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Feel A Lot of Things But I Don't Feel Fear Now

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Sykkuno talks to himself. 

He just does, okay? People think it’s weird, at first, but he’s not crazy. Which, of course, is exactly what a crazy person would say, but if you heard him you’d realize it’s harmless. Less than harmless. Mostly he just talks to whatever inanimate object he’s interacting with, or chats with his plants, or makes up little songs to make whatever chore he’s doing a little less boring. His habit has even been called cute, on occasion, which is a pretty far cry from crazy. 

So he talks to himself, and it’s a bit odd but ultimately harmless. 

Until his new house starts talking back. 

Before he continues, he’d like to reiterate: not crazy. 

His house is not actually talking to him. There aren’t voices in the walls and it’s not, like, commanding him to murder his friends or anything. Nothing like that. 

But yesterday, when he’d been singing ‘gotta get the milk, gotta get the milk, get the milk for the cereeeaaalll,’ (not the most inspired tune, but he’d just woken up and thought he was alone, sue him) the fridge door opened. By itself. 

He’d blinked dazedly at it, written it off as him still being half asleep, and got the milk for the cereal. 

Later, when he’d been unpacking more of his things, he’d been humming under his breath, which turned into ‘lights, lights, lights, gotta get the lights to make the whole room… brights?’ (and yes, maybe ‘talking to himself’ is generally more like ‘singing to himself’ which is simultaneously less crazy-sounding and much more embarrassing). After the second verse, which was exactly the same as the first verse, and two fruitless boxes, one had sort of… skittered across the floor at him. 

He’d let out a very manly yelp. 

Rats, probably , was his first thought, even though he’d never known a rat that pushes boxes at people. An advanced rat, maybe? He sat there staring at the box for what felt like a very long time, but it didn’t move again and nothing scuttled out from behind it. Even longer was spent stalking around it in a wide circle, and then poking around the rest of the room, looking for… something. Anything. Any sort of explanation would do, honestly. He was so far from picky at this point. 

Nothing came up. 

Out of other options, he tentatively opened the box.

Inside were the fairy lights he’d been looking for. 

And, look: he’d just moved. It had been a stressful time. He’d spent the last night sleeping in a pile of blankets on the floor. There were any number of excuses for those two occurrences - the fridge latch was faulty, the ground was uneven, he’d imagined it, etcetera. 

He decided to very purposefully forget about it. He’d gotten an amazing deal on this place and he was not about to let his imagination ruin it for him. 

Until, that night, he’d been laying in his blanket-nest, and wondered out loud, “Did I lock the door?”

And, unmistakably, the click-click of the door unlocking and locking again echoed through the barren house. 

He’d bolted upright, then froze. What exactly was the tactic here? There were no guidelines for this sort of thing. 

It wasn’t like he could sleep without checking - hell, he probably wasn’t going to sleep even after he checked - so after a few minutes of letting his breathing settle, he crept through the dark to the front door. 

As he watched, the lock flipped from the locked position to the unlocked position, then back again. He blinked and stared. 

It did it again. Somehow, the motion looked almost annoyed. He didn’t know unlocking and locking a door could look annoyed. 

He sort of stumbled back to his makeshift bed and laid down, staring at the ceiling.


So. His house is, while not technically talking to him, certainly… communicating with him. Probably. Or maybe he actually is crazy, but he hadn’t been when he’d moved in - certainly someone would’ve told him if he’d gone off the deep end?

He’d woken up that morning and very intentionally did not sing as he made eggs for breakfast. He didn’t talk to his plants as he watered them, didn’t even hold his daily shower concert. After all that was done, he sat in the middle of the floor and thought fruitlessly about what to do. 

Streaming was out. There was no way he could act normal for his viewers, and he hadn’t set up his studio yet anyway. 

Telling his friends, while probably the best option, was not his favorite. They’d been concerned about him moving out already, this would certainly have them cajoling him into moving back ASAP. While he loved living with them and they were fantastic people, having his own space was… well, it wasn’t something he’d ever had before, and he wanted it for at least a while, now that he was able. 

The house being sentient was… not part of the plan, but it didn’t seem malicious, so he could work with that. Probably. 

“So,” he started, and realized abruptly that talking to yourself and expecting an answer was much different than talking to yourself to fill the silence. “Are you, uh, friendly?”

No answer. 

“House? I’m talking to you. There isn’t actually anyone else here.”

There was a thud from the room next to his. 

“That’s… inconclusive.” Silence. Sykkuno was not crazy. Really. He wasn’t. Probably. He was just talking to his house, sitting on the floor in an empty room. As you do. “Well!” he says, sounding brighter than he feels, “please refrain from murdering me or driving up the water bill!”

Distantly, he hears the sound of a faucet being turned on then immediately shut off. He can’t help but roll his eyes. “Yes, yes, you’re very funny.” Silence. Welp, nothing else for it then. He grabs his keys and heads out to get a bed: hopefully this has all been a momentary psychotic episode brought on by too little sleep.


While an IKEA bed frame may not exactly be the definition of luxury, it has the benefit of fitting in his car. He lugs it in and flops it in the room he’d deigned the bedroom, then gets to work deciphering the cryptic texts that make up the IKEA instruction booklet. 

Annnddd promptly flings the booklet away after the first sentence. How hard could it be?


