this is part one! once again, tumblr destroys the quality
so yeah!! the relationship was nowhere near happy for a while and was probably about to end when pj pulled up. still formed from a fight, i tried to keep her canon close here! i hate some of these panels tho
error-centric, going into detail on how he tries to hide symptoms of bpd and depression even when he knows his family loves him. pj’s 17, gradi’s 14, pal is 7.
tw: medications and mentions of potential overdose (but there are no self harming thoughts!!), mentions of nausea, dissociation, auditory hallucinations, paranoia, there is a meal in the story so i should say food! should be it, pls comment if there are more.
also i would like to be clear— error is an unreliable narrator. never does his family hate him, he just thinks they do. if you see yourself in these symptoms, and think you are hated, i love you!! have a great day, everyone. error gets better after this fic and i promise anyone reading this will feel better too.
Error woke up normally— with the blankets too rough and itchy (hadn’t he told Ink to get new ones next time he was out??), the window left WIDE OPEN, and Ink right beside him. Well, one major thing was off. The artist had turned around in his sleep, facing away from the bed’s pillow barrier, and by the transitive property facing away from Error. The glitch must have done something Ink didn’t like, he decided, before sliding off the bed and shuffling over to his partner’s side.
Ink’s morning did not begin normally— being tapped out of his sleep (stasis?? pause?? It wasn’t the same thing Error did.) by shaky hands, only to see those familiar red-and-yellow eyes just centimeters from his. He opened his mouth for a startled greeting, a smile tugging at his cheeks, but Error pushed right past even the beginning of a pleasantry.
“What-at didd I d-do.”
A brow bone arched, eyelights turning to cool hues and swirling shapes, Ink sat up. “Nothing, unless this is some kind of backward confession—“
“Do y-you want me-e to havvve done ssometh-something?
Ink frowned, scooting toward the pillow-barrier to make room beside him for the glitch to curl up. “I’m kinda lost here, glitchy. If you think you did something wrong, just tell me, I’m sure it’s not even that bad.”
Error’s eyes darted up and down Ink’s form to look for any tells— not that the artist had any. He was quite a good liar, actually, and it’d take some digging to figure out if he was really mad or not. Hesitantly sliding under the covers, Error leaned his head— stars, he felt so, so tired— against Ink’s chest with a sigh. “I can tell you’re mad at me. Why else would you sleep facing away from my side of the bed?”
The ribcage under his skull shifted, although not quickly enough to raise suspicion. “Ru, I told you years ago that if I was ever mad at you, I’d just say it. We did that even before we had PJ, for crying out loud.”
It was… compelling, and the artist’s hand rubbing sleepy circles into his shoulder was almost as persuasive as his words were. Sinking under the blankets up to his nose, he stayed curled against Ink, eyes drooping. He had just woken up, he didn’t have any excuse to be tired now, did he? Yesterday had been normal too, if not a little stressful with paperwork for Gradient’s online high school, but that was just sitting on the couch and signing things. He didn’t need more sleep, he knew, but stars above did it feel good to just lie here for a bit.
That was, until the doorknob turned (with a little difficulty) and a very excited Palette scrambled in, socks sliding on old wooden flooring. “Daddy, Papa, I had a dream you let me have a pie wit’ water in the middle for breakfast!! And it was kinda jelly-ish so it was extra good and then—“
His seven-year-old rambling faded into a hum of quiet, but constant, berating from the Voices. It was always there, even if Ink tried to tell him that the Voices weren’t the ones insulting him, that was ‘his own self-hatred’… or whatever bullshit Dream had probably told him to say. Occasionally a good one would come through with normal stuff, “Are you still friends with Blue?” “Do you and Ink ever wanna have more kids?” “Do you like that you look just like Gradi? I look just like my niece and I love it and blah blah blah blah…” It got annoying, yes, but was always a nice respite from the hum of criticism. He knew they weren’t his own thoughts, they were real Voices that just hated him, and Dream was just trying to catch him off guard. Speaking of the Guardian, his tiny lookalike was tugging on Error’s sleeve again.
“Papa, your eyes got all funny lookin’.” Papa. Did the kid ever want to accept that Error wasn’t his real parent? The glitch settled for a nod in place of anything verbal. “Will you tell Daddy to let me have water pie?”
Error scrambled for an answer, still not trusting himself to fully interact with the kid. “Uh, yeah, sure, just… wait, no. You don’t even know how it works, you have to bake it so it doesn’t make you sick. Don’t do that.”
