It’s two in the morning when Gem wakes up to screaming in her castle.
The noise is coming from the entrance hall, and it sounds like neither a wither nor a warden, so she figures she’s good to head down in just her pyjamas and her little silk house-robe. Her sword is a comforting not-weight in her inventory, visible a half-dimension away when she lets her attention slip to the peripheral of her vision. Whatever it is, she’ll be fine. It’s probably some bugged zombie or something – if it’s not just some new god-awful prank from Grian, or Scar, or both.
(She’s heard that thing under Scar’s base. It’s horrible. If they’ve put one of those in her castle, she’s going to kill both of them. Even if it was just one of them that put it there, she’s going to kill both of them. On principle.)
It’s not a bugged zombie, or a prank. It’s Pearl – also in her pyjamas, red flannel and a button-up shirt – hunched over, pulling at her own hair, howling. Her eyes are huge, wet, the pupils blown so large they’re almost black. There’s dark bags under her eyes, no colour in her skin other than high spots of red in her cheeks, the red of her nose where it’s running.
She’s barefoot – and that shouldn’t be what makes Gem’s heart break in two, but it is.
“Hey, Pearl,” she says, gently, raising her voice to carry over the wounded wailing. “Pearl! Hey. Can you look at me?”
She feels like she should have expected this, really. She’d heard from Mumbo what Grian had been like, after that first game, the one he’d won. She’d not been close enough to experience it first-hand, but she knew it’d been bad. She knows that winning those games is really more of a loss, than anything.
Pearl’s head snaps up. The howling stops, or rather transitions, turns into a choked gurgling, a gasping, this awful and wrenching sobbing like she’s gagging on her own saliva and desperately trying to swallow her screams. Her eyes are hollow, empty, nothing behind them but fear, pain. There’s something else there, too, some kind of deep and welling existential terror that makes Gem want to take a step back.
She doesn’t, but it’s a close thing. The back of her neck prickles, the hairs on the back of her arms standing on end. She swallows, instead, and forces herself to take a step forward, towards the fear.
“That’s good,” she praises, “that’s great, Pearl, good job. Well done. Now. Can you tell me what’s going on? Seems like you’re having a bit of a rough time, huh?”
When Pearl rushes at her – hunched, animal, too-fast and skittering and staggering – she still doesn’t back up.
She does, however, flinch. Her gaze slides to the peripheral, again, to the sword there. Just for a moment.
Pearl doesn’t seem to notice. “Tilly,” she gasps, grabs at Gem’s wrists. Her nails dig in, overlong, and draw blood. “Where’s– Tilly, what did they–” Her gaze sharpens, but only for a moment, and there’s still no sense in it. “What did you do to Tilly–”
Like this, this close, skin-on-skin contact between them, Gem can feel how hard she’s shaking.
“I’m sure she’s around here somewhere,” says Gem, as calmly as she can. “Can you tell me where you think you are, Pearl?”
Pearl gurgles, an awful noise. and tips forward. She’s still clutching hard enough to draw blood and, when she falls into Gem’s chest, she’s as cold as the night air outside. Her shaking rattles Gem’s ribs.
“He left,” she says, wet, like a child. “He left, he– he killed, he died, he killed himself, rather than– than be with me. He hates me. He wanted to get away from me so bad that he, he, he–”
She howls again, then, a noise of raw and ragged pain that seems to tear its way out of her like a living thing.
There are tears soaking through Gem’s pyjamas, and her heart breaks a little with it as she carefully, carefully, shifts a hand to cradle the back of Pearl’s head. Her wrists are bloody with nail marks, and some of it catches, smears in Pearl’s wild hair. She tries not to worry about it. They can wash it out later.
“Shh, shh,” she murmurs, pets at the tangled mess beneath her hand, holds Pearl close while she works through another bout of screaming. “Shh, shh, shh.” She takes them both to the floor, slowly, legs going out from under them as Gem lowers them down. “I’m here, I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m here.”
“He hated me,” moans Pearl, between sobs, when the wailing has passed. The shaking is slowing, easing a little, the agony giving way to a slower, bone-deep hurt, the madness passing into grief. “He wanted to die rather than stay.”
That’s not true, Gem thinks, and she thinks Pearl knows that too. But she doesn’t say that. Now is not the time for saying that.
What she says, instead, is just, “I’m here. And I don’t hate you.” She hesitates, for a moment, and then leans forward, curls over Pearl where they’re sat tangled together on the floor. Presses her lips to the top of Pearl’s head. “I’m here,” she says, and means it, “and I’ll stay. For as long as you want me to.”
“Grian?” calls Mumbo, pushing the door to his friend’s precariously-perched cliffside home open. It hadn’t been an easy climb up, not without elytra, and now he’s up here he’s half-worried the whole thing might collapse underneath him. Not that elytra would really help with that if it did. “You in here, mate? Just, uh – friendly friend check-in! I mean, neighbour check-in! Friendly neighbour check-in! I mean– look, no one’s seen you for a couple of days, and I just wanted to make sure–”
Then Mumbo registers what he’s actually looking at. Or, rather, registers that he’s looking at something, anyway. It’s not entirely clear what the something is.
“Grian. Mate. What on earth are you doing?”
Grian’s head perks up, from the middle of a truly bewildering pile of clothing, all bright and beady-eyed. His wings perk up too, an odd little raise so the elbow-joints are higher than his head, the wings themselves slightly flared. Mumbo’s never seen him make that gesture before.
“Mumbo!” Grian says, brightly – and then, blissful, says “Nest.”
“I can see that.” Mumbo can, indeed, see that. It’s definitely a nest, for a given definition (‘bunch of stuff piled up approximately in a circle’) of nest. It’s also technically an answer to his question, but it feels very much more letter of the law than the spirit. And not that it’s unknown for Grian to be an obstructive pain in the behind, or to be a rules lawyer, but this feels… different. “Why’re you in a nest, buddy?”
For a moment, Grian considers that, head cocked to one side. “Nest,” he concludes, eventually, conclusively, which– again, doesn’t really answer the question, but answers a few others. “Give me your jacket.”
Mumbo sighs, and starts shrugging off his jacket. He knows what happens if he tries to refuse; his moustache is only just recovering from the last time he attempted to preserve his clothing in the face of Grian’s nesting instincts. “That time of the year?” he asks, sympathetically. “Something made you broody? Based too high up and now you’re all bird-brained?”
“Jacket,” says Grian, holding out both hands expectantly, which is a firm yes on the bird-brained and a vague who knows on everything else.
Mumbo sighs, and hands the jacket over. He watches, pained, as it immediately gets shoved in amongst all the other clothing lining the nest. The fabric gets, undoubtedly, horribly creased by the inclusion. He just hopes he doesn’t lose a button again this time.
“Okay,” he says, as Grian chirps happily, arches his wings higher and starts fussing further at the clothing. “Okay, bird-brain. Fine. I’ll put out a call for clothing, see if Scar can run us across some golden–”
“Scar,” says Grian, suddenly, head turned in Mumbo’s direction and beady eyes locked on to Mumbo’s face.
“Uh. Yeah? What about him, buddy?”
Grian hums, and then holds out his hands, expectantly. “Scar,” he says, with a single-minded intensity. “Give me your Scar.”
title is from devil and the deep blue sea’s “ashland”, which you should ideally listen to on loop while you read this. ambiguous hermitcraft slash life series modern au sort of setting. bon appetit.
