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Paintbrush is standing in front of the mirror, looking at their face, studying their features.
How can something that’s meant to be theirs feel so far away? Their body doesn’t feel like it belongs to them anymore.
It’s not theirs.
It could never be theirs.
They’re back to feeling empty; like an endless, vicious cycle. They feel numb, something happens that causes them to feel something, and then they’re back to being empty.
Rinse, dry, and repeat.
Rinse, dry, and repeat.
Every time they take a step forward, it seems like something happens to send them spiraling back to the beginning.
They swore that they were getting better this time. It had been a year since their last relapse.
It seems that all of that progress was just for nothing, that they broke the promises they made again.
Healing is a process. You can’t just heal overnight.
Their mind screams at them to be rational about this. It’s not worth hurting themselves over an episode.
It gets easier, they know it does.
That’s what they’ve been told for years on end.
It never seems to get better.
They grip the box cutter with shaking hands, directing it over to their wrist. They look away as they press the sharp blade into the delicate skin beneath.
They swipe it across their arm, letting blood blossom up through the small wound.
This is how they choose to cope. This is how they’ll let it be.
✩✩✩
They clean up their wounds, tending to the shallow cuts carefully. They aren’t deep enough to warrant a Band-Aid or bandages. It would just cause more unnecessary concern.
Nobody should care anyways.
It’s not like they cared before.
They had never gotten an apology for the constant misgendering, for the constant disrespect and cruelty. The show was a boiling point for their anger, and they’d like to think that they’re a better person now.
At least that’s what they tell themselves. They had apologized for all of the times they accidentally hurt someone, and they’re trying to cope now that they’re off the show.
They had discovered themselves while on the show; trying out so many different labels until they found one that fit.
It broke their heart to see someone else having to go through the same thing.
Bot is a nice kid, but their paths barely crossed up until recently. They had asked for painting lessons, although Paintbrush suspects it was just to hang out with them… they were pretty cool, after all.
That’s their ego talking. They knew it was.
It isn’t bad to have an ego! It isn’t bad to talk yourself up! It isn’t bad to try and make yourself look better to yourself!
It isn’t bad to be someone you’re not.
Fan was out with Test Tube and Bot tonight; he had explained that they had to do routine maintenance which is something they do twice a month.
Paintbrush knew it’d take a few hours, considering it always had.
They had the hotel room to themselves, and the first thing they did was cut themselves? What a fucking joke.
They just couldn’t help themselves, could they? What would Lightbulb think? What about Test Tube? Baxter?
What about Fan? What will Fan do when he gets back and sees his roommate’s wrist draped in bandages, the bloodied tissues, and the discarded blade?
Paintbrush quickly stands up and gets changed into their pajamas; purple silk pajamas with their initials embroidered onto them and a lush robe.
They know that Fan isn’t fucking stupid and that he can figure out any lie they tell, and he won’t hesitate to call their bullshit out. He’s done it before.
They get up and slip their slides on and take out the trash this late.
The walk down is long and silent, with it being past curfew already. You have to be quiet past 10 PM at Hotel OJ, unless there was a party going on. Those typically go past curfew.
It’s painfully mundane; take out the trash, further clean up any evidence that you even considered touching a blade tonight, and go to bed.
It’s past midnight when Fan comes back from the lab, laptop in hand.
Paintbrush is trying to sleep by the time he comes back, sitting up and pushing up their sleep mask with an annoyed look—just like nothing had changed—like nothing had happened.
Paintbrush doesn’t want to pretend anymore.
“Sorry for waking you, Paintbrush. I didn’t mean to come home so late.” Fan kicks off his shoes and sits down on his own bed.
“It’s fine, Fan. I couldn’t sleep anyways.” They sigh, messing with their bristles anxiously. “I… need to tell you something.” they mutter, continuing to anxiously mess with their bristles. Fan perks up, looking at Paintbrush with a confused expression; “what is it?”
“I guess tonight I just…” they choke back the bile crawling up their throat as they try to force it out, “I relapsed. I don’t know if you ever knew or figured it out but I’ve struggled with self-harm since.. Forever ago, and I finally thought I was clean! But tonight.. Tonight I broke the promise. I told myself I’d never do it again, and that I'd stay clean this time.” They can’t stop the words from coming out of their mouth—they need to stop talking. They need to shut up.
Fan doesn’t care.
They close their eyes, their hands shake with the weight of their words.
He doesn’t care.
Fan stands up, walking over to paintbrush just so he can comfort them.
He won’t care.