“Finding the right screw, y’know you need the right screw, it’s not like any other screw~! Could do~! What this screw can do~!” His song, while helpful at cheering him up, is doing precious little as far as helping him find the right screw. It should be… small? He thinks? Most of them are small, but this one seems extra small, so maybe one of the ones that had rolled into the corner.

“Whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do, if you can’t find that-” he cuts off abruptly as a very small screw rolls towards him. Right. The helpful, sentient house. “Er, thanks?”

He tries the screw, and of course it’s a perfect fit. However, before he can start screwing it in, the pieces he was fitting together are tugged out of his hands, rotated, and unceremoniously shoved back at him. 

“Uh,” he very eloquently says. “Are you sure this is correct?”

The booklet he’d flung to parts unknown is slid towards him in a manner he’d deem huffy, if he were the sort of person that anthropomorphizes houses. He looks at the booklet, then at the pieces in his hands. They match the diagram it’s open to perfectly, where they had not before. 

“Well, that’s… convenient? Thank you, uh, house?” Yep, instead of being the type of person who anthropomorphizes houses, he’s just the kind of person that talks to them. That’s… better. Surely.  

The pages of the booklet flutter. 

Right. 

It seems like every step he’s doing something wrong: screws are rolled out of his reach when he tries to grab for them, other, slightly different screws being rolled towards him in their place. Pieces are rearranged, and on one memorable occasion, forcibly ripped out of his hands (which is honestly a little bit scary, because the house hadn’t interacted with him quite so aggressively  before, though the house seems to understand, because the next time he picks up the wrong piece, the pages of the booklet just flutter irritably until he exchanges it for the right one). 

In the end, he has a perfectly serviceable bed frame through no fault of his own. 

“Um.” He stares at the completed project. “Thank you? I couldn’t have done it without you. As in, I really would not have been able to do this, apparently.” The booklet flutters with a distinctly happy air to it this time. 

He… needs to go to bed. Hopefully when he wakes up, this will have all been a very odd example of why good sleep is important. 

He calls whatever mattress place comes up first on Google and they promise to deliver a mattress ASAP, even going as far as offering to bring it in and flop it on the bed frame. That sorted, he wanders into the kitchen and stares blankly at the fridge. Then he wanders to the window and stares blankly at the street outside. 

After that, he sits down on the floor and googles ‘sentient house’, because he really can't think of what else to stare at in the name of procrastination. He gets a lot of results about ghosts, which is not something he will allow himself to consider for even a second. Ghosts aren’t real, his house is not haunted, he’s just sleep deprived and his house has… personality. He’s living on his own for the first time, of course it’s going to seem weird. This is probably normal house stuff, he’s just never noticed because he’s always been living with a bunch of people. 

Right. 

Right? 

Right. 


His conviction that everything is normal lasts right up until the mattress people come to deliver the mattress. The guy in front takes a single step in, and pandemonium erupts. 

The lights flicker, first, which is - fine. The dude looks up, gives a sort of half-shrug, and continues onward. In a split second all the cupboards fling open and dishes start flinging out of some while the others slam shut. Ceramic shatters as the fridge door is nearly taken off its hinges, and an almost-full carton of eggs hits the wall opposite, splattering it with viscous liquid. 

Sykkuno… stares.

A knife embeds itself into the wall. The garbage disposal turns on. The lights don’t stop flickering. The microwave starts beeping incessantly, which he wasn’t even aware microwaves could do . Milk is slammed on the floor, the jug cracking and covering the entire kitchen, including Sykkuno, in milk. 

As soon as it had started, it all stops.

Sykkuno blinks dumbly at the mess. A cupboard creaks as its door swings forlornly in the still air. A droplet of milk slides down his cheek; he can feel when it drips off his chin. 

When he turns back around, the mattress people are gone, the mattress forgotten two-thirds of the way through the door. 

As a rule, Sykkuno doesn’t really cuss, but there’s exceptions to every rule, and if this wasn't one he doesn’t know what is. “What the actual fuck was that!?” he yells at the kitchen at large.

The cupboard door creaks. 

He throws his arms in the air with an indecipherable shout, stomping his foot for good measure. It makes the puddle of milk at his feet splash up onto his pants, which makes him yell again. The kitchen stays still and silent. 

He tugs off his milky shirt and throws it in the puddle, figuring he’d have to wash it anyway and having very few ways he can accurately express his anger - especially to a house, of all things. 

He strips the rest of his clothes off on the way to the shower, leaving a trail of milky footprints and apparel, and turns the water up as hot as he can stand it. 

Then he gets in the shower and empathetically does not cry.

Fuck. 

He may, possibly, have a ghost. 

Fuck .

Chapter Text

 

Sykkuno is feeling a lot better by the time the hot water runs out. 

A ghost. Sure. Whatever. There’s ways to deal with that.

You can exorcise ghosts. That’s a thing that you can do. Send them on to the ghostly beyond, set their spirit free, yada yada. He just needs, like, a priest or something - he’s watched a horror movie or two in his time, he knows how this works. 

(He doesn’t think about the bed frame, perfectly put together despite his ineptitude, or the way the box of lights had more or less been presented to him.

No, he thinks of milk all over his kitchen and a mattress he may or may not be able to get all the way onto said bed frame. He thinks of the knife in the wall and flickering lights and the mattress movers who were undoubtedly scared shitless.)

