Of course SpongeBob would get himself wrapped up in something like this. Who ever heard of coughing up flowers? Who ever heard of flowers taking away your ability to love? SpongeBob, because if there was anyone in the entire ocean that would find their way in some sort of nonsense like this, it was that little yellow weirdo living next door.
So what, is that what SpongeBob's promise about leaving him alone was all about? It wasn't like all those other times he made promises where, though they were genuine at the time, fell apart for one reason or another. He knew it would stick this time. Plus it explained things. Why he was so quiet. Why he didn't make eye contact. Why he slapped his tentacle away after falling in the mud.
Well then.
Squidward finished mixing his drink and poured the colorful concoction from the shaker to a glass and took a sip.
This was cause for celebration!
For once in his life, things were turning in his favor, and for real this time! He didn't have to go through the day wondering when SpongeBob was going to go back to his irritating self, inserting himself into his life against his will. Nope, he was going to be left alone! The little porforian finally caught a clue and learned that he was never going to be friends with him!
Squidward put on some music and started dancing around, indulging in his own joy. It was still early in the evening, plenty of time before dinner in bed, what else should he do to celebrate? Paint? Sculpt? Practice his clarinet? Any of those were a great choice now that he didn't have to worry about being interrupted.
He poured himself another drink.
That damn foghorn alarm was still there in the morning. After all these years, it was never something Squidward adjusted to. He didn't know why he bothered with his own alarm clock anymore since the one the next house over was loud enough to wake him up and shake his house.
But that wasn't enough to stop the smile on his face. He was able to have a long morning shower, a delicious breakfast, and read the paper in peace with the knowledge that he wasn't going to be scared out of his skin by a sudden high pitched sing-songy"Good morning, Squidward!".
He finished his coffee.
Such a simple thing that most people who weren't him were able to enjoy, and now, he can, too.
And the walk to work was even better! Nothing but him, the sound of chirping scalps and the sounds of his own footsteps joining him. What should he do after work? Painting sounded nice, he had a few ideas he could pick from.
After clocking in, he stepped into the cashiers boat, picked up the latest issue of Fancy Living Digest and started where he left off. Dare he say it, he was looking forward to work today, ha!
Lunch rush came and went without a hitch or a song and dance. For a moment, he considered making an announcement over the speaker 'guess what everyone, that nuisance we travelled to get away from won't be bothering us anymore!'.And then everyone would give a around of applause.
. . .
'Maybe that idea should stay in my head.'
They'll all figure it out when they notice they aren't being interrupted during their eating of their grease filled slop.
Their shifts ended at the same time so that meant walking home together, much to Squidwards displeasure. But there was the two arm's length distance SpongeBob was determined to keep between them at minimum. Better than him going on and on about something dumb, bouncing around him and circles and nearly tripping him.
Squidward didn't feel the need to reach for his bottle of ibuprofen to soothe an aching headache or migraine. Instead, he jumped right into making dinner without the fear of being interrupted.
Once the kitchen was all cleaned up, he retired upstairs and into his gallery. It was never easier to put paint to canvas.
He was going to love getting used to this.
Another great day!
He had the time and peace to make a delicious breakfast quiche.
Before leaving, he set everything up for him to start practicing clarinet when he got home.
Only customers to deal with at work.
A trip to the store before heading home and making dinner.
Two hours of uninterrupted time with his clarinet.
And a restful nights sleep.
Another great day!
A short stack of waffles and coffee for breakfast.
Got his paints and canvas out for him to start on a new painting when he got home.
Only customers to deal with at work.
A quick dinner before retiring to his gallery and creating yet another masterpiece.
And a restful night's sleep.
Another good day.
A quick breakfast.
Only customers to deal with.
Dinner.
He decided to work with clay tonight.
And sleep.
Rinse and repeat.
Rinse and repeat.
Rinse and repeat.
Until. . . .
Squidward stepped back from his canvas. The colors weren't doing what he wanted them to do, and the picture he had in mind wasn't forming, not even vaguely. Hmm.
