BFDI AND II ONESHOT BOOK!

Nickloon: No Sleep, Just Kisses

Balloon hasn't slept all night, instead of getting well needed rest, he decides to makeout with Nickel instead.

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Nickel sat alone on the couch in the dimly lit hotel lobby, the bluish glow of the TV casting soft shadows across the room. It was quiet—eerily quiet. The kind of stillness that only existed around 4 a.m., when even the world outside seemed to be holding its breath. Everyone else was still fast asleep upstairs, but not Nickel. He liked these rare, peaceful moments.

That was when he heard the soft creak of footsteps on the old staircase. He turned his head, surprised, and saw Balloon slowly making his way down. His steps were sluggish, his eyes looked dull and puffy—like he hadn't slept at all.

Nickel sat up straighter, instantly concerned. "What are you doing up this early?" he asked, his voice cutting through the silence.

Balloon gave a tired little smile as he shuffled closer. "Hi Nickel..." he mumbled, barely stifling a yawn. His voice was soft and fragile, almost cracking with exhaustion.

Nickel frowned, turning fully toward him. "Are you... still tired? Wait—did you not sleep last night?" he asked, his concern deepening with every word.

"N-no, not really... I was writing poetry," Balloon replied with a sheepish smile, clutching a small, worn notebook to his chest. He looked like he could barely stand, his limbs weak with fatigue. Nickel blinked. That made sense now—he had gone to bed early and hadn't even noticed Balloon wasn't beside him. But when he woke up earlier, Balloon had been there, curled up under the blanket. Had he only just fallen asleep?

Nickel's heart sank. "Did you get any sleep?"

Balloon looked away for a moment, rubbing at his eye. "About an hour," he muttered with a faint smile.

Nickel let out a sigh, equal parts amused and concerned. "You stayed up all night... just to write poetry?" He shook his head gently, a fond smirk tugging at his lips. "Honestly... am I even surprised?"

Balloon's eyes lit up slightly through the haze of exhaustion. "Y-yeah... I just... couldn't stop once I started. The words kept coming. Do you... want to hear some?" He held up his poetry journal—a little leather-bound book with corners softened from use.

Nickel blinked at him, then softened. Truth be told, he loved listening to Balloon's poems. They always had this strange way of cutting through him—gentle, sincere, and thoughtful in a way only Balloon could manage.

"You're running on an hour of sleep," Nickel said with a warm smile, "Of course I'll listen. Come sit with me."

Balloon hesitated for a moment, then shuffled over and collapsed beside him on the couch, resting his head lightly on Nickel's head. He opened the little book, its pages filled with delicate handwriting and margin doodles, and cleared his throat.

As he began to read, his voice was quiet but steady. The lobby was silent except for the murmur of the television and the soft cadence of Balloon's poetry, wrapping around them like a blanket. Nickel leaned his head against Balloon's lightly, a smile on his face and a gentle ache in his heart. How did he get so lucky to have someone like this?

The seasons shift, the rivers bend,

What once began must find its end.

Footsteps fade upon the shore,

Yet life still calls us to explore.

The hands we held, the roads we knew,

The golden days, the skies so blue,