He strides out of the bathroom and goes the long way to his room, bypassing the kitchen altogether. He’ll deal with that in a moment - right now he’s only in a towel, and with his new information regarding ghosts and their apparent existence in his house, he doesn’t feel comfortable striding around naked.

He shrugs into old, comfortable clothes, then loops around to the end of the kitchen he hadn’t been standing in earlier. He’ll start cleaning from here and end by picking up the clothes leading to the bathroom, since they were the least likely to cause permanent… milk-damage, or whatever that would be called. 

When he makes it to the kitchen, he stops short.

It’s… clean. 

Hell, it looks cleaner than it did when he moved in. If you ignore the thin line the knife made in the wall, you legitimately can’t tell it was a disaster zone less than an hour ago. 

He blinks and tilts his head like that will make the scene in front of him make sense. When that doesn’t work, he takes a tentative step into the kitchen, as if he’ll break the illusion if he gets too close.

Nothing happens, so he takes another step, then another. A glance in the trashcan reveals broken ceramic and an empty egg carton, so it wasn’t a fever dream, but the floor is spotless. 

The mattress is gone as well. He has his suspicions on where it’s gone, suspicions that are confirmed when he opens the door to his bedroom and sees it sitting perfectly on the bed frame. 

He closes the door and leans against it, once again thrown for a loop.

Suddenly exhausted, he slides down the door until he’s curled against it, arms wrapped around his knees. He leans his head back, eying one of the cabinets he can just barely see from his spot on the floor. 

“I was going to have you exorcised, you know.”

The cupboard swings open slowly, a very forlorn sounding creak emanating from it. 

“You can’t just… do stuff like that.”

The cupboard swings closed sadly. It’s not like Sykkuno really has room to talk though, he’s assigning emotions to the squeaks of cupboard hinges. 

He sighs. 

“I’m going to take a nap. We can talk about this when I wake up.”

The cupboard stays closed. He shuts his eyes and counts to ten before walking into his room and closing the door. He locks it too, for all the good that does. 


When he wakes up, there are several blissful seconds where he doesn’t remember anything is wrong. Then, he realizes he’s been sleeping on a bare mattress and it all comes rushing back. 

Right. Ghost. 

There’s a ghost. Probably. 

Or he just had some really, really strange dreams?

It sounds weak, even in his own head. He’s not exactly great at lying, especially to himself. 

Confirmation is in the broken ceramic and empty egg carton in his trash. When he checks the laundry room, the clothes he’d scattered on the way to the bathroom have been washed, dried, and neatly folded on the counter. 

He rubs the bridge of his nose, for all the good that does. 

How does he proceed from here? 

Sighing, he pulls out google. What to do when your house is haunted is not something he thought he’d ever type a week ago, but a week ago he’d been confident in his opinion that ghosts didn’t exist. 

The first result is an ad for an exorcism service. It looks rather janky, if he’s being honest. He doesn’t even glance at the second result, letting his phone slip back into his pocket. More information. That’s what he needs. 

He strides into the kitchen, trying to look more confident than he feels. “Okay, ghost,” he calls. Nothing happens. “We need to talk,” he prompts. 

The cupboard swings open the tiniest bit. He eyes it. 

He is done assigning emotions to the movements of cupboards - that’s just - no. No more. 

Except for that one knife, the silverware was mostly untouched by whatever the hell happened earlier, so he goes ahead and pulls out two spoons. 

“Can you tap these?” he asks, demonstrating by taking the spoons and clicking the metal against the counter. He then moves away, and a moment later, both spoons lift and click back down. “Good,” he says. “That makes this easier. That spoon,” he points to the one on the left, “means yes.” The spoon clicks against the counter again, and he almost smiles. “That spoon,” he continues, pointing at the one on the right, even though it’s likely obvious, “means no.”

The right spoon gives a click. Progress. 

“Okay. Great. So, ghost: do you want to be exorcised?”

The right spoon tap-tap-tap’s frantically on the counter.

“Okay!” he says, and it stops. “Okay. No exorcisms, got it. I don’t really understand, though, shouldn’t you want to move on?”

The right spoon gives a definitive click .

“Alright. Are you going to hurt me?” He probably should’ve asked that first, all things considered, but in reality it’s probably not a very helpful question. If the ghost did plan on hurting him, wouldn’t it just say no anyway to avoid being exorcised? 

The right spoon starts tapping frantically again though, which makes Sykkuno feel a little bit better. “O...kay. Okay. Well. I can’t say I understand why you freaked out earlier, then.”

Both spoons tap the counter. 

“Yeah, I suppose that’s not exactly a yes-or-no question, is it.” He thinks for a moment. “Well, is there any value in an ouija board? Would that make it easier for you to communicate with me?”

The left spoon taps against the counter, not frantically like the other had been before, but almost… excitedly. 

Annndddd he’s back to assigning emotions where logically, there shouldn’t be any.

“Well, if we’re going to be housemates, communication is key - I’ll go get a ouija board, try not to… mess anything up I guess.”

Both spoons click, and Sykkuno is not going to assign indignation to them. He just isn’t.

In the car, he takes a second to wonder how his life has spiraled so completely out of his control in the span of three days. Then he looks up where the heck you buy a ouija board. 


He ends up at Toys ‘R Us, because of course he does. 