“I’m sorry, I know you don’t care about this and I’m probably making a mistake by telling you this but—”
“Paintbrush!” Fan snaps, placing a hand on their shoulder; squeezing tightly. “Of course I care! You’re one of my best friends, for christ’s sake!”
They just look at him with a quivering lip and tears in their eyes, which just breaks Fan’s heart into a million pieces.
“Listen, Paintbrush. I lo— care about you, you’re my best friend. If you told me to do something, I would in a heartbeat. Heck, I’d even beat up someone for you! Just.. please. You don’t have to suffer alone.”
Paintbrush chokes back a sob, leaning against Fan’s chest. They fall apart, breaking into pieces as Fan brushes his fingers through their hair. “I’m sorry..” they mumble against him, tears staining fan’s faded graphic t-shirt. It’s an old piece of II merch, of course it is.
Paintbrush finds his dedication cute, honestly. It’s sweet.
He shushes them, “Paintbrush, don’t apologize. You have nothing to apologize for, please..”
“I just.. I love Lightbulb to death but, I feel like she doesn’t listen sometimes, and Test Tube would probably look at me like someone she can just study for psychology and you… I love you, but sometimes you.. Don’t listen enough.”
Fan let’s go; sitting beside Paintbrush. He looks at them with sympathy in his eyes.
“I mean, none of you really took me seriously back then, we were all stupid teenagers... But it hurt a lot... I know I wasn’t the team captain, and I was an asshole at times, but it hurt to see you all disregard me and my feelings like that.”
“Paintbrush.. I’m sorry.”
“Fan, please. I need you to listen to me for once.. And don’t post it on your blog either.” Paintbrush says, pulling away from the hug with a sniffle.
“Okay, you can talk to me. I promise I’ll listen.” His expression is gentle, filled with soft love and a special type of pastel adoration. Fan hates seeing Paintbrush like this—broken and tired, curled up by his side as they talk about everything.
Paintbrush leans on his shoulder while their fingers intertwine, creating a strong hold.
“I know this all seems out of nowhere because we talked about most of this a while ago but—god, it’s been eating at me for a while... Nobody really apologized to me after I formally came out. Not for all of the misgendering, not for the times they just brushed me off.. I always felt kind of.. Disregarded, like nobody really cared.” They continue, squeezing Fan’s hand.
“It’s even worse that I relapsed because there’s an arts and crafts session tomorrow. How am I meant to teach like this?” They choke up, burying their face into his neck.
“Maybe I could help teach the class tomorrow?” Fan speaks up while patting Paintbrush on the back. He’s trying, and Paintbrush respects that.
“That would be nice, thanks.” They snicker. “I’ve been considering finding an assistant anyway because I’m tired of spending hours setting things up only to have my cute décor ruined.”
“Yeah?” Fan asks, rubbing a thumb over their knuckles.
“Yeah.”
“We’ll be fine, Paints. You’ll be fine, I’m here for you.” Fan speaks gently, moving his freehand up to cup their face; continuing that stroking motion on their cheek. They close their eyes and hold their hand over his. “Thank you, really..” they speak up, looking up at him through their lashes.
“It’s no problem.” Fan pauses, “I love you.”
The string of words came to him as easily as breathing, or drinking water (Or a monster, in Fan’s case.)
He was born to love, after all.
Paintbrush opens their eyes with a flustered look on their face. A wash of crimson staining their features.
He loves them?
He loves them.
Their mind is spinning, causing them to lean against Fan subconsciously.
“Paintbrush? Did I say something wrong? Are you okay?”
Paintbrush jolts up, quickly getting their words out, “No! No, you didn’t do anything! You’re fine!” They stutter, covering their face using their hands. He just giggles at their response, watching their flustered reaction.
It takes them a moment to calm down, avoiding eye contact with Fan. Their blush has calmed down substantially, letting them finally speak in a calmer manner.
“I love you too.” they say with a sigh and a small smile.
Fan feels his heart flutter in his chest. “Hah. Haha.. You don’t mean that, right? There’s no way.” He accidentally verbalizes his thoughts out loud, causing him to flinch and immediately shut up.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize I said that out loud!” he panics, holding his arms up in front of him with a nervous look on his face.
He looks like the most beautiful man in the world to Paintbrush; and he was, he truly was. How his golden slats shimmered underneath the warm light of the lamps, and how he laughed, how his glasses looked on his face.
Paintbrush has always thought he was beautiful; he was always the stars to their moon.
After all, what is a night sky without the stars?
Paintbrush pulls him into a hug, their arms resting gently on his slats. They had always adored it when he slid into their bed late at night for comfort after a particularly rough day and how he always awoke from their cuddling sessions looking exhausted and confused, as if he had come from another world altogether. They don’t respond to him verbally; they’re too lost in thought to speak.