He wondered if it was worth trying to salvage it or call it a loss and toss it out. It's been a couple hours since he started, and there's more layers of paint than he wanted to fight through. Better to cut his loss. He sat aside his palette and took the canvas off the easel. Walking over to the rest of his 'junk' canvases that he had to get rid of at some point, he also passed the last few paintings he did that are drying.
He was proud of them when he finished them, but looking at them a week later, he wasn't so sure. They're similar in one way or another. In color palette or composition, they were all a bit to alike for him to feel satisfied.
Why?
He was sure he had a lot of different ideas to paint but the evidence to otherwise was right in front of him. How could that happen? He is anartiste!What could possibly cause him to lack his usual creative flourish?
. . .
Squidward looked out the window and at the pineapple house next door.
No.
That wasn't it. Couldn't be.
"It's getting late. All I need is a good night's sleep," Squidward told himself. "I'll work on something else tomorrow, and it'll come back to me."
On the way to work, Squidward picked up a copy of Artist International magazine. Not his usually choice of reading, but it was something different, and the creative part of his mind needed somethingdifferent.
It's a pretty slow day, with only a few customers sitting around, the latest having ordered a few minutes ago. It was an effort to stop looking at his watch every few minutes.
Tonight, his focus was on music. All he needed was some time away from the visual arts, to refresh things. Nothing to worry about. Besides, there's a long list of pieces he wanted to try.
He turned a page.
BANG!
The sound of a falling tray echoed through the restaurant. Squidward, as well as the few customers, looked up to see what happened. By looks of it, the fry cook had slipped on the freshly mopped floor while he carried the tray of food, spilling it over the customer. Said customer wasn't going to show any understanding, and immediately became red in the face before unleashing a shouting tirade at the sponge.
It was loud enough that Mr. Krabs came out of his office and got between the two of them.
Squidward wouldn't admit it out loud, or under oath, but he was relieved at that. It was obviously an accident, be upset about it or whatever, but it wasn't worth screaming at the hardest working person in this dump about. The fact that the customer also towered over him didn't help. But he didn't cry. Squidward expected it, and he was sure the few other customers did as well, but he didn't. Not a single tear or whimper.
While Mr. Krabs dealt with the customer and his demands that the sponge be fired, the mess was cleaned up and the food was replaced, without so much as a word out of him. The two of them didn't notice the fry cooks' absence until things cooled off.
"I don't care, I don't care, I don't care," Squidward mumbled to himself. He was relieved that his ears weren't assaulted by SpongeBob's wailing. Ignore that it was completely out of character for him. Don't look back into the kitchen to see if he was okay. Don't think about the time they delivered pizza and after that rude customer shouted in the sponges face, he stomped right up to him practically shoved the pizza down that man's throat and how he felt the need to do the same with his customer.
He doesn't care.
Why should he?
Maybe that yellow doofus grew up and learned not every discomfort or upset warranted flooding a room with his tears! That working in the service industry meant dealing with unpleasant and unreasonable customers and it was better to keep your emotions out of it.
. . .
Squidward took a deep breath.
He cares. But only a little. He cares the smallest amount, barely enough to be noticeable. Through a series of choices and decisions he's made in his life he ended up as someone who kept an eye on the sponge to make sure he didn't accidently kill himself from his own naiveté.
That's it.
Nothing more.
He looked back into the kitchen. Mr. Krabs had gone back to check on him. Squidward couldn't make out what they were saying, they were closer to the farthest wall from him and had their backs towards him. Even so, it was clear by his body language that SpongeBob felt uncomfortable. And arm's length away from their boss, leaning away, even stepping sideways and out of Krabs reach when he tried placing a claw on his shoulder.
Once the conversation ended, SpongeBob turned his attention to cleaning the already spotless kitchen, and Krabs went back to his office.
If it was anything else, the damn thing would have been tossed across the room.
Squidward readjusted his hold on his precious clarinet and tried, yet again, to follow the music sheet in front of him. He swears he's following it exactly as it's printed, he's read over it several times before picking up the instrument, as he always did. But, no matter how many times he started over, readjusted his hold and stance, it didn't sound quite right.