Grabbing the most basic looking one possible (he did not need Toast or Rae finding an ouija board at his house, but if they did find it, the basic one was leagues better than the pink one. Even if the pink one was sort of adorable) he pays and hurries out. 

Of course no one gives him a second glance. He's being self-conscious for no reason, but he can’t help but feel as though he's broadcasting to everyone he walks by: yes, I am indeed buying a ouija board to talk to the ghost I am almost certain lives in my house. No, I have not been diagnosed with any form of psychosis, and I am not supposed to be on any medication. 

He makes it home with no incident, of course, because there is no reason a grown man can’t drive to Toys ‘R Us and buy an ouija board. 

He has done nothing wrong. 

His house is intact when he returns, both the inside and outside. One of the cupboards swings open in what he assumes to be a greeting when he enters, which is… nice? Sort of? A bit creepy.

But still nice. 

“Right,” he says to the empty air, about where someone would be standing to open the cupboard. “Let’s do this, I suppose.”

He tears apart the packaging on the ouija board and sets it up, trying his best to pretend everything is normal. Once he has the planchette set on the bottom middle, he sits back and stares at it for a moment. 

He’s really doing this. He went out and bought an ouija board to communicate with the ghost that apparently lives in his house. 

Moving out may have been a mistake. 

The planchette gives a little wiggle. 

He blinks at it. 

“Okay, ghost. We can start with your name, I suppose, so I can stop calling you ‘ghost’?”

The planchette wiggles again, but he is well and truly done assigning personality to inanimate objects. It just wiggles. There’s no emotion behind it. 

Then it slides to the ‘C’, then ‘O’, then ‘R’-

And around there is where he starts getting a bit incredulous, because he thinks he knows where this is going, but…

‘P’

‘S’

‘E’

It slides back to the bottom center. 

He looks at the ouija board. 

“Is that a… joke?”

The planchette taps against the board before sliding definitively to ‘No.'

“So,” Sykkuno rubs at the bridge of his nose again. “You’re a ghost. Named Corpse.”

‘Yes.’

“And you see nothing wrong with that?”

‘No.’

“So… when you were alive, you were named Corpse.”

The planchette slides back and forth between ‘yes’ and ‘no’.

“So… you don’t know.”

‘Yes.’

“Oookay. Well. Moving on. Why, exactly, did you throw a temper tantrum earlier? Now I have to get more eggs and milk. I can’t even make cereal.”

He waits patiently as the planchette slides around the board. ‘People.’

“You know I’m a person, right?”

‘Different.’

“Er, not really. Pretty much the same as the rest.”

‘Nice.’

His cheeks heat up at that, and he’s momentarily at a loss. He regains himself enough to say, “You don’t know if those people were nice or not! They were bringing me a mattress and they seemed perfectly lovely.”

The planchette vibrates but makes no movement. After a moment of staring, it starts up again. ‘Tired.’

Sykkuno sighs. “Well, I guess that makes sense, considering you trashed my kitchen.” The planchette slides plaintively down the board. “And cleaned it, I guess. You did clean it after.”

He stares at the board some more, but no more words come. Alrighty then. There is a ghost in his house. A ghost named Corpse. A ghost that sees nothing wrong with being a ghost named Corpse.

Oh god, if he ever tells anyone about this he’s going straight to the mental hospital. 

He can’t even eat a bowl of cereal for comfort because there’s no milk. 


After a particularly sad shopping trip, he returns home. No creaking cabinet greets him, and once again, he attempts to fool himself into thinking this has all been some particularly long and fanciful delusion. 

The replacement eggs and milk are put away, along with the ice cream he bought as a form of self care. God knows he deserves it.

When he walks into the bedroom and sees that his bed has been made, the already fragile illusion is shattered. At least he has a (mostly) helpful ghost? That’s got to count for something. 

Sighing, he goes to start unpacking more things. At least Corpse got his tantrum out of the way while his house was almost entirely bare, and now he knows that he can’t just have random people come in. He’ll have to talk to Corpse about his friends coming over at some point, but that point is not right now. 

He gets his assortment of fuzzy pillows and blankets out and throws them haphazardly on his bed. Pausing at the next box, he peers into it’s cozy depths and debates with himself about whether he should actually unpack this particular box. It’s obvious Corpse has no qualms about going in his room - though he gets the idea he’d probably stay out if asked - but he could be in here right now, watching him.

The idea should be a lot more freaky than it is. 

Whatever. It’s his house, if Corpse has a problem with a grown man sleeping with stuffed animals, well, he can deal with it. 

Once his bed is set up for maximum comfort, he flops into it, huddling deep into the blankets and wrapping his arms around one of his favorite stuffed animals: a whale pillow-pet, slightly squashy from years of use. 

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but the combination of softness and warmth proves too hard to resist.

Chapter Text

 

He wakes up just after one in the morning, glancing around blearily. Sleep schedules aren’t the most important when your main income comes from streaming, but he should probably fix his anyway, this is a bit ridiculous. 

Speaking of streaming, he needs to get his studio set up. 

There’d been a few places he’d scouted as likely areas. He doesn’t need much: good lighting; away from the street or any other noisy areas; comfortable.

He wanders around the house, flicking on lights and re-examining places he’d thought of as promising. 

In the end, he chooses a little nook tucked by the laundry room. It sort of looks like whoever built the house couldn’t quite decide what to put there, so it’s just an empty space with windows on two walls and the third shared with the laundry room. He won’t be able to run the washer and dryer while he’s streaming, but it’s not like that’s a big deal, and it’s at the back of the house, so the sounds of the street should be near-silent. 

