Brilliance is unachievable, embrace idiocy - One-shot book of nonsense

Who are 'we'? Who are 'you'? Haven't a clue? Me too!

Hiya! This is an idea taken from Firehedgehog'S Idea Factory! From the chapter 'sleep unto dawn'. So credit to them for the fantastic idea thing!

I thought it'd be cool to do one of these real quick, so it's only 1,332 words (not including the writer's note). Hope you don't think it's terrible!

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Error yawns, big and wide, as he stretches, pleasant cracks and clicks reaching his ears. He opens his sockets, and then he groans.

The pleasant white floor of the Anti-void was covered in spilled buckets of multicoloured paint. They all were disproportionately dried, too! A dark blue bucket was completely dry, sticking to the floor starkly, while a bright yellow wasn't dry at all, freshly spilled. It was a mess! And it's happened before.

It was ridiculous! And the second he found out who had the nerve to fuck with him of all people? Ruining his home, his peace! Oh, oh he's going to reign hell!

He grumbled angrily, moving to stand above the sacrilege brought upon his home. The purple was mocking him, the irritating clash of bright colours already bringing a throbbing headache. He hated this. He hated this so fucking much. He despised this reality— this person.

His clawed fingers reached down, slashing across a mostly dry, lime green paint, using the newly created edges to peal long and wide strips off his floor.

When he found them, they would suffer a long and agonizing death. He swore it.

-

Ink shot up, excitedly scrambling to stand. In his haste he tripped over his leg, flopping over the side of the beanbag and hitting the floor with a heavy 'oof'. Wasting no time to deal with his pain, he pulled himself to his feet, hands on his hips.

He just got an idea! He could smash together Sugartale, Horrortale, and— his paint is gone. His paint... is gone. The paint he spent who-knows-how-long picking and choosing, finding places and where to spill. The paint that decorated the absolute abysmal hell he called home despite everything. The paint that— okay Ink, it's okay, calm down. It's all going to be fine. Right? Right?!

Oh, come on, who keeps messing with his stuff?!

Oh! What if he merged Sugartale, Horrortale, and Underfalls? That'd be cool!

-

When they woke up, they were torn. Torn between jumping up enthusiastically and taking it slow to stand, letting thoughts and desires trickle into their subconscious instead of being hit full force with it.

When they stood, they were confused. About where they were, about who they were, and about what they were. They weren't sure, they didn't even have a clue.

Papers with scribbled, half-assed ideas were held loosely by royal blue strings. The sky glitched between plain nothingness white and a gradient of soft yellow. The ground felt unstable below their feet, wobbly and changing.

This was... home.

Home? What is a home? They asked themselves.

I'm not sure! Feels safe though! They responded to themselves.

This isn't my home.

But you don't know what a home is in the first place. They argued.

Shut up, would you? What I'm saying is, this isn't what a home theoretically would be like.

What do you know about theoretics?