Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Grian is tired.

He's so unbelievably tired. He didn't even know that it was possible for a person to be this tired.

He's been feeling bad today – the kind of bad that slumps your shoulders for you and sticks your feet against the floor. The kind that leaves you paralysed.

Everything is distant and dark, and every movement, every twitch of his feathers and flutter of his lashes, brings tears burning behind his eyes. His mind buzzes helplessly, thoughts numb and fogged-over as he turns to and fro in bed, tugging the  uncomfortably hot but undeniably grounding sheets with him. He hasn't done anything today, hadn't felt any drive strongly enough to fight that badness encroaching in his mind, so he's just been lying in bed, staring at the floor or sobbing into his pillow. Nothing particularly interesting, nothing particularly taxing.

He's just so, so tired.

And normally, normally that would be okay. After all, Grian hasn't got any pressing projects to be working on, no looming deadlines suffocating him currently, so, normally , he would be able to afford having a single bad day like this.

But today isn't a normal day, unfortunately.

In fact, today feels like it's the furthest from normal that he's lived in a long time, and an uncomfortably hoarse huff of laughter passes his lips at the thought.

For months now, Scar has been putting together a fundraiser.

He's been gathering Hermits and building minigames, creating a huge event backed by a few select charities and sponsors that would be sure to draw in thousands of curious eyes. Every detail of it has been planned meticulously, every backdrop, every machine, every game tried and tested over and over. There's an itinerary that he'd given out a while ago, every minute accounted for and made the most of, creating such a perfect plan that there's practically no chance of anything going other than expected. It's admirable, honestly, watching him pour his heart and soul into the event, spending sleepless nights and hyper-focused days working towards it, and talking about it proudly to anyone who would listen.

Almost everyone has been involved in some way, whether by creating a game, planning a show or simply providing supplies. Many of the Hermits have been putting together builds and contraptions with their own signature flair, making sure that everyone who could be interested in watching has something to look forward to. They've all been promoting it for weeks, including Grian himself, and the hubbub around it has been immense, to say the least.

Grian signed up to participate in almost the same instant that Scar sent out invitations, and he finished working on his act almost a week prior. He had been practising it over and over, perfecting aerial stunts and dramatic monologues, ensuring that his quick outfit-changes between personas would work. He's even bringing back some of his more renowned characters for the occasion – Ariana Griande and Poultry Man would be showing face, for instance.

Everything has been going so well, not a single hitch or stumble holding him back, and he's just been trying so hard.

He wanted to make something perfect for Scar, he wanted to put something together that could help the cause. But, it's– it's–

It's tonight. The event.

It's tonight, and for Grian, that's a problem.

Getting out of bed, getting into the outfit that he had sewn just for this very occasion, interacting with the Hermits and doing everything that he has been working for– it just feels so, so impossible.

It's overwhelming. It's like some far away dream, and Grian distantly curses himself for signing up in the first place.

His thoughts are blurry, his heart beating sluggishly in his chest, and he feels so, so heavy that the idea of even moving a single inch makes him wish that his mountains of blankets and sheets would swallow him whole. Though, maybe that's wishful thinking.

Mumbo had called him earlier, the incessant ringing of his communicator grating in the dim, oppressive atmosphere of his bedroom. He had almost rejected the call, letting it ring until almost the last chime as he considered whether he should, before summoning up the strength to swipe and accept it.

Mumbo had been happy when he picked up, exclaiming his name with such a contagious joy that it had Grian's lips pulling upwards just a little. He's always been good like that, and, just like the sweet, attentive partner that he is, his call had only been to check in.

(Distantly, Grian wondered how on earth he ended up manipulating someone like Mumbo into loving him.)

Mumbo had asked how Grian was feeling, whether he was excited for his big show. Grian had hummed in response, barely saying a word for the entirety of the conversation. 

He thinks that Mumbo probably chalked it up to him being groggy and half-awake, very intimately familiar with how late the avian can sometimes sleep.

(He wishes he had been sleeping. He's so, so tired.)

In the end, Grian didn't have the heart to tell him that he didn't think he could get out of bed. Mumbo just sounded so excited as he spoke about his own plans, the new redstone contraptions that he was going to showcase to the Hermits, and he just couldn't do it.

So, as the minutes tick by, uncontrollable and taunting, Grian finds himself trying to muster up the strength to get out of bed. He doesn't want to let everyone down, he doesn't want to disappoint Scar or Mumbo or any of the viewers that he had been so mercilessly teasing for these past weeks. He has to get up, he has to get dressed. He–

It takes until fifteen minutes before the beginning of the event for Grian to pull himself up from the uncomfortably sweltering cage he's been trapped in. Every movement is painful, something in the back of his mind attacking him for every step that he takes, but he manages to get into his stiff, stuffy, restrictive suit in a blur. He can't recall the actions themselves, simply that one moment, he was standing in one of Mumbo's sleep shirts and some ugly cat-patterned boxers, and the next he was staring at himself in the mirror, dressed up in the outfit he had made for this very occasion.

Breathing is hard, and he doesn't know if it's caused by the fact that it's a bad day, or by the fact that his binder is a size too small, and he’s been wearing it for at least three days straight. It doesn't matter, not really.

He checks the time on his communicator. The event starts in three minutes. He has eighteen unread messages from Scar.

Everything is so heavy, and breathing hurts, and his suit is uncomfortable, and Scar must be so disappointed–

At some point, he has graduated from standing in front of the mirror to being slumped on the floor, the cold wood panelling sending a freezing chill through his body. At some point, his comm begins to ring.

Grian doesn't– he doesn't remember sinking to his knees. His ringtone is too loud.

He rejects the call.

The event started 7 minutes ago, now.

Scar is calling him again.

Grian can do little more than stare, honestly. His knees throb as though they're bruised, and his hands are shaking uncontrollably. He wants to go back to bed so badly, he doesn't know what else to do, and everything is so much.

He should have messaged Scar earlier, he should have said something to Mumbo, he should have done anything other than what he's doing right now – sitting by himself on the cold, hard floor, panicking over the fact that he's currently a no-show at the event that his friends have poured so much into.

God, he's such a fuck up, he's such a mess. Everything is going wrong, and it's all his fault, he's going to ruin the entire event because his stupid, no-good brain won't let him function like a normal human being for five fucking minutes–

His chest is heaving as he reaches a trembling hand forward, his breaths choppy and sharp as he picks up the phone.

"Hello?" The warm cadence of Scar's voice erupts from the speaker immediately, tone tight and anxious. The sounds of laughter can be heard faintly in the background. "Grian?"

He tries to take a steady breath, whispering a soft, "Here," between gasps for air.

"Grian, where are you?"

Scar sounds angry now. There are tears in Grian's eyes. He can't think of a single response.

"Gri?” Scar prods, “You– you realise it's the charity event tonight, yeah?" He's obviously trying so hard to keep the annoyance out of his voice, but Grian feels like a child being scolded nonetheless.

His chest hurts, and every inhale sounds rattling.

"G-man? Are you okay?" Scar asks after seemingly realising he won't be getting a response, "Please tell me you're on your way, dude..."

"'M not feeling good, Scar," his words hitch breathlessly, and admitting such a thing feels like he's sinking. Like he's trapped on the ocean with waves crashing over him, their ruthless claws dragging him under.

"What?" Scar exclaims, the word peaking the speaker and hitting Grian's ears with an uncomfortable sharpness. "What do you mean? Gri, we're waiting on you–"

"I can't– I can't come," he sobs, lungs burning as he gasps shallowly.

"Grian– Grian," Scar repeats, before something muffled is said and he seems to move away from the background noise. His voice becomes clearer again after a moment, "Hey, breathe- breathe with me, Gri."

"I'm sorry–" Grian wails, dropping his communicator to the floor to wrestle with his suit jacket, trying desperately to rid himself of the clothing that clings so tightly, so uncomfortably, that it feels like a second skin.

Scar’s voice rings loudly enough for him to make out even on the ground, even over the noise of his own breaths. Grian can’t tell if the man is just speaking loudly, or if he’s just so overstimulated that it simply sounds more amplified than it is.

"Grian, breathe– I'm going to count, okay?" Scar's tone wavers, bleeding with something akin to concern.

(Even so, Grian knows that there's still some annoyance mixed in there.)

He tries his best to focus on Scar’s voice and follow his instructions, eventually managing to rid himself of his jacket and shirt, rolling his binder up to let himself breathe more easily. It takes a while, far too long when considering how tight Scar's itinerary was planned to be, but eventually Grian manages to calm himself enough that Scar's affirmations and encouragements are slowing to a stop.

"Grian," he sounds so serious, so upset and tense that the avian finds his wings unconsciously crowding around him, protective despite being alone in the room. Scar continues, "Grian, I need you here tonight."

The words make him want to burst into tears again, because Scar has worked so hard for this, and he swore up and down that he would be there, but it's all just too much right now. He isn't certain whether he'd even be able to drag himself to his feet. He feels like a failure.

