”
The thought eases you slightly, maybe you two just needed to do something different for once after doing the exact routine for eleven days straight, or what you think is eleven days.
“Okay.” Grabbing the darkest hue out of the bunch just like he asked, you choose a lighter pink that reminds you of ballet shoes that have a slight shimmer. “What about this?” Crossing the distance, you show him the clinking bottles.
Bobby gestures in a come hither motion, telling you to sit beside him on the bed. “Let me see.” Propping himself up by his elbows, Bobby places the pillow behind him as he lounges. “Yeah, this’ll do.”
“I was only joking, y’know.” Sitting by his hips, the bed dips as you join him.
“Nah, it’s not like we both have anything better to do.” His palm opens, taking the lighter shade. “Let me do yours first.”
“Okay,” you hardly have enough energy to protest when you’re as spent as him, as bored as him. “Bobby?”
“Yeah?” Shaking the bottle, Bobby opens the polish. It doesn’t smell like how it usually is, the chemical scent doesn’t waft around the room. It doesn’t smell like anything, it’s almost unnerving.
“Why do you think Mr. Kitty likes us?”
“I don’t think he likes us, hero. He just tolerates us.” His fingers flex, telling you to place your hands in his to paint your nails. “He lets us stay because he has no choice. Like he makes sure we don’t ruin his house.” The polish feels cold atop your nail whilst he spreads a thin coat on it.
“You think he’s capable of being inherently kind?”
“I don’t know, maybe.” Bobby replies, concentrating on painting your nails. The tip of his tongue pokes in between his lips, trying to do both as best as he can. “Try not to think about it too much, okay?” He flicks at your forehead, giving you that lopsided smile you like. “It’ll hurt your pretty brain.”
“You think I have a pretty brain?” Your tone lowers, gazing at him through your lashes.
Bobby’s blue eyes peers up at you with a sly smirk. “Yeah, you’re smart and pretty, therefore you have a pretty brain.” He moves to take your other hand, touch featherlight as he paints.
“Are you high again, Bobby?” You ask with a bashful lilt.
“Nope, stone cold sober.” He sends you a wink that makes your breath hitch in your throat. You’re suddenly very aware at how close he is, and that you’re both on the bed together, knees knocking against his, breaths mixing in between. A voice in your head tells you to lean away, and you move away an inch from him. “Stop fidgeting, you’re going to ruin my handiwork.”
—
You wake again in the middle of sleep, this time, Mr. Kitty wasn’t around, he’s not standing in the doorway keeping watch. What woke you up wasn’t the nightmare you had, it was the pressure around your hand. It was a familiar warmth around your palm as it dangles over the edge of the bed.
Peeking over the edge of the frilly bedsheets, you squint at the sleeping form below, the warm lamps have been dimmed after you complained about it being too bright. It was either Bobby or the being that lives with you two that did it, either way, neither of them took the credit for it.
As your sleep heavy eyes hone in on the Bobby shape below, you see that his hand is extended up, following it, you see him holding onto you in his sleep.
His fingers are intertwined with yours, keeping them in place whilst you both slept. Whilst his painted nails match yours only in a darker hue. You should let go, to shake him off and roll back into bed. Your insides tell you to pull away, a tug at the back of your mind, like a forgotten memory that you’re trying to recall but couldn’t. It should feel wrong, the intimacy of it, that you shouldn’t be the recipient of it. Still, you don’t move your hand away, instead, you scooch closer to the edge of the mattress, closing the distance to make the position more comfortable.
Bobby woke up first that day, his hand still in yours, he didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.
You don’t mention it to him, but he knows that you woke up to see his hand around your own when you kept staring at his palm the whole time. He doesn’t mention it either, it was both a blessing and a curse.
But something is nagging inside your head, like you have forgotten something that you can’t recall. Whatever it is, it eats at you from the inside out.
Synopsis: The house in the middle of the clearing pulls you in. A brief reprieve from the horrors but you find that you and Bobby are not truly alone.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, reader has nicknames, CW blood and injury, CW food mentions, CW dark themes. Eventual Bobby romance, slow burn, Part 5 of my Bobby series. Set during the movie (spoilers)
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Bobby Franklin Masterlist
Part 4 <<< Part 5 >>> Part 6
It must’ve been a dream. It couldn’t have been you, it couldn’t have been a version of yourself. It was all crooked, a lumbering form that stinks of mold and mildew. It shouldn’t even exist, and yet you felt its arms around you, you heard it cry out for you.
It was a residual memory, the past, a shattered mirror of yourself.
But it was as real as the scars on your arms.
You could still remember how it held onto you, desperate, clinging to you like a child to its mother. You are not its mother, that thing tried to kill you, tried to take you down with it. It shouldn’t be pitied even when it wears your face, it’s a monster, grotesque, a monstrosity and monsters are merely that— monsters.
It doesn’t have cohesive thoughts inside its head, it doesn’t even breathe nor speak, and most of all, it’s not you, not really, just a fucked up version of you that this yellow hell tried to copy right from your memories. Like how it did with Janet, your grandfather, and the stranger in the bathroom, and even pirate Clark. They’re not human, they’re not the real thing, just a cheap imitation that went wrong somewhere in the process.
It shouldn’t bother you, you should stop thinking about what happened and how you almost ended up falling to your death. And yet you find yourself scratching at your neck, nails picking at the healing scabs, opening the wounds again.
Grimacing, you pull your hand away, seeing your blood caked underneath your fingernails has you stifling the bile rising from your throat that coats your mouth in saliva. You take a sip of the sweetened almond water to tamp it away, taking deep breaths through your nose as you listen to the recording of birdsong echoing around the clearing.
The fallen tree trunk behind you feels rough as it scratches your back. You’re resting on it, head held up, not minding the roughness against your nape as you stare at the artificial sky that is painted across the high ceiling. There are fluffy clouds, too symmetrical, too similar from each other for it to be real. The clouds don’t move unlike the real thing, the blue sky remains the exact same even though you have been laying here for hours.
The whole false sky is painted as realistic as possible to fool you, but the clouds hang by clear threads, and it reminds you of a studio where movies were shot in. A mere studio lot made my man, but you highly doubt that human hands painted the sky and placed the still clouds above. Maybe if you unravel the blue paint you’ll see the yellow wallpaper underneath, if you could just scratch the surface, break the mold, maybe just maybe, you’ll see the real sun under all of it.
Your mind has gone wobbly, turned around, body clock telling you to sleep but the light above tells you that it’s not time for it yet. There are no mornings or nights here, time is pliable here, no day and night cycle, just the permanent light from the artificial sun above.
The days you have spent in this hell have blurred together through trudging along different rooms. From the boiler rooms to the pools and dilapidated buildings and mono yellow wallpaper, you have no sense of time anymore. Before it was your phone that helped you see how many hours or days it’s been but after it broke, you’re drifting through the days with only sleep determining if a day has passed. But you know it’s been two hours since you almost fell through the floor and to your death, you counted the minutes, grounding yourself onto the grass that doesn’t really smell like grass but more akin to plastic, but it feels real, awfully real under your open palms. Two hours since you saw a version of you with its broken neck. Two hours since Bobby saved you, two hours since the bruise around your wrist appeared from how hard he held onto you.
How badly he wanted to save you.
Your whole body aches, a slight tremble in the muscles of your limbs, a flinch under your flesh, as if the memory of what transpired shakes your insides, engraved into your bones and in the fibers of your muscle. You could just sleep here and let the world forget you.
The sun above, or what seems to be like the sun shines on you, is eternally warm, it doesn’t fade nor wane, but that’s how you know it isn’t real. The temperature stays the same, not warm nor cold, just right, like a spring afternoon, like someone locked the thermostat to stay the same temperature forever. The light comes from the painted ceiling, a mere orb that blurs at the edges from the light it emanates, a mere imitation of the real thing.
“We have to go in eventually.” Bobby rasps, voice hoarse and deeper, shoulders resting against the tree trunk, chest rising and falling as his eyes stay on the lone pink house at the center of the clearing.
He lays beside you, you thought he was still asleep, you have no idea how someone could sleep after that but perhaps that’s how his body reacted to the horror, to sleep it off and pretend it was just a dream just like you have years ago.
His eyes were closed last you checked on him, sunglasses over his eyes as he slept. The two of you are too afraid to cross the distance over to the pink house with its pink chimney that billows white smoke. It has a little garden with pretty white wooden picket fences all around it. It’s warm and looks cozy, inviting, too welcoming.
“What horrors lie inside for us?” You mutter back, licking at your dry lips as you lay limp beside him.
“Dolls.”
“What?” Your head cranes in his direction, eyes narrowed, vision blurry and adjusting when you’ve been staring at the light for too long.
“Dolls.” Bobby flutters his lips, glasses hitched up to his head casually, sandy hair sticking up all over the place. “It looks like a place where it would have those creepy antique dolls.”
You crack a smile that falters immediately. “I think you’re still a little bit high, Bobby.”
“The shit we went through sobered me up.” The corners of his lips tug into a soft smile, neck turning towards you, cheek pressed against his shoulder. His blue eyes stare right at you, heavy and tired. “I wanna get high after that.”
“Save it when we survive this one.” Heaving yourself up, you stand up on wobbly legs, using his knee for leverage as you feel his searing skin underneath your palm. “Come on, Bobby, it’s now or never.” You give him a helping hand, palm open, ready to receive him.
“Can it be never?” Looking up, his eyes squint at you with the artificial sun lighting you up from behind, cloaking your face in shadows and lining your silhouette in light.
“I wish. But I don’t see any doors here except for the front door.”
“Fuck my life.” Extending his hand, Bobby takes yours, gently clasping his fingers around you as you help lift him up, and he shakes the sleep away from his muddled mind.
Will it be like this forever? Running from room to room and dodging violent entities until some miracle happens? Until your luck runs out?
Guilt coats the inside of your mouth, bitter and acrid like acid on your tongue. This is all your fault.
“Maybe there’s another exit somewhere.” He cuts through the silence as you two trek towards the house, grass crunching underfoot. “I came out of a different room from yours, so there might be other exits out of here.” Despite his hopeful words, he sounds dejected, hopeless as his hand brushes along your own whilst you two walk side by side. “There has to be.” He says your name, laced with trepidation and sorrow. “You good?”
“Trying my best to be, Bobby.” Inhaling, you give him a weak smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “You know, you never really finished telling me your rules. Might help with this encounter.”
“My rules?” He pauses by the fence, a hand grasping at the wood as he tilts his head at you.
“Yeah, you were telling me about some rules before we found the cereal and water in the sail boat room.” Shrugging, you’ve found yourself staring into his eyes more than before. “You’ve only told me one, ‘don’t split up.’”
His eyes turn up, thinking, trying to remember. Realization appears on his face as his mouth curves into an ‘o’, “Let me get back to you on that.”
Huffing a laugh, you shake your head as sweat forms on your nape. “All this time you haven’t thought of more rules?”
“No, more like, I can’t fucking remember it.” His brows are furrowed together, nose scrunched at trying to recall the thoughts. “I blame this place, I’ve always got a good memory but…I don’t know, somehow being here made me stupider.”
“You are not stupid.” With a hand grazing along his own, you reassure him with a gentle smile. You could hold his hand, but you decide not to, it still feels wrong to hold him. “Far from it.”
“Thanks.” Bobby has a tight-lipped smile, collarbone catching the light as the chain around his neck shines, the light bouncing from the metal onto his skin. “Just don’t ask me any chemistry related questions.”
“Don’t worry.” You scoff out a laugh that still weighs heavy for the both of you. “I won’t give you a pop quiz.”
“Thank fuck for that.” Pushing the garden gate open, he steps through, looking over his shoulder to you immediately once he’s on a stone step. Nothing is unusual, not yet anyway. “Do you think this place has a bed?”
You fall in step with him, jaw clenched, hands suddenly clammy. “What? Why?”
“To sleep in? What else?” Bobby flicks your forehead and you glower at him. “Get your mind out of the gutter, it’s just that we haven’t slept in a real bed in days.”
“I wasn’t thinking about that.” You roll your eyes, unclenching your jaw. “I’d rather have a real shower, and not smell like sweat and chlorine. I could sleep anywhere.”
He chuckles lightly. “Yeah, I’ve seen you sleep wherever. If I had my camera it would have a dozen of you sleeping in odd places.” You two make it in front of the door, he holds onto the doorknob and you could feel Bobby’s trepidation snaking under his skin.
“You can make a collage out of it. Sleeping anywhere is a talent.” You stare at his hand grasping the brass doorknob, and you cup his shoulder, taking his attention away from it for a moment. “Before we go in, I have to tell you something.”
“Are you gonna go sappy on me?” He could just tell, he knows you that much already.
“Yes, very sappy.” Chortling, your smile falters as you gaze into the blue depths of his eyes, almost drowning in them. “Thank you, Bobby, for everything, you have saved me more times than I’ve saved you.”
“Who’s keeping count, hm?” He nudges you gently, mirroring your smile. “It’s no problem, you would do the same. Ready?”
“Never, but with you?” Your breath hitches before you speak the simple word. “Yes.”
Bobby’s lips ticks up into that lopsided smile that you find adorable. Gums peeking, eyes crinkling in the corners despite his fatigue and the fear still hanging onto the fibers of his muscle. Chortling, his eyes flick away from you before shaking his head. “Ready that hammer, hero.”
Nodding, you take a steady stance, a palm tightly wound around the hammer as it weighs heavy in your hand.
Bobby’s Adam’s apple moves, swallowing down his nerves as he twists the doorknob open.
The door doesn’t let out a creak nor a squeak. It opens without a sound, a door that is seemingly well tended to unlike the others you’ve encountered.
The first thing you see is pink, different shades of it, from hot pink to a lighter hue, a baby pink, a more tolerable pink than the neon shade of the plush couch inside.
Bobby glances at you with furrowed brows, a mirror of your expression when you both get hit by the smell of freshly baked bread that wafts from the inside over to the cracked open door.
“What the fuck?” He whispers, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm.
“Let me go first.” Muttering back, you nudge him with your shoulder, taking a step into the threshold with one foot inside, the other beside Bobby’s.
“No.” His answer is instantaneous, a hand around your wrist. “We might get Hansel and Greteled.”
“Do you think there’s a fucking witch inside or something?”
“No, I think we’re getting lured into a goddamn trap.” His eyes narrow, laden with nerves.
“All the entities we’ve seen so far don’t lure people, they stalk and run after you but they’re not smart, Bobby.” You stand tall, looking him directly in his blue eyes. “They’re not capable of human thought.”
“What do you think this is then?” He doesn’t back down either.
“Our chance of finding a way out and back into the yellow wallpaper rooms. The door we went through closed behind us, would you rather walk around the woods and try your luck there?”
“Actually, yeah.” Nodding, he scoffs, licking at his dry lips, peeking through the crack, eyes roaming around the decorated walls. “There aren’t any dolls—”
“Bobby.” Inhaling, the scent of baked goods makes your stomach rumble, but the smell is buried under the chlorine still sticking to Bobby’s skin that is glowing underneath the fake sun. “Remember the theater room?”
His attention is on a decorative clock that is shaped like a cat on the wall. It stays on the same numbers, eleven thirty, the seconds hand not moving, nor the hour hand, it just ticks, shuffling up and down on the clock face of a cartoon cat. “Yeah.”
“I have the same feeling that this one is safe.”
“Your gut tells you that?” Those blue eyes hone in on you once again, and your cheeks turn warm.
“Yeah, if we die then you can blame me in the afterlife.”
Shaking his head, stifling a smile, Bobby reluctantly moves aside for you. “Not funny, hero.”
“It’s a little bit funny.” Knocking your knee with his in an attempt to reassure him, you step inside, trying to hide the way your hand shakes around the hammer. In truth, you can’t have him go first, you can’t find it in yourself to let him go inside first. So if there is something inside, you’re the first person to get mutilated, or worse.
“Go slow.” His voice lowers against the shell of your ear, tone rumbling, breath fanning your cheek.
Goosebumps rise on your arms when you feel his tone reverberate through you in waves. “Will do.”
Slowly, one foot after the other, you go through cautiously. The smell is stronger inside, there is no familiar scent of mold or damp carpets, the whole house smells like a café. And it even looks like one of those gimmicky cafés that pulls customers in with the cutesy decor rather than for their coffee and cakes.
“Looks like a little girl decorated this place.” Bobby remarks before you do. He’s close behind you, fingers curled around the hem of your jacket as it rustles faintly, reminding you of the entity that eerily looked like you.
The place has a regular floorplan like any other house, the door opens to a living room, walls painted in light pink, decorated with adorable pictures of woodland creatures that have pretty frames of filigree and flowers. There’s a big painting of kittens in a basket right across the frilly pink couch that reminds you of a grandmother’s couch with the bright pink flowers patterned fabric covering it. Everywhere you look you see cute decorations, from the lamps shaped like tulips and sunflowers, to the pillows that have Hello Kitty prints on them. There are a lot of Hello Kittys, too many Hello Kitty themed stuff that any crazed fan would kill for in the real word.
“Why are there so many Hello Kitty?” Nose scrunched, you continue to look around.
“I thought you’d be into this shit.” You could see the smug look on his face from his tone, whilst you stare at a collection of porcelain Hello Kittys inside a glass cupboard that is of course painted pink.
“I like Hello Kitty, but not this much.” You enter the kitchen, it’s as pink as the living room, the cabinets and even the utensils are all pink and Hello Kitty themed.
“I dig it.”
Looking over your shoulder, you tilt your head at him with a stifled smile. “This is more your scene then?”
“I didn’t mean that,” rolling his eyes, Bobby nudges his shoulder against yours, copying your head tilt playfully. “I just thought that this is better than the yellow hell we went through—” his eyes flicks behind you, confusion right on his face. “Were those there before?”
You follow his line of sight, twisting around. Your mouth waters from the sight. Right on the table are plates upon plates of baked goods. Raspberry tarts, chocolate chip cookies, macaroons, and crumpets to pair up with the steaming cups of tea beside it. The plates, down to the tea cups are all adorable, and are all Hello Kitty trademarked.
“No, I think you’re right, we’re getting Hansel and Greteled.”
“Yeah, we should go, Gretel.” Bobby tugs at your sleeve, hand sliding down your bicep to your wrist, fingers curling around it. “C’mon.”
“Should we at least try it out?” You linger in place, focused right on the cookies that are still hot.
“No fucking way,” he pulls at you again, and yet you stay. “do you know the fae story? That you shouldn’t eat any of the food they offer or you’ll get stuck in their world forever?”
“Of course, I know.” You scoff, turning to face him. “But we’ll soon run out of the stale cereal and almond water. Who do you think got the munchies and ate most of it?”
“Us, hero, the both of us did.” He answers matter of factly. “I’d rather eat the stale cereal first before I grab a suspicious looking eclair.”
You relent, cheeks puffed with air before exhaling out. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“C’mon then.” When you don’t move, Bobby sighs and looks at you again. He finds you staring at his hand wrapped around your wrist and he pauses, glancing at you warily. “May I? Sorry.”
Your eyes gazes into his own, and you see those blue eyes of his falter for a moment, and you have no idea why. “Okay.” With your hand opening, Bobby slides his palm on yours, fingers interlocking without a second thought as your fingers curl above his own. “Are we going upstairs?”
“Yeah,” Bobby unsticks his gaze at the intertwined hands, nodding and turning on his heel to lead you away. “The exit better be up there.”
“Or at least one that leads back to the yellow wallpaper.”
“Why do you want that?” His brow rises to his forehead, slowly making his way up the steps with you following closely behind with your hammer.
“Because it’s where we both entered from. That means we have a bigger chance of finding the door you came from over there than here.”
“Huh, that actually makes sense.” His lips smacks together, boots thumping against the steps. “But I’d rather find the real exit.”
Before he could make it to the top step, you move ahead of him, maneuvering around him, quickly making it to the top, and surveying the second floor and putting yourself out into possible danger before him. He could only huff at your behavior, if it reassures you then he lets you, unless there is actual danger ahead that is.
Bobby peeks over the pink and white bannister of the stairs, scanning the environment and the opened doors of each room whilst you do the same. Hammer in hand, weighing it in your hold, you see three rooms. Two bedrooms, one bigger than the other, and a bathroom, all decorated and in theme as the rest of the house.
“Bobby, there’s a shower.” You look at the bathroom that has pink soaps and shampoos on the racks like you found gold.
“And a bed.” He’s more focused on the opened bedroom door with the plush bed and fluffy comforter.
The two of you turn to the other at the same time, smiles tugging at the corners of your lips, eyes shining. Finally, some reprieve, a sense of normalcy.
—
The warm water against your bare skin feels like heaven. You’re in paradise as you let the water fall on you like raindrops. The air around you smells like strawberries and cream, the only available shampoo and soap in the place. It has a strong and sweet scent that reminds you of the perfume counter at the local dying mall. You don’t mind the strong smell when you smelled like sweat and grime for who knows how long. It’s a welcome reprieve, a sense of normalcy.
You and Bobby checked every crevice of the house, from the cabinets to even the oven, no stone was left unturned. Bobby didn’t want another surprise like last time. And as per his rules, you both didn’t separate the whole time. You both moved like one unit, one organism, every move was in sync, one heartbeat shared. If he was going to look under the bed, you would be standing guard behind him, hammer at the ready. The two of you learned a hard lesson from the incident at the pool rooms, you would rather not have a repeat of it if some lanky entity managed to slip inside the cupboard and jumped to surprise Bobby while he’s on the toilet.
The thought makes you laugh to yourself. You find that you have to laugh despite it all, or else you’ll end up spiraling, thinking heavily about everything that weighs you down. You can’t afford to freeze in this place when you’ve got Bobby to worry about.
The you from before you fell into this place would’ve buckled over what happened. But this present version of you, who has survived horrors after another didn’t. You’ve found yourself recalling it whenever the quiet lulls your mind into itself, remembering how it felt to dangle from a hundred feet in the air, remembering how the hounds snarled, how the being wrapped its arms around you, and how the walls sang. But just one look at Bobby, one huff or call of your name slipping from his lips and you’re back to the present. He grounds you, he helps bring you back from the depths of your mind that you found it once impossible to slip out of.
You should be calling him hero, not the other way around.
Stepping out of the shower, the damp pink shower curtain sticks to your leg, making you shake it to untick the damned thing.
“Little shit—!” Your leg slips on the wet tiles, but you manage to get a hold of the sink beside you before you tumble down harshly.
A loud knock hits the door, and Bobby’s frantic voice echoes from behind it, muffled by the pink girly door. “Fuck, you okay?!”
“Yep,” you instinctively grab the towel on the rack, it’s weirdly warm as you wrap it around yourself, as if someone heated it and anticipated your visit. “I’m okay, I almost slipped but I’m okay.”
“Thank fuck.” His voice falters, sighing in relief.
“I thought you fell asleep already. Were you behind the door the whole time?” Your heart warms at the thought whilst you start getting dressed in the same clothes you came in. Unfortunately there’s no washing machines in this place or fresh clothes in the wardrobes. You can’t have everything you want it seems.
A minute passes before he answers. “...yeah. This place made me paranoid.”
“No, it’s okay.” Your voice bounces off the tiles as you find yourself smiling at the mirror whilst you brush your teeth with a Hello Kitty toothbrush that was still sealed in plastic right inside a plastic cat shaped cup. “I can do the same for you if you want?”
“Yeah?” He sounds ecstatic at your offer, but he’s still trying to act like he’s not embarrassed about it.
“Yeah, of course.” Mouth filled with toothpaste, you hurry up so he could freshen up. You could just tell he wanted to go shower first but gave the first dibs to you.
“So what’s the verdict on the shower? Is there hot water?”
“Yeah!” Spitting out the toothpaste, you smack your lips together, looking at your teeth and finding yourself smiling from how good it made you feel now that you’re clean, leaving all the remnants of blood and grime to swirl down into the drain. You really needed that shower when the last time you washed up was in the pool rooms and the water there smelled like chlorine that stuck to your skin like glue. “There’s toothbrushes and toothpaste too.”
“What?” Bobby scoffs out a chortle. “What if someone used it already?”
“It was sealed, Bobby.” The towel is soft in your hold as you dry your hair with it.
“Really?”
“Yep, the towels are warm too, I saved you one. They’re pink though, like the rest of this place.”
“D’you think I care if it’s pink or blue?”
“Yeah, because you’re a manly man.” You tease, hanging the towel to dry beside the other that’s more hot pink than the baby pink towel you used. You’re going to get sick of all this pink.
Bobby chuckles behind the door, probably rolling his eyes at you. “Yeah, yeah, hurry up, I can feel the oil on my scalp.”
Fully dressed, jacket around you and hair still damp, you go to open the door, twisting the doorknob and pulling at it.
Out comes Bobby, tumbling backwards and landing onto your feet. You look down, biting at your lip to stifle the guffaw bubbling in your throat. “Well, hello there.”
“Hi?” His eyes are blown wide, smiling crookedly, awkwardly as he looks up at you through his lashes, neck craning up where a vein pops up from underneath his skin, right beside his throat. “Come here often?”
“Did you magically turn into a doormat?”
Bobby scrambles away, hopping up to his feet, trying and failing to act nonchalant. “You done?” He keeps his eyes on your face and not at the falling water droplet right on your clavicle.
“Yeah,” you move away, giving him the space as you grin. “Your turn, stinky.”
“I nickname you hero and I get stinky, great.”
“It fits though.”
“Shut up.” The door slams at your face, and your laugh is muffled by the door while Bobby groans into his hands.
—
“Are you sure you don’t want to take the bed?” You ask whilst you help him place the pink and white comforter on the floor beside the bed. “You said you wanted to sleep on a proper bed this time.”