Setting it up to his liking is easy: the partition he uses stands on its own, his desk is just a simple folding one, and he’s set up his computer and mic so many times at this point he could do it in his sleep. 

Once it’s set up to his liking, he heaves a sigh. This next part has never been a step of the process before, but it seems necessary now. “Corpse?” He waits a moment, then a bit louder asks, “Are you there, Corpse?”

A gentle knock on the wall answers him. 

“Good. Okay. This here?” He motions at his setup. “This is how I make money. If you ever throw a fit like that again - which, please don’t - but if you do, this needs to be left alone. This is expensive equipment and it’s my only source of income, so if it gets ruined, I will have to move out, and the next person might not be so agreeable on the lack of exorcisms.”

There’s a subdued knock in answer and he nods, more to himself than anything. 

He does some minor tweaking until he’s satisfied, then does a test run to make sure his mic is working and OBS is doing its thing. Everything seems to be a go, so he tweets that he’ll be streaming in an hour and a half and goes to get some tea. 

When he makes it to the kitchen, he blinks stupidly at the scrambled eggs cooking by themselves on the stove. As he watches, the frying pan gives a little shake, tossing the eggs around and making sure they don’t get burned. 

That’s… surreal. 

The planchette taps where he left it on the ouija board, and he obediently walks over. 

‘Sorry,’ it spells out.

He stares for longer than is probably polite, because it gives an impatient wiggle, and yes, he is losing the battle against assigning emotions to the movements of inanimate objects. “I mean… you did clean it up. And now you’re making me eggs?” The planchette gives a little tap. “Okay. Well. All is forgiven. We can talk about people coming over more later, okay?” Another tap. 

Sykkuno goes ahead and starts making his tea, trying not to be perturbed by the eggs being cooked by a ghost about two feet to his left.

He sits down with his tea and phone, and continues in his quest to not be perturbed when a plate of scrambled eggs floats over to him. After a moment his salt and pepper shakers follow (yes, they are in the shape of smiling mushrooms; no, he will not be embarrassed) and settle themselves on the table in front of him. 

“Thank you,” he says politely, trying hard to look like this is completely normal and not something that would get him locked up forever. “Um. Do you want to watch something while I eat?”

‘Yes.’

He blinks at the ouija board before running off to get the laptop he uses for leisure. It’s older than the PC he uses for streaming, but it does it’s job well enough. 

When he returns, everything is just how he left it. He knows that Corpse is there - obviously, he didn’t make those scrambled eggs - but it still feels really weird to set up his laptop so two people can comfortably watch it when there’s no indication of the second person, y’know, existing. 

“So,” he starts, “any shows you’ve been wanting to watch?”

‘No.’

“Is anime fine?”

‘Yes.’

Welp. He goes to Crunchyroll and starts up the most popular series he hasn’t yet seen.

It’s… weird. Really weird. Knowing someone is there, watching the show with him, when he can’t gauge their emotions even the slightest bit (or even know for sure that they’re there) was not something that could really be prepared for. 

But the scrambled eggs are good and the anime is decent, and he relaxes after a while. This is basically what he does everyday anyway, there’s just a ghost joining in on the fun this time. Totally fine, if not completely normal. 

After some lazing around, it’s time for him to get ready to stream. He stares vaguely in the direction Corpse is likely in for a moment, trying to decide how much he needs to explain. For all he knows, Corpse died during the Victorian era and is confused at the mere idea of a computer - and Sykkuno is not about to explain the entire internet to someone. At least not tonight. 

The planchette taps on the table. 

Right. Staring is rude. 

Even if you can’t exactly see what you’re staring at. 

“I’m going to go stream now,” he starts. “Streaming is where you-”

The planchette clatters noisily. He turns to look and watches as it spells out, ‘I know.’

Well. That certainly makes this easier. 

“Right. Cool. Uh, please be quiet?”

Another tap, which Sykkuno chooses to take as an affirmative. 

“Do you want me to leave the show on?”

‘No.’ Then, before Sykkuno can say anything else, it starts moving again. ‘Tired.’

“Oh. Does it matter where you sleep? Can you even sleep? Do you just float in the air and like… meditate?”

‘Do sleep. Matters.’

“Huh. Well, you’re welcome to the couch or my bed.”

‘Bed,’ the planchette vibrates a bit after that, before drawing a looping figure on the board. It takes a second, but then Sykkuno recognizes it as a question mark. Huh. There isn’t one on the board, maybe he could get a sharpie and draw one on. 

That’s for later though. 

“I mean, it’s not like I’m using it. Try to make it obvious where you are though, I don’t think it would be pleasant for either of us if I flopped onto where you already were.”

‘Would not.’

“It’s definitely the comfiest place in the house right now, so make yourself at home. Er, well, I guess this is your home, but y’know. Whatever. Maybe we can get you your own bed soon.”

After a moment, the door to his room opens and shuts. Not enough for someone to slip through, which confirms Sykkuno’s theory that Corpse can just sort of float through whatever he pleases - it also means Corpse did that out of pure politeness, which is… nice. 

Well. He has a ghost sleeping in his bed. A somewhat polite, somewhat psychotic ghost, that makes really good scrambled eggs. 