"I'm so sorry," Grian apologises again, trying not to choke on the words as they spill from his lips.

"Grian– Grian, please."

Every begging word has the avain's features crumbling further, his brows knitting together tightly, his nose crumpling. He doesn't want to hurt Scar, he wants to be a part of this, but his entire body throbs with the weight of his exhaustion. He should– he needs to–

"Look," Scar's voice trembles, "You're not feeling good, and I'm sorry about that, I just– you know me, Grian. You know I wouldn't ever normally ask you to push yourself like this when you're feeling bad, but– but tonight is different." 

It feels like a stab in the chest, like he's been driven through by a sword. Every word that Scar says is true – he would never force Grian into something, and especially not after an... episode, or whatever, like that . He wouldn't ever push, not if tonight was just a normal night.

“This is a big night for me, Grian, and I just– you–”

It hurts, god it hurts – knowing that he’s being an inconvenience is more painful than he’s ever really realised.

Scar takes a deep breath and continues, his words firm and unwavering, "You agreed to this. You promised me that you would do this, and– and I've been planning it for months. I won't be able to find a replacement for your slot on such short notice. You know I wouldn't ask you unless I had no other options, so just– please." 

He sounds so certain of himself, and Grian knows what he's going to say next. 

"You can't do this to me, Gri. You promised you would be here, you can't just ditch me like this."

He's right.

“Please, Grian. Just help me out here.”

He's– fuck – he's right.

Grian has to be there, even despite the lethargy making its way through him, even despite the pounding of his head behind his eyes. 

Because Scar has worked so hard for this, and Grian won't ruin it anymore than he already has.

Because he's already been causing problems for everyone involved, and– and–

He thinks about how excited Mumbo was for his showcase, about how much he must have hurt his partner by not showing up. He thinks about the gossip he's been overhearing, of all the spectacular, breathtaking plans that the other Hermits have worked so hard on. He thinks about Scar. About the blood, sweat and tears that he has poured into this. The hours spent figuring out logistics, constructing landscapes, organising advertising, gathering sponsorships.

Grian's mind is heavy, his thoughts are numb, and he doesn't think that he's excited about this anymore. 

He wants to tear off his stiff dress pants, kick off his too-small, wingtip shoes, and climb back into bed; into the pool of burning warmth that won't ask anything of him.

"… Grian?”

Right. Scar is still on the line.

“Please– can you do that for me?”

He– he should– he has to–

Fuck.

"'M on my way," he says, as decisively as he can, and he listens for just a moment as Scar erupts into celebration on the other end of the line.

Grian hangs up the phone, plasters a smile onto his lips, and tries his best to breathe.

He dresses. He puts the restrictive, inflexible jacket back over his shoulders. He ignores the way that his mechanical, stammering movements leave the feathers of his wings all out of place and unaligned. He ignores the way that it itches.

With a deep breath, he makes sure that his smile shows teeth, that it looks excited and optimistic and enthused. He ignores the bags under his eyes, the bird's nest that has become of his hair, and he tries his best to look happy. 

Then, Grian begins shakily towards the door.

Chapter Text

Grian touches down at the charity event with a stumble, rich blue and red eclectus wings flared behind him, feathers all out of place. He feels a mess, and he can’t help but think that he looks like one too, what with the way that his hair is tangled and his sweater has an ugly stain on the front.

No matter. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it. He has to keep going.

The hermits are gathered a couple of chunks away, standing in a half-circle around an expertly set up campfire. The environment here is gorgeous, it looks man made, but only in that too-perfect way which means a Hermit has poured over it for days. Every strand of grass feels strategic, every flower calculated, it’s all put together so intentionally, so flawlessly, that Grian can’t help but feel out of place.

He has made sure to land just far enough from the group for him to be out of sight — in case he were to fall flat on his face upon landing. From here, he can hear them laughing.

He wants to run away.

There are a number of cameras floating around, some with the help of magic, others with Hermit-patented technology. They all watch intently, staring down at those gathered with their wide lenses catching all there is to see. Grian knows that they are broadcasting live, that there are thousands of others on different worlds watching them, waiting for the festivities they have been promised to begin.

Each drone hovers around a specific Hermit, the viewers – or Chat, as they have been dubbed – following as their favourites on the server go about their day, taking in their every move. It's an intimidating thought, to be watched so intently, and Grian finds himself shuddering at the prospect of walking out under their all-pervasive gaze.

None of them have turned to him yet, but he still can’t help but think that they’ll circle like vultures once they do, drawing closer and closer, waiting for their prey to be vulnerable. Grian feels like a mouse under their gaze, fragile and helpless, even if they are not his Chats to begin with. They are watching him, even when they are not, he knows that they are. They are waiting for him to do something wrong so that they can swoop down and pluck the feathers from his skin, the nails from his fingers.

Currently, there’s more of them than he is used to seeing – there is usually only one or two Hermits broadcasting at a time — and the sheer scale is almost haunting. The amount of viewers that are pulled in by all twenty-something Hermits streaming at once is far too many for him to conceive. 

(How many eyes would turn to him if he walked over in this moment?)

He should have expected this – he knew the others would be streaming today. He had been made aware weeks ago that they would be welcoming chat and their generous donations. That was the point of today, after all.

It’s just… they haven’t seen him just yet. 

He could leave. He could run away. He doesn’t have to do this, he could take Scar’s disappointment later, he could–

They haven’t seen him yet.

He takes a deep breath, blinking quickly as his eyes burn, before he’s moving forwards with an awkward stagger. 

Towards the group.

The reaction is immediate — the Hermits’ eyes flick to his approaching form, and the cameras follow suit just a split second later. He watches as Scar’s eyes light up, as a couple of the others check the chat-boxes on their communicator – surely exploding upon catching a glimpse of the unfamiliar red suit approaching.

The camera lenses are all focused on him, and Grian wishes that he had turned around and left. His folded wings strain tightly against his back. 

“Gri!” Scar cries, before speaking to his Chat, briefly, “See! I told you guys that he was coming, he wouldn’t miss it for the world, isn’t that right, G?”

The eyes of the cameras are overwhelming, and he can’t find the words to reply over the buzzing in his mind. Instead, he simply gives a strangled hum of agreement and tries not to let the smile plastered on his lips wobble.

“Oh, gosh— this is going to be just amayzin’!” Scar continues on flawlessly, ever the showman, “Right chat? Are you all excited?”

The cameras all snap to Scar in an instant, the cheers from the Hermits rushing past Grian like a flood. 

His head hurts. His fingers are frozen.

Scar tries his best to get them all back on track.

Grian isn’t streaming today, even though he was supposed to be, even though he knows there must be thousands of members of Chat begging him to — he just can’t do it, despite every failing that led him here. 

He just can’t.

Scar pulls him aside during the first activity – an armour stand haunted-house attraction, put together by Cleo and Keralis. 

He reminds Grian that Chat wants him to stream. That he promised he would. That it would bring in more viewers to the event and more donations to the charities that they are supporting. He reminds Grian of what he already knows, his scarred features pulling into a disappointed grimace.

He reminds Grian, pesters him over and over, and still the avian can’t.  

He feels so, so sick. 

They move on eventually, and even despite Scar’s pleading whispers whenever Chat is distracted, Mumbo’s confused glances whenever Grian stumbles, Cub's scathing looks whenever Grian stutters and fails in his attempts to join conversation…

He just can’t welcome those prying, invasive eyes. Not today.

Scar drops it after a while, his full concentration needed to ensure that everything runs as it should. 

Each participant presents something to the group, a colourful variety of games and showcases, interspersed with the excited Hermit banter that they know the community loves. 

Grian finds himself sidelined. 

He doesn’t mean to be unsocial, not really, but he’s very clearly not able to hold up a conversation, so eventually he just ends up as some sort of decoration. An ornament. Stood in a circle of friends without a single one seeing him.

Mumbo tries once, approaching him during one of their snack breaks, however many hours in.

“Hey, mate,” he starts, “You alright?” His moustache wiggles nervously, hands wringing together in the painfully adorable way that they always do. Grian hums.

They’re quiet for a moment, Mumbo seemingly blanking on how to continue the conversation. Grian knows that he’s hyper aware of his own drone too, and of the tens of thousands of people that are likely tuned into it.

“Uhm-” he stutters, “Your wings are… a bit of a mess there.”

That’s– a rather pointless statement from one of the appointed ‘geniuses’ of the server.

Grian shares as such; “Sure are.” His tone is dry, unenthusiastic.

Mumbo looks worried. 

Grian knows that he won’t say anything in front of so many others, so he doesn’t bother to add anything else, simply staring past the redstoner towards the rest of the Hermits. He tries his best to ignore the comforting hand that falls discreetly onto his elbow as Mumbo shuffles next to him.

(He tries his best to ignore the way that the gesture makes him want to cry.)