He felt unsatisfied with how it sounded, each time.
Did his clarinet need to be tuned?
"No, I had that done last month," said Squidward said. "Let's try something else."
That had to be it. This music was a little too far from his typical tastes, that was it. He swapped it out for another, one that he's had for a while but it was forgotten as he collected more and more.
. . .
. . .
"Fishpaste."
This had better not be the start of a total creative block. Those took far too long to get out of at their worst.
Squidward placed his clarinet back in it's case. Unfortunately, no music will be made tonight.
There was something missing in his creative process, something important that he couldn't pinpoint that was clogging his brain and keeping him from using the full extend of hisimaginationnnnn-
No.
NO.
Absolutely not.
He did not need SpongeBob as a part of his creative process. All he ever did was disrupt him and sometimes destroy whatever he was working on. He had lost count the number of times his neighbor thought he was 'helping' when all he did was add something to a painting that looked like a child had done it.
He definitely didn't add a color here and there that Squidward hadn't considered that he ultimately ended up adding. Certainly never pointed out a detail that Squidward had forgotten in the midst of his creative flourish.
Nope.
Hmm, maybe his inhibitions were getting in the way.
The journey to artistic perfection is often hindered by self-doubt and hesitation. Sometimes the best way to get past that is a glass of wine or two. Some of his best work was crafted after a drink to ease his nerves.
Too bad he was all out. A trip to the liquor store it is then. Grabbing a jacket, he headed out.
The door to the liquor store opened with a somewhat familiar bell ringing. Squidward walked through the aisles, passing a few other customers of varying sobriety. Past the many, many, glass bottles of gins, rums, ciders, and vodkas. He has his favorite brand and specific kind, so it shouldn't take that long—
Why is SpongeBob here?
He found the porforian in the middle of the next aisle, crouched down with a wine bottle in each hand, comparing the two. As if he was going to pick one over the other. He had a wagon already filled with other bottles of not only wines but an assortment of other alcohols as well. By the looks of it, he was going to take both.
To be fair, for as childish and immature as he acts, Squidward had to accept that he is an adult and it's not exactly illegal for him to be in here or drink. It's not something Squidward thought he was interested in; he didn't seem like the type, and he's never seen the guy have so much as a measly hard soda.
Plus, the last thing he or Bikini Bottom needed was a drunk SpongeBob.
He eyed the bottles on the selves as he searched for the exact bottle he wanted. A red wine, pinot noir, his favorite.
Squidward glanced at the bottles not only in the wagon, but what SpongeBob had in his hand.
"Really? That brand?" he scoffed. "It's dirt cheap for a reason—"
"Please stop talking to me."
Squidward nearly choked on his words. SpongeBob didn't do so much as look his way when he cut him off and placed both bottles in his wagon.
"Well," Squidward straightened his jacket and held his head up high to keep his dignity. "Excuse me for helping you not waste your money on junk."
"I didn't ask for your help."
The bottles lightly clanked against each other as SpongeBob pulled the wagon away, leaving Squidward behind and dumbfounded.
What the hell just happened?
He was told to fuck off in the most semi-polite way by the most goody-two-shoes person in town. Swiftly dismissed.
Whatever.
There was a perfectly logical reason why someone like SpongeBob, who he was sure never had a drink in his life, suddenly was buying enough alcohol to stock a bar. He didn't know what that reason was, but it had to be there.
Buying that much alcohol at once certainly didn't remind him of a distant cousin who frequently binged and ended up putting himself in the grave via alcohol poisoning.
Besides, what reason does he have to drink?
Maybe learning that the entire town, including friends, left him behind and burned an effigy of him to the ground and danced in the ashes. That'll do a number on anyone's self-esteem.
Technically Squidward didn't dance. He kicked the ashes, that's different. But he deserved to! He had to deal with SpongeBob's shenanigans the more than anyone else.
. . .
When he found what he was looking for, Squidward snatched it off the shelf, grabbing another one for good measure. SpongeBob'sfine. There was nothing to worry about, if he wanted to drink, that's his choice.