The fabric flutters down, and Bobby smooths it out on the floor, crouched down, hair still damp as it sticks to his forehead. He looks much better under the warm yellow Hello Kitty lamp now that he had a shower and you both ate the last of the cereal. You two smell like each other, both sweet, both drenched in strawberries and cream scented soap.
“Yeah, I told you we can switch next time.” Shrugging, he crawls on the comforter, arms open as you throw a furry pillow at him. “Really, hero?” He glowers at the pillow in his hands as you climb up the bed. “This looks uncomfortable.”
“It’s to put on your side so you don’t bump into the bed.” Stifling a grin, you throw him another pillow, this time it’s bigger and has a silk pillowcase that is of course pink. “D’you want a hotdog too?”
“A what?” He looks up at you and you plop down on your stomach, looking down from the bed. The view from below makes Bobby regret not sleeping in the other room when the sight made his stomach do flips. You look happier, comfortable despite seeing another version of yourself that tried to kill you.
“A hotdog pillow.” Somehow you procure a long pillow with a frilly pillowcase, pulling it to your side. “To hug.”
“That’s what you call it?” The corner of his lips ticks up into an endeared smile. “Right, give me the hotdog.”
“I’ve got another one here.” You let it fall on him as he catches it. “Whoever decorated this room is a girl’s girl.”
“I’m too tired for this shit. I have no idea what that means.” Shaking his head with a hidden smile, Bobby plops down on his makeshift bed, head landing on the silk pillow with a soft thud. His arm is looped around the longer pillow, gazing up at you as you continue to peek over the edge of the bed. Eyes narrowing, the light from the windows glares right in his eyes. “Damn it.”
Bobby starts to move but you beat him to it.
“I’ll get it.” You hop off the bed to close the curtains, snuffing out some of the eternal light outside. There’s no hum here, as if the singing abruptly stopped after it fell. Or perhaps the song in the walls just doesn’t reach this place. You could feel Bobby’s eyes following you while you shut all the curtains inside the room, leaving the only light from the Hello Kitty lamps in the corners to illuminate the place. “There.”
“D’you think this place has a day and night cycle?” He mutters, face pressed against the long pillow as you climb back into bed.
“I don’t think so. Watch out.” You drop the spare blanket over to him as it lands right on his chest. “Sorry.”
“You’re good.” Unfolding the blanket, he settles in, looking comfortable under the covers. Looking out of place in a nest of pink and furs. “I hope we get to see the moon again.” He thinks loudly, jaw tightening, hugging the pillow to his chest.
The yellow light from the lampshade shines right on his face, illuminating his sharp profile, and the single hoop earring and chain around his neck catches the light. The other half of his face is blanketed in shadows, painting him in a more sorrowful look. You admit that he looks beautiful this way, like a painting in a museum.
“I hope so too.” You missed the warmth of the sun so much that you’ve forgotten about the moon and how beautiful it was to look out the laundromat windows and see it shine brightly down on the empty parking lot. You miss your only companion that accompanied you through every night shift, how it changes every night and yet beautiful all the same. “Are you sure you don’t want to sleep in the other room?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. No separating, remember?” You locked the door behind you again, and Bobby wants to open it, to see the unbridled smile and the unguarded laugh with your eyes shining once again.
“Yeah,” you settle in, hugging your own long pillow and sighing at how soft the bed is, its softness enveloping you in a warm comfortable embrace. “No separating.”
You don’t want to separate from him either, even when you deem this place safe. Being alone in this place even for just a moment scares you. This place, this house and this room isn’t so bad, but there are a few reminders that tell you that you are not in a normal place. Like how the towels are warm when no one warmed it beforehand, how there is always food ready at the table, and why you and Bobby need to block the door with a chair right under the doorknob.
This place is off, odd, like it was specifically built to appease wanderers, to let your guard down and strike when you’re fully unaware.
“You asleep?” Bobby cuts through the silence, tugging at your blanket gently when you find yourself staring at the door, as if you’re waiting for something to appear.
“Almost.” You lie.
“I—I’m glad you’re here.” He utters it so quietly that you thought you dreamt it. “Try not to think about it too much, okay?”
You know what it is supposed to be. You decide to dismiss the latter and peek over the edge of the bed again, gazing down at him with softened eyes. “I’m glad you’re here too, Bobby.”
He smiles that same smile that made your heart skip a beat.
“Sleep, we’ll be fine here.” His eyes look into your own with mirrored softness before twisting around with his back turned away from you. “I’ll keep one eye open for the both of us.”
“Don’t let the bed bugs bite, Bobby.” He quietly responds with a chortle.
You lay back down, listening to Bobby’s soft breaths. The ceiling is in light pink, almost white as you stare at a light fixture shaped like a cartoon cloud. This room is a teenage girl’s dream, one that you have probably seen in an early 2000’s TV show back in the day. The ones you would race back home from school to watch with its corny jokes and laugh tracks. Maybe back then you wanted a room like this, but you don’t remember much of yourself before you started drowning in the harsh freezing waves of your own mind.
You wanted to stay up for Bobby, to keep watch in case something phases through the locked door or something kicks it open. But you couldn’t help it when your heavy lids start to close, the bed is so comfortable, so soft under you. Sleep takes you in its warm embrace, enclosing you in darkness.
You don’t dream of the yellow walls, you don’t dream of your grandfather nor the real world. You dream of that crimson city, a city draped in blood red, and how you dangled above it. For a moment you just hang there, looking from above, dangling, staring at every concrete skyscraper and still cars on the street. Then you start to move, floating above like a dove soaring in the fake clouds.
Fluttering from building to building, you weave around and you smile, finally weightless, finally peaceful.
Until you turn your head towards a building with glass windows that has your reflection. But it’s not you, it’s the wrong version of you. The being that has a broken neck, its head dangling over its chest, and arms that are too long with its red ropes slithering around. You try to scream, only to let out a huff, a mere breathless gasp, before you finally fall to your death.
You wake with a start before you hit the ground, sweating under the covers as your hands fly to your neck, trying to gulp in air. “Fuck.” Turning instinctively at the bedside table to look at the clock, it stayed the same, frozen. You forgot where you were for a moment.
Nails digging into your skin, you look down on the floor to check on Bobby. He’s still sleeping, cuddling the long pillow as he drools on it. His hair is a mess, and his cheek is pressed flushed on the pillow, completely out of it. At least one of you is having a good night’s rest. Bobby could sleep anywhere it seems, even after he almost lost you. Maybe this is really how he copes, sleeping it off, leaving it all to his awake self.
Laying against the headboard, you inhale deeply, a hand kneading at your sternum to calm your breathing. When you open your eyes, your heart stops.
The door is wide open.
Right in the opened doorway is a shadow, long, lanky limbs stretched out abnormally, fingers grazing the top of the pink carpet.
It’s just a mere shadow, the dark, a void staring right at you.
It doesn’t move to get you, it doesn’t lunge or enter the room. It just stays at the doorway, watching you, face obscured by the top of the doorway when it’s too tall for it. The chair Bobby used to lock the door is neatly placed beside it, as if it was observing you before you even woke up.
The thing unnerves you, skin prickling as it stands there as still as a rock. Like your grandfather in the sailboat room, eerie, uncanny. Not human.
It tilts its head to take a look at you when it’s too tall for the doorway, vision obscured but it doesn’t need eyes to see when it has no eyes. Its face is chillingly blank, a deep dark void to get lost into.
“What?” Your face scrunches into confusion, breathing hard, heart beating rapidly against your ribcage. Your mind tells you to run but your body refuses to move. Where would you even run when it stands in the only exit? “Bobby.” Calling for your companion, you languidly move to wake him up, body awkwardly folded whilst you don’t turn your gaze away from it as if it’ll start moving once you look away. “Bobby—fuck, Bobby.”
He groans into the pillow, burying himself further into the bed.
‘Sleep with one eye open my ass.’ You think to yourself, chest rising and falling in a panic, fingers digging into the sleeve of his shirt.
Something huffs at your thoughts. A laugh exhaled through the nose, something so familiar and yet in this situation terrifies you as the hair on the back of your neck stands on its ends.
“What the fuck.”
You heard it in your head, and around the room at the same time. It was as clear as day.
You were sure it heard your thoughts and laughed at it.
It heard your thoughts. It laughed at you.
“Bobby, Bobby, wake the fuck up.” Shaking his shoulder, he only stirs for a moment, dismissing you with a slap to your hand before stilling. “Shit, Bobby—”
It tilts its head back again, it hums deeply, a thrumming tone akin to tumbling rocks upon a mountain. You blink and it’s gone from the doorway.
“Fuck me.” Heaving, hand on your chest and tears filling your eyes. You wait for a second before scrambling to the door to close it and lock it again with the chair. Standing back, hands up, you feel your limbs go numb.
Did it laugh from your thoughts? Did it actually hear you think?
He wakes up to you standing there, still frozen, shoulders taut, fingers twisted like tree branches.
“Hey?” Bobby mumbles groggily, voice addled with sleep, timbre lower and gravelly. “You good? You’re standing in the middle of the room like a creep.”
Your feet moved before you could think. A second later, you’re now sitting beside him on the comforter, legs tucked against yourself, staring right at the door like a kid who had a nightmare.
Bobby’s half lidded eyes look at you curiously. “Were you sleep walking?”
You could only shake your head.
Sitting up, Bobby flings the blanket away from him and scooches closer to you. His hand stops halfway from touching you. “Did you have a nightmare?”
“I don’t— I don’t know if it was real, Bobby.” Head craning towards him, you peer up at him with glassy wet eyes.
“I’m here and I’m real.” He nods, swallowing thickly, brows knitted in concern. “Can I sit with you for a bit?” Even though he wants nothing more but to go back to sleep, you need him, and he’d rather sit with you in silence than regret not being there. Like he was with her.
Nodding, you pull your legs impossibly closer, forehead resting atop your knees. He’s here and he’s real.
Instead of drowning in your thoughts, you listen to him breathe, you feel his warmth bleed through his clothes and how it ebbs over to your side. You count in your head, counting all the things around you, at the forefront is Bobby, how his hair is mussed, how his shirt is wrinkled. Then you count the things you could smell, the strawberry shampoo and soap that lingers on his skin and right on the pillow, how this place smells eternally saccharine. You count your breaths, syncing it with Bobby’s inhales and exhales.
One, two, three.
And another, three, two, one. Inhale and exhale, like how you were taught.
Your fingers grip onto your trousers until you could feel your nails digging into your skin underneath.
Bobby has no idea how to comfort you, so he stays, the only way he knows how, and he fights to keep his eyes open, fixing the blanket over his legs to drape it over you instead. But when he tugs at it, you move and rest your head on his shoulder, cheek pressed softly against his deltoid without trepidation, without uncertainty. Your skin is clammy, sticking to his sleeve but he doesn’t care when you’re the one leaning on him this time. Bobby hasn’t noticed until now that you run incredibly warm.
You trust him enough to lay on him, to rest your eyes and break down your walls that you’ve carefully built around you. His breath is shallow, the simple movement from you knocked the wind out of him, surprised, glad, and proud of you when he knows that took a lot out of you to do. What seems so simple, a small act of affection doesn’t come so easily for you. He knows that, he knows you.
Bobby stills, like how a cat finally sat on his lap after months of gentle coaxing and he refuses to move lest it scampers away from him.
He sits there, watching your fingers twitch before it relaxes, until your breathing calms, and the tension in your muscles eases. Until you fall asleep against him, your breath fanning against his neck as you snore softly.
—
You and Bobby decided to stay for a little while to recuperate, as if you two had any choice in the matter when there are no other doors inside the house that leads back to the yellow wallpaper hell or at least any of the places you’ve been in.
You both know this place is better than any of the other rooms you’ve been through. At least the house is cozy despite its gaudy decor, and it has running water and comfy beds to sleep in. You hate to admit it but you’d rather be stuck here than in the pool rooms or the boiler rooms. At least here it’s safe, so far that is.
You’re waiting for the shoe to drop, waiting to see the creature from your nightmares to saunter inside and break every bone in your body. Especially after what you saw last night. You’re both on high alert despite the feel of the welcoming house, rightfully so when time and time again you’ve been surprised by the entities that live in this hellscape. The hammer is always on your hip, if not on you then around Bobby’s hold. You’d find a weapon for him in the house but there aren’t any, not even kitchen knives or even a plunger. Bobby’s thinking of making his own makeshift weapon using the Hello Kitty merchandise around the house.
After talking it out on the floor of the bedroom surrounded by pink and canned chicken soup that you two shared, you both come up with a plan. The two of you would set up perimeters around the woods, drawing up zones to make the searching easier. If the exit isn’t in the house then it must be around the woods surrounding it. So with Bobby armed with a Hello Kitty fountain pen, he uses it to carve numbers on the trees, marking each zone to be explored. Whilst you draw a map on a blank notebook you found on the shelf, the cover reminds you of the early 2000’s Lisa Frank aesthetic with the rainbows and sparkly dolphins. It took you both about three hours to map the surface just to make it easier for you two to explore the next day.
You quickly fell into routine with Bobby.
You would shower first with him sitting by the doorway, standing guard and chatting with you as you lather the soap onto your skin that smelt like pine needles. He would talk about his life back on the surface, his cameras that littered the small apartment, the numerous tapes filled with various footage. Some were of his friends, most of them are stuff he randomly came across on his commute— a large dog being walked by a small old woman, a school bus filled with glum children, or a cloud that was shaped like a pair of sunglasses. He told you that he would lug his camera around like he was filming some sort of documentary that never went anywhere. He just liked filming things, how the light would shine on a park bench, the dappled light through the trees, the rain drenched sidewalk, or a bird flying by. He called it practice for the real deal, and you listened with a soft smile on your face, imagining all of it in your head.
“I’d film you.” He blurted out on day three after talking to you about the day he followed a squirrel for an hour at the park because it was lugging around a whole bag of peanuts.
“What?” You almost choked on the toothpaste.
“Not like that—shit, I mean—!” He backtracks, realizing that saying those exact words while you’re in the bathroom as naked as the day you were born doesn’t sound right. “I mean like in a nice artsy way!”
You could just tell that his face is pressed against the door from how loud his voice has become. “Ah.” Biting the inside of your cheek, you tamp a laugh. “Yeah, no, I–I get it, Bobby. That would be nice.”
There’s a soft thump from his side of the door.
“You okay?” You pause from your silent giggling.
“Yep.” He groans into his hands. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Can you hurry up?” Good thing that there is a door in between the two of you.
“That depends, can you tell me more about how you’ll film me?” Teasing, it earns a loud groan from the other side.
“Oh, fuck off, hero.” You could just hear the stifled laugh behind the door.
After a shower, you would climb into bed, and with him on the comforter right on the floor. Bobby seems to have forgotten the fact that you would do alternating days with him, that he would be on the bed tonight and with you on the comforter. But every time you remind him he would dismiss you with a wave of his hand and say, “tomorrow.” You would press him of course, but he’d distract you with another story until you felt your eyes grow heavy and fall asleep to the sound of his voice.
Bobby never complained through the search for the exit. The woods are vast but not thick enough that you would get lost in it if you take a wrong turn. The trees are properly spaced out, like it was planted like that on purpose. And they’re all identical, copy pasted onto the ground meticulously.
On day four you found ribbons inside a cabinet when you were looking for some sort of detergent to wash the clothes with. The ribbon is bright red with pink glitters, and you used it to tie it around the trees, marking the territories that you already searched. Bobby would be at the front, wielding the hammer this time around as you follow close with your notebook, jotting down the route. You would take turns on who leads and who follows, either way you two would watch each other’s backs.
You searched high and above, from the grass covered ground to the top of the trees that Bobby climbs to take a look at. You protested at first, but he claimed that he’s a better climber than you. Stubborn as he is he still tried to climb, until the halfway point when his hands started to get clammy and he felt vertigo. He beat himself up for it, but you reassured him with a gentle pat on his bicep. It seems that your touch is some sort of miracle cure for him when he smiles and continues to trek along the zone for that day.
It wasn’t so bad getting stuck at this level especially when you have Bobby around. He makes surviving more tolerable, without him you would’ve gone mad days ago. But despite the deep conversations and the shared smiles and occasional laugh, you feel it stare. You feel its presence, the shadow in the doorway, the tall figure that seems to only appear for you. It’s making you feel insane whenever you see it lurking in the corner of a room while Bobby’s in the bathroom and he hasn’t noticed how you went silent. It just watches, mostly you, you’ve tried to ignore it, to let it linger there like an itch you can’t scratch.
But it’s not always there, the entity is mostly in the kitchen, right in the corner of the dining room, as if it waits for you to take one of the warm pastries right on the table. Anticipating the moment you bite right into it like it baked the treats itself, as if it baked it just for its guests. Maybe Bobby is right to not let you eat a raspberry tart or a cookie when it could possibly keep you in here forever if you do. But as the days go on, it becomes more tempting, the old cereal and repetitive canned goods are getting tiring as the supplies dwindles. You want something sweet, something new to taste. As long as you two still have supplies left, eating the suspicious pastries is a last resort.
The entity doesn’t seem malignant, it doesn’t seem to want to hurt you or Bobby. As long as it doesn’t come near you or over to him, you let it stay in its corner like some creep. But it doesn’t intrude on your space, it lets you be, like a benevolent steward of the pink house, making sure that you or Bobby aren’t making a mess of this place. You always make sure that you clean up after yourselves, which Bobby just naturally followed suit because you once swept some crumbs off the floor.
Once on one of the silent nights, where Bobby’s soft snores echo around the room, and you lay awake in bed, it appears again in the doorway. It just stands there, the chair neatly placed on one side with it looking right at you. Its head is tilted, peeking under the doorway again, like a parent checking on their kid during a sleepover.
You sit up, looking right at it directly, showing no fear but the way you hold the blanket tightly atop you says otherwise. “Are you going to hurt us?” Your words are calm, soft but frayed at the edges with fear. Maybe talking to it won’t do anything, but it’s worth a try. You did it with the version of your grandfather, he didn’t reply either. But this one seems different from the others, like it could think, comprehend, maybe even speak when it wants to. “We’re just trying to find our way out of here.”
You’re met with silence. It stays there, a shadow listening to every word.
You tell it your name, jaw clenched as you introduce yourself. “And this is Bobby,” gesturing over to him, he still sleeps soundly. “We won’t make a mess, I promise. Thank you for letting us stay.”
The edges of its skin fizzle into red and blue dots like static, before disappearing and returning to normal. You don’t know what that means, but you do know that it understands you to an extent.
“Can you close the door on your way out?”
Its head straightens up, and the door closes gently with a soft click. The sheer shock on your face stays until you can’t keep your eyes open.
This one understood you unlike the others you’ve encountered. Somehow, beings in this place are capable of thought, capable of understanding language. It intrigues you. Maybe this place is truly the odd one out, a safe space like a save room in a game where you can catch your breath and rest. Bobby needs to know about it.
—
You’ve never told Bobby about the shadow. Not yet anyway. You’re too afraid of him not believing you when you’re the only person who has seen this lurking shadow. There’s still a part of you that thinks the shadow was just a figment of your imagination.
The fear is unfounded when it’s Bobby, he’ll believe you if you told him that the sky is suddenly green and the grass outside has turned blue. It’s just Bobby, the Bobby who still talks even while he’s washing his hair and got shampoo inside his mouth more times than you can count. After everything you two have been through, telling him about some lanky friendly entity shouldn’t be a problem when he would be the only person in the world that would understand you. You’re going to tell him when it’s unfair for him to be left in the dark. You just need to find the right moment.
You stare at the glowing orb between the branches in the trees, watching the dappled light filter through the leaves. You half expect for wind to brush along your cheek, a warm yet refreshing air that flutters your lashes, and yet there is none, the air is as still back in the yellow walls, at least here it’s open, giving you an illusion of freedom.
The rustling from the canvas backpack takes your attention as Bobby hisses in between his teeth. He’s rummaging through the contents, taking out empty bottles and empty biscuit packaging onto the grass beside him.
“What is it?” You ask, feeling the rough blades of grass between your fingers whilst you two rest after hours of searching the perimeter. Sweat trickles your back, but you refuse to take off the jacket.
Bobby exhales loudly, groaning and tipping his head back in frustration. “We ran out of almond water.”
Your eyes narrow at him, still adjusting, vision blurred in the corners. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” Bobby runs a hand through his messy hair, the scent of heavy strawberries and cream wafting in the air. “I—” he mirrors your squint, head tilted when he turns to you. “What did I tell you about looking directly at the light?”
“That I might go blind?” Blinking owlishly at him, you wince, vision returning slowly as you see him look at you disappointedly. “Sorry.”
Clicking his tongue, he takes the sunglasses hanging from the collar of his crop top before opening it and reaching for you. “May I?”
You chortle. “What for?”
“So you don’t go fucking blind.” He’s already putting the glasses over your eyes, gentle and mindful as he places the glasses over your ears and onto the bridge of your nose. “There.” Leaning back, he smiles. “Looks better on you actually.”
You gaze at him through the dark tinted glasses, smiling at him bashfully. “Thanks, Bobby.” You contemplate telling him about the being, but it doesn’t feel like the right time for it.
“No problem.” Sighing and resting his arm on his knee, he leans against the tree trunk and stares into the thicket, over to the house that peeks in between the trees. “We’re going to starve too. We only have a can of pudding and peaches left. I’ll take the peaches.”
“No, it’s okay, I can stomach it.”
“You hate peaches, hero.” Craning his neck to you, Bobby balloons his cheeks and lets go a huff of air. “You take the pudding for tonight.”
“Or we can eat the pastries on the dinner table.” You suggest, nudging his arm with your elbow. “It doesn’t look too bad.”
“Really?” His expression flattens. “Or it’s poisoned or locks us in here forever once we take a bite.”
“This place is the farthest thing from being magical. Wrong genres, Bobby, you of all people should know.” He cracks a smile from that. “It’s like comparing Lord of the Rings to fucking…” you try to find the right thing to compare it to. “Silent Hill.”
“What the fuck is the other one?”
“I highly doubt that you don’t know about Lord of the Rings.”
“I know what that is, nerd, but I have no idea what the fuck a Silent Hill is.” His confusion is evident on his handsome face. “Is that a book or something? Sounds like a town in bumfuck nowhere.”
“It’s a famous horror game, Bobby.” You scoff out a laugh, brows furrowed. “You seriously don’t know what Silent Hill is?”
Bobby shrugs, cleaning up the bottles and putting them inside the backpack. “I’m not that kind of nerd, I guess.”
Shaking your head, you wonder if he’s just not in that kind of scene. “Well it’s close to our situation, a psychological horror.”
“Is that why you’re so good at surviving this shit? Because you’re a big fucking geek?” A slow smile tugs at his lips from his teasing, nudging your foot with his own whilst wiggling his brows.
“A geek, really?” You can’t help but smile back. “I haven’t heard of that term in years.”
“Whatever, geek.”
After a beat of listening to the repetitive bird song, you hear Bobby’s stomach grumble. He groans, thumping his head against the tree trunk. He doesn’t need to look at you to know that you’re grinning at him.
“So the food in the kitchen then?”
—
Bobby dawdled, but the sounds that his stomach is making is getting harder to ignore. He took his sweet time showering and now he has a headache. Feeling faint when he hasn’t eaten anything the whole day other than the last of the stale cereal and a drop of almond water last night, or what he thinks is nighttime when he uses sleep to determine if a day has passed.
Empty plastic bottles lay on the pink kitchen island, right beside the two plates and cups of tea you prepared. You’re starving too, Bobby knows this when your gait turned slower and how your hands shook whilst you two were out looking for a door that probably doesn’t exist.
You’ve placed a buttered croissant on each plate, which looked to be the safest bet between the other warm pastries on the dining table. You’re pouring him a cup of tea, the liquid is light brown, and smells like any other tea you’ve had before. It doesn’t look odd in the slightest. Bobby is standing adjacent to you, right on the other side of the island, gazing at his plate and cup with increasing trepidation, but the tremble in his arms and legs makes him want to devour the whole thing.
“Okay.” Taking a deep breath, you take your croissant from its plate. Bobby stops you with his hand around your wrist. “We’re starving, Bobby.”
“I know, it’s just that— we do it at the same time, okay?”
If it was truly poisoned, you two would perish at the same time. How romantic, you thought, a tragedy worthy of a Shakespearean play.
“Okay, cheers?” You tap the flakey pastry with his before you two take a bite at the same time.
The pastry is crunchy on the outside, warm and soft on the inside, just like how you remember it. It doesn’t taste weird, it’s good, buttery, until the after taste emerges just like in the other food you had from this place. The taste of stale bread lingers on your tongue, leaving a thin sheet of the staleness. It’s good to have something warm at least. Swallowing, you look at Bobby as he chews slowly.
“I feel fine.” You mutter, taking a swig of the sweetened tea to help the bread go down easier. “You?”
Bobby swallows and makes a face. “That…that was actually good, it’s like the cereal and the other shit we had though. Like it was left outside for too long. How’s the tea?” He has a crumb clinging to his lower lip.
“It’s good, I’m not thirsty anymore at least. May I?” You reach over to him, gently wiping away the crumb from his lip with your knuckle. “Sorry it was bothering me.”
Bobby looks at you with his wide blue eyes, still holding onto the half eaten croissant as his Adam’s apple bops up and down.
“So what’s the verdict?” Taking another bite, you dismiss his expression as shock when you nonchalantly took a drink of the suspicious tea. “Bobby?”
“Yeah, uh…” clearing his throat, he stuffs the rest of the pastries into his mouth. “Eight point five out of ten.” He tries to speak with his mouth full.
“Bobby, you’ll choke.” You’re stifling a laugh.
“You know what would go well with it though?” He’s chewing quickly, fidgeting with the can of pudding that has an easy open pull tab. “Shit, hold on.” His shorter nail can’t get a hold of the tab so you take it from his frantic hands.