It takes a while for them to get to Grian’s performance, what with the hours of scheduled entertainment making up the whole run-time of the event. It’s expected that it would take so long to get around to everyone, but still. It takes a while.

Grian’s social battery has been flat for almost twenty minutes, and they’re only just getting to his scheduled slot. He’s is one of the last to go on apparently, as dictated by the schedule; there’s only four or so Hermits left by the time that his moment comes around. 

He considers asking Scar to switch things up a bit, to let him go last so that he can have as much time to prepare as possible – everything is still floaty and numb, and he’s exhausted enough that even walking towards the build feels like a chore. He wants to feel less like he could fall over at any moment before he has to perform, but…

He doesn’t say a word. Going last would create expectations. There’s no way that’s happening.

When he had been putting together his act – planning out all of the twists and turns, writing up all of the words that he was going to say – he wanted it to be memorable, standing out like the spotlight on a stage. Now, he just wants to get through it in one piece. Going last seems almost like it would be worse than not going on at all.

Bdubs is just finishing up awarding trophies and medals for the horse course winners (giving himself the largest, heaviest gold medal, of course) when Grian goes to break away from the group. He is standing in the back of the crowd, had offered to not participate in the race in order to make the numbers even, so his slipping away to prepare is almost unnoticeable.

Almost, being the key word.

Mumbo grabs the sleeve of his suit gently as he turns to leave, tugging them closer together for just a moment. The cameras are distracted with the awards, none of the Hermits are paying attention to them. He brings his free hand up to Grian’s cheek, cupping his face and stroking his thumb gently over the feathers growing there.

“I’m worried, Gri,” is all he whispers, his face tight and brows creased. “What’s going on?”

Grian can’t answer, he can’t. Instead, he tilts his head to the side, his lips ghosting over Mumbo’s hand as he presses a quick kiss to the other’s palm. 

Mumbo doesn’t look comforted. Grian can’t blame him.

They stare at each other silently for a few long seconds.

“Okay,” Mumbo breaks softly, still unwilling to push. Still unbelievably patient. Grian feels like the dirt beneath their feet. “Okay,” he repeats, “Good luck with your act, I’ll be cheering you on.” With that, he presses a tender kiss to the avian’s lips and lets go of his sleeve. “For luck,” he says, and Grian finds himself hesitating for a moment.

He doesn’t want to go, to go on. He wants to grab Mumbo by the tie and beg him to get Grian out of this. He wants to cry, to scream and wail and break down in his lover’s arms. To make such a scene that there’s no other option but to let him go home.

The others aren’t paying attention, he could say something, he could let Mumbo know–

He doesn’t want to do this.

The redstoner must see something in his expression, because he kisses him again, deeper this time, and then wraps his arms around him.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, “I’m right here.” His tall frame curls around the avian, holding him closely and shielding him out of sight of the others. 

The Hermits cheer behind them as Bdubs exclaims something about runner-ups.

Grian’s face is buried in Mumbo’s shoulder, tears in his eyes. He’s so tired, he’s so cold. He feels so, so sick. Everything is wrong, it’s like his mind has been disconnected from his body, every thought and movement slogging and heavy. 

He wants to go home.

“I need to go,” he whispers into his partner’s suit-jacket, voice croaking and scratchy as a few of his tears seep into the dark fabric. “I have to get ready.”

“You don’t have to, you know,” Mumbo retorts just as quietly, his words something comforting and steady. Something certain. “It’s okay–”

“–PDA!” Bdubs loud voice suddenly rings out, and Mumbo’s spine turns rigid as he snaps up to his full height, turning to face the others. He stands tall and willowy, towering over the others like a lighthouse. His light snatches their attention, distracting from the shadow of his lover as he covers him up as best he can. 

The action makes Grian’s heart hurt.

“Ewww, Tango, make them stop!” Bdubs exclaims, his fists curling into the taller man’s shirt as he flops dramatically from the rock he was standing on.

Chortles echo through the crowd. The cameras’ eyes are on them.

Mumbo chuckles awkwardly, tugging at the collar of his shirt, and before he can say a single word, Scar cries out, “Stop with the goo-goo eyes, you two! We’ve hit the next donation goal!”

There is thrilled chatter and celebratory cheers from the Hermits as False begins to read off some of the most recent names, a wide smile plastered on her lips. They all just seem so– so happy, and Grian knows that he should be too, but he’s just… there’s something wrong with him.

He feels like a disconnect, fading in and out like a faulty wire. He feels fragile, like newly worked clay or freshly spun sugar. Something delicate, flimsy. 

Everything is just so much, and he can barely stand up under the pressure of it all, his ankles cracking and splintering as he tries to hold his ground under such weight

It feels impossible. Like there was never any way for him to win. Like everything has been rigged against him from the very beginning.

Gem runs over to them in celebration and drags Mumbo into the crowd, offering Grian a warm smile as she whoops with joy. Mumbo meets his eyes. There is something tense behind them, but Grian simply motions for him to join the others, before spinning on his heel and starting to rush towards his build– his stage.

(It feels a little like he’s walking himself to his grave.)

Rounding the corner of Xisuma’s bucket rush game, the structure that he had worked so hard on for so many weeks comes into view. It’s a sweet little arena, a semi-circle of fences and gazebos spread out around an embroidered tent, a show stage bursting from the front of it. The curtains of the tent are pinned back, revealing a mess of shulkers and materials inside. From the top of the tent sprouts a tall ladder, leading to the platform that Grian will take his first dive from, performing an intricate series of aerial tricks and acrobatics.

Speakers stand periodically around the area, all connected up to a central soundboard with the help of Doc, who had agreed to help him out with the music for the show. The gazebos were supposed to be full of snacks, throws and cushions, allowing the Hermits a chance to just sit back and enjoy the show. They sit empty and painfully plain, giving the whole place an unfinished look.

He had been so proud of it before, had adored the way that it looked comfortable, nestled gently into the side of one of Bdubs’s manmade mountains. Now, he never wants to look at it again. It looks so mundane and dull, fading into the background of the menagerie of colour and texture that makes up everyone else's builds.

It’s so pathetic, so uninspired and– unnoticeable. Grian finds himself wondering if creating anything will ever be worth it, or if he truly is wasting his time.

From where he stands - off to the side and gazing out over the building as though it is a freshly dug grave, as though there is still dirt caught under his fingernails - it looks like a circus ring.

Grian knows that he is the main attraction.

His eyes slip to the grassy ground as he shuffles towards the tent, trying to avoid looking at the space for any longer than he needs to. 

He feels numb as he stumbles through the fabric of the entrance, pushing past the piles of abandoned materials into the small dressing room he had cornered off.

He had been joking with Impulse as he had built it, the imp taking a break from his own build to tour around the area and hang out with someone. He had said something about installing the mirror just so that he could hype himself up, or so that he could make sure his pants were clinging in all the right ways… they had both cracked up at that.

It seems so bittersweet now, as he stares blankly into his own eyes. 

Something in them is dark, darker than before. Like a drop of undiluted paint spilt onto wet watercolours. Seeping. Everything about him looks wrong. Just slightly out of place, abnormal. He doesn’t look quite like himself.

His feathers are ruffled. 

No wonder he’s so itchy.

The sight of his misaligned feathers – the things that he cares for more intensely than anything, the things that he prides himself on above all else – sets his nerves on fire. 

It makes the nausea in his gut whine.

Grian considers himself in the mirror for a long while– long enough that he can hear the others approaching, cheers of joy and chants of excitement as they grow nearer. He can hear Doc’s heavy footsteps leading off from the group as he gets into position by the soundboard. 

His feet feel frozen to the ground, his joints stiff and uncooperative. He has to move. He has to make himself move. They’re waiting for the show– for his show.

Their voices clamour, a ringing cacophony which sets his hair on end. 

He can hear a few questioning whispers, underneath it all.

The- the ladder. Right, he starts at the top of the ladder. He has to climb up. Has to make a performance of it.

He pulls back the curtain of the dressing area. 

His hands are shaking as he grabs the first rung of the ladder, hidden from the crowd only by the stage and the drapery of the tied-back curtain.

Just get to the top, he reminds himself. Just get to the top, and everything else will come after.

He is going to climb, and he is going to give the stupid monologue that he worked so fruitlessly on, and he is going to put on a good fucking show. Nevermind the way that his legs feel weak, his heart flutters in his chest or his lungs constrict. He’s made it this far, he’s made it this far because Scar said he had to and he was right and he’s going to see this through–

He stumbles back from the ladder, stomach churning and mind flashing blankly, and doubles over, vomiting onto the grass below his feet.

Fuck.

He hasn’t thrown up in years, he hasn’t really even been ill in just as long. It’s… a strangely familiar feeling. It’s just as unpleasant as he remembers it being, his stomach contracting for a few long moments, heaving over and over as his body rejects mostly acid and bile. 

His throat burns. He squeezes his eyes shut and prays for the squeamish lurching of his gut to stop.

