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hamsternella · 3 months

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Our home | Masc!Reader [1]

A 'Welcome Home' fanfic

No tw for this chapter (just some cursing?)

Posted on AO3 too

"I don't think this is a good idea."

Your best friend covered his face for a moment. His hand stifled the frustrated sigh he let out. Behind him, despite having a TV host in your living room, the box that sparked the tension in your kitchen caught your attention again; especially the small yellow hand hanging over the edge and underneath the colorful lid. It was the only thing you could focus on. It was the only thing that mattered to you.

"What the fuck do you mean you don't think it's a good idea? I can't believe you're leaving me alone on this."

You raised your eyes, focusing on the desperate look on your friend's face. You crossed your arms awkwardly.

"Look," you began to speak slowly. You had to clear your throat. "I understand that this is a big opportunity for you, I really do. But you're my friend, more like a brother to me, and I find it strange and offensive that you're skipping all my boundaries for a job opportunity that you could work out with some professional. Is this because you want me to do it for free?"

"I told you I'm going to pay you back!" Your friend raised his arms, sounding offended. "I'll pay you every penny and you'll even be in the program credits!"

"I already told you that I'm not interested in being in the program or not; much less money or any other kind of recognition... At least related to this."

You tried not to look at the box. You were starting to feel nauseous.

"Really... Why can't you behave like an adult?" The question left you silent. Your friend noticed it, and shook his head. "Sorry, really. I— I didn't mean to... Sorry."

"Yeah... Yeah, sure."

An awkward silence settled in the kitchen, and it was a soft knock on the door that brought back a reaction from both of you. You were the first to connect glances with the TV host. The man stood half hidden behind the door, and as soon as he noticed the half-opened box on a chair and the tension in the air, he let himself be seen completely.

"Sorry," he said apologetically. "Clearly this was a terrible idea. I apologize... I was desperate; your friend was simply looking to help me and came to you. Sorry."

"Yes. I could tell." You let out a snort and pointed your head toward the box. The gesture made the man return his gaze. "Exactly what's wrong with that?"

"It's all a problem," he replied. He let out a dry laugh; some kind of weariness slipping out of him. "You see, I've always had a dream: to bring out a lot of smiles. The world is a dark place, or am I wrong?"

"Yes... Yes, it certainly is. But what is the point of this puppet in the story you want to tell me?"

"His name is Wally." The name slipped from his lips like a sigh of relief. "Wally Darling. He's the reason I'm so close yet so far from fulfilling a dream, sir."

"Wally...? My God."

You covered your face with both hands, letting out a heavy sigh in the process. You remained silent for a long time. When you lowered your arms, you noticed your friend rearranging the box and carrying it carefully.

"Sorry. I'm really sorry; but I wouldn't be getting this whole story. What is Wally? What is it about this thing that everything is so...? I don't know. Is it broken? Can't you just pay someone else for this... whatever you want?"

"Wally is my puppet." Replied the man. "I've had it since I was a teenager. I dreamed of having my own show, my colorful mock-ups, my thousands of new puppets; but the work proved to be too much and as the years went by... I guess I got carried away with ambition."

"And?"

"And I find myself at a crossroads. I've visited artists in many places; I've tried to learn this art of puppet care and production, and even tried to travel around the world but it's just so much money I don't have.... Until your friend came to me."

Your eyes fell for a few seconds on your friend. You noticed that he was staring at you.

"He told me some things... But he showed me many others that left me surprised," the TV host continued speaking. "My condolences on the death of your father, first of all."

"Sure," you mumbled back.

"He made art. Art! And oh, my God... You have simply inherited something beyond what he was capable of, if the evidence doesn't lie. Why did you leave the market behind when—"

"Please get to the point." You interrupted him. "What exactly are you getting at with all this? It's almost eleven o'clock at night."

"Wally Darling and his neighbors need the hands of an artist capable of capturing the charm of life. The beauty of all that humans ruin; the freshness of a world inaccessible to us."

"I am a human," you replied sharply. "I am destruction. I am an artist; much worse. Besides, aren't you the creator of Welcome Home, a children's show? Why such ridiculousness with something as simple as a color show?"

"In my childhood I suffered the lack of a maternal love," the man added malencholically. "I didn't have a father present either, much less friends. I grew up alone. And it was Wally with his torn colors on a sheet of paper that led me to stop in front of the puppeteers' showcases."

The man took a step forward, crossing both hands over his chest.

"It's not as simple as a 'colorful program'; it's a whole new world for people who can't find a space in this cruel place." He explained. "I've had Wally on paper, then I was able to recreate him poorly with stuffing from a pillow subtracted from my late grandfather..."

"Oh, that's not—"

"... and a few months ago I thought I was capable of giving him a better body. But what can a man who has never used his hands more than to lift a shovel of shit create?"

You opened your mouth to respond but were unable to utter a word. You took a breath, squared your shoulders, and tried to find a fixed point behind him; in the middle of the drawings on the wallpaper. An apple. The color red like the light of a traffic signal.