Of course, the world wanted to torment him.
Squidward was doing his best to shove the whole SpongeBob issue away and into the trash where it belongs. There was nothing wrong with the little cretin, and if there was, it had nothing to do with him.
"Is he okay?"
"Do you actually want to order anything?"
Customers today felt the need to look past him and into kitchen before asking him about the fry cook.
"Is something wrong with that guy?"
"Sir, there's a line forming, please place your order."
Why do these people care? Shouldn't they be relieved? They went to the same party he did for the same reason, and now they were free from his antics! Don't they see how great it is now, to be free of that distraction in their lives?
"Is everything okay back there?"
"As long as there isn't a fire, yes. What would you like?"
He didn't care that it was getting hard to ignore that gnawing feeling in his stomach whenever he looked up from a magazine and was surprised to see SpongeBob out and cleaning the dining area because he was so quiet nowadays it was easy to not notice his presence. He didn't care that the customer who yelled at him yesterday didn't get a response out of him, no tears no sobs no nothing, or that it was the complete opposite of what he was known for. It didn't bother him that during the now rare moments when the two of them made eye contact, his blue eyes that used to be filled with barely contained energy, joy, and warmth, were now so ice cold and piercing that they didn't seem to belong to him at all and left Squidward feeling not only uncomfortable, but disturbed.
Why should he care?
. . .
This isn't his fault.
. . .
There's no reason to feel guilty.
. . .
He just wanted a break from the guy.
. . .
If he's guilty, then so is everyone else. They all went to the same party for the same amount of time, for the same reason. They had an equal amount of guilt to share. If there was guilt. There wasn't any guilt to be felt. At all. None.
"SpongeBOB! Get out here!" Squidward shouted. He's had enough of these bottom feeders constant questions. Once the sponge stepped out, Squidward turned to him. "Will you please tell all these people that you're fine?!"
"I'm fine?" SpongeBob said.
"See, he's fine!" He snapped at the customer. "Now may I please take your order?"
For the rest of his shift, no one asked anymore questions.
Squidward was ready to kick a hole through his canvas.
He's given it a few days to clear his mind, to let new ideas form, and get rid of any self-doubt that was keeping him from creating.
How long has it been since he started? Two hours? And he couldn't get a single sketch on canvas that he was satisfied with. He came into his gallery with exactly what he wanted to paint in mind. He went back and forth about it in his head for days leading up to this. But nothing. What he had in his head refused to be translated in so much as a draft for guidance.
Maybe this is one of those 'start painting and it'll all work out' artworks? He's done that plenty of times.
No.
That wasn't it.
Plus, he bought all new paints for this one, the expensive kind that he typically only splurged on as a birthday gift to himself. He didn't want to waste them if things didn't turn out right.
"Great, an artists block," Squidward groaned. He dragged his tentacles down his face. Wonderful, justgreat. "Where's that bottle of wine I bought. . .?"
Artist block be damned, he was going to stare at that canvas until it ended if he had to. Downstairs, he poured himself a generous amount. He leaned against the counter, swirling the red liquid around. That's the good stuff. It was getting close to noon, lunch sounded good as well. After throwing together a charcuterie board, Squidward returned upstairs, along with the bottle of wine and glass. He pulled up a chair and indulged.
What a situation he's found himself in.
"I shouldn't worry about it, it only makes it worse," he said to himself. A bite of brie cheese. Nice and quiet.
Maybe he should try painting in another medium? He's been using oils for six months, he had watercolors he could try. They weren't his favorite, but he knew how to use them. There was a palette, brushes, and paper somewhere in the closet.
No, what was the point? He already couldn't put down a sketch, and while he was able to work without one if need be with oils, he absolutely needed a sketch for guidance with watercolors. he'll just end up back and square one. He didn't want to see another failure in front of him that'll push him farther into his artist block.
"Theres someone who loves seeing my artwork no matter how bad I think it is."
He took a sip of wine.