[ao3]
“Scar.” Grian’s got his legs spread comfortably wide in the passenger seat. The left one’s bouncing. Knee knocking against the car door like a drum beat, off-tempo with the thrum of the engine. Thump thump thump thump. “Let me take a turn driving.”
Gaze turned ahead, staring straight through the windscreen, Scar says nothing.
“Scar,” says Grian, again, and this time he turns his head to look at Scar’s profile. Curve of the nose, slightly crooked from– and the cupid’s bow of his lips, incongruously feminine, the furrowed eyebrows, same shade of chestnut as his hair. Skin just a bit too pale. On the greyish side, even, maybe. It wasn’t like that half an hour ago. “Scar, let me drive.”
“It’s fine,” drawls Scar, sing-song insincere. There’s a specific tone of voice he only pulls out when he’s lying. It’s this one. “I’m fine! Perfectly good for another hour’s driving. We’re not even halfway there yet. And what sort of a friend would I be if I made you drive more than halfway, hmm?”
He’s still looking straight ahead. Straight through the windscreen.
Grian falls silent again. Leg still bouncing. Thump thump thump. Thump thump thump. Thumpthumpthump–
“Stop the car.”
“What?” Scar finally looks away from the road, finally, finally turns to look at him, and there’s those eyes, green as the light before a storm– that crooked nose, head-on– that scar that cuts from forehead to the corner of the mouth, wide and purple-red despite a year’s worth of healing, right side of the face, invisible in profile when he’s in the driver’s seat, thank fucking god it’s invisible, or Grian would have–
“I said stop the fucking car.”
–he’d have– already–
“I told you, Grian, I’m fine. I’m not a baby, I don’t need to be coddled–”
Scar’s eyes are still off the road, and than god it’s mostly straight, thank god it’s somewhere rural, thank god there’s nothing and no one else on the road, or they’d be risking an accident with Scar looking at him like that for so long. Thank god. Thank god it’s just them, alone, in this car, on this endless coastal road in the middle of nowhere, with nothing for them to but fucking look at each other, because– otherwise– an accident–
“If you don’t stop this car right now, I’m going to be sick in it,” says Grian, as though from very far away.
Scar hits the breaks like it’s an emergency stop. He’s precious about his car, his Swaggon, his copper-blue baby. Doesn’t want any vomit in it. Thank god they’re both wearing seatbelts, because they don’t need– not another–
“Grian! You should have said!”
His voice is a little indulgent, a little worried, and Grian’s not listening. He’s pawing at the seatbelt catch, at the door handle, like he’s some dumb little animal that’s forgotten it has opposable thumbs. He’s scrambling out the seat. He’s half-falling out the door. He’s on all fours, knees in the grass, sea air in his lungs, pushing himself up with his heart hammering in his chest.
Behind him, Scar climbs out too. He’s a bit too long-limbed for how low down the seats are, has to unfold himself out of the car. He’s just a bit too slow about it to be quite right, too. Probably for the best Grian can’t see it, but he can hear it, and he know what it looks like, saw it at the petrol station they stopped at for snacks and the bathroom, remembers the twist of his guts at the caution–
Grian picks himself up, slowly. The damp of the grass has left little circles of wet on the knees of his trousers. Clamminess on his palms.
Scar meanders round to stand on the grass, too, rather than middle of the road. Rural or no, probably a good idea. He’s stretching the fingers one hand, a spidery little gesture, fumbling his phone out his pocket with the other. Grian’s not missed the way his hands are shaking. Grian’s not missed the way he’s rotating his wrist, like it’s hurting him, like it aches, deep, bone-painful, post-surgery ligament. Chronic.
“Should I text Cleo or something?” he’s saying, as he does it, like he’s not in pain, like it’s not Grian’s fault. That broad and expansive warmth Scar always has in his voice. The sincerity of it is nauseating. He doesn’t seem bothered at all. “How long do you think you’re going to need? If it’s more than half an hour, I should probably text Cleo and let her know. Let everyone know, but Cleo’s the most likely to check her phone. And the most likely to chew me out if I don’t tell her, which is the most important– I didn’t know you got car sick! You should have said something earlier, Grian. Oh– I might have some pills for uh, uh, nausea, in my bag, do you think they’d help with car sickness? Grian? I’m not pressuring you, take as long as you need, I just think we should let the others know if we’re going to be–”
Except Grian’s already gone, striding off, off over the grass, towards where the ground falls off into sky and sea and endless horizon.
“Grian! Where are you–? Grian! Wait! For– goodness’ sake, I–” Grian hears the footsteps, the odd stumble-hiss as a knee gives way, the bitten-off curse. “Grian, wait, I need to get my–” Car door opening, the clunk and clatter of Scar trying to get his cane out the back seat, thunk of his knee against the doorframe as he leans his bodyweight against it and tries not to fall over.
Grian doesn’t stop walking.
It’s not fair, of course. On Scar, that is. Not fair that he’s striding off like this, and Scar’s going to exhaust himself stumbling to catch up over unsteady ground. Even with the cane, it’s going to leave him tired and aching for the rest of the day. Grian knows this. He keeps walking anyway, because there’s nothing else he can do right now, and maybe if he just doesn’t think about the consequences–
“Grian–!”
It’s more distant, now, behind him. Could be miles behind him. It feels like he’s run for miles, though he hasn’t gone faster than a brisk walk, hasn’t been going for more than a minute or two. His chest is very tight, breathless. His head feels very empty, for something so full.
The closer he gets to the sea, the more the sky swallows up his vision, like he’s falling forward into nothingness. There’s clouds rolling in, carrying a storm with them, a thick wall in white to black-grey right across the width of the sky. The temperature’s dropping. The breeze is picking up. It tastes like salt on his tongue, half-bloody, the electric tang of ozone on his molars.
Grian’s suddenly three feet from the edge of a cliff, and all he can smell is sea. All he can see is sky.
“Grian!” And finally, finally the saccharine is gone from Scar’s voice, finally he’s speaking from his chest, low gravel, genuine fear. “Grian, come– come away from the edge, come on, that– it might not be stable– just a few feet back. Come on now.”
Grian turns his back on him, turns his face into the breeze, and closes his eyes. Inhales. Exhales.
When he opens them again, glances over his shoulder, Scar’s still fifteen feet back. He’s leaning heavily on his cane, bent a bit at the waist, panting. It might just be the light, but he looks more sallow than he did before. The wind’s tossing his hair around. There’s grey in it, now, Grian realises, on the underneath and the back. That’s new. That wasn’t there a year ago.
“It’s not fair,” he says, distant as the clouds, light as a bird. Almost as if it’s not him speaking at all. “What happened, I mean. It’s not fair.”
Scar’s face is unreadable, under the exertion, the pain, the knife-edge of fear. “Grian,” he says, voice flat. “I’m not going to comfort you about the fact that we were both in a– an accident, and I got life-changing injuries and you got a mild concussion. That’s ridiculous. Come on, let’s– let’s go back to the car.”
It wasn’t an accident, and they both know it. It’s kind of him to pretend that it was, though. To the police, and to their friends, and now to Grian’s face. Very kind of him indeed.
Too kind of him, as a matter of fact. Grian sort of hates him for it.