It doesn’t take too long, probably, even though it feels like the sun has cycled a thousand times more. Like he’s older once it’s done. Like he’s wearier.

Grian wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve as he chokes on the burning in his oesophagus. He rests his weight on a nearby shulker, quivering arms propping him up to stop him from joining the puddle in the grass.

His head throbs with a barking vengeance, pulsing uncomfortably behind his closed eyes as he tries to just breathe – past the discomfort in his gut, the sour taste of puke in his mouth, the ringing in his ears.

He just… he just needs a moment. Just a second to breathe, to prepare.

Unfortunately, he is interrupted by Doc wandering through the back of the tent. 

The creeper ducks under the curtain quickly, gaze flicking towards the open curtain, where Grian knows the crowd is waiting just beyond the cover of the stage.

“Hey, man,” he says nonchalantly, turning to the hunched-over man, “Are you ready to g– Grian?” 

Doc is rushing forward in an instant, carefully stepping around the vomit on the floor. “Grian, dude, what happened?” His hands flutter uselessly around the avian’s shaking form.

He can’t let him– he has to, God–

Grian pushes himself up, wipes his mouth again, and faces the man before him. He reaches a trembling hand forward and gives Doc’s arm a shaky pat, before spinning on his heel. 

With a hoarse cough, he begins to move.

It’s now or never. 

The other is clearly still stunned, not reaching out for him as he stumbles towards his goal, his mouth opening and closing like in a stupor. It would be funny, if Grian had more time to dwell on it. 

He does not. He takes another unstable step.

“You– we should–” Doc stammers uselessly, his robotic eye flashing urgently as he watches the other walk away, “Grian, stop! You should– where are you..?”

His head aches, his chest feels tight.

“Play the music,” Grian hisses, spitting something sour-tasting into the grass. 

He grabs the splintering ladder rung once again, and begins to haul himself up.

Chapter Text

Grian doesn’t remember the climb up, not really.

All he knows is that there was a cheer from the crowd as appeared from the top of the tent, making his way up the ladder. The music kicked in just a few seconds after he began to climb, with a pounding beat that echoed through his bones. His hands hurt, the flesh red and raw as he shakily pulled himself from rung to rung. Vaguely, he thinks that his hands are bleeding. 

He made it to the top, at least.

The platform must be more than a hundred blocks into the air, Grian thinks as he hauls himself to his feet, wings flaring out behind him for balance. The world looks so small from up here, like he’s peering down on a child’s dollhouse, on some expansive game of pretend. It doesn’t feel real, like he’s living a fairytale.

Briefly, as he tries to catch his breath, Grian wonders what that would make him if they were all truly living in a storybook. 

(Perhaps he’d be the villain - someone selfish and cold and lonely, forever trapped in a cycle of shortcomings, doomed to repeat them with a desperate repetition. Forever fated to be struck down.)

(Maybe he’d be the damsel - someone helpless, passive, watching everything occurring and being unable to do anything to help.)

(He certainly wouldn’t be the hero.)

Blinking rapidly, the chattering crowd down below forces Grian's gaze to focus, and he realises with a terrified jolt that the symphony that will signal the beginning of his flight is only moments away. He had originally been planning to monologue, to weave a dramatic tale about an avian’s dance of flight, but he hadn’t even managed to mic himself up- nevermind remembering the complex sequences of words that he had spent so long perfecting.

It doesn’t matter, not as he steps forward on shaking legs towards the edge of the platform, staring down at the indeterminate figures below. Each of the dolls in the house stare up at him with blank expression on their face, every eye and visor and camera lens staring up at him, awaiting. 

His ears ring, and the music builds. It’s something shrill and echoing, piercing his skull like a siren. The audience is waiting. Grian feels as though he might vomit again. 

The music quiets, something apprehensive and expectant, holding its breath like the quiet before a roll of thunder. It’s now or never.

Grian stretches out his itching, dishevelled wings in time with the harsh beat of a drum, his arms raising to adjust the stiff sleeves of his suit jacket as the wind catches his feathers. The air up on the platform feels thin and wispy, never quite filling his lungs as he stares at the ground so far below.

The music swells, a resounding crash ringing throughout the arena as the beat rises once again. His signal.

Showbusiness, Grian reminds himself with a jittering breath.

He steps off of the platform, one foot following the other as he allows the weight of his body to drag him down. His arms are outstretched and his gaze is locked on the horizon, and Grian finds himself staring numbly at the blue skies between his outstretched fingers as he falls.

The wind whistles past him; the cacophony of the music and the chatter from the Hermits below and his own pulse blurring in his ears turning to a repetitive drone, something dull and unbecoming. For just a moment, the strings of hatred and terror that have been flooding his thoughts fall silent, and there is nothing keeping him company anymore.

The ground approaches steadily and quietly, the undefined features of his friends’ faces coming more into focus, and, somewhere under the piling, storming numbness, Grian finds that he doesn’t want to stop falling.

His wings trail awkwardly behind him, an array of blue and red feathers smoothing in the wind, and the idea of not snapping them out, not angling them so that the air catches beneath them and he soars– it’s more attractive than it would perhaps usually be.

It’s something akin to a pull, something magnetic and overwhelming and paralysing and… thrilling.  Some kind of thankless desperation to do something drastic, no matter the outcome. What was it that Zedaph called it? The- the call of the void..? 

Whatever it is, it’s something, and Grian finds that he longs for that something, for anything that isn’t this. That isn’t performing for a faceless crowd, that isn’t crying himself to sleep and panicking himself to wakefulness. He wants to do something rash, something careless, something, anything at all—

His eyes rove over the audience below, over the smiling faces of his friends as they held their breaths in anticipation, before they catch unceremoniously on Scar. He is beaming, something gleeful and awestruck in his expression, looking so pleased that everything is going according to his godforsaken plan. 

He wants to fall, he wants to crash and burn and die and hurt. He wants to hurt the people around him, to destroy the things that they’ve built and the friendships that they’ve made. He- he just wants to prove that he can, that he’s capable of something that isn’t passive, that isn’t falling into line. 

Grian wants to fall forever. He wants to hit the ground.

He wants to know what Scar would say to him if he let himself fall.

It’s almost unfortunate that he doesn’t find out, broad wings snapping downwards in an instant and slowing his fall, the wind catching beneath his feathers and allowing himself to straighten out. He can’t remember what comes next in the routine, the headrush of falling blurring his vision for a moment as he gathers his bearings. 

Grian decides in that moment that he will do what he does best: fake it ‘till you make it.

He overbalances into a barrel roll, wings circling tightly around his body as he begins to spin, tail feathers pulling together as he shoots forward for just a moment, feathers snapping back out as he begins to lose altitude, bending into a series of loop-de-loops. He spins and falls and performs tricks like a circus animal, his actions daring and uncontrolled as he seeks out that glorious silence which came with the first fall, as he searches for something to satiate that overwhelming pull for danger.

His flight waivers every few seconds, exhausted wings straining with the effort of remaining outstretched against the violent, rushing wind, but his audience doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, the crowd below him cheers and shrieks upon the increasingly dangerous feats, their chants becoming harder and harder to ignore. Their cameras glinting teasingly in the sunlight. He realises, as he clips the ladder with his wing, that he’s beginning to run out of ideas to go bigger, to go better.

The song booming from the speakers peaks dramatically, crashing instruments rising and falling like the waves of a stormy ocean, sounding incessantly with every beat of his wings. Grian knows that he needs to do more, that he isn’t doing enough, that he isn’t going big enough, that he isn’t going bold enough, that he can still think and feel and hurt and that means that he’s letting everyone down–

It’s a last ditch effort – barely a minute into the song, before he’s even done his first outfit change – when Grian sucks in a deep breath and allows himself to fall once again.

His colourful feathers tuck tightly against his body as he straightens his legs and arms, pointing his body towards the ground so that he is falling as fast as he can, and he shuts his eyes against the rushing wind. Every gust feels like a whip, like the sharp edge of a razor, and it hurts in a way that shouldn’t feel as good as it does.

There is a collective gasp that carries towards him, the noise barely anything more than another gale of the wind, and Grian knows that it means he must be getting close. The music is fading as the voices from the crowd grow louder. Almost concerned in their volume. 

Something sour and acrid sits in Grian’s throat, an anxious knot forming as the wind slices his cheeks and the feathers flattened against his body to shards of icicles. The ground is growing closer, the audience is growing louder, and Grian opens his eyes just slightly enough to calculate that now is when he needs to pull up.

He does his best, wings snapping open at a sloped angle, primaries spreading and muscles shaking against the pounding wind that entrenches him. He swoops over the stands where the audience sits, their cameras trained on him like snipers, and the noise of their cheers is blocked out by the pounding of his heart in his throat. Grian tries to slow himself down as he pulls up just enough to go over their heads, but his wings strain against the air and he finds himself overbalancing just slightly. 

So, so slightly.