He goes to set his stream up and forcibly pushes those thoughts from his mind. The last thing he needs is his viewers thinking he’s gone off the deep end. 


It’s a successful stream, if he does say so himself. Nothing amazing, but his new setup seems to work just fine and he’d had a nice turnout. Not bad, for the first stream in a new place.

He goes to make some tea, stealing glances at his closed bedroom door every now and again.

While not exactly tired, now is normally the time he curls up in bed and mindlessly scrolls on his phone for an hour or so. It’s a nice reset after streaming, something to boot his brain back into ‘normal mode’, but now there is likely a ghost in his bed, so… he’s sort of at a loss. 

Though there may not be a ghost in his bed. It might be worth checking. And it is his bed , it’s not like he’d be doing anything wrong by just taking a quick peek. 

So, he walks over and very quietly pushes the door open. His eyes adjust after a moment, and yep, there’s definitely a lump snuggled under a mound of blankets. 

Well, now he feels creepy. 

It’s interesting that Corpse can wrap himself in blankets when he didn’t leave an impression on the couch, but Sykkuno doesn’t consider himself an expert on ghost physics and isn’t going to think too hard about it.

He flops onto the couch instead for the ritual phone-scrolling, feeling himself unwind. The tea works wonders, as always, and soon he’s ready to do… something. 

This may be an unexpected side-effect of living alone: when he was bored at his old house, there was always someone he could go bother. 

Well, it’s not like he hadn’t spent two decades entertaining himself before now, he can certainly do it again. 


After a while of switching between the stimulating activities of: making tea; scrolling through his phone; and watching clips people have posted from the stream, the door to his bedroom opens and shuts softly. 

He’s still getting used to the whole ‘invisible housemate’ thing, but for the sake of politeness calls out, “Hey! Good nap?”

Swinging his legs off the couch so Corpse can sit down if he so desires, Sykkuno switches his focus to the planchette, which slides to ‘yes.’

“Nice,” he replies. “So, I was wondering - what do you, like, do? I mean, it’s got to be boring being a ghost, especially when this house was empty.”

It takes a moment, but eventually the planchette moves again. ‘Sleep,’ then, before Sykkuno can say anything, it’s moving again, ‘No, not sleep. Drift.’

“Oh. That sounds boring.”

‘Passes time.’

“Yes, that is indeed what you do when you’re bored.”

‘Tired a lot.’

“I’m starting to get that.”

The planchette hovers, then drops on the board, not on any particular letter. It does that again, on the other side of the board, then a curved horizontal line is drawn under them. 

Sykkuno blinks for a moment before he gets it and immediately keels over laughing. “Did you -” he has to pause for air, and is sidetracked by another round of giggles, “did you just draw a sad face ?”

In response, the planchette repeats the motion, except this time the horizontal line is curved the other way. 

“Oh Jesus,” he gasps, flopping against the arm of the couch. He stays slumped against the end of the couch when his giggles die down, and after a moment he remembers the direction he’d been trying to lead the conversation in. “Right, well. I was asking because I wanted to know if you want a phone or something - can you even use a touchscreen, though? I guess a computer could work, there’s some cheap ones.”

‘You don’t have to do that.’

“Well, I know that,” Sykkuno says. “But I’m not strapped for cash and I’d want some way to entertain myself if I was in your position.”

‘Made it this far.’

“Obviously. But has it been nice?”

There’s a long pause before Corpse answers. ‘No.’

“Well, there we are. Here, try to use my phone.” He hands the unlocked phone over, and watches as it floats midair. The screen does decisively nothing. “That answers that, I suppose.”

The phone is handed back and he stares at it a moment, considering.

“I don’t suppose you can leave the house, can you? That’s generally how it works in movies.”

The planchette stays mysteriously still. After a moment, he ventures, “Are you there, Corpse?”

There's a long pause, long enough he almost gives up, before the planchette moves. ‘Haven’t tried.’

“Oh,” he responds. “Well, whatever works for you. I can run out and grab a cheap computer for you if you want? I’m not doing anything right now.”

‘You’re nice.’

Sykkuno does not blush. “You’ve said.” He coughs a bit into his fist, trying to reset his facial expression to… not whatever it is currently. “Anything you want with it? Headphones or a mouse or something?”

‘Headphones,’ he does the big looping question mark again.

“Does that mean you don’t know what headphones are or that you want them?”

‘Want,’ there’s a pause. ‘If that’s okay?’

This looping question mark prompts Sykkuno into action - he hops off the couch and only just remembers to call, “Of course it’s okay!” over his shoulder as he strides away. When he returns it’s with a sharpie he dug out of one of his still-packed boxes. “Sorry! I thought about this before but never got around to it.”

The planchette taps against the board. Sykkuno makes sure to telegraph his movements as he kneels in front of the board so Corpse can get out of the way in time, then draws a ‘?’ in one of the blank spaces. After a moment, he adds a ‘:)’ and a ‘:(‘ under it, smiling to himself. 

“Voila!” he crows, sweeping his hand over the new and improved ouija board. 

He watches as the planchette slides to the ‘:)’ and he smiles back, satisfied. 

“Cool - I’m off to get a computer then, feel free to do anything that doesn’t involve messing up the house.”

‘:(‘

“Don’t worry, I’ve forgiven you - I have very little else to tease you about, though.”

‘:)’

Chapter Text

He returns with more than a computer and headphones.

