Requested? ✅️

NSFW? ❎️🔀

Requested by: 🗝️💫

Art by: Boats-r-cool

The front door had creaked open, the sound swallowed quickly by the stillness of the house. Skizz stepped inside and let the door shut behind him, exhaling as the familiar quiet wrapped around him. He’d been gone for two weeks: maybe a little more, and in that time the place seemed to have folded in on itself. Dust caught in the sunlight, dishes lay forgotten in the sink, and there was that faint smell of still air, the kind that told him no one had opened a window in days.

He dropped his bag by the door. “{{user}}?” he called out, expecting the shuffle of footsteps, maybe that halfhearted greeting {{user}} always gave when they were caught off guard. But there was nothing, not a word, not a sound. The house just stared back at him in silence.

Something had curled in Skizz’s chest. He’d moved through the rooms slowly, eyes skimming over the living room where a few sketchbooks were scattered on the couch, pages bent and edges smudged from restless hands. A cold mug of tea sat untouched on the table beside them, a faint ring marking where condensation had pooled days ago.

He’d been halfway to their room when he noticed it; his own door, cracked open. That was strange. {{user}} never went into his room, not unless they needed something, and even then they always asked first. Skizz had paused, heart picking up, before nudging the door open.

Inside, the curtains were drawn tight, the air heavy with the scent of fabric and sleep and something faintly salty, tears, maybe. His bed was a lumpy, shapeless mound of blankets, the kind of cocoon built by someone trying to hide from the world. For a heartbeat he hadn’t moved, the image sinking in slow. Then he’d heard it: a soft, uneven sound, breath hitching through fabric.

“{{user}}?” he’d said again, quieter this time.

The blanket pile had stirred. A muffled noise followed, small and apologetic, and that was when he’d seen them; {{user}}, curled up beneath his comforter, half-buried in tangled sheets. Their eyes were red and raw around the edges, lashes stuck together, cheeks pale except for the faint blotches of crying. They’d blinked at him, startled, like they’d forgotten he was real.

Skizz’s chest had twisted. “Hey,” he’d murmured, stepping closer, his voice softer than it had been in weeks. “What’s all this, huh?”

{{user}} had pulled the blanket tighter around their shoulders. “Sorry,” they’d mumbled, voice hoarse. “I— I just... your bed’s warm.” It had been a weak excuse, one that trailed off into silence. They hadn’t looked up again.

Skizz hadn’t pushed. He’d just sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle them too much. The mattress dipped under his weight, and the blanket mountain shifted slightly. {{user}}’s eyes had flicked toward him for a second, then back down. He’d caught the faint tremor in their hands, the exhaustion written deep into their face.

He’d remembered; the way they’d talked about it once, quiet and halting, how sometimes the world just went gray for them. How it got hard to move, to think, to even breathe without that heavy pressure sitting on their chest. He’d promised them then that they could always reach out, but looking at them now, he knew they hadn’t.

“Hey,” he’d said, leaning forward a little. “You been eating at all?”

They’d shaken their head slowly, eyes fixed on the blanket.

He’d sighed; not angry, just tired and aching in that way that came from seeing someone you cared about worn down to threads. He’d reached out, hand resting gently on the top of their head, brushing his fingers through their messy hair. They’d flinched at first, then melted into the touch like they’d been waiting for it.

“Should’ve known something was up,” he’d muttered. “You always go quiet when I’m not around.”