“I’m not– that’s not– you don’t understand–”
“What, then?” And oh, now he’s lost his patience. Now Grian’s annoyed him. Grian’s always been good at that. Getting under people’s skin. “Come on, you tell me what it’s about, Grian, because right now it seems like that’s exactly what it’s about! In fact, it seems like that’s what this whole damn drive has been about, actually, because you’ve been like this ever since I picked you up! And, oh, you know me, I’m a patient man, Grian, I’m a nice man, but I’m not really in the mood for playing a second round of games on a clifftop with–”
“It should have been me!” The words burst out of him. Detonation, flock of startled doves, landslide. For half a heartbeat, he is somewhere else entirely. “It was– it was my stupid idea, and it was my stupid fault, and I was the one that organised the stupid bloody trip in the first place, and– and now we’re about to go back, and do it all all over a-fucking-gain, another stupid bloody trip, like nothing ever happened. And I wanted– I want it to be– it should have–”
Scar’s face creases, then. Folds itself something gentler than frustration. Something like pity presses in, corner of his eyes, set of his mouth.
Grian preferred it when he looked halfway to mad.
“Grian. Grian,” says Scar, softly. “Okay. Hey. Grian. Come on. You went over that edge, too, G. Right after me. Remember?”
And I fucking walked away from it, Grian doesn’t say, and I didn’t want to walk away from it if you weren’t going to, and That was supposed to be my penance. His chest feels like it’s about to explode.
“It wasn’t the same,” is what he settles on, hands curled into fists, voice tight. Chin raised like he’s looking for a fight.
“...No.” Scar looks at him, level, eyes as green as the light through the clouds. He’s leaning heavily on his cane. He’s seeing too much, and Grian knows it, but he doesn’t look away. “It wasn’t. And there’s not much either of us can do about that. Is there?”
And it’s true. That’s the worst part. It’s true. There’s not much else to say, really. They both know what happened. They both were there when it happened.
Grian is, all of a sudden, not sure he has the energy for a fight about this after all.
“Never did work out how you went over the cliff edge, actually.” Scar’s voice is too even. His eyes are too fucking green. “None of the others were around, I’ve been told, so they don’t seem to know either. And, now, I know my brain was a bit scrambled by the whole thing, but… still. I seem to remember you were a little ways back from me. When it happened. Out of range, maybe, even.”
Grian says nothing, but he does look away. Looks up at the sky. The wall of clouds is almost above him now, pure black underneath, a physical presence bearing down. The tender little bits inside his ears hurt with the change in atmospheric pressure. The first few drops of rain hit him as he stands there, face upturned. They land just below his left eye.
“Grian,” says Scar. He sighs. Holds out a hand, the one not curled around the top of his cane. It shakes. “Come back to the car.”
Grian goes not move.
“G. Come on. Come on, I– you. You’re my friend.” Scar’s voice cracks on the word friend, like a knife slid clean between Grian’s ribs. His face creases again, with something more complicated than understanding, something deeper than fear. Something worse than forgiveness. “I… you’re my friend. Okay? I need–” He says it like a confession. “Come on, G. Step away from the edge. Let’s go back to the car.”
“...Only if you let me drive,” says Grian. It’s stupid. It’s stubborn. It’s inane. There’s nothing else he can find it in himself to say.
He should say sorry, probably. Perhaps. But he doesn’t.
“Yes, yes, fine, you can drive! You can drive. …Honestly, you might have to, after making me chase you all the way over here.” It’s barely a hundred yards from the car, which Scar doesn’t seem inclined to mention, and so like hell is Grian going to. “I’m not a young man any more, Grian! Can’t be running around, fro– frolicking in meadows and all that. I’m too old for that now. Too old…”
“Pushing forty, even, some have said.”
“Hey! Watch it, you.”
Grian can see the way Scar’s shoulders drop when he takes the first step away from the cliff edge. Back towards Scar.
“Some people! Some people. Not me. I would never say something like that.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Scar grumbles, still watching Grian like a hawk. “You know, I’d have let you drive when you first asked, if I’d known you were going to be such a drama queen about it.”
“Eh. You know me. Can’t resist a bit of drama.”
“You hate drama.”
“Do not.”
“Ren’s been trying to get you to go LARPing with him for years, and every time he brings it up, you say, oh, no thanks, I don’t like–”
Grian gets within three feet. Scar lunges.
He drops the cane to throw both arms round Grian’s neck, like he’s clinging to a lifeline. He’s too tall for this, and not steady enough on his feet, and Grian’s too short and too shocky to support him right, but Scar doesn’t seem to care. He grabs, and clings, limpet-like. His hands find the back of Grian’s knit jumper, the soft little hairs at the nape of his neck, tangle into them. His breath is very hot against the side of Grian’s face.
Grian, dumb little animal, is too shocked to do anything but stand there and take it.
After a moment, he blinks once. Twice, for good measure. Exhales like it’s been punched out of him. “Scar,” he says, weakly, “I–”
“If you throw yourself off a cliff for me again as some weird sort of pin– peen– penat– you-know-what-I-mean, I will kill you myself, Grian.” Scar’s voice is low, and deadly serious. Grian can feel the rumble of it in his ribs, where they’re pressed chest to chest, plastered together through the sheer force of Scar’s terror. He can also feel the way Scar is trembling. “Do you understand?”
Grian thinks it’s a rhetorical question until Scar shakes him – as best as he can when he’s leaning on Grian for support like a human cane, anyway.
“Grian. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, yeah, I understand,” says Grian, and gets shaken again for his troubles. His teeth rattle, a little. Scar’s still got some force behind his movements, despite the chronic pain and the balance issues and the fucked up joints. He must have a good physio, Grian thinks, and then wishes he hadn’t. “...Yes, Scar. Yes. I understand.”
Grian doesn’t mention the trembling. Scar doesn’t press on the again. They’re both kind like that. Only to each other, though.
“Good.” Scar’s voice is firm, like he isn’t trembling. Though, come to think of it, maybe that’s less shock-fear and more pain. Grian’s fault, twice over. “Good, okay. Okay! So. Here’s what we’re going to do, then. Here’s the plan.”
He half-releases Grian – hand still clutched in his shirt – and bends painfully, stiffly, to pick up the cane. Nearly falls over. Grian doesn’t help him, and doesn’t know why he doesn’t, still stood half-frozen in Scar’s grip. Scar doesn’t ask him for help, but he also doesn’t let go.
“We’re going to sit in the car for at least fifteen minutes–” Scar straightens up, gets the cane settled, starts off at an unsteady lope back towards the car. Hand still tangled in Grian’s shirt. “–and we’re going to eat our snacks, and drink some water, and I’m going to text Cleo that we’re going to be late so she doesn’t shout at us–” As he warms up to his monologue, some of the trembling eases off. Not enough, not nearly enough, but some of it. Grian breathes a little easier. “–and you can take some of my uhhh. Those pills. The ones that stop you feeling sick. Oh, shoot, though, I don’t think you’re supposed to take them while driving–”
“Scar,” says Grian, quietly. “It wasn’t car sickness.”
“Oh.”
Scar pauses a moment, thinks about that – though he might just be catching his breath, too. Grian silently switches sides, to the one without the cane, and nudges his shoulder against Scar’s ribs until Scar wraps an arm around him with a grateful sigh. The height difference makes it clumsy, but they make it work. They’ve done this before.
”Okay, in that case, twenty minutes of sitting in the car with snacks, and you have to be the one to text Cleo. As punishment for threatening to be sick in my poor baby. What’s she ever done to you?”