“No, Papa, it’s water.” He stuck his little tongue out, snickering, but completely ignoring the crucial factors of raw eggs and raw flour and—
“Pfft, yeah, Error, it’s just water.” Ink tried not to snicker over his sarcasm and gave the tiny skeleton a noogie, completely missing the way Error’s face twisted briefly.
They were all blatantly disregarding their own safety, and nobody even cared. Did he really have to be the voice of reason here? “No, you have to cook things to make them safe to eat, a water pie won’t work if it’s too wet and you—“
Or, he realized after receiving two puzzled looks, they were kidding, and he had just been an uptight dick to his seven-year-old. They not only hated him for being rational, but for ruining a joke, now. The day couldn’t be going worse.
He trudged down the stairs behind his partner and youngest child, trying with every ounce of his will to just be normal. He couldn’t handle any more of those stupid looks, couldn’t handle such a blatant reminder of their hate for him. When he grabbed a chocolate bar and a leftover baked potato for breakfast, sliding into his beanbag at the low dining table, Gradient gave him a little ‘good morning’ wave and a soft smile. He offered him a grin and added in a little huff of amusement for good measure— it seemed to quell any suspicion.
Quickly, however, conversations begun. Pleasantries, small talk, Palette’s adorable awe surrounding high school… it all faded into the background, little whispers of doubt and hatred creeping back over the sounds of his family. When his input was prompted, he nodded or hummed in vague responses, but it didn’t seem too necessary anyway. It was only as Ink began to tap on his head, half-playfully, that he tuned back in.
“Come on, Ru, you’re like a robot today. You wanna answer Gradient’s question?”
Blinking away the dead pixels in his vision and waving bewilderedly at error messages, he made eye contact with his near-identical son. “Right! Ri-ight.” Gradient blinked expectantly and it felt as if Error had swallowed a golf ball. Naturally, he doubled down. “Y-you lefttt your glass-glasses on the ki-kitchen counter.”
Everyone went quiet. Gradient, glancing into the kitchen doorway, smiled. “Um-m, yeah, I g-guess I ddid, but I was ask-asking about waiving-ing into honorsss English.”
Oh. Error giggled almost involuntarily, swallowing stress back down. Great, now his son thought he didn’t care enough to listen to him. Maybe he thought his dad didn’t even expect him to get into an Honors class— god, he was just one big fuckup. “O-oh, I a-assumed ittt w-went without-out saying. Y-yeah, Honorsss is perf-perfect.”
Ink shot him a look, almost prohibitory. Did he not think Gradient should waive in? Did he fuck up again? Stars, now he even looked out of touch with his own kids’ lives. He was about to keep talking, too, to just make SURE everyone knew he had been listening, but slow, sloshing footsteps down the stairs alerted everyone to their eldest’s awakening.
Palette scuttled over to the stairs, giggling and waving like a cheerleader as their older sister shuffled around (not unlike Error, Ink always loved to note) in an early-morning fog. With a squeal, the little boy was hoisted up into PJ’s arms and swung around, a privilege reserved only for the eldest’s good days.
“Oof, you’re a freaking meatball,” the skellinkton complained, poking at the youngest’s tummy. It earned her a giggle from Pal and a ‘leave him alone!’ from Ink, but only one reaction seemed to matter in her mind.
Plunking down onto their old inflatable inner tube (no one in this house used dining chairs) and grabbing a pencil out of the jar on the table, she sighed. Palette squirmed from her arms and scrambled back over to his little yellow rocking chair, smiling brightly… but wilted ever-so-slightly when he looked at Error’s face.
Error simply looked away. He wasn’t the biggest fan of Dream’s emotion-reading, and the idea that his kid had it too felt… invasive, somehow. He felt himself cheerily greet his eldest, then mindlessly finish his baked potato.
“I’m g-gonnaa go cr-crochet now!” he updated Ink, “R-rain finallyyy giv-ives me an excuse-use to ssstay inside.”
Ink gave him a little nod, still shocked at his apparent optimism, and asked him something, but it was quickly drowned out by PJ’s moan of despair. “RAIN??”
Pushing himself up from his bean bag, he stumbled out of the room, almost immediately diving under the blankets on the living room couch. Cocooning in them, completely separate from the world, the Voices roared their disapproval. His family was giggling in the other room, Ink accusing PJ of sneaking out to meet a ‘hot date’, and the skellinkton having a disproportionately explosive reaction. What if he sat up and they were gone? What if they were all talking about how much they hated him? That probably was it, huh. He did everything wrong anyway.
The blanket near his face lifted, and a little hand pushed a crumpled napkin into the darkness. Error managed a halfhearted ‘what’s that, buddy’ before wanting to be swallowed by the couch cushions again.
