BFDI & II oneshots (and other object shows too)

II - are you sleeping? (bells are ringing)

Synopsis: Everyone in the hotel was happy.

Everyone, except Balloon.

CONTENT WARNING: referenced self harm, references to mistreatment, depression, mental health issues, suicidal ideation

Note - title is from a Crane Wives' song called 'Counting Sheep' (aka my fav song by them^^)

---

He held his breath.

Balloon knew they all hated him. Often, they even said it to his face. But, it still stung.

It stung when they left him out. It stung when they would stop talking when he walked in just to stare at him like he had murdered someone. It stung when OJ would talk over him and act like he knew what was best for him. OJ was his friend right? OJ and him were equals.

He spent so much of his time in the hotel pissed off at everyone else. They didn't even try to look him in the eyes.

One day, he was going to leave. One day, he was going to return to where he was before the show... which, embarrassingly, he did not remember. One day, he was going to escape.

It was pitch black outside - no stars were painted in the sky - just a deep abyss. Seemingly, everyone was sound asleep in their rooms, not a single worry circulating through their mind. Everything was silent, everything was still. Like most nights, Balloon could not sleep at all; he had been trying for almost two hours, but to no avail.

He breathed out.

Balloon slipped out from under the duvet, pulling off his hoodie but holding it safe within his strong grip. Honestly, he wasn't even sure why OJ even allowed in him into the hotel. Maybe because he had nowhere else to go if he was kicked out. Maybe because OJ just pitied him. Maybe because OJ just really liked to humiliate and tell him off all the time. All of those seemed very plausible.

Balloon stepped forward, his head throbbing due to his thirst and hunger, and anxiously twisted the knob of the door, slipping out quietly and shutting the door very slowly. He shuffled down the hallway, his head looking down, though periodically, he shifted his gaze towards the doors that lead to the other hotel guests' bedrooms - to Balloon, it was so weird to him that they didn't feel the way Balloon does.

About life and stuff.

He didn't understand how they didn't feel like shit all the time. How did they feel like they had something? How did they feel like they mean something to this world? How do they have a reason to keep going?!! How are they able to smile.

Balloon got to the stairs and clambered down them promptly, making sure he was paying attention to where he was placing his feet; he wasn't planning on falling down and waking everyone up anytime soon, was he? He reached the ground floor and scanned the area. For some reason, at 3 o'clock in the morning, the TV was still on, displaying the pause screen for Super Smash Bros. Melee.

He took in a deep breath, before speed walking toward the kitchen.

On the kitchen counter displayed rather nicely was a set of shiny kitchen knives of various sizes. Regretfully, he shambled toward the counter, his eyes darting around - if he was caught doing this, he would not hear the end of it. He would probably get lectured again. He hated when OJ acted like that - acted like he knew everything, acted like he was Balloon's boss, acted like he was the one who decided what Balloon was going to do with his life.

Balloon held onto the knife set and pulled out the largest one.

Gradually, he sat down and lent against the cupboards, placing his hoodie beside him but keeping his blade sharply grasped within in his palm. Tears began to well up in his eyes. Balloon peered at the object in his hand.

He lifted up the sleeve on his baggy t-shirt, hovering the blade above his skin.

He pressed down.

He pressed down harder.

He pressed down even harder.

No.

He just couldn't do it.

He couldn't.

No matter how much courage he brought out, he couldn't bring himself to swipe across his arm. It made him want to die. It made him feel so small.

A sudden burst of anger surged through his veins. He ripped the blade away from his skin and threw the knife across the floor, covering his face with his hands as his eyes began to flood with tears as he choked on sobs.

He was pathetic. All he could do was be angry or cry. He was useless. No one loved him. No one was going to help him.

Holding back a loud sob, he lifted up his t-shirt and ran his finger along a single cut across his stomach. Practically the only times he had done it and a scar appeared afterwards. He was really depressed and irritated at the time. OJ was there to see it too. Lord, every other time he cut his skin so lightly. Just shows how weak he is. He wanted to die but he didn't even have the strength or will power to bite the bullet and actually do it.

He went back to crying.

The amount of tears was making his head spin, as he hadn't had a drink of water in ages. Eventually, his body gave in, and he passed out, his body slumping against the cupboards.

---

Pickle snapped awake suddenly.

It was clearly really early in the morning. He noticed his GameCube was still on. He stood up wearily, picked up the remote and turned off the television. He was very prepared to just sit back on the sofa and go back to sleep, however before he could indulge in that comfort, Pickle heard a sound emanating from the kitchen.

Is someone seriously still up at this time?!

For the sake of clarifying whether someone or something had broken into the hotel or not, he trotted across the living room. His mind raced. What the hell could it be?

His feet tapped against the floor softly.

He was at the kitchen entrance.

He shut his eyes.

He clambered around the corner, and then opened his eyes.

Darkness.

"Balloon.." he whispered, frightened.

There Balloon was, silent and still. First thing Pickle noticed was the sharp knife that lay by his own feet. It caught the moonlight and emitted a stunning yet sinister ivory glow. Swiftly, he ran toward the seemingly dead corpse on the kitchen floor and thrust his hands into his shoulders and started shaking him, calling his name desperately.

No response.

He looked around.

Yes. He hated him. But there was no way he was just going to leave him lying here. He needed to do something. This was abnormal. Why was he here..?

He shifted the position of his hands to beneath Balloon's arm pits and lifted him up - instantly, he noticed how lightweight Balloon was. There was no way he had been eating enough food. Now thinking of it, had Balloon even eaten anything since the hotel opened?

Awkwardly, Pickle dragged Balloon to the sofa. He placed him onto it carefully, looking down at him with a frown. Quickly, he hurried back into the kitchen to collect Balloon's hoodie and discarding the blade into the sink.

Why was he down here so late? Why was he in the kitchen? And why was there a knife on the floor. Why was his hoodie off? Every single time Pickle had seen him, it was on. Perplexed, he lowered the item of clothing onto Balloon's lap. Maybe he should be easier on Balloon in the future. Slowly, his eyes closed.

He drifted into a deep sleep.

And so did Balloon.