How about another go at his clarinet? He can try a piece he's done a thousand times if new stuff wasn't working for him now. No, what's the use? He's concluded that it was indeed out of tune and the only sound that would come out of it was broken notes. It's not like he had an audience to play for.
"There's one person who's always eager to listen and cheer me on, even if the rest of the ocean doesn't appreciate my work."
He took another sip. The only sound that joined him was the ticking of the clock behind him, the creak of his chair, and his own breathing. Nice and quiet.
. . .
Too quiet.
. . .
Dammit. He didn't miss SpongeBob did he? He's finally free of his antics, like he always wanted. It was great for him, at least at first. But now, it felt a little too much like when he moved to Tentacle Acres. Too much paradise. Too much of the same thing, day in and day out.
As much as it pained him to admit, the yellow goofballs interruptions and overactive imagination had a way a jogging his own at times. It made sense, the two of them are as opposite as opposites can be, and with that came SpongeBob noticing and suggesting things he never considered from his own perspective.
Now that SpongeBob actively avoided him, his creative abilities and output have plummeted.
. . .
What was the big deal about not loving them anymore? He didn't love anyone in his backwater town, but he still interacted with them. To Squidward, it shouldn't make much of a difference. But SpongeBob is clearly avoiding interacting with anyone he doesn't absolutely have to. He continued with that distance between not only him, but anyone he talked to.
More often than not, he simply passed the orders at work through the window instead of taking it directly to the customers table, and when he did, it was as done as quickly as possible without a word. Whenever Patrick stopped by for lunch, he doesn't join him. He clearly didn't like talking to Mr. Krabs, and swiftly made an exit when dealing with that rude customer the other day. He went from a people pleaser to a people avoider.
It reminded Squidward a little too much of himself.
Squidward sat back and looked outside his window. He spotted Patrick talking to SpongeBob outside his house. It's a repeat of a scene that he's witnessed a lot as of late. Patrick knocking at his door, SpongeBob answering, only for Patrick to walk away, alone, in a slump. Squidward had to give it to him, the starfish was persistent about whatever he hoped to get out of his attempts.
"What a fool," he mumbled. "A loyal fool, but a fool all the same."
Patrick ended up walking away by himself, yet again.
On top of that, he's had an entire personality shift. Even if he didn't like interacting with them anymore, certainly he would stay his overly cheerful, optimistic, constantly smiling, bouncing off the wall self. Feeling upset about learning why they all left, Squidward understood, even if he thinks he kind of deserves it for annoying them so much. But his personality wouldn't change, right? He'll bounce back like he always does, just with distance between him and everyone else.
He's just. . .taking a longer time than usual to bounce back.
Squidward put down the wine glass. He didn't want to drink himself into a stupor. Instead, he focused on the last few pieces on the charcuterie board.
The sound of honking made him look outside his window again. Three pickup trucks pulled up in front of the pineapple. Seconds later, a gaggle of sponges poured out and ran to the front door. They had to be his family. Squidward was pretty sure SpongeBob was the only Sponge in Bikini Bottom. The only other ones he's seen were his parents on rare occasions, but he's always assumed they lived out of town.
When SpongeBob answered the door, he was swooped into a series of hugs, and for the first time in a long time, Squidward heard him laugh.
He didn't expect to feel relief when hearing it. It hit like a punch to the gut.
He watched the group of Sponges move behind his house, and SpongeBob gesture around the area. This back and forth went for a while between him and the crowd before three split off and drove the trucks to the back.
For the rest of the afternoon, Squidward watched as the gaggle of sponges worked in near perfect unison, like cogs in a machine, to turn the back of his neighbors house from looking like the rest of the near barren landscape of Bikini Bottom to a respectable backyard. They installed a fence, laid down turf, and build a, shed? No, no, that had to be a greenhouse.
"He's acting fine now," he grumbled. SpongeBob was indeed acting like himself, talking and laughing with those Sponges, like he used to do before this whole 'coughing up flowers' fiasco. So his personality didn't completely shift, not towards everyone under the ocean at least. Just his friends. And everyone in Bikini Bottom. Well, he does, or did, consider everyone in town to be his friends, makes sense this change would be towards everyone.
