Let me... clarify something beforehand. I am quite a fan of Nny and Squee, but I've never actually read the comic. In fact, I know hardly anything about it. From what little I know of the characters, I've created this piece, using my imagination for most parts. I wasn't going for perfect, or canon. I just needed a break from my main story, and these sort of pieces really help, for some reason... Enjoy ;) {Break. Meaning, I'm not trying all that hard :P It's probably a bit messy}

Midnight; that infernal time of night drowning in shadow, possessed by the demons of the mind. Buried beneath his covers; those frail sheets that could so easily be pierced right through. Shaking, shaking, terror-stricken, waiting.

He'd only wanted a friend. The world was a lonely place. A terribly lonely and terribly friendless place.

Nny didn't hate him. Nny didn't want to hurt him. It was nice.

But there was something wrong with Nny. He didn't know what it was. But he could feel it. Something very wrong.

He swallowed and curled around Shmee. His only comfort; like maybe it could protect him from the darkness in the night. Like maybe it was more than teddy bear and with him, he would always be safe. Safe.

Footsteps outside. He shouldn't be able to hear that, not from his room, not with the window closed. The window they had fixed. But the footsteps were there. Quiet on the grass. Nobody else could hear. They never did.

Fear has the uncanny ability to sharpen all senses, while all you ever wish for is to be blissfully ignorant, blissfully unaware. It forces you to lay still in your bed, so in tune to the demons lurking around you that every single movement is tracked on hyper alert.

Poisoned claws of fear drove their cold, sharp points beneath his skin, scraped his nerves.

Yes, there's definitely someone outside.

It's him. Again. It had to be. Why. Why is he here?

Reality is so much worse than the nightmare. You can always wake up from a nightmare. Reality you have to endure.

He doesn't know if he wants to see Nny or not. It seems so odd, that he should feel that way. You usually don't want to see something you are so terrified of. You'd want to get as far away as you can.

But there's nothing out there; there's nothing away from Nny but hatred and bullying. Squee doesn't dislike them for that, but it doesn't mean he wants to see them any more. If he runs to his mother; will she help? If he runs to his father, will he help?

Nny listens. Nny talks. He likes to talk, talk about a lot of things Squee doesn't really know about. It's like he has this huge store of knowledge pertaining to people and their circular lives, all this knowledge that nobody else ever realizes.

He can predict people; predict their actions and words. They can surprise him, sometimes. But it's like he has it all figured it out in his mind, and he could spend forever just talking to Squee.

He's alright then. His eyes are softer; more sad, but full of depth and an emotion Squee can't quite place. Nny doesn't want to leave, not really. If he's talking to Squee, he isn't talking to himself. He isn't doing terrible things. There's no crimson silver in his hand.

Squee likes to listen to Nny.

But he hasn't been like that in a long time.

Something was wrong with Nny, and it was getting worse.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Scratching at the window, fumbling for the handle. It was always unlocked. It must always be unlocked.

If he pretended to be asleep, would Nny leave? If the other saw he was peaceful and deep within a dream, would he wait for another time? If Squee faked it, would Nny go to someone else?

Because he doesn't talk to other people. Those people come to his house, and they never come out again.

The window swung open, words muttered under Nny's breath.

He is practically frozen in his bed, cold hands clamped around Shmee.

Will there be blood? Will he have just returned from the darkest depths of his mind? Will there be a weapon? Will he be haunted by his own thoughts, tormented to the point where he didn't recognize Squee?

It's crucial Nny recognizes Squee.

More than once he hasn't.

He'd brought a knife, those times. Cut, cut until he remembered and recoiled like prey in the face of a terrible predator. He didn't mean to hurt Squee.

That knowledge didn't make the child any less afraid.

The shadow dropped into Squee's room; Squee was faced away from the window, and only heard the resulting soft thud. Icy air from outside sighed across his cheek.

Nny still stood at the window; he had to be, because Squee hadn't heard him move from that location. Surely it was fear, and fear alone, that made this time move so slow? Surely these minutes couldn't be passing, with Nny unmoving, and Squee wrought with terror?

Hearing was no longer enough. His large eyes opened, stared straight at the wall. He didn't dare turn around yet; not even a glance.

Yes, there was the shadow. Tall and thin, looming against his wall, rigid and still. Watching him.

Squee nearly let out a petrified squeak. Did he know he was awake? Yes. He had to. Squee was but a quivering lump under the covers, so small, so insignificant, so easy to see through. So small, trying in a pitifully vain attempt to will away living nightmares.

The moment was elongated, stretched thin, unending.

Only a few more minutes; Squee knew he couldn't last much longer than that. No matter what he would turn to face, he must look. He could not wait, overly aware of that morbid presence rotting in his room.

"... Nny?" His voice was so shaky. So small.

The reply was quiet and calm, "Squee. You don't really belong here, do you?"

Could it be? Maybe this once, he wasn't going to hurt him. Maybe he would talk. Talking is safe.

Squee listened, not moving a single muscle for fear of shattering the fragile peace in the moment.

"No, no you don't belong here at all. The world is an immense festering sore filled with disgusting insects going in circles. Each one dies only for another to crawl over its putrid body and forget it ever existed. There's nothing we can ever accomplish.

"I can spend all of eternity abhorring their repugnant miserable minds, but you know what's really horrendous, Squee? In all these circles of insects, I've never really accomplished anything but to drag my husk of a body through another redundant day, perceiving the flaws I have to survive with and suffering a sort of deranged purgatory, while all along never realizing I'm infected with the same cupidinous disease.

"I've considered that I'm merely batshit insane, and none of this really matters anyway. Maybe you're just a figment of my imagination in an inner reality that doesn't truthfully exist at all, so when I go, it makes no difference. But in either case, I'd like you to know..."

There was a long silence. "You don't disgust me. If I didn't despise the concept wishing, I'd wish things would be different."

Nny's tone changed so much from his usual variation that Squee at last turned in his bed, curving his large eyes to peer at the shadow hovering by his window.

His eyes were haunted and dark, and tears silently streamed from their abysmal depths.

"N-Nny?" Squee slipped from his bed, the floor cool under his bare feet. He held Shmee tight in his arms as he neared the much taller figure.

This was a different kind of fear. A fear for another person. Somehow, it was worse. Even more difficult to bear than fear for his own life.

"Nny, what's wrong?" he whispered.

"Wrong?" Nny tilted his head slightly to the side, like a child. Half his face became illuminated with the moonlight, reflecting pale orbs in their black pupils. There was something incredibly sad within that look. He never answered the question. "Squee, get out of here, okay? Run and run and don't look back. Don't ever look back."

"W-why would I do that?"

Nny crouched down until he was level with Squee. He placed his hand on the younger child's head. The move was awkward, unaccustomed as Nny was to this sort of fatherly thing.

"I'm going over the stars. I'm not sure what lurks there, but I'm leaving behind a place far worse. You don't deserve this shit." Nny frowned, thinking. Then he patted Squee's head. "Make it better for yourself."

He rose, and for one last time Squee saw his tortured expression lit up by the moon. Then in a flash of black, he leapt from the window and disappeared from sight.

Squee wasn't sure how long he stood at the window, gazing above at the stars.

In the morning, he woke in his bed, wondering if it was only a dream amongst his nightmare-ridden sleep.

But no, in a few days, the papers released a report on a suicide in their town. Johnny C. He tried to read it after his father had discarded the paper, but the words were too challenging for him. He only saw a small square picture beside the article; a haggard face with dejected eyes.

He'd gone beyond the stars. Squee wondered what it was like.