It's enough for his left wing to collide with the peak of one of the empty tents, and in an instant Grian finds himself careening wildly towards the ground.

He skids in the dirt, tumbling forward uncontrollably in a heap of flailing limbs and folded feathers, and he cannot help but think that he is finally being buried, that the mud clinging to his body is the same as that of his grave.

There are exclamations of panic from the Hermits as his wild trajectory finally slows to a stop and he slumps into the ground. There are frantic footsteps charging towards him, pounding against the ground like a stampede as Grian desperately tries to get his bearings.

He failed, the avian cannot help but spiral; his vision blurred and spinning, his heart beating violently in his throat. He’s let them down, he’s ruining everything–

The excited bubbling of the music cuts off, and the silence that rings out over the arena is like the final nail in his coffin.

“Grian!” A voice calls from next to him, suddenly. “Grian, are you– give him some space–”

There is a shaking hand on his wing, trying to pry the leaden limb from where it is cocooned over his body. The fingers feel boxy, stiff, and Grian realises that it must belong to Xisuma, the feeling of his glove-clad digits unique amongst the Hermits. His mind whirls like a storm, trying to separate the colours and sounds that surround him, and everything is moving too fast to stop himself from flinching, feathers flattening defensively along his wings as his muscles tense and lock up.

Chatter continues overhead as he tries to take stock of himself, tries to figure out what’s going on, what hurts. Grian tries to focus on his body, on the physical form that he surely has, but he comes up with nothing, really. Everything aches, his entire being cold and numb and empty, but it doesn’t feel like it’s coming from his body. It doesn’t hurt in the way that one would usually imagine. Especially not in the way that one would usually associate with such a fall.

No, the feeling, the wrongness, is in his bones. Something innate and natural, a heaviness that leaves his heart sluggish and his mind racing. He should hurt more than he does, Grian is certain of that – he should be reeling from the pain, from the way that his knees are surely bruised and the wing that doesn't cover him (the one which collided with the peak of the tent) lays at a strange angle.

Surely his body hurts, surely it aches.

But all he can feel is the dark, strangling fog that rushes down him, clogging his throat and curling his toes. All he knows is that he’s in pain. 

Pain that he isn’t sure is physical.

That hand is back on his shoulder, sneaking under his wing to get to the body that it tries to protect, and Grian feels cold. Numb.

He wants to go home. He wants to sleep forever. He never wants to face this, his- his failure. His inability to follow through with the one thing that he promised. The disappointment that he’s surely caused his friends. 

And Chat. 

… And Scar.

“Grian,” someone is calling to him again, their voice worried and shaking, and– when did he sit upright? When did the brightness of the sun greet his eyes? “Grian?” that same voice asks again, closer this time. 

He looks up, past the hair falling in his face and the rows of skewed feathers filling his vision, and he’s greeted by Xisuma. He’s crouched before him, one gloved hand slipped into Grian’s limp grasp. Grian can feel a cold body against his back, form wiry and immediately recognisable as Mumbo, who whispers gentle reassurances against the crook of his neck, and he notes that the other Hermits crowded around him with their cameras not far behind. 

“You alright, man? Nothing broken?” Xisuma inquires.

Shying away from the prying eyes of the crowd, Grian pushes himself up into Mumbo’s arms, leaning heavily on the man behind him as his wings surround him half-heartedly, like a poor attempt at creating a shield.

“G!” An elated voice suddenly calls from outside their little group, and Xisuma stands to allow the new person to crouch down before him. “Hey, you alright? That trick was amayzin’!” 

Grian blinks up at the man before him, dumbfounded, taking in the way that Scar’s arms spread open wide. 

“Seriously! You should have seen yourself, you were like a feathery cannonball or something!”

His words are gentle, controlled. They’re like a soft breeze on a warm April day, something considered and calm and comfortable. Grian wants to be upset with him, with the things that he’s been saying, but he can’t find it in himself to hold onto that feeling when Scar is so warm, when he’s providing so much comfort. 

Instead, Grian allows himself to slump forward into Scar’s hold, focusing on the way that the warmth of his palms minimises the ache of his bones, the hurt of his mind. 

“Hey,” Scar murmurs into his hair as Grian tucks his chin over the other man’s shoulder, a smile in his voice.

“Mhm,” he replies, mindlessly, tongue feeling as though it is too big for his mouth. He feels tired. Lethargic.

There is more chatter above him, chatter that he doesn’t bother to try and make sense of. He thinks that Xisuma is speaking, saying something to the rest of the group. Perhaps to ease their worries? To calm their anger? Grian isn’t certain, he doesn’t know what they would be feeling at this. 

“Look at me, Gri,” Scar’s hands are in his hair, trying to coax him backwards, to nudge his gaze upwards. “Let me see those pretty eyes, birdy.”

Grian lets out a long, deep exhale, something full-bodied and winding that reaches all the way to the tips of his toes. It feels as though there’s a winding web of roots that are running through him, breathing for the first time in days, and it has his shoulders slumping further as he practically melts into Scar’s grip, gathering himself slowly. It’s only after another nudge from the elf that Grian finally looks up, pulling back slightly until he can meet Scar’s eyes.

The other man’s green irises are searching, darting across his face quickly as if to search for any signs of pain. Grian feels seen under them, he feels considered - he doesn’t know if it’s a bad thing or not.

“You alright, Gri?” Scar’s hands fall from his hair as Grian shifts, one moving to brush his bangs out of his face. “That was quite the tumble.”

“M’ alright, Scar.” Grian wets his lips, cringing at the dusty dirt that his tongue meets. “Sorry.”

Mumbo makes a noise of protest behind him at the word, fussing quietly as he checks over Grian’s wings - he’s clearly displeased with the avian’s apology. Grian wonders if it’s because he thinks it doesn’t need to be said, or because he thinks that it’s not good enough. 

Scar’s eyes turn confused, shining with something a little bit surprised, before he’s shaking his head, “There’s no need for that. You were quite a sight up there! We can call that one a… a practice run?”

A practice run? Grian makes a short noise of confusion at that, before his attention is stolen by Xisuma asking Cub to grab some potions from his shop. He doesn’t question Scar’s words, just allows himself to grab onto the meagre comfort that the reassurance gives him.

Mumbo is pressing short kisses to his shoulder and the back of his neck by the time that Cub arrives back, whispering little comforts into Grian’s skin.

“Here,” Cub murmurs, passing a healing potion to Mumbo carefully. “On the house, just for you,” he chuckles.

Grian can feel the outline of Mumbo’s smile against his back, can see the concern behind Cub’s eyes, and he allows the warmth it gives him to let his mind go blank. Maybe this comfort, this companionship that not even he knew he might have needed, maybe this can be something he allows himself to have. To bask in.

It’s gentle, it’s pleasant. He feels comfortable in his loved ones’ arms like this, even with the crowd of Hermits and their cameras so close by. Even with the camera that hovers above Cub’s shoulder, even with the lenses that look their way from a few yards behind Scar.

Maybe, Grian thinks as he takes short sips of the potion, letting Mumbo hold it for him and tip it back gently, Maybe it’s going to be okay.

The avain sighs as the healing potion begins to run through him, knitting together the small cuts and fading the growing bruises that Grian didn’t realise he even had. Scar clears his throat after a moment of quiet, a small smile forming on his lips as he gets Grian to meet his eyes once again.

“Are you–“ Scar licks his lips, one of his hands holding Grian’s gently, tracing soothing shapes into the palm. “–Are you alright to keep going?”

What?

“Y’know, to do your show again?”

What did he say?

Did he–

Grian stares at Scar with wide eyes, mind rushing through a thousand of emotions like a violent, twirling snowstorm. How can he ask that? How can he seriously ask something like that?

Grian feels his breath hitch in his throat, his fingertips and toes turning to static as he tries to process the elf’s words. Each syllable feels like honey, something viscous and dragging that spins in his mind, turning over and over as though he needs acclimating. As though there’s something inside him that is aware that this is something he would not be able to handle. 

It’s a slow, dawning process as he runs through Scar’s words, and Grian must stay silent for too long because Scar seems to take his lack as an excuse to begin rambling at him. The elf is a flurry of quick words and quicker glances, useless explanations spouting from his tongue like a leak. 

“–I mean, we should probably just start the music again?” He says. “As perfect as your flying skills are, I don’t think that you’d be able to start again from the middle of that trick– and besides! The immersion is all totally gone now–”

The perfect, even timbre of his voice has morphed into something robotic and cold as it reaches Grian’s ears, and the shock that has curled up in his chest begins to sink, growing cold and slick with terror.

Slowly, Grian manages to pull himself together enough to whisper a single word.

“What?” 

He’s shaking, his entire body trembling as fights the urge to break down crying; to throw up again. Every inch of warmth and comfort he had felt just moments before has drained away, his heart pounding so suddenly that he feels lightheaded, something sick and metallic climbing up his throat like bile. His suit jacket is strangling, compressing like a vice around his chest that sends him wheezing just a little, a new breathless quality to his tone. 