Grian ignores that last bit entirely, and focuses on the more important tasks at hand: helping Scar back to the car, and winning the argument. “Yeah, but if you text her, she’ll be nice to us. If I text her, she’ll bite my head off. And fifteen minutes sitting, not twenty. I’ll go crazy after twenty. Have to go for another walk about it.”
“If you go on another walk to the cliff edge, mister, I’ll kill you. Remember?”
“And then how are you going to get to the campsite? You can’t drive anywhere in this state.” Which is Grian’s fault, but they’re both kindly not mentioning it.
“Hmm. Fair point, fair point.” Scar hisses through his teeth, frustration and pain. “Okay, counter-offer. Fifteen minutes sitting, you text her, but you can blame the delay on poor old me to minimise the biting.”
“Fifteen minutes, I text her and blame you, and you take some painkillers.”
Scar pouts, as only Scar can pout. “They’re gonna make me all sleepy, though, Grian! I’ll sleep through the rest of the trip.”
“That’s fine,” says Grian, easily. They’re less than three feet from the car, now, and it’s starting to rain, and Scar’s putting more weight on Grian than on his cane, but that’s fine. Grian’s not going to mention it. “I can drive the rest of the way. Take a nap, if you’ve got to. I can get us there, no problem.”
Even as he says it, he remembers the last time he told Scar he could do something. Remembers just how much he couldn’t, actually.
Scar doesn’t mention that. Instead, he smiles, indulgent, and ruffles Grian’s hair. “I know you can,” he says, easily. “I trust you.” Just like that. As though it’s that simple.
“Oh thank goodness,” said Grian, as he watched Cub fly off. The weak, post-storm sunshine glinted off their new boss’ golden badge as he went. It was an inspiring, perhaps even heroic, vision – if one considered rampant corruption and abuse of force inspiring and heroic. Grian was on the fence about that; Skizz and Scar, on the other hand, had quite clearly jumped the fence with abandon and were now frolicking in the lush green fields of not giving a fuck and free dynamite. Bless them. “It was just Cub. Phew. Oh gosh. The letters were all just Cub. Thank goodness.”
“Hey! Cub is very scary, thank you very much.” Scar, indignant on behalf of his longtime partner in crime, crossed his arms over his barely-buttoned and too-tight shirt. “Show some respect for our new manager, mister!”
“Not as bad as the alternative,” said Grian, vehemently, with a grim relief. “Thought I was done for. Phew!”
“What was the alternative, G-Man?” asked Skizz. “Can’t think of anything that’d have your robust underpants in such a twist.”
“Thought I was going to have to do an annual review.”
“Oooh, ouch,” said Skizz, with the grim compassion of a man who’d endured many an annual review of his own before. “That’s rough, buddy. Glad you managed to dodge out of that one.”
“Ah, yes,” said Scar, with the air of a man who’d never been employed in his life. “I hate it when those dastardly bosses try and… and… review your annuals!”
“Those are a type of flower, Scar.”
“What, bosses?”
“No, annuals, they’re– look. That’s not important. What is important is that I don’t have to do an annual review, because it was just Cub sending those letters, and not my boss, and so I am going to go celebrate about it. Probably by drinking some of Cub’s fancy craft beer he’s got squirrelled away in his basement somewhere. He’s got enough of it he probably won’t miss any. Who’s with me?”
“Ah, now, see, as the law enforcement of this server, I do have to say that that doesn’t sound very legal to me, Sir Grian. …As your friend, though, that sounds great fun, let’s go.” Skizz chuckled gleefully, already removing his police cap and starting on the buttons of his shirt. Crimes were, apparently, perfectly legal on the server so long as no one involved was wearing a police costume.
“Hey, hey, no, wait, I want to know about these– these bosses of yours who are going to annually review you! I’ve never had an annual review.” Scar sounded, for some ungodly reason, almost hurt.
“Trust me, Sir Scar, you do not want one.” Skizz, shirt already undone, was starting on the button of his pants.
“No, but, well– what if I do, though? Who is it? Come on, G, you can tell me. Is it Xisuma? Is it Rendog? Oh wait, no, shoot, he’s not king any more, is it, uhhh– ooh, is it Cleo? Please tell me it’s Cleo.”
“Okay, well actually, Cleo could annually review me any time she liked, if you get my meaning, Sir Scar. Ooh– or Gem–”
“Skizz, can you please keep your pants on,” said Grian, averting his eyes. “In both senses of the word, thank you very much.”
“Nothing wrong with a man’s natural reactions, Grian, as I’ve said many times before,” said Scar, blithely. “You shouldn’t shame a man for his–”
“I’m not bloody shaming anyone for them, Scar, I’d just prefer it if you could have them in a different chunk to the one I’m in, that’s all!”
“Well that’s not what you said after we did all those body shots at–”
“Gentlemen!” announced Skizz. “I have good news. My shorts are re-buttoned. I am once again safe to look at.”
“Debatable,” muttered Grian, though he did stop shielding his eyes.
Skizz’s pronouncement was extremely debatable, as it turned out. The shorts – being very short, extremely skintight, and actually, now that Grian was looking at them properly, possibly made of latex – didn’t leave much to the imagination. It was extremely apparent that Skizz was still thinking about Gem doing his annual review.
Scar whacked Grian on the arm, though not very hard. “Hey! Pay attention to me. I asked you a question. About bosses. Who’s bossing you, and why are they reviewing your– annualling– reviewing anals–”
Grian breathed in through his nose very slowly, out through his mouth very slowly, and tried to ignore the background wheezing of Skizz’s incredulous laugh.
“So– it’s kind of backstory stuff, to be honest,” he said, when he was sure he could talk without howling or weeping or, worse, maybe laughing himself. He chewed on his lip, almost contemplatively. “You know where I was before Hermitcraft, right?”
“Yeeees,” said Scar, with the kind of supremely confident tone he only ever got when he was extremely wrong. “With the Viewers, right?”
“Uhh. Sure, you know what. Close enough. Yeah, The Watchers.”
“I thought they were called the Listeners?” interrupted Skizz, who had stopped laughing in favour of being nosy.
“Nope, that’s, uh, that’s something different. Kind of. It’s complicated. How’d you know about them, anyways?”
“Oh, well, you know. I’ve been known to talk to Jimmy, on occasion. You know. One sheriff to another, that sort of thing.”
“Okay, well, one, his name is Timmy, so jot that down. Two, that’s a terrible idea, and you shouldn’t do that.”
“What, talk to him?”
“I meant feed his delusions that he’s a sheriff, but yeah, also that probably. He’s like a weird, sad little limpet. If you’re nice to him he just sort of– latches on and never lets go. It’s terrible.”
“Now, now, Grian, that’s unfair,” said Scar, wagging a finger. “Timmy is a very nice young man, who just needs a little bit of a boost in the self-esteem department–”
“Yeah,” said Grian, darkly, “that’s how he gets you.”
“I still think he just needs to, you know! Realise he’s enough. Just as he is. Little bit of a pep talk, a good haircut, a dance number, some abs… it would do him the world of good. But anyway. Enough about Timothy. You were with the Viewers–”
“The Watchers, Scar, yes.”
“–and then they killed all your friends, which was very sad–”
“Yeah– no, hang on, wait, what?”
“–and then you came to Hermitcraft! To escape them!”