“Let me try.” Shaking your head and biting your lip to quiet down your laugh, you manage to take the tab and pull. But you pull too hard and too fast that the corner of the metal can snags at your palm, cutting the still healing skin from when you burned it. “Fuck!”
“Hero, shit!” Bobby grabs a table napkin on his way over to you and quickly takes your hand in his whilst the white napkin embroidered with kittens slowly turns red. “You’re clumsy, did you know that?”
You’re wincing and laughing at the same time, the ache throbbing from your thumb to your pinky. The sight alone would’ve made you freeze, hyperventilating and panic setting in. But with Bobby holding onto you, grasping and tending to the cut, you feel fine, there’s no numbness running through your limbs, and no fear.
“Yeah, it’s hard to accept it as fact though.” Smiling, you flick your gaze to Bobby, who has a far away look in his eyes, staring right behind you with horror. “Bobby?”
He’s moving closer to you, an arm over your back as you turn around, finding the tall shadow looming over the other side of the dinner table. Its edges are frayed, static running all over it. It hums inside your head, an angry dissonance that rings in your ears. Bobby can feel the hum as it shakes the floor he’s standing on.
Its head tilts down, seemingly looking at your bleeding hand despite never needing eyes to see. You just know it was looking at it, like how Bobby is standing before you, acting like your shield. It was mad that you got hurt, and it thinks Bobby was the cause.
The being is furious. Furious at Bobby.
It cocks its head to the side, moving in front of him without you two ever seeing it move.
“What the fuck.” Bobby heaves, fear in his eyes and yet he still stands in front of you protectively.
“Wait!” You hold out your injured hand in between them as the hum turns ear piercing. “I’m fine! It was an accident!” You talk to it like it would understand, gambling Bobby’s life and perhaps yours on something that doesn’t have any basis. It probably doesn’t like you as much as you thought. You wipe the blood away from your hand, showing it to the being, showing how it’s just a nick that doesn't run too deep. “It wasn’t his fault! I’ll heal! Okay, I’ll heal.”
Its dark edges still, calming down with every reassurance from you.
“I’m okay.” Uttering softly, its skin is an inch away from your opened palm, you feel it, like holding out your hand above an old TV after you turned it off, feeling the fizzy buzz of static brushing along your skin despite the space in between. “See? I’m okay.”
Bobby looks at you then at the entity like he’s high and sees some deep-seated hallucination brought out by the horrors of real life. He mouths a confused, ‘what the fuck?’ underneath his breath, a hand grasping onto your jacket, dimpling the fabric.
It backs off, leaning away, completely calmed when the strange hum fades away, leaving only a faint ringing in your ears.
It stands tall, the top of its head grazing the pink ceiling as it flickers out of existence like it was never there to begin with.
Bobby flicks his eyes over to you with sheer horror and confusion on his face.
Now is the best time to tell him you guess.
—
Your gaze stays on the nail polishes lined neatly on the vanity whilst you zone out, completely lost in your own mind when Bobby enters the room with his shoulders haunched, eyes half lidded.
“Hey,” his hand brushes along the small of your back briefly before plopping himself onto the bed. “I’m going to take a nap. I have a headache.”
Bobby took the news pretty well considering that the entity almost ripped him apart. He understood why you hid it from him when you told him that you weren’t sure that it was even real and not a combined figment of your imagination and your declining sanity. He took a minute to just breathe after what happened, and you gave him time to just take it all in before you explained everything to him, from the theory that it’s the steward of this house, to how it watched you like a parent looking after a toddler. You expected for him to hurl a plate at the wall and call bullshit, but all he did was grab another pastry and eat it all in two bites before turning to you, patting your arm and laying his forehead atop your shoulder whilst you rub a hand over his back reassuringly. It scared the soul out of him that he had to lie down for the rest of the day. You did too as he let you lay your head upon his shoulder whilst you two rested on the makeshift bed on the floor.
It’s been a few days since then, the entity started to appear for Bobby too, giving him a heart attack every time. It doesn’t move to hurt him, it just stands there, watching him like it watches you. Like it’s making sure you won’t accidentally get hurt again. Every time you or Bobby would reach for a pastry or a cup of tea, it appears, waiting for your reaction. Maybe it was the one who truly made the treats. Bobby’s getting used to it, like the entity is a pet he didn’t want to get at first but still lets onto the couch to sit beside him.
Bobby huffs against the pillow, sighing for the umpteenth time today.
You could just tell that Bobby is increasingly getting annoyed at how pink everything is, not because it’s pink but because it’s everywhere around him. Bobby wants something new, something nice to look at. Maybe that’s why he always looks forward to going outside and searching for the door because there are trees and greenery instead of Hello Kitty and fluffy pink decor. Something more relaxing than the ‘in your face’ decorations. And where the entity can’t go as far as the front door, either giving you space or it can’t leave. But even then, even when you’re outside, you could see the shadow look out from the kitchen window and watch you trek along with Bobby.
“All this pink is giving you a headache, huh?” Turning to him, you see him press his cheek against a Hello Kitty pillow you embrace every night, the heel of his palm digging into the crease between his brows.
“No, I think I’m crashing from the sugar rush.” His blue eyes are dull as he embraces the pillow against his cheek tighter. “I ate too many cookies.”
You chortle, “I think Mr. Kitty would be ecstatic that you like his baking.”
“Mr. Kitty?” Bobby scrunches his nose.
“Yeah, I named it. Took a page from your book. It’s better than what you came up with, what was it again? The shuffler?”
“Yeah,” Bobby hugs your pillow closer, eyes fluttering close. He probably doesn’t want to think about that mirrored version of you right now. The one that tried to take you away from him.
Bobby sounds defeated. You could attribute it to his headache but he sounds utterly hopeless. You know it has something to do with the grim situation when you still haven’t found a doorway back. It’s been a week and a half since you entered this place together, hand in hand. Or maybe it’s been more than that.
You thought he fell asleep and that was the end of the conversation until he huffs out a breath.
“I’ve got an idea.” His eyes open, gaze flickering to the polishes on display in front of you. The light through the pink curtains illuminates him in dusty pink. “D’you want me to paint your nails? I’m pretty good at it.” He blinks like he’s trying to recall something, the tip of his tongue poking in between his lips. “I think I am?”
Smiling tenderly, you glance at the nail polishes that are all in different shades of pink. “Only if you let me paint yours.” You answer with a teasing smirk.
He thinks for a few seconds, cheek flushed against the Hello Kitty pillow that he’s still hugging that smells like you. “Sure, but only the darkest pink, the lighter one would wash me out.”
The thought eases you slightly, maybe you two just needed to do something different for once after doing the exact routine for eleven days straight, or what you think is eleven days.
“Okay.” Grabbing the darkest hue out of the bunch just like he asked, you choose a lighter pink that reminds you of ballet shoes that have a slight shimmer. “What about this?” Crossing the distance, you show him the clinking bottles.
Bobby gestures in a come hither motion, telling you to sit beside him on the bed. “Let me see.” Propping himself up by his elbows, Bobby places the pillow behind him as he lounges. “Yeah, this’ll do.”
“I was only joking, y’know.” Sitting by his hips, the bed dips as you join him.
“Nah, it’s not like we both have anything better to do.” His palm opens, taking the lighter shade. “Let me do yours first.”
“Okay,” you hardly have enough energy to protest when you’re as spent as him, as bored as him. “Bobby?”
“Yeah?” Shaking the bottle, Bobby opens the polish. It doesn’t smell like how it usually is, the chemical scent doesn’t waft around the room. It doesn’t smell like anything, it’s almost unnerving.
“Why do you think Mr. Kitty likes us?”
“I don’t think he likes us, hero. He just tolerates us.” His fingers flex, telling you to place your hands in his to paint your nails. “He lets us stay because he has no choice. Like he makes sure we don’t ruin his house.” The polish feels cold atop your nail whilst he spreads a thin coat on it.
“You think he’s capable of being inherently kind?”
“I don’t know, maybe.” Bobby replies, concentrating on painting your nails. The tip of his tongue pokes in between his lips, trying to do both as best as he can. “Try not to think about it too much, okay?” He flicks at your forehead, giving you that lopsided smile you like. “It’ll hurt your pretty brain.”
“You think I have a pretty brain?” Your tone lowers, gazing at him through your lashes.
Bobby’s blue eyes peers up at you with a sly smirk. “Yeah, you’re smart and pretty, therefore you have a pretty brain.” He moves to take your other hand, touch featherlight as he paints.
“Are you high again, Bobby?” You ask with a bashful lilt.
“Nope, stone cold sober.” He sends you a wink that makes your breath hitch in your throat. You’re suddenly very aware at how close he is, and that you’re both on the bed together, knees knocking against his, breaths mixing in between. A voice in your head tells you to lean away, and you move away an inch from him. “Stop fidgeting, you’re going to ruin my handiwork.”
—
You wake again in the middle of sleep, this time, Mr. Kitty wasn’t around, he’s not standing in the doorway keeping watch. What woke you up wasn’t the nightmare you had, it was the pressure around your hand. It was a familiar warmth around your palm as it dangles over the edge of the bed.
Peeking over the edge of the frilly bedsheets, you squint at the sleeping form below, the warm lamps have been dimmed after you complained about it being too bright. It was either Bobby or the being that lives with you two that did it, either way, neither of them took the credit for it.
As your sleep heavy eyes hone in on the Bobby shape below, you see that his hand is extended up, following it, you see him holding onto you in his sleep.
His fingers are intertwined with yours, keeping them in place whilst you both slept. Whilst his painted nails match yours only in a darker hue. You should let go, to shake him off and roll back into bed. Your insides tell you to pull away, a tug at the back of your mind, like a forgotten memory that you’re trying to recall but couldn’t. It should feel wrong, the intimacy of it, that you shouldn’t be the recipient of it. Still, you don’t move your hand away, instead, you scooch closer to the edge of the mattress, closing the distance to make the position more comfortable.
Bobby woke up first that day, his hand still in yours, he didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.
You don’t mention it to him, but he knows that you woke up to see his hand around your own when you kept staring at his palm the whole time. He doesn’t mention it either, it was both a blessing and a curse.
But something is nagging inside your head, like you have forgotten something that you can’t recall. Whatever it is, it eats at you from the inside out.
Synopsis: After days of wandering around, you and Bobby are much closer to the exit than you thought. But something doesn’t want you getting out.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, reader has nicknames, CW blood and injury, CW food mentions, CW unsolicited touching (not from Bobby), CW dark themes. CW recreational drug use. Eventual Bobby romance, slow burn, Part 4 of my Bobby series. Set during the movie (spoilers)
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Bobby Franklin Masterlist
Part 3 <<< Part 4 >>> Part 5
The walls don’t hum here. It doesn’t let out that strange warm frequency that eases you. The walls here are dark with peeling paint. There are faded murals on the walls, some depict child-like story book fantasies, the big bad wolf, little red riding hood, Jack and the beanstalk, and painted woodland creatures all decorate the peeling colourful walls. It’s like you two walked out of the pool rooms and into a foreclosed building that used to be a daycare that now has black mold growing on the walls.
You and Bobby waded through knee deep water for days that drenched your shoes and socks and made you two smell like chlorine like after a day out at the public pool, limbs still wobbly from the waves. The area was almost never ending. You two have lost count of the days spent here, it could just be two or maybe three days, or it could be more than that. You slept on lounge chairs whilst he watched over the perimeter with sunken tired eyes. He always lets you sleep a couple more hours than intended like you do for him, a wordless decision that you both adhere to. The food isn’t as scarce, sometimes they appear out of nowhere, placed by the doorway where you’re about to go through, or bottles of almond water resting beside a sunken beach umbrella. You and Bobby don’t starve nor get thirsty. It’s a mystery that you both stopped questioning.
There were twirly colourful slides that led to somewhere and nowhere that are placed here and there, it’s the one place you and Bobby would never dare go into even if you two are being chased by an entity.
The places you walked through had weird architecture like the yellow offices, stairs leading to nowhere or going down into a void, random platforms, half walls in the middle of a pool, pools with wooden decks, and some had waters as green as algae right next to purple waters. It gave you a headache, but Bobby was enthralled by it, admiring the tiled arches and trippy pools that he muttered to himself about wanting to take pictures of it. You wish your phone still worked so he could take snapshots, you wanted to see how he views the place from his perspective.
Compared to the pool rooms, this place is more akin to reality that it’s incredibly odd. Every step has to be careful so that you don’t accidentally step on shattered glass. And the place is awfully cramped and dirty with scattered broken down furniture and trash. It’s a maze here, you’ve been wandering around with Bobby for an hour or two as the flame on his lighter illuminates the way. Your jeans are still damp from the pools, and he still smells like chlorine, your socks feel disgusting as it squishes with every step.
You’ve stumbled a few times, apparently more than enough times that Bobby has resorted to tugging you to his side and holds onto the hem of your jacket to keep you from face planting on the dirty ground. His warmth beside you is a welcome reprieve from the awful place you two are exploring. Bobby is a good alternative to the warm song of the walls, helping keep your mind quiet.
“Where is that fucking yellow wallpaper. I can’t believe I want to see it again.” He mutters to himself, quiet and yet echoing around the hallway. “This place is fucked, it’s like an old pre-school.”
“Every place here is fucked.” You answer, sniffing the still air that smells perpetually like drying paint. “D’you want to retrace our steps and go back to the pool room?”
Tugging you away from the edge of a random desk in the middle of the corridor, Bobby shakes his head. “No, we’ll get there eventually. I’d rather not go through the demonic doggy door. I swear I heard something move in there.”
“Demonic doggy door?” You stifle a chuckle, swallowing your laughter. The tension between you two still weighs heavy, lingering in the middle like a third person.
“Yeah, that’s what it looked like.” Bobby shines his light into a room, scanning the emptiness before moving forward. He does this unconsciously now, already so used to looking over his shoulder with his head on a swivel and eyes alert. This place has that effect on the ones that wander through its halls. “Have you been anywhere else than the yellow wallpaper rooms?”
“There was one time I fell into a really long hallway with flashing red lights.”
You answer him because you want to mend the heaviness between the two of you. Because you want to do better, just like he said, for the team. Kat’s supposed rescue team, what else is there to rescue when her remains could be scattered around? Maybe her other hand could be laying beside the rubble of this place. It’s horrid to think about her like that, but you can’t help but wonder where the rest of her are. Is it with Clark? Did the pirate eat her? Or worse, there must be a worse fate in this place, you saw it when the wall started absorbing you.
What happened to you in that bathroom doesn’t linger in the pit of your stomach, in fact it opens more questions for you rather than horror when it should be horrifying for you. The arms that held you weren’t human, it was from this world that shouldn’t even exist in the first place. Even though the real person based on him is real and unaware of his copy here. You wonder why the backrooms even made a version of him when he was merely a blip in your life, a brief encounter on a random night. Does everyone who has been in the laundromat have a copy down here? If so, do you have a version of you here? But why would there be a mirror of your grandfather here when he has only existed in your memory?
“A long hallway like this?” Bobby gestures around him using the flame. The fuel is bound to run out, you just hope that you get somewhere lit when it does.
“No, it’s much longer like a never ending hospital hallway, I ran for what seemed to be for hours and there were… things running after me.” Your voice echoes as glass crunches underfoot.
“That sounds fucking great.” Sarcasm rolls off his tongue. “Like paradise, how’d you get out?”
“I just ran.”
Bobby flutters his lips, he seems to be far calmer than usual. Maybe because this place feels much more like reality than the other places you’ve been to. Although a dilapidated reality, it feels real, like if you two could just find the exit sign you’ll get out into the chilly night air and hear cars honking outside. Like a couple of urban explorers, not two people trying to survive the pits of mono yellow hell.
Bobby stops abruptly, and you almost stumble into a fallen shelf. “Like that?” He lifts the light into a room, he probably doesn’t need to when the red light emanating from the singular window on the far wall was enough to illuminate.
Through the glass are trees and even buildings, but instead of sunshine or moonlight, there is only blood red. Crimson skies, red clouds and a reddened sun. Bobby’s face is harsher under the red light, taut, pulled at the edges. Terrified.
Goosebumps rise on your arms. “No, not like that, but it was as red as that.”
“Yeah, fuck that.” His hand curls and uncurls into an unsure fist, a subtle tremble in his finger. Tugging you away, he guides you towards a corner, and you two almost fall into a deep chasm if not for you both holding onto each other. “Holy fuck!” The tips of Bobby’s shoes are on the edge of the void.
“Fuck…” holding onto the side, you peek around, only to see thousands of rooms missing a wall that are all stacked on top of each other, like an apartment building was cleaved into two, leaving a giant hole in the middle. “What now?”
“This place is fucked.” Bobby shudders a breath, shaking his head at the chasm.
You really want to feel the hum rumble through your bones again.
Bobby looks to the left, the chasm is as dim as the rest of the place you walked through, and he had to squint just to see a random set of stairs on his left that is rising up to the ceiling and leading up to a door, looking as if it’s held up by nothing.
“There.” He squeezes your jacket sleeve, taking your attention away from the deep end. “There’s a door up on the ceiling.”
“How do we get up there?” If you could just tilt a little bit forward you’ll fall. But with Bobby holding onto you, you’ll take him down with you. You don’t want that, nor desire that.
“There’s some space to walk on,” he points the light on the wall to his left where a sliver of the floor is there to be walked on. “we just need to hug the wall to get to the stairs.” He gulps down, hands suddenly clammy.
“Please don’t tell me that you’re afraid of heights.”
“I never liked skyscrapers.” Craning his neck, he gives you an apologetic look. “One team, right?”
You nod, moving your hand so you could bracelet around his wrist. Holding his hand feels like a betrayal. “I’m right here. I won’t let you fall. Tit for tat, teammate.” The casualness in your tone eases the tightness around his shoulders, albeit not enough.
“Okay.” Taking a sharp breath, Bobby slowly shimmies on the ledge and with his back sliding against the wall. “I shouldn’t have taken Clark’s money.”
“Keep talking, Bobby. And don’t look down.” You follow closely, squeezing his wrist gently to remind him that you’re still with him. “What did Clark say that was so convincing?” The height gives you vertigo, stomach doing flips.
Bobby breathes hard, heaving and keeping his head held high and his lighter lit. “He said it was for research, that he’ll pay us double.” His foot slips, and you drag him back, an arm over his chest, feeling his heart beat rapidly. “Fuck me!” Bobby instinctively took hold of you, fisting the collar of your jacket. “Shit, I almost—”
“Keep going, you’re doing great.” Patting his heart, Bobby trembles and blindly takes hold of your hand, weaving his fingers around your own out of his own fear.
“I’m sorry, is this okay?” His blue eyes are blown out, panicked, panting and grasping for air.
“Yeah, just keep going.” You reassure him with a small smile and a squeeze. “Tell me something else, nothing that’s related to Clark or this place.”
“Okay, uh…” Bobby slowly starts to move after your gentle coaxing. “Back in high school, I got in trouble for smoking behind the bleachers.”
“You were a real rebel, huh?”
“Not really, I just fucking hate algebra.” He chuckles bitterly, swallowing down the bile rising in his throat when he gets to the foot of the stairs. “I want to go home—fuck!” Yelling, he lets out his frustration out into the void, a hand rubbing at his contorted face. Head turning to you, his sad eyes bring a heart wrenching ache to your chest. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can, Bobby.” Your hand squeezes his once more despite the burn on your palm painfully aching under the bandages. “Come on, you made it this far. Just take one step at a time.”
“When we get out of here…” his eyes scan your face, maybe trying to find an ounce of fear in your expression, but he finds none. You’re acting braver than you are in front of him, but he doesn’t need to know that or need to see it. “I owe you dinner, or maybe a fucking blunt or two from my own stash.”
You can’t help but chortle, the sound dragged down by the void below. “I’ll take both actually.”
“You’re not scared of heights?” His trembling legs betray him as he stands frozen on the spot.
“No, I’m scared of falling. May I?” With a gentle hand, you grasp at his cheek, palm feeling at his sharp edges as you caress his skin gingerly like how one would calm a puppy. Your fingers run over the shell of his ear, jaw loosening, fingers grasping your own, Bobby’s breath staggers in his throat, maybe from your touch or the height, you may never know. “I won’t let you fall, Bobby.”
“That’s j–just another way of saying you’re scared of heights.” And yet the gentle coaxing works as he finds it in himself to lift his foot up on the first step. “Don’t fucking let me fall, hero.”
“I won’t.” If he does, if he missteps or staggers and free falls below, then you’d jump after him, isn’t that what heroes do? You take the lighter from him and light his way so his other hand is free to grasp onto a step. “Go, I’m right behind you.”
“Okay.” Slowly, he turns back to the hanging steps, taking it one second at a time. “Can you t–talk about something?” His legs shake underneath him but he continues, hand still holding onto yours.
“Like what?” You wait behind him patiently, shining the light as close as you could beside him without burning him.
“Anything, you in high school? Were–fuck my life—” he takes a pause to breathe, looking over his shoulder as you nod at him. “Were you in a club?” Bobby continues bravely, almost on all fours as he climbs up.
You’re forced to crouch behind him when he refuses to let go of your hand. “I was in a sewing club.”
“You fucking nerd.” He chuckles breathlessly, a bead of sweat dribbling on his temple that you could see clearly under the flame.
“Well it was the only club that was available when I took too long to choose.” Smiling despite the situation you’ve found yourself into, his nervous laugh got to you. “And my grandfather always said that it’s good to learn how to sew, to make and mend your own clothes.”
“He sounds like a practical man.” Bobby’s hand is clammy around your own, but you don’t mind when you still hold onto him. He doesn’t mention how willing you are to hold him now when you were averting his touch as much as you could before.
“He is.” Was, is, it doesn’t matter now when you’re stuck in this place. “He was one of those guys who thinks the world will end during their time.”
“Shit, like making a bunker type of doomsday prepper?” You two make it halfway there. And if you could just peek over, the vertigo alone will make you fall down.
“Kind of.” Your smile wavers at the conversation. “He liked to get away and not be cooped up underground.” His sailboat was his bunker, the words get stuck in your throat. “Anyway, we’re almost there, Bobby, keep going.”
Taking a breather, his forehead rests atop his arm and over a step. “Fuck me.” His unsteady palm meets the steady stair and bravely continues on. “W—were you in a clique back then? I could see you with the band nerds.”
You chortle under your breath, arm aching from the prolonged position. “No, I was mostly bouncing around different friend groups. Do I seem like the type to be in a band?”
“Yeah, l–like a xylophone player or a trumpet.” Voice croaking, Bobby inhales and exhales through his mouth.
“Just a few more steps.” Your thumb over the back of his hand kneads tenderly. “I’m flattered but I don’t even know how to play an instrument, any kind for that matter. I always wanted to learn though.”
“I can play the guitar!” He didn’t mean to exclaim but he was so surprised by finally making it to the top step, he had to let it out. His hand presses against the wood of the door, smiling up at it like a madman. “Holy fuck, we made it.”
You grin, for the first time in a long time, you smile widely, a genuine one, a wholehearted smile that when Bobby turns around to face you, he catches it too and a mirrored grin spreads across his handsome face. It’s a lopsided smile, deeply endearing that makes you smile even more, eyes crinkling in the corners, proud of him.
“You did it, Bobby.”
“Yeah, when we get out of here I’m teaching you how to play the guitar.”
“You have to push open the door first, Jimi Hendrix.”
“Now that’s a great fucking compliment.” With a wobbly smile, he pushes the door open, it falls from its hinges and clatters to the ground next to it as the yellow tinted lights shine down upon the two of you. “Fucking lucky.” Bobby’s face is illuminated, giving you a full view of his relieved expression.
He never thought smelling damp carpet and hearing the annoying droning of the lights would bring a smile to his face.
The song in the walls greets you in that familiar dissonance. It slithers up your spine and around your chest, holding you in its warmth like a man dying of thirst who finally found an oasis. It welcomes you back.
He lets go of your hand briefly to climb up, not missing a beat to immediately help you up the ledge with the same hand. His arms take hold of you, a half embrace, patting your back with bone crushing relief.
“You good, Bobby?” You’re in slight shock from the sudden embrace.
Nodding, his body still trembles from the aftershocks of his fear. “We’re never doing that again.”
“No arguments here.” You’re helped up by your feet, and he’s so close to you that you could smell the chlorine on his skin, that you could see your own reflection in his blue eyes like you’re drifting aimlessly on the surface of the water. You give him a faltering smile before moving away from his warmth.
As Bobby shuts the door so you don’t fall in, you freeze in place. It’s not the familiar yellow wallpaper or the hum that makes your limbs still, it’s what’s in front of you.
“Bobby?” His name twists around your tongue.
“Yeah?” You could still hear the smile on his face from his tone. “You hungry? I’m kind of hungry after that—” his shuddered breath rattles your ribcage. “— what the fuck.”
There, right in the middle of the room are telephone poles lined in a sequence, each sinking into the carpet. But it’s not the poles that strike right at your companion’s heart, it’s the posters nailed right on the wood. It’s all placed on each telephone pole, printed in black and white, a xerox copy of the original— his own missing poster.
Bobby takes a tentative step forward, eyes never leaving the poster. The pads of his fingers glide along the paper, tracing the words on it, tracing his own face then Kat’s printed face.
Grief cripples, it’s apparent on his face. But hope keeps you upright, helps you see and feel so much when that hope pops like a balloon and decays like a rotten fruit in your mouth when the bitter end comes, it kills. That’s what you’re giving him, false hope. It’s a noose that is slowly tightening around your neck. Hope could kill, it just delays the inevitable. You’re delaying the inevitable in hopes of Bobby getting out of here before the truth comes out. You don’t even need to get out with him, you could stay trapped here or die trying. You just want him to survive, for you to actually make all that fighting worth something. An equivalent exchange.
