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“TERRIBLE! You disgrace Jean Loo and his ear canals with your substandard wordplay!” He exclaimed after you failed to find a suitable rhyming word for dunce in your poor attempt to mock him. “The words simply shrivel and die on your tongue.”

“That was a hard one to rhyme, give me some credit!” You protested, gripping the ballcock tightly in your hand.

“Of course, an idiot such as you wouldn't be aware of the existence of ‘punce.’”

“YOU MADE THAT UP!”

Your lack of flow proved to be a pain in the neck for him, and he somehow became an even bigger jerk to you. Whenever you'd stop by to practice your crapping (NOTE: cool rapping), he'd have something snarky to say, and you'd bite right back. Without the clever rhyming scheme, obviously. The whole bathroom is ready to kick you both out when you start rapid-firing insults at each other, even Rebel thinks it's becoming unbearable.

“Li’l Crapper has made it as simple as possible for you, HOW is it that you still mess this up?? At this point, you are doing it on purpose to get his attention.”

“First of all, that was NOT simple, and second of all, who would want attention from an egotistical, busted up toilet like you?!”

“BUSTED UP?? JEAN LOO IS NOT BUSTED UP YOU–!”

For all the times you've screamed at each other, rap or not, it would make sense that you'd harbor some deep hatred for the guy. 

And yet, you kept coming back to practice, and he always let you.

You'd never admit it to him, but a part of you craves his validation. You want to impress him, make him like you… Maybe more than just a friend.

That's why you were here now, showing up in the bathroom to challenge the toilet man once more.

“Hey, water closet, you ready to-” You instinctively greeted him; however, Jean Loo was nowhere to be found. All you saw was his porcelain self, bolted to the floor like a normal toilet should be.

‘Huh,’ you wondered, assuming he'd gone to mingle with his fellow housemates. Funny, you'd never taken him as a people person. Ignoring the logic behind how the “human” version of your appliances can roam while their object state remains, you approach the very normal toilet.

Suddenly, a memory of Jean Loo saying he keeps prompts in his cistern flashes in your mind. You grin, seeing this as an opportunity to get ahead in the game. Maybe he writes down his lyrics too, if that was the case, you'd know what to counter them with by the time he got back!

You opened the lid of the tank and reached inside, grabbing the mass of drenched paper. You quickly prayed Jean didn't feel any of that, but no one came, so you continued with your master plan.

The papers were as soaked as they were last time. Blue and black ink was smeared all over the pages, and you began to wonder if the smudges were even words at all. You cursed under your breath, thinking your efforts would turn out to be fruitless.

But you noticed some papers appeared to be somewhat dry, like they were only stashed in the tank recently. Some might even say secretly, with how they were inserted between sheets. Carefully, you separated these half-dry pages from the rest and laid them on the tile.

The words on them were almost intelligible, save for a few blurry or scribbled-out words. Jackpot, now all you had to do was make sense of the verses and you'd finally be able to show Jean that you CAN crap! (NOTE: cool rap)

Arranging the pages the best you could, you start to notice a theme with the lyrics. They seemed to be… related to your “situation.”

Finally, you're able to put them together in a coherent order. Ignoring all the comments in the margins, you pick up the papers and start to read…

You fumble your flow, got no bars in stock,

Still, somehow, his heart? You picked that lock.

You trip over words, got no rhyme rhythm or clue,

And yet the master would trade his crown just to lose it to you.

You rhyme “orange” with “door hinge,” he laughed for a week,

But your dumb little smirk got his knees feelin’ so weak.

Roasting you for fun, but it ain’t just a game,

Why’d he write sixteen seventeen drafts with your name?

Il ne comprend pas, he doesn't get why,

But your voice turns his tank from low to high.

Jean Loo is on fire, he don’t got time for fools,

Yet here you are, out here breakin’ all the rules.

So here’s the truth, (uncouth?) like a drip in the night.

Jean Loo’s been losing, and it feels kinda right.

Now he’s stuck on repeat, in this loop that is you,

And for once, Mon dieu Jean Loo don’t know what to do.

