Spongebob Therapy (For snappleR)

Flick.

Flick.

It's the middle of the day, but you'd never be able to tell in this particular dorm room. Blinds are turned down, curtains drape low, and the lights are left off. The only illumination in the room is provided by the television set as it switches between channels. It may as well be midnight.

Blaise Cameron rests reclined in the bed across from the t.v., semi-propped on a small stack of pillows. The weight of recent actions bear heavily on his mind; it's made manifest in a simple, but sullenly mute expression. The teen is wearing a powder blue t-shirt easily two sizes too large and a pair of fluffy, plaid PJ bottoms. The bed's not been made, but he's settled atop the sheets. While he appears to have kept up his personal grooming habits, it looks as though everything just stopped flat afterwards.

The television remote looks to be perpetually angled at the screen, without him bothering to so much as lift his hand.

Flick.

A melodrama with sappy music.

Flick.

An action movie involving space, lasers, and a pompadour.

'I had it.'

Flick.

'I totally had it.'

Flick.

'Huh.'

There, on the screen, is none other than Spongebob. This causes a small crack in his expression - not a pleased one, but one closer to confusion. Seeing the inescapable, if somewhat aged now icon jabbering in Japanese is the biggest culture shock he's had since leaving America. But even that only manages a subdued reaction.

'Damnedest thing.'

It turned out that those grocery store raffles that Amy saw in animes were an actual thing. The last time she was in-store picking up her weekly snack pile, she was given a ticket to redeem a single spin at the prize wheel at the entrance of the store. She did just that, absentmindedly sucking on a chocolate covered pretzel, and, before she knew it, the happi-clad young women at the table were ringing handbells and congratulating her for winning the grand prize- a weekend at a not-too-far onsen.

It was perfect timing, really. She was on the match card in the upcoming taping; the promoters had decided to seize upon her current “feud” with Nathan and scheduled a match between them- Best friends at odds! Lovers’ spat! See them settle it in the ring! Rather than suffer through that, she decided instead to start her weekend early. It would mean that she’d have to forfeit her match and eat a hefty penalty, but that was the price the normally financially-cautious Amy was willing to pay to not have to see Nathan.

In person, that is. At the inn the night of the taping, Amy, fresh from a dip in the hot springs and full from a simple fish dinner, bundled up in a yukata and got ready to unwind in her room while watching Tension. And what she saw stopped her cold.

Blaise was fighting Stone. At first, it looked as if it would turn out about as well as any other of his matches; Stone was tossing him around, beating him up, getting him into holds that Amy knew from experience were doubly painful when a giantess was pulling them. But Blaise was being Blaise; tough, stubborn like a rubbery mule, bouncing back after each vigorous attack with that cheeky little grin on his face. Against all odds, Blaise started to turn the match around, and, (Amy was on her hands and knees at this point, face far too close to the television to be healthy) he eventually had Stone locked into a bow and arrow hold. Stone's hand was up; she was going to tap. Oh my god, Blaise was going to make Stone tap.

Then the television screen shifted, and the rest of the Valkyries were running down the ramp. They beat down the ref, then they proceeded to take Blaise apart. Mako pulled the battle-worn Blaise into what looked like a modified crossface, and the other girl, Divine, knocked him out with a cruel heel to his face. The two had dissolved into the crowd by the time the ref came to, and Blaise lost the match by knockout.

Amy sat still for a good long while after the match, long enough that she was half an hour into the next show before she could move again. She had been paralyzed by the intense cocktail of emotions that the match had triggered in her- a blinding, seething anger at the Valkyries, a sense of crying injustice and sympathy for Blaise, a resentment toward the unusually swift karmic gods (they usually let her enjoy the fruits of her transgressions for longer before bringing down the hammer).

She packed up and left that very night.

Two days later, Amy was on the Tension campus, standing at the entrance to the men’s dorm rooms. She was dressed to go out- a soft white T-shirt with thin black stripes, a red plaid shirt wrapped about her waist, and jean shorts on top of white tennies- and her phone was in her hand. She sent a quick text to Blaise.