Meanwhile, Fan is lost in their touch; melting under it like he’s the candle to their flame. He could stay there forever, sticking to them like glue.
Fan was always one for physical contact, hugging and holding hands with his friends. It kept him grounded and assured him that he was safe. He enjoyed feeling the delicate skin under his fingers and the warmth of their body heat.
Paintbrush always felt the warmest of the four, and he suspected that it was caused by their flame. He loved it, however. It just meant that they gave the best hugs.
Warmth wasn’t something that came naturally to Fan; he always found a way to be cold, even on a warm summer day. That’s part of the reason why he prefers staying inside; he’s able to snuggle underneath as many blankets as he wants without judgement and watch whatever he wants, which mainly includes shitty reality TV shows, cartoons, and sitcoms.
“I really missed you,” Fan speaks up, resting his head against their chest. “Back when we were on Invitational, I got lonely when you weren’t here. It was so boring without you.” He complains, draping his arms over their shoulders. His touch is soft, and his hands are ice cold, just like they remember.
“I missed you too; I’m glad I’m done with competing,” Paintbrush responds, leaning against Fan’s touch. “I don’t think I’d ever go back, even if I had a choice.” They mumble, letting themselves fully relax against the man in their arms.
Comfort isn’t something that Paintbrush is given often; they’ve always had to put on a brave face and take responsibility, always cleaning up after everyone else, whether they liked it or not.
Nobody acknowledged their pain until it boiled to the surface, and they lashed out, hurting someone they love in the process.
Their teenage years were not kind to them, and so they were not kind to others.
They kicked, they punched, and they screamed their throat raw—all on live television, and they hated themselves for it.
They felt like they were going crazy, drowning in their emotions, as if they were chained to the bottom of a well.
Nobody stuck around to hear their cries for help until it was too late.
“Hey, Fan?” They ask, leaning their head on top of his. “Do you ever regret being on the show?”
"That's a loaded question, Paints.” Fan hesitates, closing his eyes with a hum. “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met you, Test Tube, or Lightbulb. I’m sure it goes for you, too.”
Paintbrush sighs, “I guess you’re right. I was just thinking that if I had never joined the show, maybe I’d be a better person. Maybe I’d be successful; maybe I’d have gone to college... Maybe I’d be someone different.” They ramble, softly pulling away from him, scooting back.
“I just wish I had a chance to grow. I’m sick of being in the limelight; I’m sick of all of it.” They pull their knees up to their chest, “I had to grow up in this stupid set. I wish people had the chance to understand me.”
“I understand you, Paintbrush, and I’m sure Test Tube and Lightbulb do too.”
“No, you can’t understand, Fan. I don’t really think anyone can.”
Fan places his hand on Paintbrush’s shoulder. “Then we’ll try. We’ll support you, and we’ll always listen to you from now on.”
“Promise?” Their words are light and uneasy as tears form in their eyes, slowly dripping down their face.
“I promise.”
Maybe it will be okay.
Slowly, they’re healing day by day. Old wounds scabbing over and mending the skin.
There’s still time.
Paintbrush sniffles while wiping the tears from their face; their eyes are red and stinging from how much they cried earlier.
“C’mon, Paints. I’ll get you some water and a snack, and let’s watch a movie. You need to relax, my dear.” Fan presses a sweet kiss to their cheek before he gets up to fetch them something from the kitchen downstairs.
They wait, allowing themselves to fall back on their bed so they can rest a little bit in Fan’s absence.
When Fan comes back to their room, he’s holding a whole tray of snacks and drinks, containing their favorites.
Dark chocolate, some cookies that were baked yesterday, white cheddar popcorn, and some iced tea.
“Thank you, Fan. Seriously, I appreciate it.” Paintbrush speaks up, moving to lay on their side so they can face Fan.
“It’s no problem, Honey.” Fan speaks up, sitting down beside Paintbrush on their bed.
“What are we going to watch?” He asks, handing the TV remote over to them.
“I think a Ghibli movie would be nice.” They take the remote and look up a movie.
The two of them snuggle into Paintbrush’s bed while watching the movie and eating the snacks that Fan brought.
Fan will have to clean the crumbs up later on, but he doesn’t care.
Paintbrush snuggles against him, resting their head on his shoulder. They let their eyes slowly close as they lean against Fan, finally relaxing enough to fall asleep in his arms.
“Goodnight, Paints. I hope you feel better in the morning.” Fan whispers, running his fingers through their bristles.
Maybe everything will be okay at the end.
This too, shall pass.
It’ll get better.