You stare at the posters, lips quivering when your eyes glances at her picture, then over to his photo, they’re both smiling, despite where their picture is printed on. You almost crumble, for Bobby and his loss, and for Kat, a young life lost.
Someone reported them missing, someone remembered them and cared enough to put those posters up. Maybe on the surface, in real life, there are telephone poles with the exact missing posters containing the same faces and same information right on the blanched paper. Or maybe this is the backrooms playing you for a fool when you have no one out there that would do this for you. No one to report you missing, no one to notice your absence or to look at their side and think that something is missing.
“At least they got my information right.” Bobby’s voice cuts through the silence. He breathes her name, quiet, guilty, grieving. He said it quietly, and yet loud in your ears. Sighing, he clears his throat, clammy hands shoved in his pockets. “I look good for a missing person…”
“Now who’s emotionally constipated?” You attempt at a joke, smile wavering, unsure how to talk to him about what lies ahead. This must feel like seeing your own gravestone right in front of you. “Are you okay, Bobby?”
“Yeah, I uh,” he sucks in his teeth, shaking his head and shuffling his feet with unease. “I think my mom did this. She would–she would remember.” She would notice him gone. Someone is waiting for him on the other side, a loved one that would be devastated if Bobby never gets back home.
“I’ll get you back home to her.” You utter determinedly, even though you could hardly believe it yourself.
“Fuck, what do I tell her?” There’s a sullen edge to his tone that you’re awfully familiar with. You’ve heard this in group therapies where you never spoke a word even after gentle coaxing, even after all the eyes land on you. “What do I tell Kat’s parents?” There were people waiting for her as well, and they’ll never see her again, they’ll never hear her voice again. It cuts you more than the razor ever did. “They never liked me but—that’s fucking understandable.”
“Bobby, I—”
He turns on his heel and looks at you with an undistinguishable expression, his hand twitches like he’s about to reach for you, but decides not to.
“D’you want to smoke with me?”
—
You and Bobby walk around the yellow wallpaper corridors, it still reeks of the same damp carpets that lingers in the back of your throat but it’s a more familiar scent that shouldn’t make you feel like it should be comforting but it does. And so does the hum, that soft timbre rolling around in the walls, calling for you to press your ear against it like before. But after you felt the walls curl around your skin, trying to absorb you into the sea of yellow, you resist the call.
The lights above hum in that same dissonance, that flat fluorescent drone, a prickly sound akin to crickets singing in the summer heat at night. It turns into mere background noise the longer you hear it. Bobby seems to feel the same way when he walks around the weird hallways with you side by side. He keeps his hands inside his pockets, back slightly hunched, an invisible heaviness lingering between his shoulder blades. His midriff is showing between the fabric of his white crop top and the jean shorts, hip bones catching the light, lighting him in that sickly yellow.
Bobby doesn’t look the same when you first met him, he’s missing his camera that you know he misses the heaviness of it in his hand. The gaze through the lenses, a shield between him and reality is no longer there, and he is forced to face what’s in front of him, to truly see reality with his own eyes.
His blue eyes are duller, you’ve noticed it ever since you both fell into the pool, it still has that spark but it doesn’t shine the same when you saw him in that corridor. His sharp edges are sharper, more intense, even though he eats enough, maybe it’s the stress wearing him thin.
“When you asked to smoke with me, what do you mean exactly?” You ask tentatively, too afraid to breach through the silence. “What are we even looking for?”
“Here.” He stops in front of a pair of double doors with a low slope leading to it. It descends downwards, and the similar sight doesn’t escape him. “This could be it. Somewhere we can relax.”
“Bobby, we’re supposed to be looking for the outpost.” You tell him calmly, brows knitted in worry.
“We are.” He’s already sliding down, keeping himself steady with his hands on each side of the wall. The previous slope he encountered was deep and descends into darkness, this one doesn’t look like that as he could see light filter through the crack under the doors. “I just— just need a fucking break.”
“Hold on, Bobby, we should be careful—”
He throws caution into the wind as he shoulders the door open. Nothing attacks him or yanks him into the room, instead, he opens the door wider, and what greets you inside makes you raise your brows.
Rows upon rows of velvet lined seats are inside, all perfectly lined up as the warm yellow light shines up front. Bobby opens the door even wider, and you both see a lit theater stage complete with an orchestra pit and those familiar red velvet curtains.
Bobby whistles lowly, the sound carries into the expansive room. “C’mon.” He simply coaxes you in, a hand reaching for you whilst the other holds the door open. “It looks like it’s safe.” Fingers flexing, head tilting, he huffs out a breath. “Please, hero, I know you need the rest too.”
“Fine,” your hand slides over to his palm, warm, smooth, with the pads of his fingertips calloused from years of playing the guitar. Now you know the reason. “But only because you asked nicely.”
“See how far being nice gets you?” His gentle hold helps you slide down the slope whilst he keeps an eye on your back, watching out for any malignant entities. That has become a recent habit of his.
“I could be nice.” Letting out a strained breath, you make it inside and Bobby follows behind, shutting the door closed with a click.
“Only sometimes,” he walks ahead, eyes roaming around the large room, from the wooden rafters above to the fine filigree decorated around the stage. His voice echoes around the empty space, it’s like you two snuck into the theater at the dead of night just to make out. “Come on, let’s find our seat.”
“Remember when you said you’re going insane?” You watch at the edge of the seats as he shimmies into a row like how one would at a packed movie theater. “I’m starting to think that you are.”
“Don’t be a party pooper.” Scoffing a laugh, he pulls the seat down and plops himself onto the plush cushion before doing the same to the one beside him and patting the seat for you. “Saved you a seat.”
“How did you even know about this place?”
“I didn’t.” Shrugging, he huffs, head turning around the silent theater. “I just had a feeling. This place…fucks you up. Nothing makes sense, up isn’t up and down isn’t down, it’s instinct and trusting your gut that makes more sense to follow. So, I don’t know, hero, I just felt that this place is safe.”
Maybe that’s how you thought the sailboat room was safe, a gut instinct, something inherently natural to humans to feel if a place is a safe haven or not. Or maybe this place just heard his wants and gave him a room to rest in, like how you wanted water and you fell into one. You’re probably truly insane if you think that the backrooms are granting your wishes.
Sighing, you relent and follow him. After dredging knee deep pool waters to walking through hazards and osha violations, the theater room is a nice reprieve. It’s beautiful in a way, like staring at an empty backyard at night where the moonlight shines on the bushes and you could only hear the scampering of little critters hidden behind it. It’s creepy, yet it gives off the same feeling as walking around a school at night where you’re used to seeing a lot of people and instead you just see empty classrooms and dark corridors. You expect some noise, like someone practicing on stage where their footfalls clatter on the hardwood floors, or a violinist tuning their instrument’s strings. But it’s as quiet as the rest of the places you’ve been through.
Yet the hum is much stronger here. More persistent. You would press your head against the velvet walls but you use the sight of Bobby as your guide, keeping your eyes on him and giving him your full attention, it helps in ignoring the song of the walls.
He pats the seat again when you reach his side, feeling your apprehensiveness. “It’s not going to eat you.”
“What if there’s something lurking in here too?” You look down at him worriedly, seeing the warm golden light illuminate the side of his face, exacerbating the dark circles underneath his eyes. “Like last time?” Your voice drops a timbre, the pads of your fingers grasping at your neck that is slowly scabbing over after your nails broke skin.
“Then we run or I beat the shit out of it like the one before it.” Bobby swallows thickly, patting the seat again. His eyes pleads, he needs this.
“Okay, just a few minutes.” Nodding, you sit down beside him, the chair creaks under you, and it gives off that unmistakable squeak at the hinges as you sit back and the seat tilts back from the movement. “What now— what the fuck?”
“What?” He chortles, looking at you through his lashes when he has procured a rolled up joint from his pockets, there’s a ziplock on his lap containing a couple more inside. “Are you a goody two shoes like I thought?”
You roll your eyes, lift a leg up over the other as you shake your head. “I’m just confused, you had that the whole time?”
“Yeah,” shrugging, he places it in between his lips. The lighter clicks as sparks fly against his face, lighting him up in warmer light. “It got wet when we took a swim, but…” he manages to light it when the flames finally billow out from the lighter. “Thankfully it’s in a ziplock bag.” Taking a long drag, wispy smoke dancing in the air, and filling it with the unmistakable earthy smell, his shoulders relax and he reclines back, keeping it in for a moment before exhaling. Bobby moves his hand over to you casually with the joint tucked in between his index and thumb. “Do you want one? No peer pressure trust me, I’d like it more if I have it all to myself.”
“How generous.” A laugh escapes from your huff, rolling your eyes as you flutter your lips. Weighing your options, you suck in a breath. “You know what, fuck it.” Biting your lip, you look around you, watching for the tell tale signs of an entity keeping watch, you find none. So you take it, your fingers brushing along his warm hand.
“Atta girl.” His legs perches up on the seats in front of him, one foot over the other comfortably, completely relaxed.
You place it between your lips, tasting him accidentally, the taste of the sweetened almond water hits your tongue first before the smoke does. You let both linger, the earthy smoke that is slightly sweet hitting the back of your throat. Taking a long drag, you feel his eyes on the side of your face.
Bobby whistles lowly, chuckling and smiling at you. “Not a goody two shoes like I thought. Don’t fucking hog it all.”
Your eyes flick at him, glimmering under the light as you exhale. You feel the fuzzy feeling wrap around your skull, tugging at the back of your head, but it doesn’t hit as well as the ones back home.
“I didn’t know you smoke.” Bobby licks his lips, mouth already turning dry.
You hand the joint back to him and he hums in thanks before taking a puff, exhaling out spheres of smoke into the air. “It helps.” You don’t need to elaborate when he knows perfectly well what it means. “You?”
“High school, junior year was hard for me.” He gives it back to you lazily as he rolls his shoulders and completely sinks in his seat.
“Yeah, high school is either a shit time for someone or the best time of their life.” You take a quick puff as the burn settles on the roof of your mouth, nose filling with the earthy scent. “There’s no in between.”
He scoffs out a laugh as you pass the joint over to him. “I think I fit in the ‘in between’ category. It was good until it wasn’t. D’you think we would be friends back then?”
“Probably not.” Shaking your head, you see him stare at you in your peripheral. When you turn to look back, he’s already looking away.
His tongue flicks over his lips, eyes staring at the empty stage. “Have you ever seen a play? Like a real one, with a big production, not the ones made by theater kids at school.”
“Like Broadway type?” He hums in reply, taking a long drag before passing it to you. And you could see it in his eyes how much it’s melting all his worries away, for now at least. He lets the smoke settle on his tongue, letting it singe his insides before exhaling out. “No, I wish I had.”
His neck cranes to you, eyes half lidded, giving you a strange look. “I’ve got a confession to make.”
“Okay…” you chortle atop the joint, inhaling and exhaling. You feel the slight tug at the back of your head, that warm lazy feeling encompassing you enough to dull your instincts and send tingles through your body. “I’m not a priest but okay.”
“Obviously you’re not.” Bobby snorts, chuckling deeply, a rumble in his throat as he rubs his clammy palms on his jean shorts. Your brow rises to your forehead. “I mean it as a compliment. You’re too pretty to be one.”
“Fuck,” you scoff out a laugh. “so you’re flirty when you get high.”
Bobby snatches it from your hands, his touch searing hot, hotter than before. “Shut up, I’ve got a fucking confession and who knows if we’ll get out of here.” His head tilts back against the plush seat like it’s heavier than usual. He smiles lopsidedly, the same smile you briefly saw before he saw the missing poster. He takes a long drag, smoke coming out in puffs between his lips.
“We’ll get out of here but go on.” He’ll get out of here. Your eyes drag along his jaw as it flexes with an inhale and exhale.
“Your optimism fucking scares me, hero, but, confession.” Looking at you through his lashes, he uses the joint between his fingers to point at you for emphasis whilst he leans on the armrest to get closer to you. “I’ve always wanted to be a director, like for films and shit. And I thought the theater plays were just a cheap shit copy of cinema until my mom got me and…” he blinks, licking his lips before continuing on. “...she got me tickets for my birthday to see fucking Phantom of the Opera and it was…” he takes another drag, head lolling back to exhale the smoke away from your face, neck flexing, the light catching it. “...it was fucking great. I missed out on good shit because I thought theater was for nerds.” The buzz has completely melted him. Turning back to you, he has a lazy, comfortable smile. “So, when we get out of here we’ll watch a show, whatever you want, Cats or fucking Rocky Horror Show, your pick, hero. My thanks for saving my ass.”
“You’ve got a lot of promises for me, Bobby.” You say warmly, leaning close, head tilted with a gentle smile. And mouth filled with cotton. “First it was the guitar lessons, now a show.”
He shrugs, finally giving you the rest of the joint, his touch lingering a second more. “I just want to show you what you would’ve missed if you…” he pauses, a weighted gaze on you as he smiles tenderly. “...it’s my way of being nice, okay? Don’t read too much into it, dude.” Leaning back into his seat, his cheeks are flushed warm, inflated before letting out the air. “It would be great if a show suddenly played here right now!”
His sudden scream makes you jump in your seat, heart thudding, a hand instinctively holding onto his arm. “Fucking hell, Bobby.” You look around you, scanning the area for threats, you find the place as empty as before.
“What?” He laughs, a true guffaw that echoes as he grins. “It was worth a shot.”
You shake your head at him with a subtle smile. “I’ve got a question.” Leaning back, you finish the rest of it as the aftertaste lingers in the back of your throat, the buzz giving you a hazy feeling, like you’re in between dreaming and wakefulness. Bobby makes a finger gun gesture at you, eyes still looking forward at the stage as if actors in costumes would suddenly appear. “Bobby, were you getting high this whole time? Is that why you’re so relaxed?”
He slowly faces you, nose scrunched, puffing out a laugh. “Fuck you, no.” Turning his head away, he sniffs, a hand squeezing his nose before his palm hits his lap with a soft thud. “Twice, when you woke up in the boat and we talked about the fake stars. Then at the pool before…when I was swimming and you got all…” his fingers wiggle around in front of him, “y’know. Sobered up real quick when you screamed my name though.”
You just stare at the side of his face, features softer under the warm yellow light, softer when his guilt marrs his expression. “Fuck, Bobby…”
“I know, I shouldn’t, but…” his fingers play at the plastic on his lap, dragging his thumb and index right at the seam. “it’s fucked. I know it is.”
“Yeah, I don’t blame you.” The ash falls from the paper and right onto your jeans, leaking warmth onto the skin underneath. You flick the rest of the ash away and stamp out the flames right on the arm rest and toss it into the cup holder. “Just don’t do it again until you know that we’re in a place that’s completely safe. And yes I’m being hypocritical right now for saying it but— fucking whatever.” Fingers kneading at the space between your brows, you feel the buzz right there.
A moment passes and he stays silent, his blue eyes that seem to glow even bluer against the red velvet seats glances at you every so often, gauging out your emotions without the comfort of a camera lens in his hand.
When you hear the familiar slosh of water against a plastic bottle, you turn to him as he passes you the rest of the almond water. “You hungry?”
“A little.” Taking the bottle, you watch him rummage through the backpack, cans and plastic bags clinking against each other. “Your weed is weak as shit, Bobby.”
“Oh fuck off.” A laugh escapes him. “If this is weak to you then what do you smoke, fucking meth?”
You laugh, a sound lingering in the room that has good acoustics for something that shouldn’t exist in the first place. Bobby gives you a look that you’re not privy to before taking out a small bag of potato chips you two found atop a solid beach ball. “No, fucking hell, no, that’s horrible. What do you take me for?”
He opens the bag and the scent of sour cream and onions fill the room amidst the lingering earth scent. “A survivalist whom I thought was a goody two shoes. Turns out you’re as bad as me, hero.” Shaking the bag, he offers it to you first as you dig your hand in, getting a couple of chips.
“Okay, Robert Franklin.”
“Fuck, you saw that?” His reddened eyes widen, taken aback.
“Yeah, Robert Franklin,” you say his name with a giggle, chin atop your palm as you pop the chips in your mouth. It tastes exactly the same, except for the old aftertaste. “sounds like a politician’s name.”
“Yeah, that’s why I go by Bobby.”
“It’s better honestly.” The chips crunches in your mouth, chewing and letting the taste settle beside the lingering burning taste. “Like a jolly baby boy’s name.”
Bobby almost chokes on a chip, chuckling and patting his chest. “Fuck you.”
“What do you want to be when you grow up, little Bobby?” Teasing, you nudge his elbow and he makes a face, nose scrunched, shoveling more chips in his mouth when the retort he has in mind short circuits. “Were you a newspaper boy, Bobby? Just doing rounds on your little bike with a bell all over the neighborhood?”
Snatching the almond water from you, Bobby chews loudly to annoy you. But it only makes your grin wider, a laugh in your throat. “Shut up, no I wasn’t.” He chugs the water before facing you with what he probably thinks is an intimidating look. You only smile at him wholeheartedly, endeared. “What do you want to be when you grow up, huh? ‘Ms. Sewing club president.’”
“I wasn’t the club president, I was actually shit at sewing.” Your eyes turn at your lap, downcast as the smile faints, and yet the softness stays. “I don’t know actually. I never thought I’d live this long to be honest.”
Bobby’s breath hitches in his throat, wiping the trickling water from his chin with his shirt, he looks at you solemnly. You expect him to say sorry, for him to pity you or say the same words you’ve heard from people who don’t know how but tries to anyway just to say something or to try to make it all better. Instead, he takes your hand on your lap, a hand so gentle you didn’t register the touch right away as he envelopes his fingers around your palm.
“When we get out of here,” His voice lowers, a mere whisper just for your ears as he ducks down to meet with your eyes. Your vision is filled with blue, his blue eyes, Bobby blue. “we’ll figure out what you want to do. I promise you.”
“What if I never figure it out?”
He shrugs, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Then we’re stuck together until you do, sorry.” It’s a halfhearted apology, and yet it’s better than a whole one. “Together, we’ll figure it out together, hero.”
Your brows fold together, lips wobbling. “Why?” Why help, why me, why do this for me?
“Because you deserve to live too.”
Your eyes search those brilliant blue eyes for a lie, a tease, an untruthful thing tucked in his irises that intends to hurt. Something that says, ‘I’m only saying this to you because I don’t want you to leave and fend for myself.’ or, ‘because I can, not because I want to.’ And yet you only find truthfulness in his eyes, he truly believes that you deserve it, to live for yourself not just for others, not just for him.
It’s one thing to die for someone, it’s heroic. But living, staying alive for someone is for yourself too. And it’s just as heroic. Staying alive despite everything is heroic.
“So three things now,” his hand squeezes you once, clearing his throat as his breath trembles. “three things I promise to do with you.” Bobby laughs nervously.
“Les Misérables.”
“What?”
You squeeze him back, it sends shockwaves through his arm. “That’s the show I want to watch with you when we get out of here.”
The grin spreading across his face lights up your vision like how the sun would.
—
“You good?” He asks, a hand clasped around your own unabashedly. You don’t know why he’s holding onto you, maybe he’s still wobbly from the joint you two shared, or he fears that you’ll get taken right from his side. Either way, you let him.
“Yep.” You pop the letter ‘p’ in your mouth as the sound bounces off the yellow wallpaper. You’re nervous as you feel his warmth right on your palm, like clasping onto a lit light bulb, warm and light at the same time. “Bobby?”
“Yeah?” His eyes wander around the corridor before taking a turn to the right, randomly choosing the path for the two of you for a while now.
“Why are you holding my hand right now?”
“Sorry.” Flinching, Bobby’s fingers release you. “Sorry, it’s just when we stopped by that weird room with the square pitfalls, I— nothing, I forgot to unhand you.”
“It’s okay.” You smile at him, the lights above flicker in and out before steadying. “I understand.” Holding out your hand to his side, pinky brushing along his palm, you invite him. “May I? If it helps you calm down.”
Bobby lets out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding before taking your hand again on his own. His hold has more thought put into it, tender yet filled with trepidation. “Yeah, sorry I’m being such a little bitch right now.”
“Maybe we should hold off from smoking before exploring.”
“I took a nap and I thought that was enough.” He shakes his head rapidly, trying to shake off the haze over his eyes. “Why aren’t you all antsy?”
“I told you, your weed is weak as shit, Bobby—” something catches your attention. A scent, something so familiar, that old laundry smell that sticks in the back of your nose. You know it too well when you spent days in that room just listening to the hum in the walls.
Bobby stops abruptly when you freeze on the spot and the intertwined hands hang in between the two of you. “What? You’re doing that thousand yard stare again.”
“Can you smell that?” Your eyes flick to his blue ones.
Bobby takes a whiff of the air around him, head tilted up, nose up. “Like cat piss?”
“I think that’s just the carpet…” mumbling, you use your nose to find the room. You turn a corner, leading Bobby this time around, hand in hand.
“Hero, what are you doing?” He chuckles nervously, letting you guide him through different corridors.
“I think I know this place.” Your hand brushes along the wall, and right beside it is a washing machine dial embedded into the wallpaper. The hum entices you, but Bobby’s hand on yours ground you to reality.
“What?”
“Follow me.” With quicker strides, you walk past rooms that are quite familiar to you, like you saw it in a dream once, too foggy and blurry at the edges, but you know you saw it even when the adrenaline inside your veins were helping you run.
Bobby follows behind, head on a swivel, keeping watch for the both of you. His thumb brushes along the back of your hand, making your mind stutter as you pause in the middle of a junction.
Taking a deep breath, a hand running along the wall, you see it, a ship’s wheel stuck into a wall.
“We’re close.” Muttering, you concentrate on finding your way.
Peter was right, it’s a directionless place. There are doors leading to another wall, windows with no glass, just a wooden frame sinking into the wall. You got lost once and had to turn back, somehow, the hum quiets down for you, refusing to help you unlike before when it warned you or helped you find a way to get away.
It refuses to help you leave this place.
“Holy fuck.” Your breath hitches in your throat when the smell grows stronger when you find a crevice in between two walls where the lights are brighter on the other side. If you squint you could just see it— the radio.
Bobby tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. “What is it?”
“I think you need glasses, Bobby.” You laugh victoriously, tugging him into the sliver of space tucked in between. “Come on.”
“Don’t be a cryptic motherfucker.” He chuckles back, albeit wobbly. “Seriously, are you gonna kill me here? Are you trying to find a torture chamber?”
“Bobby,” you turn to him, body already shimmying into the niche. Your smile makes him more confused. “Lay off the weed for a bit, yeah? It makes you anxious.”
“No, this place makes me anxious. Weed makes me flirty and horn— fuck, is that what I think it is?” The hand around your own trembles as he laughs. “You did it. I can’t— you really are a hero, hero.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Bobby.”
The two of you move in tandem, carefully shimmying, clothes rustling, backs dragging along the wall from the tight squeeze.
You bolt from the walls immediately after getting out, already reaching for the radio. Bobby stands beside you, marveling at the technology and equipment left by the researchers.
“Async.” Bobby reads out loud, he finds a clipboard filled with documents on it whilst you calibrate the radio frequency. “Almost everything on here has been redacted. Not the government my ass.”
“Hello?” There’s an electric buzz on the other side, the radio in your hand is heavy, all metal as you wet your dry lips. “We need help.” Bobby has his full attention on you now, breathing heavily, unease mar his features whilst his head is on a swivel. “Please, if someone’s listening we need help.” Your voice catches at the edges, eyes glancing at Bobby. “There’s two of us, I— Peter Tench sent us. He’s alive, he told us to find a radio, an outpost. Please respond, tell us how to leave, or fucking get us out of here.” There’s only static. “Hello?”
You let go of the button, more electric buzz, more hum, nothing.
Bobby snatches the radio from you, pressing the button as he curses them out. “We’ve been stuck here for fucking days, I know you’re listening, you fucking cu—”
You tug at Bobby’s sleeve, looking directly at the wooden wall that you broke once upon a time. The wood is all patched up, replaced with another slab of plywood. The radio is worthless when just beyond that door is the ceiling you came from. You’ve been too hyperfixated on the radio that you forgot that the exit is nearby.
This place is directionless, this place makes your memory foggy, blurred, like a dream you have forgotten once you wake up. But your sense of smell is a powerful reminder of a memory. Like your mother’s perfume, the smell of freshly baked cookies from your childhood, the scent of salty air, and Bobby’s cologne.
“What, hero?” He clicks his tongue, pausing from hurling all the curses he knows at the radio.
You’re taking the hammer from your belt, weighing it in your hand when you lift it above your head and smash the plywood.
“Fuck!” Bobby shrieks in shock.
Just like last time, you let everything out with every hit of your hammer. Shards of splintered wood rain down upon you, some landing on your hair, a few caught in the fabric of your jacket. Yet you continue on despite a shard coming too close to your eye.
Heaving, you make a big enough hole to go through. You slowly turn to Bobby, panting with a wide grin. “Leave the radio, I found the exit.”
Bobby blinks at you like you grew two heads.
“That’s the same radio I found, Bobby.” You step through the hole and gesture around you. “And this is the same place I walked through to get here.”
Realization flickers on his face. “You mean—?”
“You wanna get out of here and watch Les Misérables with me?” Holding out your hand through the broken down wall, you smile at him, a genuine warm smile that you haven’t seen on yourself in years.
“Yeah.” Is all he could say when his mind rushes a thousand miles per hour. Bobby takes your hand, fingers slightly trembling as you pull him through. “We’re going home?” There’s a childlike disbelief in his tone and expression.
“Yeah, Bobby, we’re getting out of here.” With his hand in yours, you guide him through the room.
The black sludge is still on the floor, this time it has numerous shoe footprints on the muck, as if a group of people passed by here. Judging from the repaired wall, it seems that’s the case. The camera is still on the wall, pointed right at a lifesized caveman cardboard cutout, or what’s left of it on the floor when it has been ripped to shreds with its speakers broken and shattered by your feet.