Blaise, come out and play with me. I'll buy you lunch.

Bzzt!

Blaise's eyes don't move from the near-hypnotic hyperactive flailings of a caricatured sponge who, if we're being honest, kind of looks like an early Drew Carey. But the phone's vibrations register somewhere. His left hand swats blindly at the dresser nearby. He smacks an empty plastic cup around, paws about his alarm clock, and finally grabs ahold of the cellular device.

Those normally bright blue eyes are glossy as they look down at his phone. This is the first text he's ever gotten from Amy. In some way, he had expected to hear from her. But what he reads fills him with anxiety. Come out? Into the world?

His thumbs bump around the touch screen.

'Dont wanna. Not hungry. Dont wanna be outside today.'

He sets the phone down, stares at it, then lifts it again.

'Come up instead. Doors open.'

Blaise doesn't want to deal with people in general today. Not when he's feeling this trashed. On top of that, moving hurts. Just the idea of roaming around is painful.

Amy blinked down at her phone. The first text read pouty, maybe even mopey. It was completely understandable for anyone whose victory had been snatched from them in the way that it had.

But this was Blaise we were talking about. Blaise was indomitable- well, no, not physically. In combat, even she'd come out on top. But his spirit burned brighter than anyone that she'd ever met before. A year of losses- a solid year!- and he was still the sunniest person that she’d met in Japan, and among the most positive people that she’d ever met, period. She wasn’t sure how she’d expected Blaise to respond to her text, but depressed and self-pitying was definitely near the end of the list.

Amy put her phone away and shuddered inwardly before moving inside. Ugh, the men’s dorms. It wasn’t her first time here, so she knew a little what to expect, which didn’t make the prospect of traversing the building in front of her any less skin-crawling. Even at the security desk, mere steps into the entrance, entering and exiting wrestlers leered openly and hungrily at her body as she asked after Blaise’s room number. She found herself wishing that she’d chosen to wear clothes that covered more leg. Just being here made her feel like she needed a shower.

She endured a gauntlet of catcalls on her way up, making her feel like the new arrival on a particularly horny movie prison cell block. With an icy glare, she was able to get most offenders to retreat back into their rooms- if not intimidated, then certainly made aware that she’d be a bitch to deal with. She didn’t care; she wasn’t here for them.

Finally she made it to Blaise’s room. She raised a fist and rapped curtly on the door. “Blaise? It’s me.”

The room falls into an eerily monotonous silence, filled only with the ambient noise of a cartoon. Blaise let his mind wander.

Stone pummeled on him. Beat him down. He's still feeling some of those blows. But he'd pushed past the pain, drove his body to keep fighting. He's pretty sure he'd even started to get Stone to lighten up socially, or was starting to, before he turned things around on her.

But he turned things around. He can't say he turned "killer" on her or anything like his trainer always insists he must, but with a few well-placed, showstopping moves, he'd had Stone right where he wanted her. But did he just take too long? Was he still not good enough, even when by all rights, he had that match?

The knock on the door nearly jolts Blaise right out of the bed. His heart skips a beat, he nearly tosses the remote, and he almost, almost yelps. Then Amy's voice cuts in. The teen takes a second or two to breathe, recompose himself, then pipes up back to her: "It's open."

His voice is soft, subdued. There's no trace of his usual mirth or lighthearted cheer. "Come in."

The dorm is small and simple, barely two rooms to accommodate a kitchen/dinner and bedroom/living room. It's closer to a suite than anything. There is only one chair available aside from the bed, tucked in at his desk. The only other piece of furniture present is the dresser beside his bed. The dorm isn't dirty, per se, but it's messy. Blaise does not maintain house well, with clothing dropped hither and thither.

The walls of his room sport professional wrestling paraphernalia, though, primarily featuring the most electrifying of the classics, including the Ultimate Warrior, Andre the Giant, and Randy Savage.

Amy pushed the door open. Then she walked in and shut the door behind her and breathed a sigh of relief. Base.

