AN: TM here again. Fear not, Poisonetta. I am NOT making this fluffy. I promise. The ending of this isn't meant to be sweet. Don't worry, I'll get dark soon. So very very soon. And sorry it's short, but I wanted it to end how it did.

And you bastard readers need to review, dammit!

SpongeBob was a much more interesting specimen to watch than the wall.

Squidward held still once more, heavy grunt work of tying and dragging the sponge out of the way, as he stared, transfixed, noting every tremulous breath, every twitch of bound limb, each flex of finger. He witnessed all: the perfect symmetry of that face, those three freckles per flawlessly rounded cheek, sunkissed yellow skin tight and youthful, pores compact and taunting. Open wounds in need of filling. SpongeBob had always been much too open. The world had always been much too open.

It was all fake. Reality wasn't supposed to be as such-open and symmetrical. No, openness was a lie crafted by the out-sane, to shelter the masses. Tame them, lull them into a false sense of safety.

But this truth no longer angered the six limbed octopus, no. Anger was no longer a necessity, but a waste. An inconvenience. A weak coping mechanism. And Squidward had no use for weakness, aside from the sponge's weakness, of course.

Speaking of the sponge, it appeared that, despite the circumstances surrounding the induction of sleep, he was having good dreams. Happy, carefree, giggle-worthy dreams.

SpongeBob laughed in his sleep (something Squidward hadn't expected, but wasn't surprised by). Mumbled a few nonsense words, paused as though for response, then giggled.

Squidward couldn't wait to break that habit, to yank his laughter from his throat and smash it, shatter it, slice away each chuckle, annihilate each smile. Bleed away his joy and fill him with pain and misery and reality.

But for now, he would wait, with a warm smile on cold lips, eyes sparkling in frozen sockets. Wait, watch SpongeBob twist and smile and dream. The world dreaming as reality loomed closer, a speck on the horizon that just grew larger as time unwound itself. Reality-the meteor the world could no longer pretend to avoid.

And now was the time to wake up SpongeBob. Wake him up gently, sweetly, fakely. Squidward had to go exactly as planned, exactly as reality dictated. Had to complicate SpongeBob's feelings before taking away every sensation.

- - - - - - - -

SpongeBob had never had any issues with nightmares. In fact, he'd never had any real nightmares, period. True, he'd dreamt of the occasional robot takeover or killer krabby patty, but never anything truly sinister.

Nothing to destroy his naïve vision of the world, nothing that could harm him, no.

Only childish fears, juvenile concerns. Worries with no real place in society, no real significance in his life.

And so, despite the fact that he'd been attacked by his secret crush, drugged and bound and forced into the modified backroom, the yellow boy continued to play innocent dreams in his head. Upbeat memories mixed with fantasy. His pet snail. His best friend. His . . .

Squidward . . .

SpongeBob twitched in his sleep, a small smile crossing his lips as the man began to descend into his dreams.

How he idolized Squidward. Admired, emulated, adored . . .

Loved . . .

His physical self squirmed as his heartrate increased. "Squidward . . ." A soft moan on gentle lips, a playful murmur. Not sexual, not truly lusting. Just love. Pure, innocent, childish love. Love and desire, a desire SpongeBob had never truly understood.

Maybe it was lust after all. But SpongeBob didn't understand feelings of that nature. He barely understood love.

But he knew, he KNEW he loved the octopus. Completely, totally, submissively.

And how he longed to feel those thin blue arms wrap around him, holding him close. Cuddling and hugging, rubbing at his back, keeping him warm and safe. He wanted Squidward so badly, wanted to share his life with him. To share everything, give everything.

But Squidward would never feel the same way. SpongeBob still hadn't accepted this completely; still felt there may be some way . . .

In dreams, though, anything can occur. Dreams were the mind's escape from a miserable reality.

Dreams were what kept SpongeBob so happy, so optimistic.

Even if he'd never have Squidward with him, never feel his heartbeat against his own . . .

Never feel those lips on his lips.

This was a particularly good dream for SpongeBob. The kissing had come early, even for him. Kissing . . . dream kissing. Him and Squiddy, mashed together, rough blue on soft yellow. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. If only that could be reality. If only when he greeted the day, he could feel that way.

SpongeBob opened his eyes then, expecting to shake away his dreams as baby blues fluttered open.

Only to discover himself pinned to the wall, not only by ropes, but also by his neighbor's hot, hungry lips.