The other Hermits are suddenly stood far too close, Mumbo’s body pressed against his back and Scar's hands on his turning suffocating in an instant, and he cannot stop himself as he rips himself from Mumbo’s arms, lurching away from the pair of them as the badness shrinking in his stomach roars once again, leaving him dizzy and afraid. 

“Careful, G,” Mumbo warns quietly, trying to steady the quivering man. Grian is sure that there is a concerned look on his face, but he can’t tear his gaze away from Scar for long enough to truly notice. 

The hermits, the cameras, the eyes, they all follow his movement. They’re stood a ways away, but they’re still far too close. Everything is suffocating, intrusive, and his skin feels tight; his suit jacket turning constricting once again, coiling around him like a snake.

“You— why would you ask that?” Grian stutters, his eyes blown wide and disbelieving, staring up at Scar as if begging him to take it back.

“Hm?” Scar hums, confusedly, tilting his head to the side as if contemplating his answer. As if unaware of what his question really means. “Well,” he continues, prodding and poking and asking far too much, “you are going to keep going, aren’t you?”

Grian feels frozen, his entire body shaking and numb under the weight of Scar’s words. 

White hot anger floods him after a moment, something wild and wicked, and all he can think is how dare Scar ask him that? 

How dare he?

Chapter Text

Grian’s mind whirs slowly in a quiet, dawdling realisation of what exactly has just been said.

Maybe it’s the fall, maybe it’s simply the stress of the day, but everything just feels lethargic, and by the time Grian can formulate a response, there is already chatter happening around him again.

He can hear Mumbo berating Scar above him, hushed whispers about being gentler with him, and he can hear Xisuma asking hurried questions to try and find out if he’s okay, if the potion has done its job. Every voice sounds as though it’s being filtered through running water, something muffled and deafening falling over his ears. 

The world is blurry, something tilted and skewed dragging over his vision, but Scar – still crouched perfectly in front of him – is in terrifying, awful focus.

“Keep… going?” Grian murmurs, the words falling from his lips unintentionally.

Scar waves off Mumbo’s concerns as Grian’s voice draws his attention again. There is an infuriating smile plastered on his face, something that has begun to feel mocking, hollow. 

“Well, I mean– I presume that you want to, since you put in so much work!” He replies nonchalantly, eyes crinkling in the corners with the force of his grin.

Grian can do nothing but stare, until Xisuma sighs, making him jump. 

“Only if you’re feeling up to it, Grian,” he reassures, worry still clear behind his visor. “There’s no need to force yourself, that was quite the fall.”

“I don’t– what?“ Grian turns his head, his gaze scanning over the friends surrounding him, baffled.

"It's totally understandable if you're not up for it anymore, mate, I promise you that much."

Despite their intentions, Xisuma’s words do not soothe the anguish in his chest. They do nothing to quell the lit kindling inside of him, like a spark of flame preparing to consume a forest. Every inch of concern feels fake, as though it’s been stuffed with cotton and wrapped with wool, as though there’s something to hide behind it, and despite the worried draw of Xisuma’s eyebrows, the soothing grip of Mumbo’s palms, the genuine care behind Scar’s eyes— he cannot buy into a single moment of it.

The rest of the Hermits aren’t stood far enough away, he can’t help but think. They’re listening. If he can hear them - which he can, they’re mostly discussing Grian’s performance and the work that has gone into the event - then they can hear him. 

What are-

"Are you sure you're alright?" Someone prods again.

Who are-

"Take it slow, Gri," another voice soothes.

It's-

"Be careful with him!"

It's all-

“Gosh, don’t fuss so much!”

It's all so much.

Everything, all of it. It's too much. It's balling together and rolling into one, a tiny snowball sent barrelling down a snowy mountain. Grian can do nothing but watch as it grows and grows and grows, picking up snow until it's rolled into something gargantuan and monstrous, something that plummets like an anvil and speeds like spreading fire. The exhaustion from the past few days, the incessant itch in his wings, the tautness of his suit and the nausea in his stomach - it collides together until it's big enough to take up every inch of room inside of Grian's body, mingling into a disgusting, mismatched pool of feelings that he can hardly determine.

It's every shade of paint mixed into one, it's every flavour of food, it's every spritz of perfume. It's an ugly blooming brown, a repulsing combination of sweet and sour and spice, a medley of overpowering, skunk-like stenches.

It's each bad day, each worse night, all mingling into one as he's tugged back and forth like a burning, smouldering ragdoll. Like a plaything.

It's nothing recognisable, not until-

“He’s alright," Scar dismisses him playfully. "Aren’t you, G?"

And suddenly the horrifying concoctions are blending into something that Grian thinks he recognises as anger. Fury.

Scar’s earlier question won’t stop ringing in his ears. You are going to keep going, aren’t you?

Isn't he? Won't he keep going? Maybe once he would have, but as Scar talks down at him like he's a child blowing the hurt he's feeling out of proportion, Grian knows that's not the case anymore.

He wants to scream at Scar, to spit in his face and ask him where he gets off demanding such a thing. He wants to punch him and watch with satisfaction as the cameras that are barely fifteen metres away capture every second of his swing.

Instead, Grian says, “Why would you ask that?”

“Hm?” Scar bats his eyes in that way that is usually endearing. Everything about him screams showmanship, everything about him commands the respect of a ringleader. “Why would I ask what?“

It makes the feelings that have been building in Grian's gut stir just a little more. Just a little tighter.

His fury boils and blisters like a bubbling volcano at the sight of the man's faux cluelessness, and Grian doesn't know how to tell him that this isn't a game anymore. It's not fun anymore.

Instead, Grian stammers, “You’re kidding. You- you’re joking." His eyes narrow as he stares up at the taller man, a poisonous glare that searches through Scar's eyes for anything other than humour.

He's not granted such a mercy.

With a sharp inhale, Grian demands, "Why would you ask me that, Scar? If- if I’d go again?” He feels like a child, like someone has told some impossible to miss, universal joke and he’s the only one who doesn’t understand. Asking like this, stumbling over his words until he’s practically begging, it’s humiliating. 

And then Scar simply brushes it off again, in the same way that he’s been doing all day. “Well,” he laughs, the sound awkward and confused, “I know what a tough cookie you are, G. Stubborn as a bull!”

It's that same dismissal, and Grian's vision turns red. 

He pulls himself back violently, his spine a taut line of tension as his wings strain against the cage of Mumbo's arms. He thrashes to and fro, trying with bared, clenched teeth to snap them open forcefully enough to throw both of them away from him. They're too close, they're too much- and he needs to get away.

“G– be careful!” Mumbo sputters, his hands falling to the avian’s hips as he tries to avoid getting feathers in his mouth. 

Grian can barely hear him over the blood rushing in his ears. It’s as though everything has narrowed down to him and Scar and the need to escape, the world shrinking smaller and smaller as his vision tunnels on the threat of a man before him.

“No!” He shrieks, halfway between a whimper and a roar, “Of course I’m not going to keep going! Why would I keep going, Scar?!”

Xisuma steps forward at his volume, uncharacteristic and unstable. He begins, “Uh- alright. Let’s cool off now, both of you. You don’t have to, Grian.” He takes a step forward, arms carefully outstretched. “Are you hurting? Do you need to stop because you’re injured?”

The questions seem to spur something on in Mumbo, because his checking Grian over suddenly becomes increasingly frantic, tugging at the smaller man’s frame to search for any breaks or cuts. Grian allows it, passively swaying under the searching hands like he's not in control of his own body. Anger charges through him, bubbling under his skin as adrenaline turns his vision sharp and his hearing muffled. But, even then, it doesn’t matter.

None of it matters, because Scar is still looking at him with that fake, plastic concern, a terrible, performative smile on his lips, and he doesn’t care about Grian’s wellbeing, and he’s only thinking about his image and his reputation and this stupid, awful—

“It’s never going to be enough, is it?” Grian snaps, and he watches as the people around him turn placating. They offer encouraging smiles and gentle touches, whispers of concerns and looks of apprehension. It's as if he's stood in the eye of a storm, flurries of movements going on around him that mean nothing at all, not in the face of Scar, who stands stock still and silent. Scar stares at him like he's going insane, like he's flying off the handle.

So, like any good storm does, Grian decides that the only correct course of action is to surge.

He explodes in the next instant, bolting forward until he's in Scar's face, his eyes dark and posture drawn like a bow. He practically growls, “I’m so— I’m so tired, Scar. I came here for you, I tried my best, and it was all for nothing. Nothing I give you will be good enough!”

In reply, Scar sputters unintelligently. He seems lost, like he can't conjure a single response, and it only serves to make Grian angrier, tears beginning to come to his eyes under the force of it all. 

“I can't keep doing this-“ Grian keens, voice high-pitched and shrill. “I can’t do it!”