Bobby carefully jumps over the sludge when you just walk through it, leaving your own footprints on the carpet.
“What’s that?” He points at a space in the wall with a piece of it propped up beside the entrance. “Are those hangers?”
“Yeah, that’s the long way, let’s not go there.” You continue to lead him and the relief that washes over you is palpable when you see the dangling climbing rope you dropped through the ceiling. “I can’t believe it.”
“Is that where you came from?” Bobby’s voice trumps over the incessant drone of the fluorescent lights. Head tilted up, he grimaces at the scent of the laundry pile.
“Yeah, come on.” You’re practically bouncing on your feet, tugging him towards the rope. You could already feel the cold chilly air through the ceiling. You’re one climb away from home. The dangling rope doesn’t make you scratch at your neck until it bleeds, nor turn your limbs numb. The sight of it, especially with Bobby beside you brings you hope. You made it, you saved a life. “You go first.”
“No, you first.” Bobby squeezes your hand, taking your attention away from the ceiling. “I’ll help you climb up.”
“I thought you’d be eager to go first.”
“What can I say, I’m a changed man.” Sending you a wink, you both climb up the hill of clothes, helping each other as you two go up. You could feel him tremble with tamped down excitement as you put your hands on the rope, foot in the footholds and start to climb up. “Careful.” His palm is on the small of your back, warmth felt through your jacket, then hovering under you when you’re nearly up the rope. “You got it?” Bobby readies to climb up.
“Yeah.” Smiling widely, your hand is mere inches away from the ceiling when you hear it— the rustling, that fabric shifting against the other. The familiar shuffling that turns your head from calm to flight. You pause, watching the hallway you two came from.
There’s a shadow, a lumbering form. And it shuffles closer to you.
Bobby is saying your name, tugging at the rope for you to wake up from your stupor. “Hero— fuck!” He’s climbing up with you and you jolt awake, fingers tingling, chest heaving. “Go! Fucking go!” He’s halfway up, head turning back and forth from the shadow and over to you.
“Fuck!” You reach up to leave, and you hit a solid ceiling.
Dread washes over you like the tides on the beach.
“What are you doing? Go!” Bobby holds onto your ankle, he turns frantic, panicked when the sound grows closer. The shuffling, the rustle sends your whole body into an unsteady shudder.
Your palm meets the smooth ceiling tile. Over and over again, you feel how solid it is against your hand.
Panic sets behind your ribcage. Slithering up your heart as it pinches and squeezes, trying to burst open your hammering heart.
Patting it wildly, your hand doesn’t go through, no phasing through.
You scream in despair, accidentally punching a hole right through the ceiling where the ventilation is supposed to be when there is only darkness behind it. A sliver of space for the lights that goes on for miles, the plenum where there are no wires connecting each light, no source of electricity. And most importantly, no laundry shop, no familiar smell of detergent, and no chilly air. No threshold. No reality.
It’s closed.
Your way out is closed. You’re locked out of reality.
“Fuck!” You cry, forehead pressed against the rough rope.
“Why—” Bobby croaks out, still clinging to the rope, still clinging to hope. He calls your name, body trembling as a stuttered breath leaves his lips.
You look at him and it’s enough to shatter his hope.
“We need to go.” He completely lets go of the hope of reaching home. Scrambling down the rope, Bobby panics, movements too frantic as his foot gets stuck on the footholds just like you had.
“Bobby!” The rustling grows nearer, you’re afraid to look.
Bobby falls backwards, flailing and trying to stay upright as he dangles above the pile of clothes. His shirt is hitched to his chest from gravity pulling at it, muscles straining and taut. He turns to the sound, he didn’t mean to, he’s just as afraid to look, or maybe his morbid curiosity made him look.
The rope dangles from side to side, it turns towards the rustling, and upside down he sees— you.
Not the you he knows, with those guarded smiles and uneasy hands. Eyes looking at his forehead whilst you pretended to look into his own, he always noticed it, but he never said anything because saying it opens something that he’s afraid he can never close. Bobby pries, but he doesn’t force it out when he knows it would be harder to close, breaking what is already built between you. You’re alive and that’s what matters to him because you fought against yourself, you fought to stay in this world and he’s glad that you did because he met you. You’ve become an invaluable friend, a companion in this hell, he found himself caring for you, a fondness. But as he stares at this version of you, he’s terrified beyond belief, not the calm and ease he feels when he is around you.
This you is mangled, damp, dead.
And you just entered its home.
“Wh–what the fuck!” Bobby shrieks, trying to fold himself to pull his foot out of the footholds. “Hero!”
He calls for you, asking for an ounce of hope that once slithered in his chest. But the look on your face dashes whatever is left, you freeze, completely still on the spot, like a vine curled around a rope, dangling there, moving as the rope moves, getting carried by the wind. You look at the entity like you’re looking at your own tomb.
Emptiness, dread, grief, you stare at yourself, a ghost of what could’ve been, of what you might’ve ended up as. It’s not like pirate Clark with its large form and gangly arms, this you is much more akin to real life. Whereas the pirate came from your nightmares, this came from the past.
The entity’s head is hanging from its broken neck, looking at you upside down as the head hits its chest with every movement. The neck is twisted and marred, skin folded atop the other. And it wears your face, not a memory of your face that’s all wrong, or a photograph of you whilst you moved mid shutter. No, this is undoubtedly you, a face that is contorted into sheer agony, a hurt that you are familiar with.
Lines of red rope are tied around its arms, sporting the same flowery bomber jacket that rustles and shuffles, and underneath is a pair of swim shorts and a rash guard, the same one you wore that day, a blue one, the same shade as his eyes. Its hair is damp, perpetually wet as it clings to its dangling face and chest with its slouched shoulders.
It doesn’t speak, it doesn’t make a sound other than the rustling, even the footsteps are silent, almost afraid of being perceived.
One thing breaks through your mind, a thought— you bore this being, you made it exist, and you believe that you did, that you made it so, and it has been hunting you ever since you fell in this place. It waited for the right time, watched you with its reddened eyes, always around a corner that you didn’t take, behind a wall that you didn’t press your ear to, always there, like a ghost that haunts every room you are in.
It’s a distorted mirror of you.
Your name echoes around you as the lights flicker in and out. Bobby grasps at your ankle, his warm clammy hand clawing at your skin. The hum is stronger, a tug at your sternum as it sings at a higher dissonance akin to an alarm. It wakes you, it screams, it tells you to run.
The entity’s hand reaches for Bobby’s face, its body half climbing up the mountain of fabric like a spider on wet tiles, trying to find steady ground as its fingers curl in and out around itself, trying to grasp at your companion, your friend.
If this is the end, Bobby will forgive you.
So you jump from the rope, arms wide, landing right on its back, and taking it down with you.
Your body sinks down onto the pile of clothes, dragging you down along with it like quicksand. The more you struggle the further you sink.
Bobby screams for you on the surface, and you feel its arms wrap around you.
It embraces you like the one before it, trying to take your warmth as the smell of mold encompasses you, scampering into your nose as the acrid smell suffocates you. Its palm grasps at your face, long nails digging in, its fingers are unnaturally long, oddly long as it holds your entire face, and you see in between its fingers as Bobby falls from the rope harshly, landing on his shoulder. He groans, the sound barely heard from the fabric in your ears.
He screams your name with a desperation that curdles the words on his tongue. clawing his way to you, digging desperately.
His frantic blue eyes are what’s left of the surface as you see it in between cottons and polyester.
You don’t thrash around when any movement makes you sink even deeper, eyes wide, begging for Bobby to leave you behind and run. You granted him time, and he’s wasting it all to save you.
Light breaks through, and his hand reaches for you to take.
Bobby looks at you like you’re worth saving.
So you reach up, the pads of your fingers grazing his own, a mere brush against his calloused fingertips. Still, you sink further and further, the mountain of clothes burying you alive, the stench of sweat and grime suffocating you like the hand atop your face. The entity drags you down, enveloping your whole form as you feel its arms and legs wrap around you, if it wasn’t sinister, it would’ve been comforting, a shield against the world, a hug from yourself.
You scream Bobby’s name, trying to extend your hand as far as you could but he’s getting farther away from you, like looking up from inside a deep dark well that has the lingering stench of rot.
Bobby, your hero Bobby, jumps after you. Why would he? He could just leave you there to die in your own rotting arms, and yet he digs himself down, straining, heaving and desperate to get to you.
Until finally, he gets a hold of your hand, locking his fingers around your own as the entity’s back hits solid ground with a hard wooden thump. There’s a knock, barely heard from your muffled screams. But Bobby heard it, and something flashes in those ocean blue eyes of his— hope.
Bobby groans, his other hand reaching for something behind you, and his mouth opens, saying something, too quiet for you to hear above your own fear.
“Hold on!” He screams and the door opens behind you with a resounding click.
Suddenly, the ground falls behind you, the clothes go first, then the legs around you, then the arms as you go down along with it.
You’re dangling from the ceiling once again, fifty, a hundred feet off the ground as red encompasses around you. Your mirrored self hangs on around your waist, nails digging into your flesh, whilst clothes flutter out of the doorway.
Gasping, you hold onto Bobby’s hand, looking down you see a city, concrete skyscrapers with glass windows all around, and streets spanning around it complete with street lights and idle cars like any other city. All except for the red light illuminating around it, the crimson sun, the scarlet sky, like a dark room you’ve seen in old movies.
“Bobby!” With a shriek, vertigo takes over you, vision swirling, stomach churning from the height. You could feel Bobby’s hand turn clammy around your own. Looking up, you see him struggle to lift you up with one arm, whilst the other keeps him in place so you both don’t fall off.
“Just—!” His skin is aflame, red as he strains himself. “Fuck! Hold on!”
There’s a groan under you, a simple huff of breath, like a dying man trying to say his last words on his deathbed. When you look down, look at yourself clinging to you, it lets out a breath again, trying to say something, trying to communicate. It shocks your core, the others never let out a breath nor a single word, but this entity, this horrifying copy of yours tries to when it doesn’t even need to breathe.
“Wha—?”
“Fucking kick it!” Bobby yells gutterally, sweat dribbling off his brows.
Mouth clamping shut, you raise your leg and kick. And kick, and kick at its mangled neck with a resounding squelch of flesh that is too soft, too pliant to be one. And yet blood trickles out of its nose and mouth, its flesh and blood. Just like you.
Bobby has managed to lift you by your elbow, and with one last kick against its nose, it lets go. You watch as it falls, your own self falling down, down, down into the pavement with a sickening thud. For a moment it flew, just like you have.
You’re lifted up, and you suddenly find yourself tucked into Bobby’s arms. His whole body trembles, the aftershock that rattles his bones.
“You’re okay, fuck, you’re okay.” Bobby utters like an answered prayer against your skin, as if he’s trying to comfort himself rather than for you. His face hides against the crook of your neck, breathing you in, his sweat sticking to your skin, but you don’t mind as you tentatively wrap your arms around him. Just like how the entity wrapped itself around you. His fingers bunches up your jacket with a rustle of fabric.
It has always been you that was watching you. The one that made you run further into the mono yellow and into the arms of the warm hum. It was you who was watching you from the corner, the shuffling and the rustling has always been you.
You drove yourself into this place, you ran from yourself, you hid from yourself, you almost died because of you.
“I’m o–okay, Bobby.” You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
Bobby wants to be somewhere safe with you, anywhere, even if it’s a room in this place like the theater or the sailboat room where you tended to him and let him drink the last of your water even when your lips were dry and you were starving. Anywhere but here, as long as it doesn’t smell like old laundry that leads to a doorway that plunges you from the sky.
And all you want is for him to hold you.
Bobby leans away, moving the stray hair that sticks on your skin as he swallows the lingering adrenaline away. His blue eyes wander around your features, and he lingers, his gaze lingers before he brings himself against you again, holding you in place, a hand cupped on the back of your head whilst you can feel his chest rise and fall.
Your knuckles drag along his back, eyes closing for a moment before opening it.
There’s a door on the wall that wasn’t there before. An anomaly. You know it wasn’t there when it’s the same wall that you rested against it to feel the hum, to hear this place sing, where there’s a patch of dry carpet that is warm, where the tone lingers right in your sternum. The door is green with patches of blue, the same color as his eyes.
“Bobby.” You say after a minute of holding each other and staring at the door that has appeared out of nowhere.
“Yeah?” His chin moves atop your shoulder as he sniffs. Leaning away, his lashes clump together from the unshed tears.
“There’s a door.” Is all you could say, mind still frazzled from everything that transpired, from how he held you— still holds you on the damp carpet that has less clothes now.
There’s nowhere else to go.
Bobby follows your gaze, looking over your shoulder as he exhales a breath. “What do y–you think?” His tone is still wobbly, still shaking with unease.
“Together?” You look into his eyes.
“Yeah,” his hand cradles your cheek, warm, clammy, gentle. “Together.”
The two of you walk in together through the door, hand in hand, stride matching the other. The sun greets you, the green grass crunches underneath your feet, and birdsong filters in your ears.
You’re back home.
But the warmth is wrong, artificial. There is birdsong but there are no birds in the sky nor on the trees.
The smell is odd, the grass doesn’t smell like grass, nor the air feels like air. A mere copy of it, a distorted mirror of the woods.
There’s a pink house in the middle of the clearing, and it beckons you and Bobby over.
Bobby’s hold tightens around you, fingers laced together, hands trembling together. One look at him and you both know— You’re not out yet.
Synopsis: Two encounters. One has you both running away, the other giving you hope.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, reader has nicknames, CW blood and injury, CW food mentions, CW unsolicited touching (not from Bobby), CW dark themes. Eventual Bobby romance, slow burn, Part 3 of my Bobby series. Set during the movie (spoilers)
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Bobby Franklin Masterlist
Part 2 <<< Part 3 >>> Part 4
The sounds of wood thumping on metal rings through the tight corridors. You’ve named this place the boiler room, the whole place is covered in metal and steel, some are made out of copper that is slowly turning teal around the edges. It’s dank and smells like petrichor, like it’s about to rain inside. There’s a reason why you haven’t explored this place as much as the yellow wallpaper rooms— it’s hot here, not like a comforting warm summer heat that’s slightly muggy, a weather for the beach, or maybe for sailing out in the open seas, no, this place is searing hot, it’s humid, the type of heat that you could see make waves in the air around you.
Beside you, Bobby struggles to breathe through the hot air, just like you are as you’re still in your bomber jacket, refusing to take it off. The two of you wait for the pirate to move on, for the sound of thumping to fade from your ears as you hear its body scrape against the steel pipes. It’s too large for this place as it shambles around awkwardly.
The chase has you and Bobby winded, even more now that the heat isn’t helping you take in air. You’re drenched in sweat, the beads of sweat drips down from your chin down to your pants as it leaves little dark droplets on the fabric. Bobby is faring better than you, still sweaty and breathing heavily but not as bad as you when you feel like you’re being cooked from the inside out.
“Just take off your fucking jacket.” He whispers, too close to you when the curling pipes hinders him from moving away from you as you both hide inside a small crevice in the wall. “I won’t judge you if you have shitty tattoos.”
“Shut up before it hears you.” You shush him, swallowing nothing when the inside of your mouth is drier than a desert.
“You’re going to die of heatstroke.” You turn to him, glaring at Bobby as he glares right back. “I’m not a fucking idiot, I know shit too.” He takes a deep inhale of the hot air, regretting it when he almost chokes from the heat. “Just take off the jacket, you’ll feel better.”
“I’m fine.” Wiping away the sweat dribbling on your forehead, you strain your ears to try to hear the entity walking around. You don’t hear anything other than the leaking pipes and Bobby’s breathing. “I think it’s gone.”
“Thank fuck.” He shimmies out, passing by you as he stretches his legs from the prolonged crouched position. “Come on, let’s get out of the devil’s armpit.” Holding out his hand to you, you reluctantly take it as you feel your shirt cling to your skin from how drenched in sweat it is. “Before you faint again.”
“It happened one time and you’ll never let me live it down.” You start to walk through the hallways lined with pipes, you suddenly miss the yellow wallpaper instead of this creepy boiler room that makes you claustrophobic.
When the previous corridors felt like an abandoned office space, this one is more industrial, more metal and steel than wallpaper and carpet. There is an occasional hiss from the pipes, letting out warm air, and there are manholes on the floor, randomly dotted around, some look like it’s two in one, melted together like it’s in the middle of mitosis. You’d take the sailboat room more than this place.
“This place looks like it’s out of a Nightmare on Elm Street.” Bobby helps you search for the hasty marks you left when you two were being chased by the pirate. “I’m gonna ask now because it’s fucking eating at me but, did that fucking thing look like Clark to you?”
“Yep.” You pop the letter ‘p’ in your mouth as you struggle to look through the waves of heat ahead. “And don’t ask me why because I don’t know either.”
“Do you think it steals faces?” Bobby’s crop top sticks to his torso and you avoid your gaze from staying too long on him.
“I don’t know, Bobby.” You lumber towards a corner, your hand touching the hot wall trying to look for the mark you left with your marker. “Why are you so talkative?”
Bobby shrugs, keeps walking behind you as he uses his shirt to fan himself. “It helps to distract myself.”
You make the mistake of looking behind you as you see him completely drenched in sweat, his white crop top clinging to his torso like second skin, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. His lean stomach is in full show, heat singes your cheek and it’s not from the heat. Averting your eyes, you continue to walk forward, searching for the same door you two came out of. “It’s annoying me and the thing might hear you—”
Fumbling, stumbling on your own two feet when the heat makes your vision foggy, you hold onto a pipe for balance. Your palm is immediately seared as you scream in pain, taking your hand away. “Fuck!” You hold onto your wrist, keeling over, and crouched down onto the hard ground.
“Shit, let me see.” Bobby crouches down in front of you, gently taking your wrist in his hand. When you don’t budge, he clicks his teeth and calls you by your name. You didn’t even know if he remembered your name. “C’mon, hero, let me see.”
“Hero?” You ask through clenched teeth and tears in your eyes as he examines your reddened hand. “Really?”
“Yeah, you saved my ass, so you’re a hero. And you did that hero jump.” His eyes narrows at your palm, wincing for your sake. “Fuck, I don’t know much about burns but this looks gnarly. You’re gonna need ice for this.”
“Ice isn’t actually good for burns.” You let out a shuddered breath as the pain radiates from your palm down to your wrist, a slithering burn inching downwards to your elbows. “Running tepid water is.”
Bobby starts to unzip your bag, taking out one of the bottles of water for you, to which you instantly stop him with a shake of your head.
“I didn’t know that, but we don’t have either of them, so. Can we just use this instead?”
“N–no,” gritting your teeth, you make the mistake of glancing at your hand, seeing your flesh burn, bubbling up in angry reddened skin. “We need to conserve it for drinking. I—” you take a deep yet wobbly breath. “—I can handle this.” You’ve felt a lot of pain in your life but the burning sensation makes your stomach turn and the back of your eyes burn.
“You’re fucking stubborn.” Bobby stands up, knees creaking as he tries to help you up with his hands cupped around your elbows. “I have an idea.”
“You’re getting ideas now?” Brow raised, you try to focus on his face when your vision is starting to wobble like your legs. The combined heat and the throbbing pain in your hand has turned your body into jello.
“Yeah, you’re not the only one who’s allowed to have them.” He rolls his eyes, a hand reaching into his pocket for something before his palm comes up empty. “You said there’s a pool here? We can use the water for your hand.”
“That’s actually not a bad idea. But I don’t know how to get there from here.” You don’t mean to lean against him but you do as the pain takes hold of you. He lets you use him to steady yourself. He smells the same, just more sweat than cologne, and the scent of weed has almost faded away from his crop top. You try to keep your mind off the pain and heat, to try to recreate the comforting hum of the walls that doesn’t reach this searing place.
“You sound condescending.”
“I’m not,” swallowing down the bile in your throat, you take a deep inhale. “That’s just how I sound when I’m in blinding pain.”
“How about taking some of the pain meds—” you’re shaking your head at his idea as your eyes glance narrowedly at him. “It’ll help. You need it.”
“We need to ration—”
“Well, you fucking need it now, hero.” Bobby stops walking abruptly, feeling you tremble against him has him moving to open your backpack, taking out the little orange pills and handing it to you with a bottle of water. “Don’t be a hardass.” He gestures with his eyes, encouraging you to take it. “I took one before so you take one, equality.”
“Didn’t peg you for an activist.” He’s insisting, and you won’t get a move on if he refuses to walk. So you take a pill, pop it in your mouth and gulp down a mouthful of water.
“I get that a lot.” Bobby simply shrugs, putting the supplies back inside the backpack with a resounding zip before gently yanking down the straps from your arms. “Let me take the load off of you.”
You relent, letting him take the backpack as you watch him sling it over his shoulders. “Thanks…” mumbling, you hear something move, something’s hitting the pipes as the sound reverberates through the tight corridors.
You both simultaneously look back with fear in your eyes. “What was that?”
It’s an incessant tip tapping, almost like morse code, you don’t know much about it to know what they’re saying if it is.
Your feet move backwards, away from the sound as you instinctively grab hold of Bobby’s arm. “Were you a boy scout?”
“No,” he keeps his eyes on the empty corridor as the sound grows nearer. “Why?”
“Does that sound like morse code to you?”
“I don’t fucking know.” He hisses, walking backwards with you as a shadow, one with four legs, and a very large head slithers on the walls. “We should run.”
You’re already bolting away, tugging him away as he runs alongside you. The stench of rusted metal hits your nose, as numerous pipes whizz past the two of you.
You’re going deeper and deeper inside the boiler room. You shouldn’t be, you should be going back to the yellow walls, the familiar ones instead of running deeper through the copper scented hallways.
Your rushed footsteps alert the being as the tapping hastens, following right after you through the winding corridors.
The heat makes it hard to find your breath as you struggle to run this time. Your bomber jacket clings to you, drenched from your own sweat as your hand slips from Bobby’s arm from his clammy skin.
“Here!” Bobby grabs you by the scruff of your neck, yanking you away from a dead end and towards a room with rusted pipes lined around the brown walls. There’s a familiar sight right in the middle of the room, half embedded in the walls as the door swings creakily in the stale air. “C’mon!”
Bobby shoves you inside the industrial sized washing machine, before climbing in with you and shutting the door closed with a resounding clack of metal.
Heaving, you feel the stitch blooming on your side as your wide eyes stare at the yellowed glass panel of the washing machine door.
“What the fuck is that?” Bobby whispers, voice laced with fear as you both watch the creature stalk towards you.
This isn’t like the pirate with its eerie face borrowed from Clark, nor a docile one like your old man at the helm. No, this one is different, like it was meant to be a dog, a copy of it if the dog went through the shredder and blasted with radiation. This thing, is just as wrong as everything else in this place.
It snarls with an opened maw, rows of sharp canines combined with human teeth is in full show. It bites at the air, as if that’s the way it smells when you can’t see a nose where it’s supposed to be. The fur is mangled, dark and rusted just like the walls around it. It’s a moving shadow with four pointed ears, six legs with paws the size of your hand. The three tails, two longer, and one shorter, all seemingly from different dog breeds, stand on its end. It barks like a dog that doesn’t know how to. A mere echo of it, like it’s being played through a broken speaker that ends up spitting out a garbled mess of sounds.
As if things couldn’t get any worse, one more show up, this one is leaner, eyes more hungry and yellow than the first. It has three eyes, all wrong, all looking directly at you and Bobby.
You just now noticed that he’s still holding onto the back of your jacket, fingers bunching up the fabric in his tight hold in an attempt to calm himself.
One word glares brightly in your mind, ‘run.’ Run like you always have in your life. Instead of hiding and cowering in place while you wait for the hounds to get you and tear you to pieces. But there’s nowhere to run when you feel for the end of the washing machine, half expecting a door when you only find warm steel.
“Bobby, what—!” You both yell when the angrier one leaps up to smash its head against the glass.
The window doesn’t budge nor crack at the sheer force. The creature shakes its head, staggered by what it did.
“They can’t get in.” Your companion chuckles, a rising laugh that fades away the moment one of the hounds bashes its head against the glass again.
This time it leaves a crack in the glass and a smattering of black ooze.
You feel for your hammer, readying it in your hold. Bobby turns to you, locking eyes with you as his fear is palpable within the small confines of the washing machine.
You two reach an understanding. You and Bobby might die right here.
Another strike at the glass, another crack. Then another and another. Each hitting you right at your chest.
The glass looks like a mess of cracks and blackened blood as you both could barely see the hounds waiting on the other side.
You fix your hold onto the hammer and wait for another strike that doesn’t come.
A minute passes, a long agonizing minute of staring at a dirty window.
Then another minute, two, three, nothing happens.
You both look at each other, and you slowly inch your way closer to the window, crawling over Bobby’s legs as you peek through the side of the glass where it’s clearer. There, sitting right on the floor, hind legs spread out, are the two hounds sitting on both sides, as if guarding you both whilst their yellow eyes never stray too far from the washing machine. They don’t move a muscle or feel the need to breathe, they’re as steady and uncanny like your grandfather as he stared into space at the helm atop the half sunk boat.
“What do you see?” Bobby whispers beside your ear, raising gooseflesh on your skin despite the heat as his breath flutters your lashes.
“They’re not moving, just…just standing guard.”
Bobby tilts his head up, trying to find a spot on the glass that he could see through. His brows knit together, lips pursed tightly. “What the fuck are they doing?”
“Waiting for us to come out.” Your back hits the metal with a groan, and you stretch your aching legs, too long for the machine as the heels of your feet rise up to the other side of the wall. “I guess they got tired.”
It’s getting hard to breathe in this heat, especially when you’re starting to feel claustrophobic inside. You ball your uninjured fist, opening and closing it to attempt to calm your nerves. If only you had the song of the walls to press your ear onto.