“No. Scar. Wait. Back up. What do you mean, killed all my friends?”
“Yeah! You know, like Martyn and Jimmy and Pearl and uh. Tortoise?”
“Who told you this?!”
“Chat! They were telling me about it the other day. They know all sorts of lore, apparently it’s all written down in some mysterious library they have access to in their realm, called Archive of Our–”
“No! Nope. Okay, first off, do not say that name. I do not want to invoke that sort of thing on the server, thank you very much. It’s bad enough with Bdubs running around trying to summon Dark You-Know-Who, rhymes with shitter, every other– anyway. Two, Scar, you know better than to trust Chat! Why would you believe Chat? They’re dirty little liars who lie.”
Scar pouted. “My Chat would never lie to me,” he said. “They’re nice! They love me! …They listen to me talk about Disney, and Star Wars–”
“Scar,” said Grian, with infinite and terrible patience, “think. Please, think for a moment. You have met Martyn. You have met Jimmy. Pearl is living on this very server as we speak.”
“Well– alright– okay– well!” sputtered Scar. “Well, what about the tortoise, then? Huh? What about that?”
“I’ve never owned a tortoise in my life, Scar.”
“Oh.” Scar visibly wilted.
“Don’t you worry, Sir Scar.” Skizz, rallying valiantly, rubbed Scar’s shoulder in an encouraging and mildly homoerotic sort of fashion. “Happens to the best of us, gettin’ hoodwinked by criminals. Why, it’s even happened to me before! Me! Skizz, the best of the best, the greatest Poe Poe ever to live. Don’t you worry though. We’ll be on the look-out for any more skullduggery and criminal intent from that Chat of yours. And if we find it, well, we’ll do what us officers of the law do best, and we will enforce that law and arrest every last one of those liars and cheats!”
“…You’re going to arrest Chat,” said Grian, flatly.
“I sure will! If they’re goin’ to go around tellin’ lies to officers of the law, I’ll have them in handcuffs– pow! Right before they can speak.”
“Chat.”
“The very same.”
“You’re going to put Chat in handcuffs?”
“I surely will, if they’re steppin’ out of line.”
“The metaphysical entity, Chat. The weird incorporeal disembodied phenomenon. Chat. The thing that has no body and is legion? The chorus of a hundred thousand voices and the font of profane and dubious knowledge. That’s what you’re going to arrest?”
“Hey! Hey. Look. We’ll make it work, somehow. Won’t we, Sir Scar?”
Scar, still looking deeply morose, heaved a sigh and nodded unenthusiastically.
“Aww, Scar, buddy, man, don’t be like that. No shame in it! Happens to us all.”
“No, no, it’s not that.” Scar heaved another deep sigh. “It’s just. I wanted to see photos of the tortoise, that’s all.”
“Photos of the– Scar, there is no tortoise! Come on. Scar. Focus. I’m trying to tell you about my tragic backstory. Please.”
“It’s true. Annual reviews are pretty tragic. I gotta agree.” Skizz nodded sagely.
“Tragic because there’s no tortoises–”
“Anyway.” Grian clapped hand hands together, cutting off any further reptile-related whining. “Backstory. Pre-Hermitcraft, I was on this server called Evo – tortoise-free, thank you very much, and also pretty much everyone who was on it is still alive, thank you very much–”
“Pretty much everyone?” asked Skizz, enough alarm creeping into his voice that his police accent dropped for a moment.
“Almost no one perma-died, thank you, now, if you’ll let me finish– server, Evo, these guys called the Watchers showed up, all very cloak-and-dagger, set us all these puzzles and riddles and traps, blew a bunch of my stuff up, made these crazy bedrock portals… It was kind of weird, but it was fun at the same time, you know? Anyway, bottom line, when we got into the End finally, they approached me and asked if I’d like to intern with them. And, to be honest, I didn’t have a lot going on, so I said, sure. I’ll intern with you.”
“They blew up all your stuff, and you went to intern for them?” asked Scar, bewildered. “Why on earth would you do that!”
“Game recognises game, Scar,” said Grian, solemnly.
“Ah. I see,” said Scar, who did not see at all.
“Wait,” said Skizz, who still had yet to recover his accent or reduce the amount of alarm in his voice. “Now wait just one second, I’m still a little bit caught up on the almost no one died thing–”
“Now honestly–” Grian raised his voice over Skizz’s. “–honestly, it wasn’t what I’d expected. I thought I’d be out there, blowing stuff up and messing with people, you know? And instead it was like… data entry in the Deep End, basically. They still had everything on paper. Can you believe that? Paper records. And just little ol’ me, set to digitising all of them, for six months straight. Terrible. If I never have to see another list of names that all start with X, it’ll be too soon.”
“Why’d they all start with X?” asked Scar, tortoises forgotten in his curiosity.
Grian shrugged. “Aesthetics, I guess.”
“Ahh, yes. Aesthetics.” Scar nodded sagely. “Very important in a cult. That’s where Ren and Doc went wrong, you know, in Season Eight? Didn’t have a strong enough aesthetic. Now, if I had been running that cult–”
“Sir Scar, are you not hearing the bit about how some people perma-died–”
“Now, now, Skizz, accidents happen.” Scar flapped a magnanimous hand at Skizz. “The important thing is, Grian’s very sorry and he won’t do it again. Aren’t you, Grian?”
“Scar,” said Grian, very carefully. “How many of my death games have you’ve taken part in, at this point?”
“Well, now, I don’t see how that’s relevant! See, Skizz, he’s very sorry and he won’t do it again. Hurry up with the backstory, keep talking, chop chop. I want to get to the bit with the tortoises.”
“Look, Scar, there are no tor– okay. Okay, okay.” Grian pressed his hands to his face, and then briefly together, as though in prayer. “So, anyway. Internship, data entry, Deep End, super boring, but paid better than running some server no one had ever heard of. And when the internship was up, they offered me a job, and I thought, what the hell, you know? Might as well. I’ve got nothing else going on.”
“I’m sensing a big ol’ but here, Grian. Skizz, what about you? You sensing a big ol’ but?”
“I am indeed, Sir Scar,” said Skizz, with audible reluctance, but the accent was back at least. It was, after all, hard to resist such low-hanging fruit as a big ol’ but. “I’m not just sensin’ it, either, I’m picturin’ it, I’m seein’ it, I’m feelin’ it–”
“Mmm, feeling the but.” Scar closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. “Soft. Round, plush–”
“Can you two stop that, please,” said Grian. “You’re making me very uncomfortable.”
“No need to be ashamed of a big round butt,” said Skizz, cheerfully.
“No, nothing to be ashamed of at all!” Scar’s pointed glance at a certain part of Grian’s anatomy was brought to an abrupt halt by a brief flash of a sword, into and then out of Grian’s hand. “Ah. Ahem. Anyway! Anyway. Continue.”
“Thank you. So the but is, I accepted the job, and that’s right when Mumbo messaged me and was like, hey, pal, long time no see, what’s up with you, nothing much going on here, just wondering if you’d like to join this little thing called Hermitcraft, no pressure, just thought I’d ask, anyway, toodle pip and cheerio, I’m off to wax my moustache now, hope you’re well, much love and neck kisses, Mumbo Jumbo.”
“Great Mumbo impression,” said Scar, applauding enthusiastically. “Excellent work. Other than the neck kisses. That’s Joel’s thing.”
