The Great YouTuber Slash Fiction

Chapter 12: Robertiplier - The Way I Hate You

Originally posted January 29, 2019 to AO3 

At least most of the photos survived. You shuffle through the pictures--your mother as a little girl, your grandparents' wedding, people you don't recognize sitting with your parents. The only group that really took a hit were yours.

A smaller Robert stands embracing a botched smear that used to be his best friend. The image of Billy has a tear through his neck. Poetic. Still, you toss your water-damaged stack into back into the box with the photo albums. You can unpack these later. Or never. Right now, you'd rather work on your room so it doesn't feel like a padded cell anymore.

Seriously, does every wall and carpet have to be white? You can see most of this wall's history through the thin coat of paint. You, however, are more prepared, and actually have some primer. You have all of the painting supplies with you, and your furniture won't be here for several hours at the least, so you've decided to put this time to use. You roll the plastic out over the floor, put on a smock, and play some Twenty One Pilots. The music fits the mood better than the white primer and bright paint.

You hum along to the song, trying to keep yourself from thinking too much throughout the monotony of painting.

Ding-dong. At first you wonder if it's part of some song. Ding-Dong. No, it's your actual doorbell. It sounds like a child's toy; it's likely to get on your nerves pretty quickly. Ding-dong. It already has. Sighing, you trudge your messy ass downstairs to meet your interruption.

You're greeted with a surprise when you open the door.

"Mark?"

Your cheater of an ex-boyfriend nearly drops his plate of cookies. "Robert, baby?"

"Oh, don't even try to 'baby' me, after what you did to me!" You slam the door in his face. He has the same shocked expression on his face from two years ago, when you caught him in bed with that fucking Irishman, when you charged out with your things, and had to move back in with your mom because he was the breadwinner. You break down crying. You've been too scared to open up to anyone because of that man, and of course, of course, luck just has it so that now that your house flooded and you had to move, that bastard is your neighbor. You huddle closer into the arms embracing you.

Wait, arms? Fuck, you should have locked the goddamn door. "GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!"

He looks at you with the same pleading look that he gave you when you left him two years ago. "Robert, baby, I'm sorry, okay? It was an accident. We both got really drunk, and I got distracted from you, just for a minute. It's not going to happen again. I can't even drink anymore--my body can't take it. Please, if you give me another chance, I won't fuck it up." Mark pulls you close to him. Your lips almost touch.

"What about Jack?" You whisper into his ear.

"What do you mean?"

"Are you still friends?"

"He's now in a very happy relationship with a man named Matthew Patrick."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"We see each other sometimes." Mark's hands travel downward. You push him away.

"And how often is sometimes?"

Mark doesn't answer, instead just pulling you in for a passionate kiss. You should pull away, your mind thinks, but your body doesn't listen. He pins you up against the wall ready to seal the deal. And your heart and head battle each other.

"Where's your bedroom?"

"Upstairs." You are glad your mother's not coming until tomorrow. Mark has you caught in his web once again. "Take me there."

He whispers sweet nothings in your ear. He's lying, he beautiful, there's nothing you want more, and nothing that will end you faster.

He had just about trapped you when a less than graceful movement ended with you knocking over the paint can.

It spills all over the freshly shampooed carpet and onto the sleeping bag where you slept last night. Oh right, there is no bed. The spell breaks. Mark tries to pull you back in, but you push him away like you should. "Get out of my house."

"But--"

"I never want to see you here again. And if you pull this shit again, I will take that pretty little dick of yours you've been using as a brain and jam it in your eye socket."

The cheating whore is taken aback. "Baby, I never knew you had this in you. I like it."

You're still scowling, feigning toughness. You don't know how much longer you can keep this facade up. "Get. Out. Of. My. House. Or. So. Help. Me. God."

"Okay, okay," he throws up his hands in surrender, backing away. When he exits your field of vision, he dashes.

"And leave the cookies!"

Once you hear the front door shut, you ensure that it's locked. You peep out the window. He's sitting there on the front steps, looking forlorn. There's no need to perform, he can't see you, right?

You take his housewarming plate to the kitchen. It's a rather large batch of cookies, and judging by their imperfections, they're homemade. How sweet, you suppose. You put one in your mouth. It's alright, but maybe Mark could have afforded to put a little less salt in them.

With that, you head back to what will be your bedroom to assess the damage. You didn't pick up the paint bucket and it's leaked all over the carpet.

You fall to the floor. You don't care that your legs and sweatpants are soaked in paint, you don't care when your fresh hickeys get paint on them and sting, you don't care that you're ruining what's left of the paint with tears and puke, or that you're gonna have to explain this to your mother.

Right now, the thick layer of paint covering half your body is the closest thing you'll have to something touching your skin. And today's harrowing reminder of your crushing loneliness only sends you spiraling deeper into despair.

Later, a shower cleans the paint off your skin. A load of laundry works wonders on your clothes. But a second shampooing doesn't quite get the paint out of the carpet. Half of it is always stiffer when you walk on it, and certain lightings will show the paint color contrasting with the untarnished parts.

The stains on your soul are deeper.

Is this the year I finish this? Let's find out!