“So we’re just fucking stuck here?” Groaning, he kicks at the wall with a resounding metallic thump. “Dying in a washing machine, how fucking funny.” His blue eyes flick over to you as you look like you’re dying from the heat, panting and sweating. “Shit, you need water.” Bobby takes the backpack off, unzipping it and taking a water bottle for you. “Drink, and don’t give me the rationing bullshit.”
“Has anyone told you—” you shut your eyes for a moment as sweat trickles down your face. “That you have a very unique way of showing how you care?” Uncapping the cap, or trying to at least with your injured palm, Bobby clicks his tongue and opens the bottle for you.
“No, shut up we need to conserve our air.” Watching you take gulps of water eases the tension in between his shoulders for a bit.
Your rising laughter bounces off the metal walls as Bobby looks at you with a raised brow. “Sorry,” wiping your sweat with your sleeve, you continue to chuckle to yourself. “This is actually a bit funny because I’ve had a recurring dream of getting locked in a washing machine.” You take a generous swig, letting the sweet after taste of the almond water coat your tongue. It helps a little bit.
“Okay, Nostradamus.” Swallowing his spit, you notice and hand him the water back. “And yes, I know who the dude is.”
“The dude.” You chortle. “You know a lot of things, Bobby.” Patting his knee, your head reclines back, thumping against the wall whilst he drinks. He takes it as sarcasm. “Never judge a book by its cover I guess.”
“Your hand needs to be bandaged.”
“I’ll do it later.” What’s the point when you’re gonna suffocate in here?
“No, it’ll get infected.” He rummages through the supplies and brings out a gauze and medical tape. Bobby still holds out hope. “Can you tell me how to treat it?”
“I don’t have burn cream…” Your chest lines with warmth and around your heart from the gesture. “Just put the gauze on my palm then wrap it as loose as possible with the tape. Keeping it clean is the only thing we can do.”
Bobby nods, moving closer, legs cageing you in as you sit between them. You give him your hand, the reddened flesh peeling whilst he’s slow and clumsy with his movements. Your skin pulsates with warmth and pain, like a bleeding heart.
Your eyes flick over to him, through the haze of heat, you really look at Bobby. At his chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, sandy blonde hair and pretty blue eyes that always seem to really look into your own. If you squint, he really does look like the guy you talked to for two hours straight whilst he waited for his laundry to finish. Maybe that’s why you’re helping Bobby, a redo of your fumbling.
He’s handsome. You just now realize that he’s good looking, the type of face that would have people giving him a second look on the street, or a face you see up on a billboard. He wears the crop top well, like he just shrugged it on in the morning without an afterthought, without sparing an effort on how he presents himself when his whole face and how he carries himself is enough to draw eyes on him. But he’s not like the frat boys you remember back in college, he doesn’t talk like he owns the ground you’re walking on, unlike them in their snooty letterman jackets and tuition paid for by mommy and daddy, Bobby actually talks to you and even listens. He makes conversations, notices things when you think he’s not paying attention. He’s kind enough to remember your name when no one even bothered to try. Even Janet just calls you kid when she forgot it months ago even though she has your resume on file.
He’s far kinder than you thought he would be. All that crisp angles and handsome features made you think he wasn’t when in truth his kindness was wrapped in his sharp angles and intense stares that is always keenly aware of the details around him.
You wonder why he even went with you in the first place when his ankle got better when he seems to be capable enough on his own. Never judge a book by its cover, but the verdict is still out when you’re both stuck here slowly running out of air.
“Why are you still with me, Bobby?” Your words tumble out of your tongue as your lungs struggle to take in air. “You could’ve gone on your own way to find Kat without me. Seriously, why are you helping a stranger?”
“Because you helped a stranger, idiot.” He says matter-of-factly, jaw tightening at the mention of Kat. Finishing dressing your wound, his adam’s apple bops up and down, admiring his handiwork before tossing the supplies back inside the bag. “I’m not a complete fucking asshole to leave you all alone here when you didn’t leave me. I should be the one asking you that question. You already saved me once and you don’t need to again. I’m no one to you and so is Kat.”
You wet your lips, smiling faintly at him, testing your hand as you open and shut it slowly. It still hurts but at least it’s contained. “You look like someone I knew.” Your words hang in between you as he blinks at your words. “And I’m not a total asshole to leave you wandering around here by yourself. There’s strength in numbers you know.”
You two are quite similar in that matter. You both don’t want to be alone in this place.
“I know that’s not all.” Somehow, Bobby could see right through your eyes and into your very soul.
You wince, looking at how his knee knocks against your own. “Because…because it looked like you needed someone and Kat…Kat was nice to me.”
Bobby glances away, looking at the hounds outside briefly before nodding at your words with a tensed jaw. “It’ll be better when we find Kat.” Everything will be better when they reunite.
It’s an arrow to your chest, your own lie striking you where it hurts. You’ve never been really good at lying or hiding it, but for his sake, you have to bite your tongue until you taste copper. “Yeah.”
“Y’know, I wanted to fucking throw shit at you when you left Kat and Clark in the laundry room.” Bobby turns to you and gazes into your eyes as you glance at the space between his brows instead of locking eyes with him. “I thought you could’ve just taken them with us. That you could’ve, I don’t fucking know…save them.” Shaking his head, Bobby wets his lips. “Then you left me and my thoughts all alone, and shit, I think–I think I would’ve done the same. Probably bolted out of there myself if no one was in my reach.”
“Still,” you sniff, struggling to breathe as you wipe the sweat hastily from your eyes when it stings. “I wish I could have saved them both.”
“Yeah,” he holds his breath for a moment before letting it go and handing you the half empty water bottle. “I don’t know what kind of adrenaline you have but I want some of that too, you could lift a fucking fridge when you’re panicking. Hell, you lifted me off my fucking feet like I weighed nothing.”
You smile after taking big gulps of water. “It’s a subconscious thing, people who are…more cautious tend to be better in situations like that.” Or that’s how your doctor put it when you survived drifting in the water for days.
“Like when a walking horror show tries to rip you apart?”
You manage a scoff akin to a weak laugh. “Yeah, I guess.”
Silence hangs in the air between you, his knees knocks against your own, the space too small for two people as he sits, or more like folded himself adjacent to you. In the cramped space and the dappled fluorescent lights filtering through the cracks of the window, his sharp features look softer.
“We’re gonna die here aren’t we?” Bobby says under his breath, too afraid to say it out loud.
“I hope not.” Hope, hope could be blinding that leads you to disappointment. But sometimes, it’s a driving force to keep you moving forward, even when it’s too dark to see, hope will be the guiding light. You hope for his sake when he has people waiting for him on the other side. You don’t care if you die inside this place, but it’ll crush you if he dies, because you failed to bring him home, you failed to save a life again.
You already failed with Kat and Clark, you don’t want Bobby to end up like them. Or like your grandfather still waiting for you at the bottom of the sea.
“Fuck me.” Bobby rubs his face harshly, leaving his cheeks flush with red. When he opens his eyes, concern mar his face. “You don’t look too good, hero.” He scooches closer, taking the bottle from your weak grip to pour some of it out on his palm and splashes it on your face. “Hey, stay with me.” He says your name gently, coaxing you to keep your eyes open with a pat to your cheek. His palm is warm, silken, with the pads of his fingertips calloused, blazing against your clammy skin.
You want to live for him.
Something moves. A warp in the walls, a metallic groaning of metal sliding against steel. Like nails on a chalkboard that grinds your teeth together.
Bobby hears it too, “what was that?” You know it was real this time, not like the humming in the walls.
“I don’t know…” Head craning towards the far wall, at the other end of the machine, you don’t see rusted metal anymore, just darkness, pitch black, a void that stares back.
“Do you have a flashlight?”
“No, it ran out of battery on day six.”
Bobby fishes out a lighter from his pocket. He flicks his thumb, letting sparks fly as a flame blows out from the lighter. “Stay here.”
He crawls over you then towards the darkness.
“Bobby, wait—”
When he’s supposed to hit the wall, he continues to move inside. “It’s a way out.”
“What the fuck.” You follow him, crawling on all fours as your knees hit the metal.
It’s so dark inside that you could only see the small flame in front of you. Your arms wobble from your weight, and when the flame flickers away, Bobby curses under his breath.
“Hold on.” With a hand rummaging in your jean pocket, you take out your phone whilst Bobby tries to light the flame again. You press the on button, waiting for your phone to come alive, wishing that the screen turns on.
“What are you doing?” You could only hear his voice and feel his warmth on your side.
“Turning the light on—” the screen flashes and you immediately swipe to open the flashlight. You two blink at the sudden light.
“What the fuck is that thing?” Wincing, Bobby has one eye open, adjusting to the light, trying to get a look at what’s in your hand.
“My phone, duh, c’mon.” Patting his shoulder, you crawl by him when you’re now the one leading.
“That’s a weird looking phone, man.”
More crawling, more metal squeaking underneath you, and with your palm fully bleeding as it leaves bloody handprints on the floor, you finally get out of the washing machine.
You almost fall down if not for Bobby’s hand on your ankle stopping you from falling from the hole. Hopping off, shutting your phone off again and shoving it in your pocket before helping Bobby out, you feel heavier, woozy from the heat and pain. You slouch, folding against yourself when you feel like crumpling on the floor.
It looks like you two crawled out of a metal pipe. It doesn’t make sense one bit.
“Jesus, your hand.” Bobby puts the backpack on, and gingerly takes your wrist with a wince and a grimace. “Fucking gnarly.”
“I’m fine.”
“It doesn’t look fine.” His eyes rake around the bloodied gauze. “You need fucking…something. A doctor, you need a fucking doctor.”
“Bobby, I’m fine—”
You heard him before you saw him. A shuffling of feet on the metal floors, tentative, wary.
There, standing in the corridor, looking worse for wear, sweaty all over with a relieved look in his eyes is Clark.
“Bobby?”
Your companion turns to the voice, following your shaky gaze, landing right at the man, who dragged you on the damp carpet.
“Jesus, Clark.” Bobby puts his arm instinctively in front of you, taking a step forward, apprehensive, unsure of his decision. “Where did you come from?”
“The pipes, f—fuck, you have no idea how relieved I am to see someone—”
“Stay the fuck back.” Despite your injured hand, you grasp the hammer in your bloody grip, shaking, pointing it right at him. “Bobby, don’t trust him.”
“Where’s Kat?” Bobby stays beside you, yet his attention is on Clark. “Is she with you?” Hope is laced within his wavering tone.
“I–I don’t know, we got separated.” His hands wring in front of him. He looks normal, better than the last you saw him. Clark doesn’t look as starved, he does look exasperated like you and Bobby, but his eyes are just as frantic and panicked as yours, not steady and calm like before. He looked like the Clark you met, the one that tied Bobby’s rope too tightly around his waist. Not the Clark that hauled you around and tried to give you to the being. “I’m sorry, I tried.”
There it is, tried. The same word he uttered to you in the room with Kat’s severed hand, sounding too calm, looking too calm for someone that’s starving.
Something’s amiss.
You’re missing something. He shouldn’t look like this, he shouldn’t sound like this, if the Clark that tried to take you was real, then who the fuck is the one standing before you?
If it’s the heat that’s messing with your mind, then it’s affecting Bobby too when he also sees this Clark, nervous Clark, terrified Clark.
“What the fuck do you mean you tried?” Bobby hisses, fists balled at his side. “What happened to Kat? What did you do to her?”
“What? I–” Clark’s eyes find yours, and you falter, heat clinging to your skin, drying you out even more as you feel woozy. “I wouldn’t hurt her! Why would I do that?”
“I don’t fucking know, man.” Bobby scoffs, shaking his head as his tone rolls out sarcastically. “The same reason you did this to her.” He gestures at your neck, scratches reddened at the edges, pulsing with a dull ache. Clark looks confused. “Did you feed Kat to that–that thing like you tried with her?” Voice cracking, his words breaking in the middle. “Where the fuck is she, Clark?”
“I didn’t fucking do anything!” His hands land on his chest, eyes wild, swallowing thickly. “I didn’t do that to her!” Clark now points to you, hands shaking. “Please, I just need some water, we’ll get out together.”
Bobby snatches the hammer from your hand, staining his own palm with your own ichor. “Where the fuck is Kat?” He repeats, heavier this time, more threatening.
“I don’t know, okay!” Sweat dribbles off his clammy face, hands trembling around him. “I heard her through the walls, I really did try to help her but I couldn’t see her but—but she could see me. I don’t know what happened to her, Bobby, and I didn’t do anything to her.” He sounds desperate, heaving, almost keeling over himself. “Please, let’s just get out together.”
“Bobby, we need to go.” You take him by the arm, walking backwards as Clark starts to walk closer to you both. “Bobby, we can’t stay here. We can’t trust him.”
“Just tell me where she is, man.” Bobby breaks, lips wobbling, hand trembling around the hammer. He suddenly brings it to the wall, smacking a pipe as it leaves a dent on the metal. You and Clark wince at his action.
“I don’t know, Bobby. I’m sorry.” Clark holds out his hands in front of him in surrender. He seems genuine, but he also sounded genuine the last time you saw him.
From behind Clark, you hear the shuffling of fabric. A quiet rustle, too silent to be heard by the two men. Your heart rate immediately picks up.
“Bobby,” you whisper, clutching onto his arm, tugging him away, getting more exhausted by the second as you inhale and exhale out hot air. You feel your brain getting cooked inside your skull. “Bobby, it’s here.”
“Is she even alive?”
His trembling words strike right at you when you have the answer to his heartbreaking question.
“I don’t know…” Clark shakes his head, eyes averting from Bobby’s tensed form. “Why are you so scared of me? I didn’t do anything! I’m just me!”
You catch a glimpse of a pair of reddened eyes just around the corner of a wall, it stares at you, watching, observing. Waiting for you to break. “Bobby, on the wall, left side.” Voice trembling, head falling to his bicep, too hot to hold yourself up, you watch Bobby reluctantly take his eyes off of Clark, expression contorting into pure horror when he sees it.
He takes you by the hand, twisting around and running away with you in tow.
Clark screams, followed by his rushed footsteps, trying to keep pace with you and Bobby.
You don’t have the energy to sprint, more so to even lift your feet up. You’re so tired, too hot, your muscles strain under your clammy skin as you heave.
Bobby leads the escape, shoes scraping against the metal as he hides a wince. A pipe bursts near his face, and he shrieks at the sudden puff of warmth on his cheek. But he continues on, holding you up.
Because you would’ve done the same for him, you already had.
He turns a corner, blindly running in the heat soaked boiler room. Turning his head behind him, he doesn’t see Clark following anymore, but he does hear the rustling, the fabric scraping against itself, running, following.
Saliva covers your mouth, coating it as bile rises from your esophagus. Your legs turn wobbly under you. Bobby throws his arm around your shoulder, helping you run alongside with him when he could’ve just left you in the corridor to fend for yourself. He’s not giving up on you so you don’t give up for his sake. Your feet drags along the metal floors, trying to keep pace with his long strides. Your head dips down to your chin, unable to keep it up as you see the floor rush under you, the rusted floors, teal copper spread across it and the occasional manhole covers.
Vision blurring, you want water, you need water, to dive in it, to swim in its depths and stay underneath the currents.
You’re dying of thirst. Heatstroke, you’re gonna die of heatstroke after everything you went through. It’s comedic.
“Stay awake!” Bobby jostles you in his arms, you’re dead weight. “Fuck, c’mon!” He steps onto a manhole cover, and you both suddenly fall inside.
You gasp, flying mid air, twenty feet, fifteen, twelve, watching the hole you fell in get smaller and smaller, a mere dot in your vision.
Wind rushes around you, stale air that smells like chlorine.
You feel Bobby’s hand try to grasp at you mid air, but you feel so light weight, so light, free, like you’re flying, soaring, and you close your eyes, hearing him scream your name as you both plunge into the cold depths.
—
“Hey, princess.” You look up and see him, your grandfather, smiling down at you. Or you think he’s smiling when the sun behind him blinds you, covering his features. “You’re cooking here, you should get under the shade.”
His voice sounds far, muffled, like it’s playing on an old cassette tape that’s been played a hundred times before. Weathered, the movement of time marring the edges of the tape.
“I put sunscreen on.” You mutter, eyes squinting up at him as the popsicle in your hand melts, staining your hands raspberry red. “I miss you.”
He chuckles, that familiar laugh right from his belly that you’ve always told him was too loud and garners too much attention. You shouldn’t have told him that because he doesn’t let his laugh out like that anymore.
“I’m right here, sweetheart. What’s there to miss?”
There’s a seagull flying above him, the sky is blue, the clouds don’t move. And your eyes follow the bird, attention taken away, watching it fly until it hits a wall made to look like the horizon. It falls, leaving a smattering of blood amongst the blue.
It squawks loudly, an ear piercing cry of pain as it lands harshly on the ocean painted floor.
When you turn to look at him again, his face is mere inches away from your own.
Your breath shudders, gazing into those wrong eyes in the wrong face. He looks like someone who just moved as you press the camera’s button and the lens captures his blurred features that melt together.
“What’s there to miss?” He asks, garbled, the words stuck in his esophagus, choking on his own broken tone.
You wake up with a start, eyes opening to tiled ceilings and walls. It’s startlingly bright inside, a bright blue that encompasses around you, a deep contrast from the rusted boiler room. You take a deep breath, heaving, a palm to your chest as you smell the acrid chemical chlorine permeating the air around you as it tickles your nose.
The first thing you notice is how drenched you are, your clothes cling to your skin uncomfortably, soaked as droplets of water drip from your bare arms. You don’t have your jacket. Your arms are bare, the scars lined around your flesh. Old, but still there.
Gasping, you cross your arms around you, eyes panicked, frantic as you feel the familiar numbness climb from your legs to your chest, suffocating you.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re okay!” Bobby appears from behind, arms hovering around you as his eyes rake around your panicked face. “It’s okay, just breathe, we’re safe here.”
“Where’s—” you struggle to find your words when your lungs don’t work. “Where’s my jacket?”
Blinking, he looks at you like you’re a fish out of water. “I took it off you, I’m sorry, I had to, you were cooking in it.”
“P–please, just— just give it back to me.” Tears sting your eyes as you fold your legs against you, trying to press further into your chest as if you’re absorbing your legs into yourself.
“What? It’s wet—”
“Bobby, please!” Your nails dig into your forearms, leaving crescent shapes on your slick skin.
“Okay, okay!” He rushes away from the pool lounge chair where you have found yourself. There’s some rustling behind you, and your first instinct was to run. “Here, I’m sorry, I was hanging it over a chair to dry it out.”
“Give it to me.” You don’t extend your arms as your hand opens and closes. He passes it to you, turning away when your shirt clings to your front, it’s white and shows him too much of everything. Once you’ve put on your jacket, you hug yourself, collapsing onto the pool lounge chair that squeaks under you. “Thank you.” You wheeze out, a hand around your throat as you take deep inhales and exhales.
“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Bobby walks away, clearing his throat, scratching the back of his flushed neck as his wet hair clings to his nape and temples. His torso is bare, showing off a lean body, probably drying his shirt just like what he was doing to your jacket before you woke up. “You thirsty?” He asks after a beat of awkward silence.
Smacking your dry lips together, you feel your strength return as you sit up. You’re still wobbly, trembling slightly, and your head still has that dull throbbing ache as you rest your forehead against your folded knees. “Please.”
A second later there’s a bottle of almond water nudging your thigh. “This one’s yours. I found a couple more here.”
Where is here exactly?
You lift your head, eyes roaming around the new environment you both fell in. The walls are covered in white symmetrical square tiles, all lined perfectly, the grout in between is black, and it reminds you of a comic with the tiles lined in thick black lines. From the pillars down to the floor, it’s covered in the same tiles. Right in the middle of the expansive room is an Olympic sized pool, rectangular in shape, with various pool toys floating on the blue water. It would look normal if not for the random colourful slides sticking out of the walls and some on the ceiling that has a drop that would have your stomach churning.
As you gaze at the ceiling, you see the manhole cover above, now closed, the other side showing you the underside of the rusted metal.
“It’s not going to drink itself, y’know.” He shakes the bottle, looking down at you with a faint smile as the fluorescent lights shine behind his head, a halo of light lined around him. You blink owlishly at him, and his face contorts into deep worry as he squats beside you. “Shit, did you hit your head?” A hand cups the side of your face gingerly, like he’s afraid you’ll break in front of him from his touch alone. “Was it dilated pupils or pin point that says someone has a concussion?” He says more to himself, mumbling, looking into your eyes.
“Neither, the pupils should be equal in size, not one bigger than the other.” You answer, voice hoarse as you look into the blue depths of his eyes. You could drown in them. “I’m okay, Bobby, just shocked, where are we?”
“Oh, thank fuck.” His hand falls atop the lounge chair, head lolling down to his clavicle with a relieved sigh. “I thought the impact broke your head.”
“Did we fall?”
“Yeah,” he sniffs, a hand raking through his drenched tresses. “From that manhole.” Pointing up, you both look up, twenty feet from below, you squint from the harsh white lights. The manhole cover remains on the ceiling, a brown dot amidst the stark white tiles. “I don’t know how though, I stopped trying to figure out how things work here ever since we got out of the washing machine. But thankfully we fell into the water and we didn’t turn into a pancake.”
You crane your neck down, looking at him as he still gazes at the ceiling. His lean neck is stretched out, a sharp jawline that moves at the hinges when he purses his mouth. “You swam us out of there? On your own?”
Your gaze stretches from both ends of the deep pool, wondering how he managed to get you out and himself without drowning. You’re impressed by his feat. And he knows it from your tone alone.
The water is so clear that you could see the bottom, but it’s deceptive, you know it’s far deeper than it seems. This place is bigger than any of the rooms so far, it’s as big as a football field, probably twice as big when the pool stretches so far. There are three doors in this place, one adjacent to you, painted in deep emerald green with three odd doorknobs on it. Then the other two are on the far right end of the wall, both having signs on it. Then there’s the wrong door right in the middle of the far wall. It’s small, like a doggy door, painted in blood red. Something tells you that you shouldn’t go there. You guess the two doors beside each other are the bathrooms or shower rooms from the looks of it like in public pools, but you can’t tell what the signs says from where you sit.
His eyes crinkles in the corners, smiling gently, a nice reprieve from the fearful look on his face that you’ve gotten used to. “Not to brag but, I was on the varsity swim team during sophomore year.”
“Just sophomore year?” You can’t help it when the corner of your lip tugs up.
“I flunked chemistry.” Bobby winces, chuckling at himself. “And they had to kick me out because my grades weren’t as good.”
“I should be the one calling you hero now. And chemistry sucks anyway.”
His eyes softens from your words. “Please drink, I’m tired from wetting your lips with your own jacket. It was like I was feeding a baby bird.”
“That’s not embarrassing at all.” Shaking your head, you hide your smile as you gulp down the sweetened almond water. You let it coat your insides with that odd saccharine taste.
“Trust me, it was more embarrassing for me than for you.”
“At least you didn’t use your own shirt.” You wipe your mouth with your sleeve.
“Yeah, or you’d be drinking remnants of my sweat.” Bobby gives your shoulder a pat before rising, knees creaking as he stretches. “I’m preparing dinner.” Those are the words you thought you’ll never hear again.
“What?”
“I found a bunch of food in this place, just under the sink in the bathroom. It’s like someone left their stash here. I’m sorting through it, just rest, you were really out of it.”
“You think someone else was here?” You call out over your shoulder, watching the clear undisturbed water.
“Probably, I don’t know which one is scarier, us being alone here or someone else was here, wandering around just like us.” There’s a clang of metal behind you, and you twist around, ignoring the pang of pain radiating from your feet up to your knees. Your palm still aches, but more tolerable rather than the blinding pain. Bobby is trying to break open a can of peaches with your hammer. “Shitty fucking thing.”
“Use the other side of the hammer. Stab at the corners.” You simply say, body folding against yourself as you still feel the heaviness weigh you down. “Fuck…”
“You good?” He pauses from his hammering, looking at you as you wince, a hand grasping your forehead. “I told you to rest, lay back down, hero.”
“Did Clark…did he follow us?” You hug the back of your legs, half lidded eyes staring at him.
Bobby shakes his head, turning the hammer and stabs at the corner of the can just like you instructed. “You were right, something was up with him. He was hiding something, I could tell.”
You’re hiding something from him. “Yeah,” twisting around, you lay back down on the lounge chair when you feel the heaviness in your chest weigh you down. “You okay, Bobby?”
“Yeah, just starving.”
“Back in the sailboat room,” you hear him hum in reply, telling you that he’s listening. “Who do you think left the food and water?” The metal scraping against metal pauses. When he doesn’t reply, you call out to him. “Bobby?”
“I don’t know.” You could hear the confusion in his tone. “Why didn’t we ask that? It was left right there on our doorstep. It was clearly for us.”
“We have a mysterious benefactor.” Your eyes close, embracing yourself as your muscles relax to the sound of Bobby’s ministrations and the scent of chlorine. It should bother you more, but it doesn’t.
Your wet clothes should make you uncomfortable at how it sticks to your skin, but it does the opposite, it comforts you, reminding you of the days where you would swim for hours and let the air dry you as you doze off on the deck.
“I wonder who it is. It can’t be Clark or that thing.” Bobby is only met by silence. Worry slithers up his chest as he leans back until he could see you on the lounge chair, sleeping soundly, curled around yourself and more importantly, still breathing. He lets out a sigh, before trying to open the can quieter this time around.
—
Bobby floats aimlessly in the water as it laps around his face, eyes closed, breathing steady when he has stripped himself bare except for his boxer shorts. He’s unashamed, while you avert your eyes as you dig through the can of peaches.