“I folded it into a rose, to make you happy!” He could hear the boy’s chubby cheeks squishing into his speech as he smiled, feel the way he gripped the little napkin flower in hopeful anticipation.
“…I am happy-y, buddyyy! Ev-everything’s great, I jusssst got-ot tired.” He pulled the blanket away to cup the kid’s face with one hand, his tone flawless— the boy backed off, suspicion melting away. Error knew he had nailed it, and—
“No, you’re not.”
He felt his eyelights shrink briefly and his yellowed smile twisted. “What-at do youuu m-mean, of course I am-m happppy.” This time, the pat he gave his cheek was a little more like a gentle push to look away. It was going so well, Error could hardly believe he didn’t get away with lying more often.
It all crumbled when the boy glanced back toward his father. “But you’re all heavy.”
Error started, wondering why the hell his kid had chosen NOW to comment on his weight— but it was clear as day that he wasn’t being literal. His emotions felt heavy when the kid tried to tell what they were— he just didn’t have enough experience to give them names. He knew what emotions were bad and which were good, though, and it was evident that Error’s were on the ‘bad’ side. He had to fix that one, quick.
“Oh.” Error laughed. “Uh, n-no, sssssilly, the heavy em-emotions justttt mea-mean they’re… um, s-strong. Like I’mmm real-really happy.”
Pal stared up again, still not fully convinced. “Are you sure?”
Error offered his pinky and a grin. This kid was working so damn hard to stay on his good side, as if he was… stars forbid, afraid of him. Was Pal so desperate to be on Error’s good side that he’d try to keep him ‘happy’?? Oh, oh, no. These kids would be better off without him at this point.
“Error, PJ, you both forgot to take meds, come here,” Ink hollered from the other room.
Eager to step away from the bewildered seven year old, Error practically slammed into the kitchen counter to grab the six little orange bottles, pouring out one of each pill, grabbing a water… until his hand was plunged into what felt like warm Jell-O. Paperjam had grabbed his hand.
“Dad, you grabbed like three of one pill.”
Staring down into his shaking palm, he counted six pills— but only four kinds. “O-oh.”
She released her grip on his wrist, still staining his little friendship bracelet a dull purplish black. On good days, she was mostly solid, but it didn’t mean every piece of clothing she owned hadn’t been meticulously lined with plastic so it didn’t stain— courtesy of Error. The little ink splotches she left behind on laundry were pretty endearing to everyone, though, so it was never much of an issue. That bracelet had taken quite a few hits over its 14 years of life.
“Jeez, you even there today??” She waved in front of his eyes, frowning as his glare delayed. “Maybe have Pops take your temperature.”
He held his mismeasured medication dumbly, screaming at himself internally— his 17-year-old had just saved him from a Poison Control call, most likely. And he was too out-of-it to even thank her. She shoved the correct pills into his hands and filled the water for him, eyeing him suspiciously. “You’re okay, right, old man?”
God, she must hate this. Having to take care of him, practically. “The-they all-l look ssso sim-similar. E-easy to ccconfuse.”
Paperjam nodded slowly, squinting. “Sure, yeah. They’re just different colors, what’s the difference? Really, what the hell is up with you today?”
His smile wavered. “I’m a litttttle ti-tired. Noth-nothing serious. Y-You can’t seriously thhhhink there’s s-something wrong-g. Right?”
She nodded and left. Error threw himself against the side of the counter, sinking into the fetal position. Gradient was upstairs. Hiding from his emotional mess. PJ had wandered off, stuck inside because of the weather— the only reason she was still anywhere near him. Ink was mad at him for… something, and Palette was terrified of him. He didn’t deserve to be around them, the voices roared inside his skull, his hands shook and his stomach churned…
And then one of those people, one of those wonderful people whose air he did not deserve to breathe, kissed the skull that was so loud, wrapped an arm around the stomach that hurt so badly, held the hand that shook. He stared up, incredulous, as Ink rubbed circles into his side. He was saying something, something he most definitely did not deserve to hear going by the look in his husband’s eyes…
Paperjam stood near the doorway, annoyance plastered thinly over concern. She had undoubtedly reported his latest fuckup to Ink and they had decided to kill him or kick him out or something. It was like holding someone’s hand as they died, Ink was being kind one last time before the final goodbye. It made him shudder. Nausea crept back up his pinhole of a throat. He could barely breathe anymore, if he ever needed to in the first place.
All he could hear as it all came crashing down was “it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay”.
He scrubbed at the tears in his eyes with a tiny napkin rose.