“And they’re only for Etho,” added Skizz.
“And they’re only for Etho. Excellent point, Skizz.”
“Mumbo likes neck kisses too,” said Grian, “more than Joel, actually,” and then, before either of them could ask any follow-up questions about that, “so you can see my dilemma, right?”
“Big didlinger,” said Scar, solemnly.
“Almost as big as the but,” added Skizz.
“Indeed, Skizz, indeed. …Um. Does anyone wants to clarify what a de-lemon is–?”
“A problem, Scar, it’s a problem.” Grian pinched the bridge of his nose, pressed his face into his hands again. Like he had a headache forming behind his eyes. “I’d just said I was going to take this stupid, boring job with the Watchers, I’d signed the contract, standard business we own your soul for a hundred years blah blah blah clause–”
“Hey, now, wait a second,” interrupted Skizz, “that’s not a standard–”
“–and now Mumbo’s over here inviting me to join this super cool and exclusive server that I really want to join. Proper nightmare.”
“So what did you do?” asked Scar, and to anyone who knew him only in passing, it would have looked like he was hanging onto the story with breathless anticipation. Grian, who knew him entirely too well, suspected he still hadn’t quite given up on the whole tortoise thing. “Did you escape? Did you dramatically quit? Did you smuggle yourself out by dressing as a washer-woman and putting on a fake accent, like ooo, deary me, excuse me, just a little old lady coming through–”
Grian stared at Scar like he’d grown a third head, and briefly considered addressing literally any of that, before deciding he valued his remaining braincell far too much. “Uh, no. I thought for a bit, and then I went to my boss, and I said, hey, you know how you’ve been talking about us needing to diversify our portfolio of worlds that we’re Watching, and you know how said I might be ready for more responsibility because I’ve been doing really well recently at not blowing anything up–”
“You were blowing their stuff up, and they didn’t fire you?” asked Skizz. He sounded lost.
“To be honest, I don’t think anyone had ever set off TNT in their offices before,” said Grian, with a shrug. “So I don’t think they really knew what to do. Didn’t have a policy for it. Anyway. Basically, I hinted that I might have access to a whitelisted and firewalled server, very exclusive, very high end, and that it would look really good for their upcoming performance review if we had someone on that world, Watching, you know.”
“And also you wouldn’t be around to blow any more of their stuff up?”
Grian paused. “...Yeah, I might have, uh. Implied that that would also be a benefit.”
Scar raised a hand, politely. “So you told your bosses you were going to come here and watch us, which clearly worked out great, because you’re here! And now maybe its time for your anal review–”
“Scar.”
“–and I don’t really see what the problem is!”
“You have to be doing that on purpose. You’ve got to be. There’s no way. I swear, I swear, there’s no way–”
“The problem, Sir Scar,” said Skizz, patiently, over the top of Grian’s pained noises, “is that he hasn’t been doing any watchin’, now, has he?”
“Nooo, he’s been doing loads of watching! Isn’t that right, Grian? Why, only last week, you and I were there, with Ren and the others, watching Doc and Cleo do that thing, with those little rods. Wow, that was really something. A frightening something! For sure, a frightening something, my balls nearly climbed clean up into my–”
“Scar. Scar.” Grian held out his hands. “I am begging you to stop talking. I will pay you to stop talking.”
“Watchin’ Doc and Cleo do what thing? Hey!” Skizz threw his hands up in the air by way of objection. “Why wasn’t I invited?”
“Because you’re new,” said Grian, at the same time that Scar said, “Skizz, did you know that a man’s penis is capable of–”
“Scar.”
“Wait. They were having sex? And you guys were watching?!”
“Oh no,” said Scar, cheerfully. “It was way weirder than sex. And more upsetting! Doc’s poor penis may never be the same again.”
“Doc’s penis was just fine when I bumped into him and Ren in the shopping district yesterday,” said Grian, darkly, “so I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“There are people having sex in the shopping district?”
Grian waved a dismissive hand. “Calm down, Skizz, it’s only when you’re not online.”
“What? Hey! Why! Why not when I’m online? What if I wanna see the sex too, huh?”
“You do not want to see what Doc and Cleo get up to, trust me,” said Grian, darkly.
“Do not worry, Skizz, my padawan.” Scar, voice suddenly deep and serious, set a heavy hand on Skizz’s shoulder. “Your time will come soon, when you are worthy.” And then, in his usual breezy tone, “Or whenever Xisuma gets round to sending you all the forms to fill out. There are so many forms. It’s the worst.”
Skizz, apparently lost for words, held out his hands, palms up, helpless. “You mean all I have to do is fill out some forms, and then I can– you know–”
“With Gem?” suggested Scar, helpfully.
Skizz went a very dark shade of pink, all the way up into his hairline.
“Oh Skizz. Buddy,” said Grian, pityingly. He put his hand on Skizz’s other shoulder. “You don’t have to fill out any forms to have sex with Gem. The forms are just there for the weird stuff.”
“Like Cleo doing frightening things to Doc’s penis in public!”
“Like Cleo doing frightening things to Doc’s penis in public,” agreed Grian, solemnly.
“Okay, okay!” said Skizz, louder than was strictly necessary, shaking both their hands off and taking a deep breath. It didn’t help with his flush. “Enough about that! Enough! I want to hear more about the, uh, this dilemma you’ve found yourself in, Grian, you should tell us– tell us more about that.”
Grian took pity on him, and graciously changed the topic. “Uh, not much else to say, really. I just should’ve been Watching this whole time, and I think they’re gonna be kind of mad with me when they check back in and realise I haven’t been.”
Scar raised a hand.
“No, Scar, the voyeurism isn’t really enough to count as Watching.”
Scar pouted.
“I’m supposed to be causing trouble, setting trials, making challenges, stuff like that. I think, anyway. Gonna be honest, I told them I’d read the handbook before they sent me over here, but I hadn’t, and I thought, oh, that’s okay, I’ll have loads of time to read it after I arrive, but then it was all pretty chaotic, and then I, uh. Misplaced the handbook.” Grian rubbed the back of his neck, head ducked self-consciously. “Way back in Season Six. Been missing for ages. So– that’s that, really.”
“Grian. G.” Skizz looked disbelieving. “Buddy! Tricks and traps? Challenges? You mean, like the whole Life servers thing we all keep doing? That thing you run?”
“Yeah, those aren’t really technically on this server, so I’m not sure they count–”
“Oh!” Scar waved a hand in the air again, like they were in a classroom, and promptly did not wait in the slightest to be called upon. “What about Demise? That was on this server. And you did that twice, too. Very thorough with the, uh, Viewing.”
“Watching, Scar. It’s Watching, please, can you–”
“And you and Gem burned all my stuff a few months ago because I wasn’t fast enough at jumping,” added Skizz, petulant and aggrieved.
“That was for a good cause, though. Your parkour was embarrassing.”
“Hey! I was attached to that stuff! But that’s not the point, the point is, G, that you’ve done plenty of tricks and traps and challenges. Sounds like you’ve been doing a great job of Watching, to me.”
“Both kinds of Watching,” added Scar, helpfully. “They might both be helpful!”
“They might be…” Skizz looked thoughtful. “Probably won’t hurt, anyway. Unless they’re all prudes. Then maybe don’t bring that one up.”
“I’m gonna be honest with you, guys,” said Grian, “I don’t actually know if they know what sex is. I don’t think they’ve got genitals.”