There’s only silence around the pool room, save for the gentle scraping of your finger against the side of the crinkling metal can and the gentle lapping of water, it’s stifling. You miss the quiet comforting song of the walls, that slight tremble within the wallpaper that is warm to the touch. Bobby helps, his presence is a good alternative to the hum, but how long will that stay when you’re withdrawing important information from him? Something that might break him and ruin his peace.
He looks softer as he floats on the water, his arms are spread around him, legs floating as he lets out a breath. The lights illuminate him, the chain around his neck catching the light, making him look ethereal, almost akin to a renaissance oil painting. One that bears tragedy underneath all the brush strokes and pretty colours.
“I think I’m going insane. The tiles are starting to melt together in my eyes.” His voice cuts through the silence, echoing as his eyes open, head craning to look at you slouched on the lounge chair. “You look like a camel.”
“Thanks?” You slouch some more as he snorts out a chuckle. “Sounds something like an insane person would say.”
“Slouching is not good for your back.” Bobby stops his floating and swims over to the edge of the pool, arms over the tiles as he rests his chin above his arm. His blue eyes sparkles, head tilted as he gazes at you like he’s trying to read your mind. “Do you think someone created this place?”
“I don’t think so.” You lick your lips, grimacing slightly at the taste the peaches left. “No one’s smart enough or this crazy to invent something like this place.”
Bobby sucks in his teeth, legs floating behind him as he watches the water lap at the edge of the pool. “Back in the laundry room where we…fell.” You hum, eyes staring at the floating peaches inside the can. “I saw my own shirt on the pile of laundry. It was fucked up, it was dumped there like some kind of trophy.” He waits for your reply, and yet when he glances at you, you’re just staring at your dinner. “Earth to hero? Am I annoying you?”
You flash him a smile. “No, just thinking.”
“Penny for your thoughts?”
“You don’t have a single penny.”
“Not right now, but I have money in the real world, y’know.” He flutters his lips at you, blowing an annoyed raspberry as he pushes himself away from the edge of the pool and floating again on his back.
“This is the real world, Bobby.” You don’t mean to sound calloused or bitter, it’s just the truth.
“And they both suck.” His wrist flicks at the water, splashing some water upwards as if it’ll reach the manhole cover on the ceiling. “Do you know how to swim?”
“Yeah.” The slice of peach doesn’t go down your throat easily and you have to take a swig of water.
“Oh yeah, you lived near water.”
More silence, a tension brought back by your dry replies.
“There’s more food in the backpack if you’re still hungry.” He says, prodding at you with his gaze. You hum in reply, and he purses his lips.
Bobby sighs, swims over to the edge of the pool again and looks at you over his arms. “You know that I won’t judge you, right?” His words cut through you when his gaze flickers towards your covered arms. “We’ve all got shit we don’t want to talk about. And that’s okay, I understand you, I won’t ask you about it or judge you for what you did. I’m just glad you stuck around, hero.”
You instinctively hug yourself, the taste of the tart peaches makes you gag. You never liked peaches. “Where’s the bathroom?”
Bobby’s face falls, your name falling on his lips quietly, swallowing thickly as he looks away from you, perhaps guilty for bringing it up, or maybe pity. “Far wall, the signs are fucked so choose whatever.”
You vault from your seat, placing the half eaten can of peaches down on the lounge chair with a clang before walking carefully on the damp tiles. You could feel his eyes follow you, and you could finally breathe the moment you reach the bathroom door.
He’s right, the signs are weird. The usual female and male signs are wonky and turned upside down, it looks like it melted under some heat and you could barely tell what it originally was. You don’t pick which one to go into when you shove your way inside.
The bathroom is dimly lit compared to the bright pool room outside. It’s clean, filled with stalls and sinks, some have showers just like you surmised. And it looks normal, like a public bathroom at a dying mall or an airport bathroom during a red eye flight when there’s no line. For a moment there you thought that you got out, that you’re back in reality instead of being stuck here with a stranger that has saved your life twice now. But when the smell of mold hits you, and you catch sight of a painted sun with a face on the mirror, you know you’re still here, where the air is still, and the monsters in your mind have come alive and are out to get you.
You take deep breaths, grounding yourself, counting how many things you can touch in the place, how many things you can hear, what things you can taste, and all the things you can see. You come up with less and less as you grip onto the sink, opening the squeaky faucet as it splutters out cold water.
Yanking off the jacket, the fabric is still damp to the touch when you toss it haphazardly onto the counter as it clangs loudly, bouncing off the walls. You don’t look at yourself for a while, maybe the feeling will go away if you don’t look.
Taking out your phone from your pocket, you try to turn it on, to find comfort through the pictures, but just as you suspected, it doesn’t turn on. You should toss it against the glass and break it into pieces, but it’s the only thing you brought from home that reminds you that there is still something for you when you get back. Even if it’s just a gravestone, or an empty apartment, or a dead end job. So you shove the phone back in your pocket, maybe if you get out of here you can get it repaired and see the old pictures again.
Unwrapping the bandage Bobby wrapped around your palm, you place your injured hand underneath the water, letting it drench your hand with a wince. Biting your lip, you whimper, eyes glazing over with tears let out by the pain in your hand and in your chest. You unstick your gaze from your reddened flesh, reluctantly staring at yourself in the mirror, you look worse for wear, tired even though you’ve slept long enough and ate enough to keep you going. You still refuse to look at your arms.
You must keep going for his sake, you have to bite through the pain and live on, even when it hurts. Even when he has seen why it hurts.
Head tilted down, you listen to the rushing water hit the porcelain, watching the water collect on your palm as it overflows and hits the sink with a splash. You let your breathing even out when you’re starting to feel the bone aching numbness spread through your limbs. You’re antsy, and you feel your throat close up, static poking right at your fingertips.
Your mind rushes a thousand miles per hour, you just can’t help it. From thoughts about Clark to Kat, to Bobby and the exit, you didn’t hear the sound of the cubicle door opening right behind you.
You feel cold arms wrap around your middle, featherlight at first that you thought you were imagining it, that you’re so touch starved that you were day dreaming about a gentle embrace. But when the pair of arms wrap tighter around your torso and arms, you jostle awake.
Your heart stops when you look at the mirror, there, situated right behind you is a man.
He’s awfully familiar, but unfamiliar at the same time. His face peeks behind your head, and it’s wrong, like the ink on a picture that has faded out. Like Janet down here, just like the memory of your grandfather that stays still at the helm. It’s just like them, it’s not alive.
And it’s wearing the exact same shirt as you.
“Fuck!” You stagger away from the sink, trying to wiggle out of its hold. “No, let go!” Your elbow meets its stomach, but it continues to hold onto you for dear life, not even feeling your striking blow.
The sounds of your shoes squeak across the floor, and you feel it grasp onto you tighter, fingers interlocking on your front, digging you further against its chest like it’s trying to absorb you within itself.
You struggle, kicking around, managing to shuffle to the wall as you push it against it harshly, knocking it against the tiles, trying to make it let go. All it does is make it sink its head against the crook of your neck.
It doesn’t breathe, it doesn’t blink, it doesn’t speak, it just presses itself against you, embracing you like it knows you, trying to take your warmth.
“No!” You shriek, tears blurring your vision as its arms hold onto you so tightly that it’s getting harder to breathe. You have no choice as you claw at its arms and face. “Bobby!” Your nails hit something soft, digging into something akin to a foam than flesh.
Your guttural screams echo around the walls.
“Bobby!” You hear something crack, a bone, maybe yours as your breath leaves your lungs with a dry cough. It holds onto you like velcro, and your legs weaken from the lack of air. It turns you around, pressing you against the wall and further into the tiles. Something in the walls shift, you could hear it hum, you could feel it move. The coldness parts against your cheek as it absorbs you, one by one, cell by cell. “Bobby!” Your screams turn dull with every press against your chest. “Bobby—”
There’s a loud thwack from behind, and the arms let you go.
You keel over, taking deep breaths as you push yourself out of the walls. Crawling backwards and away from it, fingers grasping at your neck, desperately dragging air into your lungs. You see Bobby wield your hammer, standing tall, drenched, striking right at the entity.
“Motherfucker!” He brings it down with a force so harsh that it breaks its face, cleaving it open. “Fuck off!” He strikes again and again until it staggers backwards into a stall.
It’s hand tries to reach for you as if asking for your help, pleading for your help.
Bobby stalks over it, anger rolling off of him from his posture alone as the muscles on his back tense with every rise and fall of the hammer.
The cubicle door swings close behind the two similar looking men, and you could only hear the sound of the hammer meeting whatever it’s made of. Not flesh and bone, something else, something you can’t tell.
You flinch with every smash, metal hitting it in decreasing intervals when Bobby’s ragged breathing echoes around the bathroom.
Your eyes glance at the wall, and you see the tiles close in time before it returns to normal. Or what normal is around here.
The door swings open, and Bobby wipes the sweat off his face with his arm, standing over what remains of the thing that took the form of a man you met and talked to once.
Its face is smashed in, leg twitching, fingers opening and closing. There are stuff around it that bears a resemblance to its cut open face. It looks like foam, like what’s inside a mattress instead of blood and bone.
Bobby heaves, crouches down in front of you, the hammer clangs against the tiles as it falls from his grasp before his hands take hold of your face gingerly, making you look away from the carnage. “Are you okay?”
Your lips wobble, but you keep a brave façade. “Yeah, it— it came out of nowhere.” The lack of air made your voice hoarse, cut at the edges, almost broken.
“I swear that I checked this whole place and there was no one else here.” He sounds guilty, face contorted into a mix of guilt and ebbing fury, the edges of his eyes are reddened, crimson amidst blue. “Did it…did it hurt you?”
Shaking your head, you feel an ache between your ribs that you decide to ignore. “No, it just—it was pushing me into the wall.”
“Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
You don’t know why you did it, maybe it was his genuine bone aching worried expression or maybe it was because he saved you again, either way, you break, opening your arms and pulling him against you for an embrace, as if he was the one in need of comfort. Maybe you shouldn’t when you could still feel the entity’s arms around you, so unfamiliar, so cold. But Bobby is so warm, so familiar, and he lets you, you haven’t held onto someone in so long that your body has forgotten how real warmth feels like. Not from the walls, or whatever nonsensical thing you could fill your days with in the real world. This is humanly real that it sends your mind into a state of calm, a quiet that you’ve only felt through the song of the walls.
Bobby holds you gently, taking you in his arms in a softer and kinder way as his palms rest on your back gingerly. His hand shivers slightly from the adrenaline or from the unfamiliar affection from you.
“I’m not going to break.” You mutter near his ear, watching the thing twitch on the bathroom floor. Bobby squeezes you, letting out a relieved sigh. He holds onto you for a moment, his knuckle gliding along the length of your back, the other cupping the back of your head, waiting for you to pull away first. Once you finally gather your breath and your trembling seizes, you pull away. “Thank you.”
“I heard you call for me and I thought—” his lips purses together, a palm patting your cheek. There is an unsteady tremor from his touch that isn’t as well hidden as he hoped. “nothing, I’m glad you’re okay.” Eyes flicking down your torso, his brows knit together.
“What?” You look down at yourself, expecting blood, or for him to be staring at your arms.
“It was wearing the same shirt as you…” Bobby’s blue eyes meet yours, confusion swimming in them. His mouth forms a question, until.
“Hello?” A voice calls from somewhere. Echoed, like speaking through an old speaker.
“What the fuck?” Bobby instinctively shields you, a hand grasping at your bicep as you both frantically look around the source. “Who the fuck?”
“Holy shit, you guys are real.” Relief is palpable in the stranger’s tone.
“This place is fucked, let’s go.” Bobby helps you up, cautiously walking away.
“Wait, no, please! I’m human! I’m stuck here just like you guys!”
“Can you see us?” You ask tentatively, holding onto Bobby’s elbow to stop his frantic movement. Looking around, you see nothing out of the ordinary, except for the being on the floor. “Where are you?”
Bobby side eyes you, asking what you’re doing through his expression. You reassure him with a squeeze of his arm.
“In some fucked up looking house.” He sounds ragged, exhausted. “I could see you but you can’t see me, right?”
“Yeah.” You could see the cogs in his mind turn as you both recall what Clark told you two in the boiler room. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Peter.” He takes a deep breath that you could hear everywhere around you. “Peter Tench. I… I worked here, still work here.” He laughs bitterly. “I’m a researcher.”
“I fucking knew it!” Bobby seethes, still shielding you from the unseen Peter. “The fucking government made this shit.”
“No, no, we’re not the government, we’re far from it.” He sounds increasingly tired with each word he lets out. “Listen, I don’t have much time, it’s out there.”
“What is, Peter? Maybe we can help you.” Bobby turns to you with a befuddled expression.
“We don’t know this fucking guy, don’t be a hero, hero.”
“I didn’t know you either and yet I saved you. And you didn’t know me but you still saved me.” Your words has him clamping his mouth shut. His jaw clenches before he turns away, and yet he doesn’t leave your side.
“No, he’s right.” Peter shudders a breath, “you shouldn’t trust me but I do know a way out of this place.”
“Tell us.” Bobby demands, standing steadfastly, adrenaline still rushing through him. His eyes are narrowed to slits, fury still rising from his skin like steam.
“There are CB radios scattered around this place, there’s one in every outpost. it’s our…” he pauses, trying to gather his breath. “Our way of communicating with the outside world. If you could find it you can contact my people. I only ask for you to tell them that I’m alive and to come get me. It would be impossible for us to meet up so don’t waste your energy in trying to find me yourself. They know this place better than you ever will.”
“That’s not ominous at all.” Mumbling to himself, Bobby licks at his lips. “And who exactly are these people of yours.”
“You’ll find out.”
“Cryptic motherfucker.”
“Peter, I’ve come across one of those radios and I tried it but no one answered.” You add, taking a step forward and away from Bobby as he watches the side of your face.
“Fuck, it was probably the wrong frequency. Things here like technology don’t work as well for some reason.” He laughs, an ugly laugh that sounds half humourless and half pained. He almost sounds insane, hopeless. With a wobbly breath, he tells you the frequency, just three digits, saying it twice for you and Bobby to memorize it. “Did you get it?”
“Yeah,” your eyes rake around the walls, trying to figure out how he could see you but you can’t see him. Clark said the same thing. Nothing makes sense here, and Bobby’s right, you should stop trying to understand it. “Do you know where any of these radios are?”
“They’re mostly in level zero with the yellow wallpaper.” Your breath hitches at the mere mention. “Your best bet is to just wander around and hope for the best, me giving you direction to a directionless place is a waste of breath.”
“Or you could try giving us a landmark, fucking anything, man.” Frustration rolls off Bobby’s shoulders as you feel his adrenaline fading away.
“Chairs, a ton of wheels from a boat, and I remember a banner that says ‘everything must go,’ once you see those you’re near one.”
“Well, that’s fucking helpful.” Bobby scoffs, walking towards the fallen hammer and picking it up together with your discarded jacket on the counter. “Any other helpful tips, mister scientist?”
“Yeah, don’t get lost.” Peter chortles, a sound from the back of his throat that you feel your skin rising from his laugh. “I have to go, I could hear it shuffling outside.”
“Peter, wait!” There’s a sound of rushed footsteps on the other side, retreating away as you and Bobby are now left alone in the bathroom. “What the fuck just happened?” Turning towards Bobby, he looks at you with furrowed brows, frowning right at you. You feel self conscious as you cross your arms over your chest. “Bobby, I—”
“Are you really okay?” It’s not pity in those pretty blue eyes of his, it’s remorse, it’s guilt marring at his face, it’s empathy that cinches at his heart whilst he holds the jacket close to his chest, your scent clinging on the rustling fabric. “Hero…what happened—”
“I’m fine, thank you but I’m fine.” You would break in front of him, to cry in his arms or hold onto him again but you don’t give yourself that when you’ve been lying to him with an excuse of saving him from the hurt. Stepping towards him, his concern grows, he doesn’t seem to be so convinced. Why is he so worried about you? “I’m okay, worrying won’t get us anywhere.”
“Am I not allowed to worry about you?” Bobby’s eyes flicks towards the entity’s feet as it peeks through the stall, still twitching, still trying to get up. “That’s what people do, hero, they worry about other people. That thing could’ve killed you, and I—” shaking his head, he turns his head away and the fluorescent lights shine right on his glimmering eyes. He’s still soaking wet from his swim, he must’ve rushed here when you called him. “You said that we’re a team. I really don’t want to lose my only teammate, or lose you to insanity like that Peter guy.”
You swallow his words and tuck it in your heart, keeping it there, not knowing how to respond. “You don’t believe him?”
He scoffs at your reaction, biting his lower lip as he shakes his head. “Let’s just get out of here. You are the most frustrating woman I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a lot.”
“I’m sorry that I’m emotionally constipated.” You meant it as a joke, but he doesn’t find it as funny as you.
Bobby licks at his teeth, head falling down on his clavicle with a chortle akin to a scoff. “You said it, not me.” Taking a deep breath, he hands you your jacket back. “You didn’t finish your peaches.”
“I hate peaches.” You awkwardly shove the jacket on.
“See? That— you should’ve said so.” He shrugs, frustration right on his movements. “Don’t shut me out, man. You don’t have to tell me everything but at least tell me *some of the shit. Like how you don’t like peaches or that you’re dying from the heat or about the radio thing, you didn’t tell me that.”
“I didn’t even know it still works. Bobby, I’m sorry, but I’m really trying, I…” clutching at the hem of the jacket, you shut your eyes for a moment before looking at him, not between his brows or the wall beside him, but right into those blue eyes that remind you of the ocean you once sailed on. “I’ve just been alone for so long that I have no idea how to… I’m sorry.”
Bobby’s shoulders ease, a hand raking through his wet hair as he bites the inside of his cheek. “No, don’t be sorry.” The heel of his palm kneads at the space between his brows. “I keep prying you with questions when you know as much about this place as I do. Kat tells me that I could be an annoying ass sometimes.” Pausing, he lets out a sigh, looking at the wall behind you for a moment before meeting with your eyes. “I—I just want you to look after yourself for a change.”
Shaking your head, you reach for his hand, you shouldn’t, but something in you told you to, that you should show him that you understand, that you care. “You’ve been nothing but pleasant so far, Bobby.”
The corner of his lips ticks up into a sad smile. His fingers squeeze you weakly. “Kat would be happy to hear that. Just— just don’t forget that you have to survive too, you need to take care of yourself, not just me. I’m not a kid, don’t sacrifice your comfort for me.” He takes a pause, fingers flexing on his side. “I need you to fight for this. Like you already did before.”
“Okay.” You feign a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Let’s go find that radio.”
you’ve tried to ignore him, but you can’t evade the mess of tan gangly limbs forever. he’s good at getting under your skin… among other things.
pairing: surfer!reader x surfer!beckett
warnings: nsfw, 18+, oral f!receiving (not super in depth, only one scene!), cursing, use of y/n once, beckett is annoying
wc: 7.0k
a/n: kind of enemies to lovers, kind of not. FORGIVE me the ending is rushed + they end up on the ice LOL. i barely edited this! i wanted to make it longer but i hit a rut sorrryyy
title is hula girl by the neighborhood :)
It seemed like every day for the past decade, you heard his name.
Sennecke, Sennecke, Sennecke…
You’re quite neutral about him, all things considered. Sometimes, the mention of him makes your skin crawl, sometimes it makes you flush a little angry, sometimes it makes your stomach feel empty, a scraping inside your abdomen that leaves your throat itchy and mouth dry. It’s always when you don’t want to hear about him.
Oh, you’ve won your comp? Did you see Sennecke’s win yesterday? Isn’t Sennecke going to that invitational too? Could you introduce me to him?
But sometimes, when you know the mention of his name is coming, your heart quickens abnormally, and sometimes you get a flutter of nerves you can’t explain.
So, that means those feelings cross out like a mathematical equation. Obviously.
You weren’t close. You speak to him in three-word jabs that he smiles all teeth at. It infuriates you when he doesn’t say anything back out on the sand, and he just looks at you like you’re funny—that’s all you are.
It was already hard enough getting sponsorships, going pro, and two people from the same area doing it at the same time? Yeah, sometimes you screamed into your pillow. He was stealing your spotlight. Him and that cocky smile and permanent nose sunburn.
—
In the blur of puberty, when surfing got real, that was when you saw him first, brown hair too long and falling in his eyes at some camp with twenty other kids. Then, the good waves were still too big for your body. You wore wetsuits and gloves because the Canadian waters were too cold. He was shorter than you and a little loud, but really you didn’t pay the boys any attention. You loved surfing, and a few boys out in your periphery weren’t going to shake your resolve.
When all your friends could talk about at sleepovers were the boys at school, all you could think about was when you were going to get down to the beach. Your favorite board lived against your bedroom wall, and at some point, fitting it between your arm and body was the most natural thing ever.
It was just when you kept seeing him. All the time.
He was on a surf club across town, and you kept seeing him down by the water once you turned 14. He wasn’t ever in your local spot, but sometimes you crossed paths, and it was enough that the mutual stare felt odd. You knew each other through town talk and point totals on websites. You felt it awkward to go up to him, to try and act as if you were supposed to be friends because you were both really good.
He was a hell of a lot less dorky since that camp and a world more charming. Everyone said so.
You’d see it from a distance, the girls piling around him, how easily he flowed into conversation that had them giggling so loud you heard it over the crashing waves. It made your jaw clench more than anything. It was cringey and gross, and at one point, you swear he saw you roll your eyes at him, but you couldn’t be sure. You were 40 feet away. You thought it was a figment of your imagination, something you made up because you had such a shitty heat. He had smiled, and you couldn’t explain that, so it was much easier to think the whole incident never happened.
Sometimes, you’d let the thought gnaw deep: how he never saw you with anyone other than your friends. It shouldn’t be embarrassing, but he made you feel behind in ways you shouldn’t. He was more charming. He was easy-going. Romantic endeavors were, more or less, a piece of cake for him. It always looked like he had it all figured out.
When the boys started coming through in social media messages and mutual followers once surfing became serious, when you started getting sponsorships, and you had a decent chunk of followers (mostly local but you didn’t complain), you hated it. At 15, half of them were legal adults; the other half were, for lack of a better word, weak surfers that wanted in on you, to claim you because your points kept getting up there and in just a few short years, you’d be in the challengers series.
Beckett, in a way, made everyone else feel boring. It wasn’t a direct thought—you never connected the dots, but the way he spoke, the way he zoned out and got hard on himself after he fucked up, just like you did. How he sat on his board when the sea was placid, the sun illuminating his shoulder blades, the small beauty marks along his spine, it was inevitable. There would be nobody else.
By eighteen, you hadn’t dated anyone.
So maybe you were a little… romantically stunted. It’s easy to brush off. You’re a professional athlete, and, quite frankly, you have no time to fuck around with situationships like all your friends do. The whole thing sounds terrible, and it seemed like every week they’d come curled up on your couch, crying about a guy that couldn’t care less about them.
You figured Beckett was not so different from those men. Sometimes, you imagined how those poor girls took it when he broke it off with them, or worse, how he ghosted them. You don’t know why you liked to imagine these things. Maybe it brings you a small comfort, trying to convince yourself he’s not a good person. Your ‘crush’ on him was surface-level, and you were trying your very best to convince yourself of that. It didn’t work because you just thought about him more.
—
This comp doesn’t really mean much. It’s just a local mob of clubs, and you’re off to Brazil at the end of the week for a real qualifier that’ll cement your name if you play your cards right.
Beckett is always there before you, even when you try to get there earlier. The day was a go, but you swear he gets there before the judges say the waters are good. He’s like, really obsessed, even though he doesn’t show it much in the way he acts.
He’s sitting on a rather large rock, his back to you. His board rests beside him. You notice the branding is different—he got a new sponsor or something. It’s gloomy out, the light gray enveloping the sky and making the ocean look a deeper blue than usual.
He’s still wearing his hoodie. You never really see his hair much dry. He trims it often now; he likes to keep up appearances for his newfound fanbase. The nape of his neck is clean, and the short hairs straight.
Your teammate preemptively giggles as she lays her eyes on him.
“You should’ve come last Friday. He was there and got superrr drunk,” she whispers, even though Beckett wouldn’t be able to hear anyway.
She’s talking about some house party you shrugged your shoulders at. That day, you were sore in all the wrong places.
“Really? Who’d he take home this time?” It’s just gossip, like, you didn’t care at all. You’re secretly hoping she says he didn’t, that he was too wasted and his friends had to carry him out of there.
“I don’t know. I had never seen her before. She sounded American.”
“Oh,” you let out. You’re still staring at the back of Beckett’s head. He’s fidgeting with his board on his lap, looking out at the break. “He latches onto anything with a pulse,” you add, because your oh sounded too dejected for your liking.
She hums in agreement, and you both shove your flip-flops off, letting the cool sand cushion your feet.
Unfortunately, you have to pass him on your way to your team’s setup farther along the beach. You try to look straight forward, but obviously your friend gives him a warm greeting, and you’re forced to turn your head and give him a pained smile.
“Hi, y/n,” he grins, his hand giving a half-assed wave as his elbows brace his board. “Good luck.” He says this specifically to you, his gaze lingering too long on the oversized shirt covering your two-piece. He runs his hand through his hair. It’s a bit windy, so he’s fixing the strands sticking out.
You know he’s teasing you. He’s smiling too wide. His smile was too big for his face. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”
“I don’t get a ‘good luck’ back?” He asks, and your friend is just standing between you two, a little confused by the odd tension. You grit your teeth.
“I’m not going to fraternize with the enemy.”
“Oh, okay,” he says, all sarcastic. He looks at you dead on, a glimmer in his eyes, “I get it.”
You don’t know why you can’t just be nice to him.
It was his annoying face. It was how he thought everything was a game. It always felt like he was making fun of you.
Towards the end of the day, when you place fifth—irritatingly so—Beckett catches your eye across the sand, a small, knowing smile hanging there. He was about to start his heat against the other guys, and your stomach lurched knowing he was watching you.