Squidward rubbed the sides of his head. All this thinking was starting to give him a headache.
Once the evening came and the sun started to see, the group of Sponges piled back in those trucks, but not before giving SpongeBob another round of tight hugs. After the trucks drove off, Squidward watched his posture and expression shift from happiness to tiredness.
His own default outlook towards others was indifference and doubt, and that was fine for him. But for someone like SpongeBob, the shift from his happy-go-luck and trusting attitude towards everyone around him to avoidance and distrust had to be jarring. Shocking.
"Poor guy."
NOPE.
No.
Squidward will admit to himself that he was worried. He cared, he worried, but he did not,will not, feel guilty. He deserved that vacation more than anyone and he wasn't going to feel guilty about it or the aftermath.
He went back downstairs and cleaned up the mess he made. Leftovers will be for dinner; he didn't have it in him to cook something fresh. Right as the microwave dinged, there was a knock at his door.
"I wonder who that could be," he groaned. Opening the door, he was greeted by the sight of Patrick. Somehow, he was both crying and eating a large bowl of food. "What do you want, Patrick?"
"Squidward, do you think you can try talking to SpongeBob?" Patrick asked between sobs.
"And why would I do that?"
"'Cause he's quiet like you now," he said. Patrick managed to stop his crying. "He gave me this food a while ago when all his cousins were over." So that was his family. "I smelled it from my rock, it tastes really good. He didn't tell me he was learning to cook other stuff. He doesn't tell me anything anymore. Can you try?"
"No, Patrick."
"Please? He'd do the same for us. We gotta look out for him."
The Starfish looked like he was about to start crying again. By now, Squidward has had enough to thinking about feelings, and he wasn't going to deal with a blubbering oaf.
"I'm not making any promises," He relented. "If it'll get you to stop crying and leave, I'll try. But I'm not promising anything will come out of it. Now will you go?"
Patrick nodded, and left his doorstep. Squidward shut his door. Like he was ever going to do that.
Wake up.
Go to work.
Go home.
Try painting.
Fail.
Go to sleep.
Wake up.
Go to work.
Go home.
Play clarinet.
Fail.
Go to sleep.
Wake up.
Go to the store.
See SpongeBob there.
Ignore how uncomfortable he looks walking through the crowd and waiting in line. Ignore how he practically clawed at the side of his head when anyone got too close. Ignore how he rushed out of the store.
Go home.
Wake up.
Today's his day to tend to his garden. He hears SpongeBob talking and laughing to himself from his own backyard. It stops when he steps outside.
Squidward considers, for a moment, going back inside. He doesn't, there's weeding to be done. He looks over the fence periodically, just to see if the Sponge was still there or if he fled and went inside.
He's still there, moving back and forth out of the greenhouse, never once interrupting Squidwards own gardening. He finished quicker than normal, but went back inside feeling like somethings missing.
Wake up.
Go to work.
It's a slow day, not much to do, he managed to sneak a nap in.
Squidward nearly choked when SpongeBob asks Mr. Krabs if they can close up early today. Hours early. The answer, after Mr. Krabs regained his composure, was no, but the fact that he asked in the first place. . .
Maybe he wasn't okay.
Was he really about to do this?
Today, Squidward stood in front of SpongeBob's door, trying to talk himself out of what he was about to do. When Patrick asked him to talk to SpongeBob, he only said he would to get him off his doorstep and never planned to actually do it. But here he was.
It's just to check on him. This whole thing was an excuse to make sure the little yellow nerd was okay and to ease that nagging feeling in the back of his brain that was telling him that something was critically wrong. That's it, nothing else.
So he came up with the excuse to ask SpongeBob for help with baking a cake. It wasn't exactly a lie. His cakes always came out dry and if there was anyone who could help him, it would be the one chef next door.
"'Chef' is a generous term to use here," He mumbled.
He knocked on the door and waited, but didn't get an answer.
He knockedagain. If the door didn't open he was going home
He stayed mostly behind the metal door, not opening it enough for either of them to step through.