“I don’t-“

“Okay, how about we–“

Something snaps, something in his stomach that has been coiling tighter and tighter like a snake lying in wait. Something that has been growing bigger and bigger, expanding like the gasping of a lung. Like the feeling of sealing your lips and puffing out your cheeks as much as you can. More and more and more until your ears are crackling and your jaw is aching.

Seeing just how far you can push it. 

Waiting until something surely gives.

It’s a pressure, a fever, a weight, and it hangs over him like the shadow of a guillotine above his neck. Grian finds, suddenly, that he just can’t take it. 

His careless, taloned fingers are suddenly grasping at the satin of Scar’s waistcoat and yanking him close, the tearing noise of fabric barely making it to his ears as his blood pounds like a drum. There is something desperate and untrained clawing behind his eyes, his wings flaring and feathers flattening, every instinct telling him to be intimidating.

“This entire day, everything! You’re so- you keep pushing me!” He spits, barely aware of the venom spewing from his lips as his vision turns hazier, something red and hot and uncontrolled. “Did I do something wrong?” Grian clamours, his voice pitching to a caterwauling wail. “Is that why I’m never enough for you? Why you wouldn’t stop asking more of me?!”

Scar blanches, a strange blend of confusion and poorly hidden anger in his expression. “I don’t– you agreed to be here!” He manages to stutter. “Why are you making me out to be the bad guy here!?”

Grian’s heart aches at the words, and he snaps, “I’m only here because you wouldn’t stop asking! I told you I wouldn’t be able to make it– I told you–!”

“Grian, you’re- it’s not a big deal! You’re making a scene,” Scar hisses between clenched teeth, looking over his shoulder to check if the others were hearing this, or- no.

To check if the cameras were hearing this.

“You’re fucking- you’re unbelievable!” Grian cries, clenching his fist until his talons are ripping completely through the perfect fabric. The waistcoat tears with a uncomfortable volume, something akin to nails on a chalkboard that sends a shiver down Grian's spine. He feels like he's going insane, like he's going to vibrate out of his body and morph into something with pointed teeth and a dripping maw, something feral. Unstable. Maybe he's overreacting, maybe he's blowing the whole thing out of proportion, but it feels like anything less than this outrage, this fury, would be a disservice. He feels like he needs to spring forward and scream until maybe, finally, Scar will understand.

Instead, he glares up at Scar with squinted, tear-filled eyes and wraps his claws around the tattered fabric just a little bit tighter.

“Okay,” Scar shoves him away roughly, looking at his ruined waistcoat with disgust but not uttering a single word about it. “There’s no need for language like that! Guys, how about you all-“ he waves at the Hermits crowded around them, who have been glancing anxiously at the situation, muttering between themselves. A few have even had the sense to back away. “-How about you all head back to the stands, we’ll join soon. Just gotta deal with this one!” He laughs loudly, something exaggerated and tinged with nerves, with anger. 

“You–” Grian tries to continue, anger that rushing through every inch of his body pounds like a drumbeat. It vibrates through his skin and into his nerves until they're electrified and wound, and Grian needs to get it out, he needs to do something with this terrible, awful current- but then Mumbo shushes him loudly, and places a hand over his mouth.

It burns like betrayal. 

Scar is talking over him like he’s a child having a tantrum, like an infant that needs disciplining, and Mumbo - his partner, who has always promised to listen to him and be there for him - is shutting him up in the exact same way. He thought that Mumbo would be on his side, that Mumbo would back him up as he spoke – or, argued, more likely – with Scar.

Instead, he hushes him. He makes him pipe down so as not to cause a ‘scene’, as Scar so eloquently put it. As not to ruin things anymore than he already has.

Grian feels scolded, and the fury pumping through his veins turns white hot as he claws at Mumbo’s hand, chest heaving under the godawful suit jacket as he desperately tries to pull the sweaty grip away from his face. Words are exchanged over him, with Scar instructing Xisuma to go with the other Hermits and ensure they’re kept occupied, while Mumbo hissing intelligible words past Grian’s head.

The avian’s watery eyes remain locked on Scar as the elf watches everyone else retreat to Pearl’s soup truck, leaving just the three of them alone.

As soon as they leave, Mumbo is dragging his hand away from Grian’s mouth and turning him around so that they’re facing each other, gaze flicking between the two.

“Grian, you’ve been acting off all day,” Mumbo says, a twinge of something alarmed in his words, “What– what on earth is going on, you two?” 

“I have no idea!” Scar cries, throwing his arms out to the sides as if to punctuate the exclamation. “He’s– what do you think you’re doing, Grian?! You can’t say things like that when Hermits are streaming! Why are you being so–!”

Scar’s anger turns his face red, his eyes flickering electric blue, and Grian finds himself matching it easily. He’s furious, he’s so, so angry- he can’t remember the last time that he ever felt as though anger like this was justified, but everything is just so much, and Scar is so–

It’s like a flood, like a forest fire. It consumes, fills his lungs and his head and his heart, and he can barely think over the roaring of the ocean, over the screams of the flame.

“You’re not hearing a word that I say!” He roars, fury pulling his spine taut like a fishing line. “If you would just listen to me for once in your life–!”

“Today was everything to me!” Scar shouts in response, his voice hoarse as he jabs a finger towards Grian’s chest. “Why are you so insistent on ruining it!? What is everyone gonna think? That it’s my fault you messed it all up?! ” 

There is a certain hint of panic behind his eyes as Grian searches through them, and it is almost enough to make him pause.

Almost.

“I’m going to be the one under fire for this, Grian! I have so many people relying on today!” Scar screams, jolting forward until he is so close that Grian can practically feel his breath, hot and overwhelming like smoke from a dragon’s maw. “I need you to get that into your head– This isn’t about you–”

Mumbo tries to interrupt them, but his words fade into nothing but background noise. “That’s enough–”

“It’s not about me?!” Grian’s vision blurs, and the words feel like vomit, like they’re being forced up his throat and into the open despite his wishes. He reels backwards for a moment, before he is hauling himself out of Mumbo’s lap and standing shakily, towering above the others. “Why on earth would it be about me?! I’m not- trying to ruin this for you– I want this to go well too-”

Grian’s mind whirrs, the world tilting and spinning around him, fading in and out of focus. He feels hot, in an overwhelmed, sticky sort of way. As though his body and mind are in agreement that everything is just too much, combining every awful bit of input that they receive into a terrible knot in his stomach. Scar is practically vibrating with the force of his anger, staring up at Grian with something that… almost feels like hatred. Like loathing.

Maybe it’s just his overwhelmed mind, screaming and turning until he feels sick, but Grian cannot help but wonder if that’s the look he had on his face when he had called him this morning. Or when Grian had turned his back after saying that he wouldn’t stream. Or when Scar was watching him perform, barely a speck on the faraway ground.

(Even now, amidst a haze of reddened anger, he can’t help but wish for the ground to swallow him up; for his wings to drop him from a great height.)

(Would Scar still be looking at him that same way, then?)

“I just– I can’t–”

The elf’s eyes narrow, and there is something welling up in Grian’s chest, threatening to cave it in. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears, and it sounds just a little bit different than it did before- as if the fire that once consumed it has been doused with a bucket of icy water. His thoughts wander aimlessly as he tries to collect himself, to harness the anger that’s surely, surely still within him. Instead, all his mind echoes are questions. Curious, pondering things that draw him down rabbit holes he wants to run from, burrows that make him wish he could cower.

Is Scar really still thinking about this awful, dreadful event? Is he still more worried about everything going perfectly than the fact that Grian is hurting?

Does he even care?

Did he ever?

“I-I don’t–”

Grian’s words break off into a sniffle, and, oh.  

Oh. This isn’t anger anymore. 

The paint that had been smudged into an angry brown has been stirred just a little bit more, turning black with his anguish. The clashing sweet and savoury flavours have been overpowered by something sour, something that brings tears to his eyes and stings his mouth like his gums are nothing more than an open wound. The terrible smell of every perfume being shaken into one has changed, a new note of bitterness under the overwhelming sweetness of everything before it.

This isn't anger anymore, it's not the snowball or the anvil or the fire, or whatever other stupid metaphor his fuzzy brain might conjure- instead, it's something more akin to a seeping, creeping frost. A thin formality of snowflakes over the depths of a frozen pond, something fresh and crisp and cold. The fury that had been boiling under his skin has cooled, refreezing the ice around his heart into something sharper, like a cold night has passed in an instant.

Scar tuts, none the wiser to Grian's internal conflict, and demands, “You can’t what?” It seems like the patience that has allowed Grian to stutter and stumble like a fool is running out. “You can’t do this one thing for me? The plan that we’ve been going over for months?” His shaking fists clench by his sides, knuckles turning pale and bloodless. “You’re such a bad friend sometimes Grian– you’re so- you’re flaky! You act like you don’t care about me! ”

Grian whines, closing his eyes and wishing for his own fire to return. He wants nothing more than to match Scar's anger with his own, to be able to stand up for himself in this argument that he's created, but it oozes away like a plug has been pulled, rushing between his fingers and down the drain. There is nothing he can do to catch it, to stop it, even as Scar glares at him like he's about to burst into flame.

