Outsiders smp oneshots!

Just Another Pot Calling The Kettle Black

This is a part of a ghost au I'm writing on Ao3, for context neither of  them remember their deaths

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1940

Being a ghost was lonely.

Mohwee spent his days wandering the halls of St Harrison, watching his classmates age out of the school and be replaced with new students. His old roommate, Kyle, left after a few years. The room was cold and lonely, growing abandoned as new rooms were added and the west wing was left to grow dust and mold.

He had found out only a little about his death, thanks to old rumours. His memory was still fuzzy, the hours of the morning before they found his corpse gone from his memory. According to the autopsy, he had fallen down the stairs in the night while sneaking back to his room. The force of the fall combined with the wooden, steep stairs resulted in his neck snapping. His goggles (Which he still had on, even in death) had shattered, the fall causing the lens to be embedded in his left eye. Plus a shattered spine, frying his nerve endings. He died on impact.

Something about the story felt off, but he shrugged it off. It was the easy solution, and Mohwee didn't feel like thinking about his death more than he did already.

And so Mohwee spent eleven years of his afterlife haunting hallways and classrooms, unable to leave. That should be the end of the story, shouldn't it?

Unfortunately, it never is.

-

Oeca was pretty sure he was dead.

There were multiple deciding factors in this conclusion. There was the fact that he was fucking blue, for one. Or maybe it was how he immediately fell to the ground when he tried to talk to Mr. Samson, passing straight through him and landing on his face, or you know, maybe it was the fact that his fucking corpse was hidden upstairs, probably decaying behind boxes of spirit day memorabilia. Could be any one of those factors, he thought. That didn't change the fact that he was fricking dead, what the fuck.

So even if nobody could see him, he was confident that nobody would judge him for crying a little bit.

He curled into a ball behind the old coats in the closet, shaking with silent hiccups as the wind sent a chill down his already freezing spine. Tears ran down his face, landing on the hardwood floors and immediately disappearing as if any trace of him was instantly wiped from existence. This was the old west wing, the one the other boys dared their friends to step inside on chilly winter nights when the curtains swayed and the screams of the dead bounced off the walls.

It was ironic that he was never included in that, and yet he was one of them now. Like some twisted way of finally letting him share the company of the boys who dumped trash on his head and locked him in the janitor's closet.

"Um... you okay?"

Oeca shrieked as he jumped, whipping his around and screaming more because what the fuck?!

"Ow, stop screaming, holy shit!" The boy winced, covering his ears as Oeca continued to scream. The tiny voice in his head spoke up, saying that he should probably shut up and listen to this boy in front of him because he's clearly a ghost isn't he? Then again, this was a very stressful situation, so he told the voice to shut up and kept screaming.

"God, alright, please stop I can explain!" "Who the fuck are you!?" He shrieked, stumbling back. The boy tilted his head, a few shimmering shards of glass stabbed into where his eye should be and blood running down his face. A pair of cracked goggles rested on his head, and his blue and white striped tie was nearly pulled off. He grinned, jarring and bright. "You seem confused. I think introductions are in order." To Oeca's horror, he crossed his legs and turned upside down. "You see, I'm a ghost." "Yeah, I gathered that, now what the fuck happened to your eye?!" He sighed. "Long story. I'm Mohwee!"