It may not have been entirely selfless of him, but the idea of floating gloves tapping away at a phone is too good to pass up. 

(And yes, it would be nice to have an approximate idea of where Corpse was, at least some of the time.)

“I brought presents~!” is how he greets Corpse, kicking the door shut behind him. The planchette gives a little tap where it rests on the board, and he smiles at it. He sits on the couch, bag resting on his lap, and pulls out the box for the first item. “As promised, a cheap computer!” It was two hundred something dollars and would never be good enough to stream or anything of the sort, but it should do for entertainment. “And headphones,” he tacks on, pulling them out. 

The planchette taps excitedly on the board. He hands the box over and watches as invisible hands dismantle it, pulling out the laptop and it’s charger and getting it set up. 

‘Thank you,’ Corpse spells when it’s started charging.

Sykkuno smiles in the vague direction he thinks Corpse is in. “Okay, so I can return these if this doesn’t work, but I thought it was worth a try,” he pauses a moment for the suspense, then tugs out the fuzzy gloves and phone he’d bought as well. “These gloves are for people living where it gets really cold, I have no idea why they’re selling them in LA. But that is not the point! The point is that they’re designed to let people use touchscreens even while wearing gloves; I figure it’s worth a try.”

The planchette slides to the ‘:)’, tapping it twice in rapid succession. Sykkuno can feel his grin growing bigger - Corpse, while strange and invisible, is actually sort of cute. The smiley faces were a good idea. He wonders if Corpse would use it if he drew ‘:3’ on there. 

He hands the phone over and watches, again, pretty certain that he’ll never get used to things just sort of ripping themselves apart midair in front of him. The phone is also plugged in, and he remembers one last thing that may or may not be offensive, but he might as well ask. “So,” he starts, “the thing with gloves is that they’re generally made for human hands? And I’ll admit, I’ve been envisioning you in the general shape of a human, but if you’re some kind of blob or something, this may not be the hack I thought it was.”

The planchette sort of… flutters on the table, and since Sykkuno can admit he’s losing the battle against assigning inanimate objects emotions, he feels free to say that it’s suspiciously laughter-like. 

“What? It’s not like I can see you!”

‘Human,’ is the response he gets. ‘I have hands.’

He resists the urge to stick his tongue out. “There’s no way I could’ve known that!”

‘I speak English?’

“You could be a super-intelligent alien ghost! Or maybe you’ve been a ghost so long you’ve learned English by listening to whoever lived in this house! I was trying to be respectful and not make assumptions.”

‘Alien ghost?’ Before Sykkuno can explain that yes, that’s a perfectly valid theory, the planchette is moving again. ‘I’m human, hands and all.’

“You couldn’t have just said that before I embarrassed myself?” Sykkuno says, but he’s smiling. 

‘:)’

“Okay, well, in payment I get to see your supposedly human hands wearing the gloves.” Sykkuno tries to add a ‘hmph’ but he’s smiling too wide for it to land.

One of the gloves promptly smacks him in the face. After a moment of being completely dumbfounded, he starts giggling. In retaliation, he chucks the glove back and breaks into full-on guffaws as it thwacks against what looks like empty air to him. 

“C’mon! I want to see if it works!” He sticks out his lower lip in a likely-ineffective pout, considering he’s still smiling big enough to show teeth.

It’s effective enough, as it turns out, because he watches in wonder as the gloves are pulled onto invisible hands. “That’s so cool,” he breathes, switching his gaze from the gloves to the approximate area of Corpse’s face. The fingers of them wiggle, and he smirks. “Maybe I should get you a hat? Or sunglasses? Then I could actually, y’know, talk to your face.”

Corpse’s hands start waving in what is definitely a ‘no’. A very empathetic one, at that. 

Sykkuno giggles again before he realizes something, blurting it out as soon as it crosses his mind. This proves to be a mistake, because what he realizes is: “Wait, does that mean you’re naked?”

Sykkuno blinks. The gloves twitch, fingers fluttering. Sykkuno blinks again. He can feel the blush rising on his face. “Oh, ah - um.” His hand comes up to his mouth instinctively, and then he gives in and shoves his whole face into it. “That is - I - um ,” he finishes.

There’s a tap on his finger, and he looks up at Corpse’s hands, which give another uncertain flutter, before giving him the most awkward thumb’s up he thinks floating gloves could possibly give. 

It does not do much to make him feel better.

“You are naked?” he squeaks.

Immediately, the gloves are waving in an extremely flustered manner that he’s almost certain is a ‘no’. There’s hesitation; then Corpse is picking up the charging phone, tapping on it.

Sykkuno no longer trusts his voice and silently unlocks his own phone to hand it over, notes app open. After a moment, he gets it back with the simple message, ‘Wearing what I was when I died. I think.’

“Oh. Um. Sorry if that’s bad memories.”

‘Barely memories.’

“That’s - uh - yeah!” Wow, Sykkuno doesn’t think he could’ve mangled that sentence worse in just three words. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks in an attempt to make this even slightly better. 

There’s a notable pause before he gets back, ‘Not right now.’

“Well, if you ever do - I’m here, I suppose.”

‘Thank you.’

“So do you know how to set up a phone? You seem like you’re using mine pretty well.”

‘Yes,’ now that he’s not completely mortified he’s back to staring at Corpse’s hands. They’re… big. Bigger than his own, for sure. ‘Computer too.’