He was always watching you, but the simple confirmation alone made your skin crawl.
—
Beckett was between a lot of sports growing up. Surfing was one of the last things he thought about, truthfully. Everyone expected him to play hockey.
He doesn’t remember exactly how old he was when his dad made this gross joke about picking surfing because the young boy liked scantily clad women. He was probably 10. He heard it behind the corner during some family gathering. He knew it was a joke, but he didn’t like it anyway. It embarrassed him because it was half true.
He wasn’t ogling adult women just yet. No, he saw you at that camp, all determined, with this really nice shortboard and a million friends. You looked like you knew everything, and he wanted to be like you. Then, you were taller than him, and he felt so small.
You were the best surfer there. It started this spiral he couldn’t get himself out of. He wanted to be good in case you saw him again. He’d come back, hopefully taller and stronger, and you’d notice him, for real.
It really did not help when his grandma figured out about you. You’d show up in all his competition photos because you’d always place well, so there are dozens of them where your face shows up. It’s almost like he could imagine you both grew up together, friends or something.
There’s one where you’re standing next to each other with flimsy trophies in both your hands in front of the water. He guesses you both won the men’s and women’s sides. It looks like he was thirteen there. His grandmother loves you for some reason. She compiles all these photos and always asks about you when she sees Beckett.
Beckett kind of has to lie and pretend you’re friends. Oh, she’s doing good. She just won xxx competition. And it’s not because you told him but because he was constantly looking at your stats, constantly flicking through your social media. He doesn’t want to think about how much time he spends staring at your profile. It’s entirely too much.
He can tell. She has that look on her face like she approves of you. She’s never even met you.
—
“There’s no way.” You squeak, walking towards the sand one early Thursday morning.
“Surprise?” One of the workers says. She’s grinning, watching your reaction to the undeniable shape of Beckett with his back turned, talking to someone holding a camera. You’ve seen his back so much you’d recognize it anywhere. He’s already in swim trunks and nothing else.
“We’re…this is a group photoshoot?” Your eyes glaze over his bare expanse for too long, glossing over the knobs of his spine.
She nods, holding a stack of papers close to her chest. “It was super last minute but we thought it might be good. You’re both on the same trajectory right now.” You’re hoping she says there are other surfers coming or something, that it’s not a ‘couple’s thing’. “And you’re both hot, so it’s a win.”
You flush, sweat starting to pool at your temples. You want to whine, but you’re freshly eighteen and that’s unbecoming of an adult. You breathe out. It won’t be too bad. All the camera people will be directing you and there will barely be any talking—probably.
Maybe you should have thought this might happen, having the same swimwear sponsor and all.
As you step out of the privacy tent, suddenly the mess of brown hair is in your personal space. The one piece you’re wearing is the same red color of his shorts.
“Who would’ve thought?” He says, looking down at you. You’re already irritated.
“Thought what?” You cross your arms.
“We’d look good together.” He grins.
“Jesus Christ. Did you win last weekend or something?”
He did and now his total points have teetered over yours. Not that it matters because you’re technically split up by sex, but it still hurts your ego.
“Yep.” He emphasizes the p, a popping sound falling from his mouth. You’ve never seen his smile dimples this close before. You scoff.
“How many of your girlfriends were there?” You step by him to start heading over to the photography team.
“Uh, like five. It was hard to keep them separated.” You huff out a short laugh at his answer. Then, there’s a short pause.
“You think of me like that?” He follows you like a puppy.
“Well, I think the whole surfing community thinks of you like that.” You look over your shoulder and his brows are furrowed, looking at the sand between his feet.
“Ah, you can’t really believe everything, though.”
“Dude, I don’t care. You can do whatever you want.”
“But I’m not—“
One of the camera people starts talking, and you both fall quiet as you listen.
It’s, uh, not as easy as you planned.
Beckett finds touching you very easy. He pulls you in once the solo shots are done, after your hair’s all wet and you’re flushed from the shots in the ocean.
He doesn’t need direction. His arm lazily dangles over your shoulders as you hold a board against your body. The water laps at your feet. You’re sinking ever further into the wet sand. You’re rooted there, trying not to make it obvious that every nerve ending in your body is on fire.
He made a bad joke about your club teammate that you shouldn’t have laughed at, but you did. All the camera people are bewildered that they don’t have to tell you what to do. They take rapid pictures, capturing whatever weird chemistry sizzles between your bodies.
“Okay, we’re good guys!” One of them says. It’s only midday, but it’s getting too hot. You sigh. You definitely didn’t put enough sunscreen on and your shoulders feel warm to the touch.
“See, it wasn’t that bad,” Beckett says, pulling away from you.
“I guess not.” You roll your eyes. This is the most conversation you’ve ever had with him.
Except you’re not done. Some social media intern swarms both of you, asking to do a small interview for instagram. She pulls out a small hand-held mic. “Just five minutes. I have like one question.”
“Okay, sure!” You respond, though your body is heavy and all the stress of today has finally decided to set in.
It never gets easy having a phone camera pointed directly at your face. Beckett is standing right beside you, and she has to take a step back to get him in frame too.
She asks how it is, competing professionally alongside someone you’ve known forever. Of course. You hesitate. He’s standing right there, curious as to what you have to say.
“It’s, uh, nice seeing a familiar face in other parts of the world, you know? We both want to make our families and community proud, so—yeah, it’s cool.” You try to smile, but it’s awkward.
Beckett takes the mic from your hands. He smiles wide, looking down to catch your parting lips. “She has a little trouble going against me. Always has.”
“No, I do not—”
“What I mean to say—” he barks out a laugh at your immediate defense, “—we surf better when we’re together. It helps so much to have that support, especially because we’re both in the same, pretty terrifying position right now.”
You can’t tell if that’s a real stat or something. You try to think about it logically. Whenever your local club goes against his, do you really fall under the ‘pressure’? It feels dumb to analyze it. Those local competitions don’t mean as much, and maybe that’s why you’ve never noticed it before—chalking it down to the water, a bad day. Do you really do that? You doubt it. He’s probably making that up for the narrative.
“You guys are close, huh?”
“We kind of have to be,” Beckett responds, before you can adamantly shake your head at the concept.
“Yeah,” you add weakly.
“I mean, everyone knows it. You’re both the future of Canadian surfing. How about the Olympics in a few years?”
“Oh, that’s—that’s so far away.”
“We’ll see,” Beckett grins.
You take a freezing cold shower when you get back home.
—
The photos are posted a week later.
It has like some stupid caption saying made in Canada. Your phone vibrates maybe 100 times once it’s out there, public, for anyone to see. Half of it is your confused friends asking why they didn’t get a warning. The other half is random people gushing about how good you look together. You shut your eyes and throw your phone across the bed. If you didn’t look at it, it didn’t exist.
Your throat felt thick knowing that Beckett was right—you did look like a couple, and now other people thought that too.
—
Hawaii is not fun after breaking up with your boyfriend.
Your short-lived stint of pretending you could be normal was over. You liked him…he was okay and very nice to your family when he met them, but that was it. You barely saw him because of your schedule. You wanted to be the one who broke it off, but he got there first.
You sulked about that. You kind of wanted to be the first in everything.
“Sorry to hear about…whatever his name was. I can’t remember.”
You click your tongue at the mass of gangly limbs before you. You’re both in the hotel lobby, waiting, because apparently your rooms weren’t ready.
He’s wearing a shirt with loose gray sweats. You rarely see him in normal clothes. His carry-on backpack is slung over his shoulder.
You’d have been on the same plane if not for the fact that Beckett got here a few days earlier and stayed with friends. You don’t really want to imagine what that entailed.
“You don’t actually care.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” He shrugs. It’s stupid to ask how he knew, because word gets out quickly in the tight-knit communities you’re both a part of. You know it firsthand—all the bad stories you’ve had to hear about him against your will. “Just hope it doesn’t affect your game.”
“It won’t.”
“That’s great, babe.”
You stiffen up. Someone’s called Beckett over, some surfer he knew, so he’s gone before you can say anything.
Babe is…a friendly term. Friends call each other babe. It’s different from baby, a lot less weight. It still makes your pulse spike.
You figure out Beckett’s across from your room when you go out to get ice to chew on for your nerves.
“You going out tonight?” He asks, card in his hand, bag still on, as he waits for your response before he enters his room.
“Uhm, probably not. I’m tired.”
“Is it because of him?”
“No! What? I mean, why do you care? You don’t know me, Sennecke.” Plus, it feels like he’s inviting you to wherever he’s going, and that freaks you the fuck out. The comp’s already been pushed back a day, and it starts the day after next, so there’s a lot of reason to explore the beach town…you just don’t know how to lie well enough.
“Okay, last names again. I thought we were progressing.”
You sigh. “Why’d you lie about that thing in the interview?” It’s a very vague thing to say, and it happened a while ago, but Beckett knows what you’re talking about immediately.
“I wasn’t. Your point average is better when I’m not going against you.”
“That’s stupid. We’re together all through the regular season. It just means I perform better on tour than at local competitions that barely mean anything, dumbass.”
He smiles, biting his tongue. “I wonder how many other things we’d do better together—“
“I’m done. Oh my god. Goodbye.” You heat up so fast, turning on the spot to fumble with your key card. You hear him laugh before you close the door with your back.
—
There’s a knock on your door two hours later.
“Hey, doll face? You there?” You hear his deep voice through the heavy door. You scramble out of bed.
You swing the door open. “Are you one thousand years old?”
“What? You do have a doll face.”
He’s dressed to go out in this thin white linen shirt and black slacks.
Your lips form a tight line.
“I’m sorry about that comment earlier, okay? I’m just messing with you. You’re easy to make angry.”
“Okay,” you say, looking down between your socked feet.
Beckett’s having a really hard time not letting his heart burst out of his chest seeing you in a tank top and sleep shorts.
“You should come. There’s a whole bunch of surfers going out too. It’ll…help you get over him.” He clears his throat.
“I don’t know.”
“Just…” he pulls his phone out of his back pocket, and tells you the restaurant everyone’s apparently going to. “Come if you want.”
“Okay, maybe,” you say.
“Good.” Beckett seems really pleased.
—
He’s the first to catch notice of you walking in. His arm is slung around the backside of a booth, eyes glazing over you once, twice, like he can’t believe you took up the offer, then he says, “Hey! You made it.”
He’s fuzzy, maybe two or three drinks in. Empty, wide-rimmed margarita glasses are filling the table. He’s sitting with a group of guys, but there’s just enough room on the edge for you to squeeze in. You feel awkward.
“Yeah, I guess.”
He pats the leather next to him. You want to high-tail it out of there.
“Sit right here, baby. I’ll order you a drink.”
Is the world tilted off its axis? He’s called you three nicknames in the span of five hours.
The guys at the table don’t make a fuss about it. They don’t even acknowledge it, like it’s normal.
Somehow, you’ve managed to blurt out the silly details of your break-up to him, all numb now with a couple of drinks in your system. It happened over the phone in an airport, you say, and you had to make him repeat it because you didn’t hear it the first time. Beckett laughs at that.
“He couldn’t even wait until you were back home?”
“Nah, it’s okay though. Like, probably better that I didn’t have to see him again.”
“Right.” Beckett lightly taps your bare knee, and it’s almost accidental until his entire palm wraps around your upper thigh. It feels like he’s claiming you, making sure you’re not going to leave him.
At this point, it’s just the two of you making conversation now.
“I have no idea how he could break up with you.”
“I’m pretty stubborn and…not a great girlfriend.”
“Really?”
“I don’t think—“ your breath hitches as he squeezes your thigh, “—don’t think I should be dating during the season.”
“Oh,” he says, eyes dark, “yeah. I don’t think you should be either.”
You clear your throat. “What time is it?” You scramble around for your phone. Beckett still has his hand on you, watching you. “We should go back.”
As you’re leaving, Beckett’s palm rests on the back of your neck. Heat is pooling so fast in your lower stomach. He’s practically gripping you with one hand, helping you get out of this crowded restaurant.
The walk back is very, very awkward. The cool rush of air is sobering. Maybe Beckett doesn’t think so, because he’s still talking about your ex.
“You know, dating people who aren’t surfers just doesn’t work.”
“And you know from experience, right?” You smirk, trying to get him to stutter or something, but he never does.
“Yeah. I do.” God, he says it so matter-of-fact.
“What? Are you proposing something right now?” You egg on.
“Hmm,” he contemplates something in his head. “Don’t know. I think you’re a little emotionally strung out right now.”
“What? No I’m not. I’m perfectly fine.”
“So if I kissed you, you wouldn’t regret it?”
Your breathing stops. You’re on the sidewalk; red and green lights from the traffic stop illuminate his face.
You shut your eyes tight, shaking your head. “I’d regret it just because it was you.” You start walking again, and he has to take a few long strides to get back next to you.
“Oh, come on. You know that’s not true.”
“It is.” You keep your head held high.
“What’s your issue with me?” He asks as you step into the hotel lobby. The receptionist gives you both a small smile.
“Everything.”
“You’re such a bad liar.”
You scowl at him, pressing the elevator button.
“Why would you let me hold you like that?”
“Uh—uhm, I don’t remember.” It was maybe twenty minutes ago when his hand was dangerously close to the edge of your shorts.
“You can say it, say that you want me. I won’t judge.”
“I don’t…” In the elevator, the light is brighter, and you can see the hard, tanned skin underneath several buttons he’s undone through the course of the night. His neck is long, and there’s so much room to kiss him there.
“Fuck you,” you blurt out, and take him by the hand once the elevator dings open.
“Whoa,” he’s startled, but follows you anyway. You fumble again with the card. It beeps red before he takes it in his hand to press down slowly on the pad. You murmur an apology when it works.
You drag him inside. “I just want to see. Want to know if it’s true.”
He looks at you, amused. He knows damn well what you’re talking about, the rumors that he was fucking insane in bed. You’ve heard that since you were seventeen, and now that you’re on edge since your break-up, and he’s this warm, willing body, you have a hard time thinking of anything else.
“What’s true?” He grins, walking forward, closing you in. You stumble back, falling onto the bed. Your forearms keep you up. You try to kick your shoes off. Beckett looks really different, like a whole other person has taken over his body.
You know you’re sober enough that you’ll remember this tomorrow morning. He will too.
“I’m not saying it.”
“Course you aren’t. Too embarrassed. You just have to promise me one thing.”
“What?” You’re exasperated.
“That you won’t fall in love with me after.”
Too late.
“Yeah, right, idiot.” You start unbuttoning your jean shorts, and Beckett takes over, a chuckle escaping his lips. He flings you toward the head of the bed like it’s nothing. You look at him, wide-eyed. He shucks his shirt off, then dips down onto the mattress.
You used to read what the comments said about you two. How perfect you slotted in together. This is what the comments had said, and you’d blush looking at the pictures. You swear you looked at them every night. Obviously, one does not do that in a healthy, committed relationship.
There’s a flicker of doubt, as he drags your shorts down, that this will ruin everything. You don’t have it in you to care right now.
He smiles at your underwear. It was white with little red hearts on it. “Shut up.” You groan, bucking your hips up into the air.
“Didn’t say anything, baby.”
“I’m not—“ he presses his thumb into the fat of your inner thigh, forcing your legs wider to accommodate him. “—stop calling me that. I’m not your baby.”
“Sometimes you act like one, don’t you?”
“What the fuck.” You flop your head back onto the pillow. It’s hard to keep eye contact with him. The pale blue was so intimidating. “No.” You grunt.
“Sure,” he agrees half heartedly against your skin, kissing down your inner legs.
It’s dizzying how no one else has seemingly cared more to please you than Sennecke. You think you might pass out.
With your panties bunched to the side, Beckett presses his tongue against you like his life depends on it. His nose grazes over your clit, and your hand fists in his hair. He liked that because his eyes fluttered closed, soft groans vibrating through your pussy.
And once you’re done keening, broken sobs falling out of your mouth, you force yourself to attack him because he’s not very assertive about this one thing—about making you do anything else. It looks like he’s about to leave, like he’ll just go and jerk off in his own hotel room.
“I have to…” You pant, “…finish what I started.”
“You’re crazy,” he breathes out as you palm him through his slacks. You kiss him hard. You’ve never tasted yourself before. He’s licking your bottom lip, and you shudder, opening your mouth better for him. You’re sitting between his legs, digging the heel of your hand into his filled-out cock.
You whine particularly loud into his mouth, and he’s gone. He cums right in his boxers. He swears, little fuck’s coming out against your cheek.
His eyes are blown out. He can’t believe that happened.
“Okay, wow.” You fall backwards, too tired. A small simmering heat is building up in your chest knowing you made the notorious fuck boy cum in his pants.
“Yeah, uhm,” he’s looking down at you, his eyes barely open now, like he’s just remembered he’s tired. “I’ll go.”
“You always cum that fast?”
“Don’t act like you weren’t crying my name five minutes ago.” He wipes his face with the back of his hand. He winces as he stands up, the patch of wetness making it uncomfortable.
You throw a pillow at him. “Fuck, god. Sorry,” he says, the blow hitting him right in the side of the head.
“You’re avoiding the question,” you complain.
“Goodnight.” He says, narrowing his eyes at you. He picks the pillow up and throws it next to your body. Your hair was a mess, chest heaving up and down.
You groan loudly, twisting in your sheets, mumbling something close to a bye. You shift onto your side, and he sees your shirt riding up your back and your panties that hug your buttcheeks. You hear him snicker before he’s grabbing his things and leaving.
You don’t sleep for another hour, flipping over tomorrows possibilities in your mind.
—
You wake up with a pounding headache but an even bigger feeling of dread.
It’s noon and everyone else has probably gotten along with their day. You wonder if Beckett is still in bed or if he’s not affected by hangovers like you are. You grimace. He’s probably had a very productive day.
You drag yourself to your bathroom, trying not to think about last night—you fell so easily, like putty in his hands, and now you know the feeling of his mouth against yours. You know what he sounds like when he’s moaning with want.
After mulling over 10 options, one including possibly becoming a Buddhist, you decide not to talk to him about it. You weren’t very close anyway, and you could get away with speaking to him in two word sentences just like the last five years.
You’re sure he’s had experience with this kind of thing: having sex with a friend. He probably won’t even mention it either.
—
Beckett knows why you ‘hate’ him. He’s studied enough of your film, watched enough of your mannerisms after a heat, that he could roughly deduce why you gave him the cold shoulder. You hated not constantly being the best.
It’s why he likes you.
On the first day of the competition, he finally finds you there before him. There’s barely anything set up yet, the orange horizon waning into a light blue. You’re all jittery, he can tell. You’re applying too much wax on your board.
“Calm down.” You look up from where you sit in the sand. His damp hair from the shower frames his forehead. He’s looking at you all quizzical, like he’s going to blurt out: “what’s wrong with you?”
“Phft. Thanks. That helps.”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Yeah, okay, sure.”
“You’re not this…on edge, usually. Was it…” he lets the silence speak for itself.
“No! No, of course not. I’m not even, like not even—I’m just thinking.”
He hesitates. There’s a fondness in his eyes that you’re not quite used to. It makes your body feel really small.
Your ex-boyfriend really did look a lot like him. Gosh, do you think he noticed that? When you posted your boyfriend on your story, did he notice the same floppy brown hair, the same lanky, built body? You bite down hard on your lower lip, squinting at Beckett now because the sun has risen higher above the horizon.
“I’ll see you later?”
You’re forced into an impromptu interview with him at the end of the day, where he lies about how close you are, but then you flush thinking about how it really is true now—the closeness. You avoid him for the rest of the competition. Every time you look at him, your heart blooms too big in your chest. It’s the lush Hawaiian trees, the clear sky, the orange and pink hibiscus flowers that are tricking you, intensifying your feelings.
—
At the airport, Beckett’s sitting right next to you in the terminal, legs spread, phone in hand because it always seems like he’s texting someone. Not that you care.
You decided it would be weird not to sit next to him, but it’s also weird sitting next to him. So no one’s winning here, really. Except if you count Beckett, who won the whole damn thing yesterday. You placed third—which was still really good, but you’re an athlete; you’re jealous.
“Excuse me?” You feel a tiny poke on your knee, drawing you out of the spiral you’re leading yourself down.
There’s a girl, no older than eight, standing in front of you. She’s rocking back and forth, clearly nervous. She asks you if you’re really you, eyes blown wide. You notice her mom is a little ways away, smiling at the whole interaction.
“You wanna take a picture together?” You ask. She beams.
“Is that…your boyfriend?” She tries to whisper, but children whisper loud. Beckett’s got his hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh. He’s also a little mortified at the fact that he wasn’t recognized, and it hangs a little quieter on his face, but you know it’s there.
“Uh—no, he’s a surfer too.” She nods her head, mouth formed in an o shape. When she leaves, skipping back to her mom, Beckett turns to you.
“Wow.”
“Does anyone even watch men’s sports anymore?” You chide, grinning so hard.
“I’ll let you have that. Needed to be humbled after my win.”
You groan, slinking back into your chair. You take the small victories where you can.
—
Recently, Beckett’s been spending so much of the winters in tropical climates that Canada is such a shock to come back home to.
Christmas kind of sucks cause he has no excuse to see you. It’s been two weeks since that night in your hotel room, and every night since then, he’s thought about how he probably ruined everything. You don’t see him as someone serious, someone mature enough to be in a relationship. It doesn’t help that he’s never been in one longer than a couple of months, but that’s your fault, he swears.
Last night, he dreamt of going to the Olympics with you. He’s torturing himself at this point.
And his grandma won’t stop asking about you.
“Why isn’t she at one of these yet?” It’s Christmas Eve. His entire family is here.
“Grandma, I don’t think she likes me back.” It feels like a confession, because it is. An indirect one, but it still holds all its weight in it.
“Oh, dear.” She pats him on the cheek. “You have to tell her you like her first.” His cheeks are aflame, feeling like he’s 12 years old again. He has never mentioned his long-standing crush to anyone else. She always knew. It was plain obvious.
—
On Christmas Day, his little cousins wanted to go to the town rink to ice skate. It’s really fucking cold, and if he had it his way, he wouldn’t go at all.
He thinks he’s dreaming again when he sees the back of you, your hair pulled up in a ponytail, a thick black puffer jacket on, leaning against the side of the rink.
The white glow of the ice hits your face. You’re watching everyone else, hands folded underneath your chin, elbows resting on the boards. All his little cousins go off to rent skates close by.
“You’re the last person in Canada who doesn’t know how to skate. I’m impressed.”
“Christ! You scared me.” You turn, breath hitched in your throat. There’s only one person whose voice you know sounds like that. “And I do, actually, okay. I just don’t want to twist my ankle.”
“Yeah, sure.” All Beckett has ever seen you in are wetsuits and bikinis. He’s never seen you dressed in mittens and long pants. He’s never seen your nose sniffle from the cold.
“Some of us have careers to think about.” You scoff, looking at the ice instead of him. The whole place is sickeningly festive. A huge Christmas tree with multi-colored lights rests across the pond.
Beckett curls his hand around your arm and pulls you away, toward the renting booth.
“Beckett, seriously. I can’t.”
“You have to. What are you going to do, stand there the whole time?”
“Yes.” You let him drag you over there.
Skates are a little hard to put on, especially when it’s been years since you’ve done it. Beckett laces his quickly, and he notices how you’re still tying your first. He doesn’t say anything. He just kneels and does it for you. His eyelashes rest on his rosy cheeks. His eyebrows are knitted in concentration. You flush, bringing your head up because looking at him like this is completely inappropriate. Letting yourself believe this is anything but a power trip for him, seeing you bad at something he’s good at, will send you into psychosis.
Then you grow hot in your jacket at the realization that this feels more wrong than letting him settle between your legs. Imagining him as your boyfriend is embarrassing and you really need to get a grip.
Of course, he’s vindicated when he sees you shaky on your feet.
“Shut the fuck up,” you whisper, cause there’s kids everywhere, whizzing past you. His hand rests on your back. He’s sure half his family realizes he’s gone, but they probably saw your face and decided not to interrupt. He doesn’t have the time to mull over how humiliating that is. “Can’t be good at everything like you.”
He thinks that’s supposed to come off as a joke, but he can hear the honesty beneath it. He looks down at you. You’re avoiding his gaze.
“That’s not true.”
You stop yourself on the boards, holding onto it, your back pressed against it. “It’s okay. You don’t have to pity me. I don’t like other people being better. I need a therapist or something—”
“I’m terrible at cooking and responding to text messages, and I’m a nervous wreck before every heat—you’re good at that. Always so calm. You’re a better surfer than me, seriously.”
“Beckett—”
“And, I’m really bad at telling you how I feel.”
You cock your head. “What?”
“That I really like you,” the words just tumble out of his mouth, “liked you for a long time. Before the night at the hotel. I didn’t mean to make it seem like I was using you. I wasn’t. I want to be with you.”
“Oh,” you say, because it’s all you can think of. All your thoughts ceased to exist. Your face stings from the cold air.
“And I know it’s probably bad to date another competitor, but all those other guys out there suck. I’m the only one who knows what you’re going through—”
“Slow down, please.”
“Yeah, sorry,” he says sheepishly. You’re not angry at him, which he thinks is good. You’re analyzing his face.
“I agree. The whole—I mean, we’re compatible.” You look down at the ice underneath your skates. “But I’m a bad girlfriend.”
His heart forgets to beat.
“I can be the judge of that.”
You weakly push him in the chest, and he clings hard to the boards, his knuckles going white so he doesn’t drift away.
When he kisses you, this time your lips are cold and chapped. It feels like he’s kissing you for the first time, and he’s so grateful for that.
“You’re gonna last a little longer in bed?“
He covers your mouth in horror. His bright blue eyes go wide. “You can’t say that!”
“First in everything,” you giggle, and he buries his face in your neck.
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