Work Text:
Paint.
All he'd wanted to do, since making that painting, was that.
Paint.
He remembered, when the urge just came. He'd been sick (now because of that thing in the sky, he realized) vomiting and feeling dizzy all the time.
And his mind had told him, screamed st him that painting would make him better.
He'd even started blacking out and waking up in front of a canvas.
So he'd painted.
It hadn't gone well, considering that he now had seven roommates.
At least the urge had gone away.
Or, he'd thought it did at first.
Then, after nine days, it had come back.
He'd tried to ignore it. He didn't exactly want to restart that whole fiasco, or make that problem that his paintings had with thoughts worse.
But his symptoms had started again.
...
He'd killed the thing right after it had crawled out.
Now it was almost a habit. Every nine days, he'd lock himself in a room, to take care of it.
The others didn't ask why he'd lock himself up sometimes.
He didn't tell them.
...
Nine days had passed since his last... painting.
So, it was time to paint again.
He went towards the room.
Forward, forward.
It was locked.
What?
He didn't lock it after leaving it last time, why was it locked?
A presence behind him.
He turned around.
Someone taller than him, much taller.
Wings.
Oh. Godhead.
"Hi?"
"I was waiting for you."
Oh god. Head.
Now wasn't the time.
He could already feel the urge scratching at his throat, why now?
Godhead got closer.
Why was he so Goddamn tall-
"Why."
"...what?"
"You know what I'm talking about. Why do you always lock yourself in there."
He pointed to the door that Frederic was currently up against.
This was the one thing he couldn't say. Of course it had to be the thing he asked.
Fuck his life.
"Uh..."
How eloquent of himself.
He had to come up with an excuse, and quick.
For more than the first time, he was glad he didn't share his thoughts with the paintings too.
"Why does it matter to you?"
WHY DID HE SAY THAT.
"It's my apartment."
"Technically it's mine."
"It's ours."
Fuck you godhead.
"So. Why do you lock yourself in a room for one or two days straight every now and then?"
Man. What excuse does he even say? That he's meditating in there??
Nah, he wouldn't believe that. He knows Frederic. Too much for him to be comfortable with.
The woes of having painted almost-clones of yourself.
"I know damn well you'll try lying. Just don't, man."
Godhead takes a hit from three different blunts.
What, did godhead just expect him to say:
"Oh, I lock myself in there because every now and then I get an urge to paint again so bad I'll start vomiting and blacking out if I don't and that's where I go to do it and kill whatever I painted right after."
"What."
HE SAID THAT OUT LOUD???
"Excuse me, what."
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-
"Uh."
"There's no painting supplies in there, how do you even-"
Godhead's gaze fell to the "mysterious scars" covering Frederic's arms.
He was made out of paint now.
"Do you...?"
Godhead takes four hits, this time.
"What the fuck, man."
....
Yeah no he wasn't dealing with this actually.
Frederic did what probably wasn't a sane thing to do, but he didn't care.
He didn't think he could really call himself sane anyway in the first place.
He fled.
Full on ran away from godhead.
Godhead was either too stunned or something else he couldn't register right now to follow him, as he didn't move.
Frederic reached his room.
Got in.
Closed to the door.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK-
WHY DID HE RUN AWAY??
what was wrong with him.
Why was he like this.
Wait.
Uh.
No.
No no no no no.
Don't think about that right now.
Don't think about it.
Oh god, he felt so dizzy-
So, so... Dizzy....
He needed to....
Needed to...
Paint....
NO. DON'T PAINT HERE DON'T PAINT HERE DON'T PAINT HERE IT'S NOT SAFE STOP STOP STOP STOP-
Paint.
He just needed to paint.
Everything would be okay after he did.
He should lock the door. He didn't want anyone to interrupt him, after all.
The door was locked.
He got tape.
He knew they could slip through the cracks in the door otherwise.
He'd seen them do it.
He didn't want that.
no. Please leave them a way to get in- to STOP HIM-
tape, carefully put over the cracks in the door.
He smiled. It was too wide on his face. After all, since his muscles were paint now, he didn't really have limitations now.
His cheek felt cold against the floor.
Oh, when had he fell?
Well, he should start now.
He plunged his hand into his arm. It resisted for a moment, before cracking and letting him access his paint.
The floor.
He didn't need a canvas, the floor was just fine.
He started painting.
It was beautiful.
STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP
red, purple, blue, all mixed together.
He made sure to add eyes. so many eyes...
His tongue felt wet.
Oh, he was biting it.
He should stop that.
Maybe.
He could hear voices outside, but he ignored them in favor of continuing his beautiful painting.
LET THEM IN GOD PLEASE LET THEM STOP THIS OR RESTRAIN HIM PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE-
he was almost done now.
It was beautiful.
So, so beautiful.
NO IT WASN'T STOP PAINTING STOP PAINT
ING STOP PAINTING-
he fell backwards, breath heavy.
He could hear multiple of the paintings knocking at the door, talking to him. He couldn't make out what they were saying, the ringing in his ears too overwhelming.
It was horrifying...
He needed to get rid of it, now.
Now now now now now now NOW-
it started crawling out, separating itself from the floor.
He readied his fists.
He ignored his own bleeding.
One. Two. Three. Four.
They were louder, now.
He ignored them.
Soon, he was less beating it and more beating a stain of paint on the floor.
His fists hurt.
His head hurt.
His body hurt.
He collapsed.
Just in time to hear the sound of a door being forced open.
And then all he saw was nothing.