"What are you doing here?" He asked.
"I, uh, wanted to ask if you could help me with something? I keep trying to bake a cake but it doesn't come out right."
". . .You can find answers on the internet," he said. Getting dismissed by SpongeBob of all people was an odd thing to experience.
"I've tried all those, and they didn't work. You like cooking stuff, so I figured I'd ask," Squidward pressed. He watched as SpongeBob strummed his fingers against the metal door and looked away. He was sure he was going to be rejected and this was a waste of his time. But he got a nod.
SpongeBob followed him back into his house. Squidward already had the ingredients out on the counter, though not measured out. It's been how long since SpongeBob was in his house? Weeks? No. The three weeks they were gone for No SpongeBob Day, plus the weeks after they confronted him for acting weird afterwards. . .
Two months, about two months, give or take a week. And this time, instead of SpongeBob breaking into his home, he asked him to come over. Instead of bouncing off the wall and making a mess of his house, he simply walked behind him, only noticeable by the squeak of his shoes.
Reaching the kitchen, SpongeBob stood at the end of the counter, away from where the ingredients were already out,
"I'll tell you what to do," SpongeBob said.
"Why can't you do it with me?"
"Too close."
"Right. You have an issue with that now," Squidward sighed, remembering that rainy night. "Fine then."
Might as well get started. First things first, the flour.
"Sift the flour first," SpongeBob said. "And the sugar."
There had to be a sifter around here somewhere.
The cake excuse wasn't a complete lie, and Squidward made a mental note of the advice he was giving, but his focus wasn't totally on creating the batter. He glanced over to the Sponge as he stood there, eyes glued to the floor, and occasionally scratching at the side of his head..
"Wisk the eggs before adding them."
By now, his kitchen should be a mess, with batter dripping from the ceiling and him screaming at the top of his lungs for both SpongeBob and Patrick to get out of his house. But he's so quiet. It feels like a stranger in his house and not someone who's known for decades.
. . .
How many times has he wished that SpongeBob would learn to be quiet, stand still, and not destroy his house? More times than he could count. He didn't think he was asking for much, just for him to act a little (or a lot) less like himself, maybe learn to ring the doorbell. Now he had that, why does he feel bad about it? He shouldn't. He deserved to have a neighbor that didn't lower his property value while increasing his home insurance rate.
"Add a tablespoon of mayonnaise."
"Mayonnaise? Are you crazy?" Squidward snapped. "That's disgusting."
"Mayonnaise is made of eggs and oil," said SpongeBob. "You won't taste it."
". . .You better know what you're talking about," he said, taking a small jar of mayonnaise from the fridge. He seldom touched the stuff. After checking to see if it was still good, he scooped out the tablespoon amount and began mixing it in.
Calmness was all he wanted when either one of his moronic neighbors set foot in his house. And, looking at the barebones of this moment, it's exactly what he's wanted. SpongeBob's not making a ruckus or disturbing him. He's just standing there and giving baking advice, like a normal person. Like a normalneighbor.
So why was he feeling bad about it?
"Is there a way to stop it from having a domed top when it bakes?" Squidward asked.
"Bake it at a lower temperature," SpongeBob said.
Squidward set the oven 30 degrees lower than he usually did. While it warmed up, he poured the batter into two cake pans. After placing them in the oven, he cleaned up the kitchen,
And now they wait.
Like in the kitchen, while Squidward sat on his couch, SpongeBob sat in the farthest chair from him.
This whole thing is about finding out if he was okay. He looks okay. It's not like he was covered in bruises or wounds. Physically, he's fine, as far as Squidward could tell. He wasn't coughing up flowers like he said he was, and he didn't look sick in any other way.
Mentally, though, Squidward didn't have a clue. He knew that he couldn't love his friends anymore, but what does that mean? Why did it change his behavior this much? He can be completely normal if he wanted to! He was his goofy self when his family came over.
That had to be it. SpongeBob was not as innocent as he looked or acted, and was capable of being petty if he wanted to be. That's what this is all about. Some attempt to make them all feel guilty for getting away from him.