Full stop. What the hell was that?

Your rival, the guy you were sure hated your guts, is writing love songs about you. Dorky, cheesy love songs. You could laugh, you SHOULD laugh, but instead you just sat there, face becoming increasingly hot.

He basically wrote about how, in the dumbest and most embarrassing way possible…

Jean Loo might actually like you.

You barely managed to collect yourself from the momentary shock when suddenly—

“(Y/N)?!”

You whipped your head around at the familiar sound, finding the toilet man himself standing in the doorway. His eyes fell onto the half-soggy pages in your hands, and his face dropped. “Oh- merde.”

Wasting no more time, he rushed in to snatch them from you and backed away to keep them out of your reach.

“What do you think you are doing, HUH?! SNOOPING AROUND IN JEAN LOO’S… PARTS!”

Standing to meet his gaze, you retorted, “Did you have to say it like that?? And I wasn't snooping! I was- I was researching!”

“MENSONGES!! YOU WERE SNOOPING!” He pointed at you accusingly.

“OKAY FINE MAYBE I WAS!” You relented, arms flailing. “But maybe Jean Loo should've done a better job at hiding his top secret love songs.”

“THEY ARE NOT LOVE SONGS! They are… Emotionally complex syllabic experiments!! What is a good rap without emotional backing?”

You stared.

He clutched the pages to his chest, spinning to face the wall. “You read the whole thing?” He muttered, almost as if he didn't want you to hear.

“I-... Yeah..” You said quietly.

“All the way to the end?”

“...Yeah.”

The silence thickened between you. You silently wished no one was seeing this.

Jean Loo groaned, halfway to slamming his head into the wall. “Take me to the landfill…”

“...Did you really write seventeen drafts with my name?”

“NON.” He shouted immediately, “It was clearly a metaphor… an artistic expression. A FLUID SOUNDING NUMBER.” 

You opened your mouth to counter, but decided against it. Obviously he was going into full defense mode.

“Aren't you going to ask me what I thought about your rap?” You said, a smile forming on your lips.

He scoffed at this, “Li’l Crapper has no need for your opinion. It was merely a draft anyway.”

Ignoring him, you continued, “I think your rhymes are grossly overcompensating for your emotional constipation.” You internally laughed at the irony.

Jean Loo let out a displeased noise; however, you spoke before he could say anything.

“But also…” You stepped forward, grin softening. “It… wasn't bad.”

He glanced over his shoulder, making the red hue all over his face more visible. “........What.” 

“I said it wasn't bad.”

He made a choked noise. “You are unbearable.”

You shrugged, “So are you.”

Another beat passed. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Or his heart. Not that you were any better. 

It was almost funny. Jean Loo, usually so sure of himself, so excessively loud, was now silent and cradling papers like it was his baby. His eyes flicked to you, then away, then back again. It was cute seeing him like this, in all honesty.

You shifted your weight. “Jean, do you—?”

He cleared his throat before you could continue. “Li’l Crapper has to, um. Rework his metaphors. Yes.” He said, fully facing you now.

You nodded, “Yeah, and I should, uh… not be here. Have fun with your metaphors.”

“Yes yes, begone, peste! He will be very busy.”

His usual persona seemed to be returning, and you rolled your eyes halfheartedly. Back to normal.

You left, and he didn't stop you.

Much later, after the heat on your face had subsided and after you tried (and failed) to forget the whole thing, you were just about done with the day. Showing yourself to your welcoming bed, you almost missed a lone piece of paper on your bedroom floor. 

It was folded and slipped underneath the bathroom door. You had a feeling who from.

You opened it slowly.

This time, the paper was completely dry. His handwriting was surprisingly neat, careful even. It was the song you'd read earlier, without all the scribbled words and notes. 

The final revision, you supposed, and he decided to gift it to you.

Only one thing was different now.

One line had been added near the end, new, deliberate. Your name was in it.

You felt your heart racing a million beats per second, and a smile creeping on your lips.

‘Dork,’ you thought. Because somehow, even without saying it to your face, Jean Loo had just told you everything.