“That’s, um. That’s good.” It’s hard to be subtle about his staring when there’s no one staring back, to catch him or even make eye-contact - he’s probably making even an even worse fool of himself. “I’ll just… I'll just leave you to it.”

One of the gloves gives a little wave.

It takes him a moment too long to get off the couch, but once he does, he practically sprints away. He is aware that this does not make it better in any way, shape, or form.


There’s a soft knock on his door later. “Oh, uh, come in!”

After a moment, the door opens and shuts, wide enough to bring the laptop in. Sykkuno scoots enough that Corpse can sit, and the laptop is angled towards him. 

There’s a message prewritten: ‘Thank you for everything. I’m really, really sorry about trashing your house.’

Sykkuno smiles at the air, and it’s sort of starting to feel normal. “It’s fine - generally I would tell a roommate before having someone over, but I was sort of denying your existence at that point. And like I said, you cleaned it up.”

‘:)‘

After a moment, the computer switches to another screen, also with a pre-written note on it. ‘You stopped singing.’

Sykkuno stares at it and tries to figure out a reasonable answer. 

Apparently, he takes too long, because, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’ll drop it,’ is typed under it.

“No, um, that’s fine,” he says. “I just, well - it’s not really something I do around people, y’know? It’s embarrassing at best, and some people think it’s, uh, creepy.”

‘I don’t think it’s weird or creepy - especially not any more than being a ghost.’

“Well, that’s - that’s really nice of you, Corpse.”

‘I like it.’ Again, he stares at the words too long, because more join them. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be-’

“It’s okay!” he cuts off the typing. Softer, he says, “it’s okay, that’s good. That’s great. I just didn’t know what to say. I’ve never, uh, had anyone like my singing before, per se!”

‘I’m sure you have.’

“Uh, ah.”

‘You have a nice voice.’

“Oh god you’re flattering me.”

‘It’s the truth. I wouldn’t mind if you sang again. I’d appreciate it.’

“You, um,” Sykkuno is literally radiating heat from how hard he’s blushing. This can’t be good for his health. “You would?” he squeaks. 

‘It’s nice. I used to sing.’

“Oh, um. That’s - well. Can you sing as a ghost?”

‘No sound.’

“That’s really awful, I’m sorry. Are you sure me singing won’t make you feel worse?”

‘No.’ The cursor moves up to where he’d previously written ‘I like it’ and highlights it. 

“Ah, uh I’m glad. I’ll, um - well it's unconscious, but I’ll stop avoiding it on purpose.”

‘:)’

The computer makes a motion like Corpse is going to leave and Sykkuno’s mouth, with very little input from Sykkuno himself, is suddenly blabbering. “Did you play any instruments or anything? I could maybe get you something to play on if you did, if that would - if you think that would help.”

The ‘.’ key is tapped and deleted a few times, then, ‘I mostly used online beatmakers, the one I used does cost money though.’

“I can get you that!” he says, too fast. Jesus, he’s embarrassing. “Er, that is. If you want.”

‘:D’

The web browser opens up and some website is typed in - it looks legit (and what would the point of Corpse scamming him be, anyway?) so he dutifully types in his credit card information.

While it’s downloading, Corpse switches back to the page he was writing on and types, ‘Thank you so much. I didn’t think I’d ever make music again.’

“Of course! It’s no trouble. Being a ghost sounds kind of awful, if I’m being honest.” He musters up a bit of courage for the next part, “If you ever want to show me some of your music, I’d like that.”

The dot is typed and deleted again for a moment, then, ‘Maybe sometime.’

He tries not to feel disappointed. “Sounds good.”

The laptop floats out of his room and he stares after it. If this is a dream, well, it’s not a bad one. 

If this is real life he’s eventually going to have to explain this to someone. He’s not looking forward to it. 


He eventually goes out to make himself dinner, pointedly not staring at the laptop clacking away on the couch. And yeah, his dinner is instant noodles, but they’re the fancy kind so it’s fine. 

“I’m going to watch something while I eat if you want to join me,” he announces to the room. The click-clack of the laptop pauses, and then it’s pushed shut gently. 

He takes that as a yes and starts setting up the laptop. After some thought, he grabs two blankets for the couch and wraps himself in one, letting the other settle beside him. “That’s for you, if you want it.”

The blanket is tugged away after a moment, wrapping around a vaguely human-shaped form. 

“Does that actually make you warmer?” he asks before he can stop himself. Is that insensitive?

The blanket shaped mass gives a shrugging motion. Fair enough. 

“The same anime from before okay?” Sykkuno asks. 

The planchette slides to ‘yes’ so he goes ahead and puts it on. 

It’s cozy, honestly. Even if he can’t quite stop himself from sneaking little glances to where the blanket is wrapped around Corpse. It’s interesting, okay? Nothing else to it. 

They watch until long after Sykkuno finishes his noodles, until he can feel his eyelids drooping. He squints at the still-bright light outside and decides he simply doesn't care. 

"I'm going to go take a nap," he tells Corpse. The blankets shift beside him. "You can keep watching if you want."

'I'll wait for you.' The words make him feel warmer than they reasonably should. They'd started this anime together, it only makes sense Corpse would wait for him. 

He still smiles at the burrito of blankets. "Thanks. I'll see you later?"

The planchette taps.