"Stop," you said suddenly. "Wait a minute, please. You're telling me you paid millions for TV space, for workers, for material... and not to create a puppet? Is this a joke?"

"I wanted it to be something of mine," he clarified. "I'm kind of selfish. I was able to recreate the neighbors, but Wally is something out of this world. Or so I want it to be."

"Then go and find an artist capable of building that world you so desire. I, clearly, am not part of it." You turned your back on them, walking toward the refrigerator. "The door is unlocked. Good night."

Your friend mumbled your name, feeling a little uncomfortable all of a sudden. You ignored him. Then the other man spoke up.

"Artists are born being that. They are born being artists. Or so I think; I've never been able to even draw anything decent. Everything looks inanimate." There was a silence interrupted by the rustling of your refrigerator as you opened it. "When I was finally able to draw a decent look at Wally, that's when I saw a puppet of your father."

The mention of that man left you frozen in place. A couple of memories hit you, and you had to set the glass of water down on the counter so you wouldn't drop it. You turned your body to look him in the eye.

"Never in my life have I seen a human so capable of recreating such cute things. I watched the children laugh, and I found myself laughing as if I were part of them. I was suddenly a man with the smile of a child in the middle of a grimy street."

"You and I have met a different man," you said. "That was not my father."

"I'm talking about the artist; not the man he became when he returned home, if that helps."

"How would you know? You didn't know him, maybe didn't even know his real name. Or am I wrong?"

"Could a man with the perspective of a world as colorful as his be a cruel human like all of us?" he wondered.

"Look," you took a step forward. "I have no doubt that you have heard what everyone has said about my father. Therefore, about me, too. And let me tell you, it's true." You took a breath of air. "You want a pure and colorful Wally Darling? Do you want a fantasy world that exudes joy? Find an artist capable of filtering those emotions. Not me."

"Your art is a reflection of beauty! Why... Why do you refuse to show yourself to the world again? Because of a couple of rumors..."

"Sir, I don't think—" Your friend tried to intervene, but you were quick to respond, interrupting him.

"When we artists CREATE, we leave part of ourselves in it. It is IMPOSSIBLE to create without spilling part of our being; from an inner corner, from the worst to the best. That is how art works; beyond being able to separate the art from the artist, it is very difficult to find something where there is not a part of us left. I've tried and it's impossible for me."

"I don't care. I want to have you, I want you to use your remains to create Wally." The man clasped both hands together in front of him. "I want a happy world."

"I wasn't born into a happy world," you said bitterly. "I don't know how... I don't know which way to get out of me what is necessary. I am afraid."

"Why, what is it that terrifies you so much?" he asked.

Your friend lowered the box gently onto a chair again. His eyes did not leave your face.

"I... As a child I always thought it would be wonderful to follow in my father's footsteps," you began to tell. "He said that I had been enlightened, and that was the difference between the two of us. That I could create everything he could never achieve."

"He was right," the man added. You shook your head.

"He condemned me. And now I have to pay the price. This is hell for me, why would I want to work to create something like Wally?"

"To try to go beyond what he thought you were? He is dead; he cannot overshadow you. You should no longer be under him like this." Your friend stood out with his words, drawing your attention.

"Who said I have lived under his shadow?"

"Yourself," your friend continued. "Starting out in a field that never interested you? Pouring soul and life into incomplete works that tried to recreate facets of your father? You have never found yourself in your creations; that's what you've always said. You deny your problems, and try to escape from ghosts that live in you, (y/n)—"

"Get out of my house." You said.

"W-Wait a moment—"

"GET OUT of my FUCKING house." You walked up to him, pushing him by the arm next to the box you grabbed and threw over him. "I'm well within my fucking right to throw you out. This is private property."

Your friend tried to dig his feet into the floor, but was unable to withstand the box and your pushing and shoving. You soon found himself walking out the front door, tripping over his feet on the steps. You half-turned around, looking for the man who came with him; finding him behind you. His eyes were riveted on a framed photo next to the living room couch. In it, you and your father.

"This is my card," he muttered under his breath. Then he laid a small piece of cardboard on the table. He looked into your eyes. "In two weeks the program starts. In three days I have to make a decision."

"Well, good luck to you in that. You and Wally," you replied, turning around. You held the door half open.

You heard a sigh behind you. Seconds later, he crossed the threshold of the door and walked away into the night, on his way to a white car parked in front of your house. The neighbor's dog barked again until they drove away. Minutes later there was silence.

It was three o'clock in the morning when you lay awake in the kitchen; sipping coffee and reading the card the man had left you. Your eyes wandered from the letters and numbers, to the red apples on the wallpaper on the walls. You were still not sleepy. The talk from earlier haunted you like a curse.

"Welcome Home..." you whispered. You let out a small dismissive laugh afterwards. "How ridiculous."

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