Then she actually looked at her surroundings, and her understanding of Blaise began to morph. It wasn't a sty, but it was comfortably messy- about what she'd expected from Blaise, to be honest. The only sound in the room came from the television- Spongebob? She wasn't sure if that was surprising or not. But wow, this was a nice dorm room. She spied the kitchenette, and her eyes widened. Did Blaise cook?! Unexpected. Her eyes continued to crawl over the room- the posters were all pro wrestlers, sounded about right- until they came to rest on the man himself. He looked normal- he was still washing and shaving, it seemed- but where there should have been a big goofy grin on his face, there were just flat, empty features. Amy didn't like it.

Amy put a hand on her hip and cocked her head. "I like your PJ pants. They look comfy."

When Amy enters the dorm, Blaise's eyes are drawn from the t.v. to her. It requires her entering a little deeper before he can get any kind of decent look at her, though - partially due to a countertop island partitioning the kitchenette and obstructing his view, and partially due to just how dark it is in there. But once he gets a look at her, he has to admit, she looks good. She looks like herself. Maybe even peppy. Kind of like how she looked when they danced together.

You know, not long after she punched him out in a stadium full of spectators for his very first impression in a Japanese ring.

...Man, why is that getting to him now? When it happened, it didn't bother him. He treated it like every other loss, with the later added benefit of getting a friend out of it. A friend who got upset with him for risking injuring himself, at that. So ostensibly, a friend who actually cared. But he can't shake it right now. Is his lot in life to just... blow every chance he gets? Wait, what about Nathan? He didn't lose that.

Blaise's internal turmoil is betrayed only in a furrowing of his brow and a brief downwards cast of his gaze. It takes him a scant, but telling second or two before he replies to the blonde addition. "Thanks." After a beat, he adds, "You look good, Amy. Sorry I'm not up for going out. My... everything... hurts."

Everything.

Amy watched as Blaise’s eyebrows scrunched together and his chin dipped low. His response to her frivolous compliment was far too measured and took far too long to come out. If Blaise had told her that he was dying of an incurable disease, Amy might have believed it. He was just so listless, which, again. wouldn’t have been so jarring if it had been anyone else. Amy knew she was being a little unfair- Blaise was human too, after all, with every right to feel emotions other than exuberant cheerfulness from time to time. But that didn't mean she had to like it.

“Thanks,” Amy said uncertainly. She stood in front of the entrance for a moment, then slipped off her shoes, even though Blaise seemed to keep things American. It was force of habit- her stepmom had instilled the practice in her whenever Amy visited home, and eventually it had become second nature. “And don’t worry about it. It's still a little chilly outside, and I didn't dress for the weather.” Amy, now shoeless, approached Blaise’s bed. “Mind if I join you?” She asked as a courtesy; some people were reluctant to allow people with street clothes into where they slept. With permission, Amy would unshoulder her backpack and clamber in next to Blaise, reclined in parallel to him.

Blaise modestly shakes his head and even makes a token effort to scoot over. It's completely unnecessary either way, as there's plenty of bed to his side that could accommodate a girl. Once she settles in, he looks back to the t.v. screen, detached.

"You ever really watch Japanese t.v.?," he asks, avoiding the elephant in the room. "They sometimes have stuff like this on there - something from America, redubbed. I don't know if it's because they think this is awesome," he gestures to Spongebob, the incredulity palpable, "or if they think it makes foreigners more comfortable. All it does for me is make me a little homesick."

Amy clambered in and stole a pillow from Blaise's pile before reclining in parallel. She tilted her head at Blaise's question, and rivers of untied hair cascaded softly over Blaise's shoulder.

After a moment, Amy responded. "Japanese Spongebob sounds exactly like American Spongebob, don't you think? Like, goddamn, I wonder if they got the same guy and made him learn Japanese. If I just had this on in the background and wasn't really paying attention, I could easily believe I was home again. And also twelve years old." That was fine, they didn't have to acknowledge the elephant right away. It wasn't going anywhere. She pulled open her backpack while keeping her eyes on the screen. "You watch a lot of Spongebob growing up?"