“Wel,l there’s no need to let that get in the way of some good, clean fun,” countered Scar, with a remarkable confidence that left both Grian and Skizz raising eyebrows at him. He did not elaborate.
“...Anyway,” said Skizz, when it became clear that the conversation – which had never really been on the rails to begin with – was now less of a conversation and more of a smoking trainwreck. “I think the point is, G, that it sounds to me like you’ve fulfilled all your contractual obligations to a T. Fulfilled them with flying colours, even. Like a professional. Why, if I was your boss, and I’d tasked you with causing mayhem and mischief, well, I’d be proud to call you my employee.”
“Yeah. Yeah. You’re right! I’m a great Watcher. I’m great at Watching, and I’m gonna have a great annual review when it eventually comes around, because I’ve done so many crimes against all of you for the whole time I’ve been on this server. Thanks for the pep talk, guys. I really needed that.”
“Always happy to talk a friend up, G. Any time. Happy to help.”
“Great. Now what do you say we go back to our original plan, plan numero uno, and go steal a bunch of Cub’s beer and get really drunk. Because I still think that was a great plan. …So long as Skizz keeps his trousers on this time.”
“Hey! Apparently you can be naked in public all you want on this server, according to you and Scar. Why do I have to keep my clothes on?”
“Only after you’ve signed the forms, Skizz. No forms, no public nudity. Trousers stay on for now, thank you very much.”
Scar heaved a sigh, and looked up towards the sky, police hat held against his chest.
“Scar? Everything good, buddy? You don’t wanna go get drunk?”
“Look, I’m just still a bit sad about the tortoise, okay? Give me a little bit to process my grief, you guys. I’m grieving.”
“For the last bloody time, Scar, there is no tort– wait. Wait. No. You don’t mean– do you mean Taurtis?”
“Hah! So there is one! There is a tortoise! I knew it!”
“Taurtis, Scar, Taurtis, he’s a– he’s a man, he’s a whole entire person, he’s not a–”
“You show me those pictures, mister, or, oooh, I’ll– I knew it. I knew it! My Chat would never lie to me.”
If you're still taking writing prompts uhhh "suffusive" or "epithet"
Scar wakes up slowly, luxuriously. It’s the kind of waking where his brain comes online in small, pleasant pieces.
First the slide of nice sheets against bare skin when he shifts a leg, the pressure of a full bladder. Then the smell of fresh coffee, of drying woollen clothing, a faint undertone of fish that shouldn’t be pleasant but sort of is. One eye opens, a slit, like a cat. There’s light spilling into the room, the heavy, thick gold of late morning, pouring in through slatted blinds and pooling on the floor like its a physical thing.
Maybe light is a physical thing. What’s the definition of a physical thing? Scar lies there and ponders that with his half-online brain, full bladder, breathing in the weirdly-pleasant fish smell and watching dust motes dance in the liquid light. On the one hand, he can see the light, which is a point on the side of physical thing. On the other, he can’t hold the light, which is a point in favour of not a physical thing.
As he watches the light spill in from the window, though, he does wonder if he might be able to hold it. To catch it in his cupped hands. It’s never worked before, but there’s something about it on this morning that makes it think it might just work.
His musings interrupted, terribly rudely, by Grian. An entirely naked Grian, padding in from the hallway and the kitchen beyond, hair an unsalvageably bedhead mess, a cup of coffee in either hand.
Scar downgrades the interruption from terribly rude to oh thank god, coffee.
“Good morning, handsome,” he drawls, delighted, and makes no move to get up. Instead, he rolls onto his belly, ignores the increasingly pressing urge to piss, enjoys the soft slide of sheets over nude skin and the faint hiss they make as he moves. He cradles his head on his crossed arms, watches through sleep-gummy eyes as Grian approaches.
It’s a nice thing to watch, a naked Grian approaching. Even nicer when he’s got cups of coffee.
“You’re only saying that because I’ve got coffee,” says Grian, with an accuracy that borders on telepathy. He sniffs, disapprovingly, as he sets Scar’s coffee down on on the beside table. Hesitates. Runs a hand through Scar’s hair, glancing, quick, like he’s afraid he’ll be told off.
Then he steps back, stands so he’s silhouetted by the light through the blinds, puts all his weight onto one leg so he’s sitting into his hip. Wraps both hands around his coffee cup. Raises it to his mouth. He’s still naked. It’s a very lovely silhouette.
“It’s true. I’d have stayed the night sooner if I knew about the coffee maker and the excellent room service,” says Scar and then, because Grian’s suddenly tensed up all over like a threatened cat, he says, “Hey. G. Is sunlight real?”
“I. Uh. Puh. Um. What?”
“Is sunlight real?”
“Yes– Scar, of course it’s real, what are you–” Grian’s trying to look dignified having just spat half a mouthful of coffee back into his cup. It’s not working. It’s very cute. And also giving Scar something to stare at that’s above the belt, so to speak.
“Noooo, no, like– I mean. Is it a thing. You know, how water is a, a thing, but noise isn’t. Right?”
Grian’s doing that thing where he’s scrunching up his nose, trying not to laugh. He’s going to snort in a minute, if he keeps holding it, if Scar keeps winding him up. “You mean, is light a physical object? No, Scar. It’s not.”
The way it’s catching in his hair, lighting it a straw-gold, pooling around his shoulders and in his collarbones. It’s a little obscene.
“Scar. You’re staring.”
“I’m staring at the light,” says Scar, big-cat lazy, and grins a grin full of teeth. “To see if it’s real.”
Grian does, then, snort, and Scar considers that a win. He lifts his coffee cup to hide it, buries his face in it, and makes an undignified and entirely lovely little noise. The light slides over him like a downpour.
Scar says, “Come back to bed, Grian,” before he can help himself.
Grian inhales some of his coffee. Presumably he does, anyway, because he snorts again, but this time it sounds more like a spooked horse than amusement, and then he starts coughing.
“No, wait, oh, shoot,” says Scar, and then, somewhat miserably, “I need to pee. Wait. Why don’t you come back to bed– and then I’ll leave the bed? – to go pee, not to run away or anything– and then I can come back to bed– and then we’ve both come back to. Came back to? Commed back to bed. So it’s even.”
“Scar.” Grian’s wiping his nose with his bare forearm, which, gross, but Scar finds himself watching the streaky coffee-mucus smear with a dreamy sort of affection. It’s the lack of his own coffee, he decides. That’s what’s doing it. That, and the half-real light. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I just,” says Scar. He takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes.”It-would-just-be-nice-if-I-didn’t-have-to-leave-right-after-this-time-is-all-and-I-thought-maybe-you-could-come-back-into-the-bed-and-you-know-we-could-cuddle-a-bit-actually?”
He means to say it very sensibly, like the mature adult he is. It comes out without punctuation, and with about the same gravitas as an unexpected fart. He winces, and keeps his eyes closed.
“…Oh,” says Grian, very quietly. When Scar cracks one tentative eye open, he’s blinking like he’s been hit by a truck, hand halfway through his hair. “I, uh. Didn’t realise– I. Um.. I thought you.” He pauses, too much punctuation, and Scar tentatively opens the other eye, too. That didn’t sound like a no. “I mean. Yeah. Sure. I can come back too– I mean. Was getting a bit chilly and all anyway, so.” He gestures, awkwardly, at himself. He’s still naked. Scar is still appreciative of the fact he’s still naked.