Well it wasn't going to work! Squidward knew for a fact that he had nothing to feel guilty about. Absolutely nothing. It's not like that party was his idea. It's not like get gloated about it in his face when they came back.
All he ever did was ask him to be quiet and not destroy his things. And yeah, maybe he's tricked him into something that got him hurt here and there, wished grievous injury upon him, screamed at the top of his lungs that he was the worst neighbor anyone could have, shouted at him and told him that he hates him a few hundred dozen times, and fuck-
"Will you stop?!" He slammed his tentacles on the table, making the tea set shake. He stood up and loomed over the Sponge as he continued. "You've made your point! You're upset about everyone leaving to get away from you! We can all see that with this silent treatment you're giving all of us! So you can stop this now! Stop moping around, this pity party! If you wanted to make everyone feel guilty, then you've done it, so stop!
"For Neptunes sake, if you're this upset about everyone needing to get away from you, maybe you should have figured out that you annoy everyone with your nonstop tomfoolery! I've been telling you to stop for years! It's not our fault if you choose to ignore it and it sure as hell isn't our fault for how you feel when we get away from it! What's your goal here? To make everyone feel so bad for you that we don't go again next year and make us suffer through your nonsense without a break? Newsflash, Squarepants, everyone needs to get away from you! Your own friends, your own pet, needs time away from you for their own sanity, and you only have yourself to blame! So either stop being a nuisance or get over it!"
Panting, Squidward scanned him for any sign of a reaction. Nothing. No watery eyes, no trembling, no sobbing, nothing. Why?! Why won't he stop acting like this?! SpongeBob should be an absolute mess, he's shouted at him in the past for far less things that left him bawling. But he just sat there, not reacting to what he said at all. He just sat there, avoiding eye contact, not saying a word, scratching his head.
Not being himself.
"Do something! Cry like the pathetic crybaby you are! Flood the room with your tears! Run around wailing like a fool! Babble on about some nonsense no one cares about!" He yelled. "Stop acting like this! Act like yourself! I know you do it! I saw you do it the other day! Do something! Anything!"
Nothing.
Nothing.
Squidwards anger fizzled out once he caught his breath. After all that, the house fell into an uncomfortable silence that threatened to suffocate him. He leaned back in his seat with the words he shouted echoing in his ears. If SpongeBob, for once, got angry and shouted back, not only would it be warranted, but welcome. Any reaction was welcome, but SpongeBob still sat there.
Doing nothing.
"Why won't you do anything? Why are you acting like this?" Squidward mumbled. "You always bounce back when someone hurts your feelings. Why not now?"
Maybe. . .
Maybe this wasn't some attempt at pity, or some long drawn-out silent treatment.
Maybe, for some reason, not being able love them, changed him, and this was that change.
"I-I'm sorry," he mumbled as he placed his head in his hands. "I didn't mean any of that."
"Yes you did," SpongeBob finally spoke. "But that's okay."
"No, no it's not."
"It is. People in this town can't stand me, it only makes sense that you out of all people hates me. How can you not? I'm such a little weirdo, aren't I? Always running around with my weird laugh and causing trouble for everyone when I try to help," he hummed.
"Stop it. I'm supposed to be the one talking about you like that, you aren't supposed to say that about yourself."
"The more I think about it, the more I realize that I should have seen it coming."
And when he looked in his eyes, he saw something that scared him. Some he's seen reflected back at him in the mirror during his most downtrodden times. Something that absolutely did not belong.
Exhaustion and defeat.
It was there for only a brief second, quickly replaced with that neutrality that's made itself home on his face, but it was enough to shake Squidward to his core.
"It's okay if you hate me, Squidward. I get it."
"I'm really am sorry. I don't hate you," Squidward said. "I never hated you."
"Yes you do. You don't have to apologize, you didn't do anything wrong," SpongeBob stood from his seat. "Your cake is almost finished baking. I did what you asked me, so I'm going home."
Squidward watched as walked out of his house, leaving him with nothing but the sounds of his house and his conscious eating away at him.