“You– you will? I mean– yeah! Cool! Okay! Wait, oh no, oh, shoot, I really, really need to go pee–” Scar lurches to his feet, abruptly, hands cupped miserably over his bladder. He’s just as naked as Grian is, but with substantially less coffee inside him and substantially more other liquid he wishes was not inside him right now. “I’m going to. Bathroom. One moment. Right back. Do not run away. Bed.”
Grian, covered in light, laughs. The steam coils up from his coffee cup, and he lifts it to his lips. Takes a sip. When he lowers it, he’s still smiling, still naked, still soaked in that sunlight that Scar still isn’t sure is real. “Go pee, Scar,” he says, softly, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to run away.”
And he’s right. When Scar comes back from the bathroom, he’s still there – moved from the chair under the window, sprawled out instead in the warm spot Scar left behind, catlike and twice as smug.
“I drank your coffee,” he says, as Scar approaches, by way of hello.
“You don’t even like coffee with milk in!”
“I don’t. I still drank it.”
“Bastard,” says Scar, fondly, before he can help himself. He reaches out, touches Grian’s hair, gently, and his breath catches in his chest when Grian leans in to the motion. “I. Um. I guess I’ll just have to make another one?”
“I’ll drink that one, too.”
“No, you won’t. I’ll to put sugar in it, to make sure.”
Grian pulls a face, sticks his tongue out. “Blech. No. Bed, c’mon. You were the one that asked for this.”
And it was Scar that asked, it’s true. But it’s Grian that curls a hand around his wrist, pulls him back into bed. It’s Grian who curls around him like an octopus, half in the sheets and half out, luxuriantly nude and so carefully casual about the contact of skin against skin. It’s Grian whose breathing slows first– steadies– evens out, warm against Scar’s ear.
Scar falls back to sleep with the steady rise and fall of Grian’s chest pressed against his upper arm. Across the room, the light through the blinds shifts, slowly. The morning passes unnoticed in a sweeping arc across the floor. And questions of reality are forgotten, entirely, in favour of luxuriating in what currently is.
i've decided that the difference between Grian Weird and Joe Weird is that, like. okay. let's say they're both given two points and asked to draw the most direct line between them that they can.
grian is given this task and immediately goes "what is the Most Irritating way i can partially comply with this whilst also being a problem" and draws this weird meandering wiggle to vex the taskmaster.
whereas joe looks at it and, in all earnest helpfulness, says "oh, that's easy!" and draws a fucking spiral.
Joel remembers things after the accident in flashes.
The accident itself, he remembers fine – don’t mess around with enchanters, kids, stay in school, and especially don’t mess around with an enchanter, a chest full of various potions, a charged creeper, and several untamed wolves – but everything after it? Not just a blur, but gone. Other than the flashes. Funny little snippets of memory, half-order.
-
First: Him, on the ground, in a crater. Enchanter, gone, wolf corpses, still very much present. There’s broken glass everywhere; he’d forgotten he was storing potions in the next room. His body aches like he was hit by a truck, burns like he was hit by a bolt of lightning, and is– whatever the fuck the correct adjective for feels like he’s mainlined a month’s caffeine intake directly into his brainstem is. It’s not a great combination.
There’s also a Gem beside him, crouched carefully down in the grass. She’s saying something. His ears are ringing; he can’t make out the words. She looks worried.
She reaches out to touch him, and Joel’s entire body hurls itself at her without his conscious permission, jaws agape, fury rising like a red and mad tide. Everything goes black before he makes contact, but the terror on Gem’s face burns itself into his retinas before it does.
-
Next: He wakes up, alone, unclear where he is, struggling to move. His mouth tastes of blood. He’s lying on a mattress, wrists and ankles bound down. There’s something over his mouth. And Etho is there, too. Etho with a sword. Which doesn’t make much sense.
“Hi, Joel,” says Etho. “How you doing? You know where you are?”
Joel feels like shit, and has no idea where he is. But when he opens his mouth to say that, the only thing that comes out is a croak. He tries again, nothing, only pain, and then gives up. “Face,” he says, instead, voice raw like he’s been howling. He tries to lick his lips, and they taste of blood too. The sword, slowly, starts making sense.
“Uh. Oh, yeah.” Etho shifts in his chair. “We had to muzzle you. You’ve been, uh– well. The teeth have been a problem. When you… you’ve been like. Blacking out. And biting people. So…” He gestures, vaguely, at Joel’s prone body. “But it’s just a temporary measure. Some of the others are working on it. We’ll get it fixed soon.”
Joel wants to say more, wants to ask more, but things are fading. He can feel them fading. The black wants him again. “Hurts,” he says, raw as gravel, as his vision begins to tunnel.
“Yeah,” says Etho, soft, sympathetic. His hand is very warm, where it touches Joel’s wrist. “I know, buddy. I know.”
-
Last: He’s on fire, he’s burning, he’s fucking burning, they’re burning him alive, holy shit, why is no one trying to help him?
There’s a dog somewhere nearby howling, or else a child screaming, or a horse being murdered, or maybe just a grown human in spine-melting pain. Hard to concentrate when he’s busy being ripped apart. Difficult to hear. His ears are ringing, vision blurred and half-dark, skin crawling as it tries to get away from the agony.
Dimly, distantly, through the pain, he sees Jimmy. That’s when he knows he’s dying; no Jimmy on Hermitcraft. And also he called him Jimmy, even if just in the privacy of his own head. Sure sign of imminent death, that.
The Jimmy who is not real looks at him, eyes calm and kind, and says, “Well, you’ve really fucked it now, Joel, haven’t you?” And then, before Joel can say anything back, he’s gone – and so, blissfully, is the pain. So, blissfully, is everything else
-
He wakes up, and hurts like someone has tried to make taffy of his bones. Everything aches, deep and abiding. But– he wakes up.
“M’alive,” he says, surprised, and his throat is full of knives, but the words still make it out. He could whoop from that alone. If not for the knives.
“You are.” That’s X’s voice, and when Joel flops his head to one side, the admin’s stood there, hands outstretched over Joel’s chest and belly. Even through the helmet, he looks tired. “I don’t know what you did, Joel, but I’m going to have to ask you to never do it again. Please.”
“Yeah, Joel.” Grian. Who else. “Or we’ll kick you off the server.”
“We won’t kick you off the server,” says Xisuma, exhaustedly. “...But I might want to.”
Joel laughs, but the knives, so it comes out more as a dry wheeze. He needs water. He needs a piss. He needs some painkillers, and to sleep for maybe two or three days. What he says instead, though, before he can help himself, is, “Jimmy. W’s Jimmy ‘ere?”
He expects Grian to laugh. It’s a mark of how bad things were that Grian doesn’t. “No, Jimmy wasn’t– Do you want Jimmy? We could maybe whitelist–” He looks at Xisuma.
Xisuma sighs. “Sure. Let’s invite the whole Empires server, while we’re at it.”
“’d be nice,” mumbles Joel, and then, “g’nna. Mmm. Sl’p now.”
“That’s fine.” Grian’s voice, and there’s a hand stroking his hair, which is nice. That might be Grian’s too but, since his eyes are already closed, he can’t tell. “Sleep, Joel. Jimmy’ll be here when you wake up. Which you might regret asking for, actually. Ah well.”