“That’s not fair, Scar,” he utters weakly. “You know how I–”

“-No! You know what’s not fair?” He pulls himself to his feet too, muscled frame towering over the avian, eyes crackling with red and blue veins. “The fact that you’re going back on something that you promised me you’d be able to do, and now–”

Mumbo tries again to get between them, crying out, “Stop it, both of you–!”

“I’m- I'm not trying to ruin anything,” Grian replies. There are tears beginning to streak down his cheeks, his hands drawing to his chest and holding himself. “I don’t want to mess this up for you, but you just keep- pushing and pushing and pushing!”

“I’m pushing? Because I’m trying to actually stick to the schedule that so many people have spent hours sorting out for us? I’m pushing?!–”

“ –Yes! Yes, I told you I couldn’t be here today, I told you I wouldn’t stream, I told you– and you just keep–” 

Grian feels like he’s losing, as hot tears begin to streak down his cheek like he's nothing more than a helpless baby; he feels like the world is falling apart around him.

And it's embarrasing- God, it's embarrasing. He doesn't want to cry like this, he wants to fight back, but everything is just so much and this day has just been so awful. It's all piling up again, a muddled puddle of terrible things that mingle into one until Grian can't feel anything more than bad.

Scar keeps pushing, even as Grian curls his arms around his waist like the floor has fallen out from under him.

“Those are all things that we’ve had arranged forever , Grian!” Scar rolls his eyes, like the avian is nothing more than an inconvenience; an annoying gnat for him to bat away. “These aren’t some new revelations! These are things that we’ve arranged, that you’ve agreed to, and you’re suddenly switching it up, not only on the day of the event , but as it starts–”

“Neither of you are helping this–” One of Mumbo’s hands flies to Grian’s arm. “Just–”

“–And I’m the one in the wrong here?” Scar speaks over Mumbo, his voice practically booming as he stares straight past the redstoner, into Grian’s eyes.

Everything feels so much, ringing in his ears and resounding through his chest, and Grian’s breath hitches helplessly as he bursts into loud, ugly sobs.

The tears stream in thick rivulets down his cheeks, painting them red and shiny, and it feels like he’s choking. His heart aches, throbbing in time with his head and his stomach, and everything just feels wrong. His breaths turn choppy at some point during it all, each inhale wet and churning, shaking his lungs and burning his throat. 

(Part of Grian wonders if he’s finally dying.)

“I can’t–” He wheezes, burying his face in his hands. He can’t look Scar in the eyes. He can’t know whether or not he’s still staring with that look of contempt. “Scar– I- I can’t–”

“Guys–!” Mumbo’s hand on his arm tries to pull him close, tries to cradle him and calm his tears, but Grian can’t stand the feeling of him touching him for a single moment longer, yanking himself back with an almighty flinch. He sways in place, but Mumbo doesn't dare touch him again.

(Grian isn't sure if that should count as a success or a failure.)

Scar just steps closer, and even with his eyes closed, Grian can feel the elf’s electric gaze on him. It feels just like the cameras, just like Them. 

“I’ve worked so hard on this,” Scar berates, his voice hoarse and cracking, “And you- and you just show up to ruin it! You can’t do the simplest of–”

“You're right! I can’t!” Grian cries, teary eyes peeling open again as he speaks. “I’m sorry- I’ve been trying so hard to stick it out, I’ve been trying so hard to suck it up for you!”

“You’re so–!” Scar begins, before being elbowed back by Mumbo, pushed away just slightly.

“I told you that I wouldn’t be able to do this- not today- not–”

“So, what? I’m just supposed to rearrange everything because you-” Scar makes air quotes, mocking and sarcastic, “-‘Can’t do this today’ ’? Is that right, Grian? I should just tell all of the Hermits, all of the organisers, the charity runners, the sponsors and merchandisers, Chat, to just pack up their stuff and wait for tomorrow, tell them all that it has to be called off because you ‘can’t’?”

Mumbo sounds appalled as he shrieks, “Scar-!”

Grian sobs louder. He wishes he had never gotten out of bed. He wishes he had never signed up for this awful event. He wants to fall asleep forever, to never see Scar or the cameras or this terrible place ever again. He’s tired and exhausted and terrified and–

“You’re so– you promised me,” Scar reiterates, tears in his own eyes, his shoulders raised practically to his ears. “You promised that you’d be here and you’d do this, and now you’re–!”

“Scar- quit it!”

“Stop defending him! He wanted to be here!” Scar sidesteps around Mumbo, his chest puffed out and his footing steady. He looks ready to cry too, face screwing up and eyebrows turning down as he stares at the redstoner. “He agreed to be here just like everybody else– just a few hours ago he told me that he’d do it! And now he- he’s ruining it!”

The words feel like bullets, like stab wounds, like all of the millions of kinds of pain that Grian has become so intimately familiar with over the years. It’s something akin to guilt, an overwhelmed kind of uselessness that threatens to drown him.

Scar knows how he struggles, knows how he has trouble getting out of bed some days – hell, Scar has kept him company on enough shitty nights and tough days to be very well aware that Grian struggles sometimes. He knows that he can be flaky with plans, or skip out on meetups, or stay quiet in conversation - he knows all of that! He’s seen it - lived it - alongside Grian, so… so he must be right. 

He has to be.

Grian didn’t have to come, he could have refused this morning. He could have been better, stronger, and stuck it out like a good friend, or he could have stayed at home. Every choice he’s made has been the wrong one; every decision he’s come to has been unfair. He’s selfish, and inconsiderate, he’s ruining everything and it’s all his fault.

He can’t breathe.

“That’s enough! Scar, back up, let him–!” Mumbo shoves Scar back firmly, two hands planted on his chest and pushing until he’s far enough away that Grian can see the sky again, breath short and uncontrolled, rattling in his throat. “Gri, look at me, please–”

Scar makes an upset noise, stumbling back clumsily. There are tears on his cheeks as he shouts, “Just leave, if you really can’t be here! You’ve been nothing but a hindrance all day anyway- you’re–”

“Scar!” Mumbo demonishes. “That’s enough, the pair of you! What on earth has gotten into you?!”

Exhaustion clings to Grian’s limbs like a child begging to go home, pulling him down and anchoring him in place as his vision turns spotty and black. He feels as though he’s swimming in mist, like he’s floating in void with no way to escape. Everything beats like a drum, his entire body shaking with every hammering pulse of his heart as he sobs and sobs, folding at the waist as his hands fly to his mouth to try and quiet his ragged breaths, to try and wipe the tears from his face.

“I- I'm-” He whispers like he's shell-shocked, barely sure of what he's even trying to say. The words are wispy and barely-there, clawing from his throat as if they’re covered in blood.

Scar wipes at his own cheeks, face red and expression upset and twisted like he’s just bitten into something sour. He looks away from Mumbo, from Grian, as though seeing them for even a moment longer is too much for him to bear. Grian thinks it feels almost akin to rejection, even as Mumbo pulls him into his shoulder, rubbing his back and whispering for him to breathe. His head spins and his knees shake as he tries to pull away, tries to get Scar to say something, to look at him, anything- anything at all.

“He’s right,” Grian confesses breathlessly, quietly. “I- I have to go–”

“No, Grian, he didn’t mean– stay here,” Mumbo’s arms loosen as Grian collapses into him, still crying even though it feels impossible, like he should have ran out of tears ages ago. “Stay, so we can make sure you’re okay.”

Grian knows that Scar doesn’t care about that, and he doesn’t know if he believes that Mumbo really does, either. 

He watches as Scar wipes at his nose, sniffling miserably and staring off into the distance, face turned away from the others’ embrace. He has truly ruined everything- he’s destroyed it all, every good thing that today was supposed to be. It’s his fault that Scar is upset now, it’s his fault that the schedule has been ruined. 

How is Scar supposed to go back to running everything when he knows what a terrible friend Grian is? How is he supposed to plaster on a smile?

“No-” Grian sways in place, lightheaded and breathless as both of his hands fly to Mumbo’s chest and shove, trying to force his way out of the redstoner’s grip. “No, I need to leave. I have to- I'm sorry–”

Scar won’t even look at him. Scar won’t even breathe in his direction.

Mumbo’s arms tighten around him, keeping his torso firmly in place while being mindful of his wings, lying over them more loosely. “We need to talk about this, Gri. You have to–”

“I’m so sorry,” Grian repeats as he snaps his wings open as forcefully as possible, sending Mumbo stumbling back as he tries to keep his balance. He crouches down on shaking legs, praying to whoever might be listening that he doesn’t fall immediately, and takes one last look towards Scar before slamming his aching, injured wings down and taking off into the air. 

Mumbo manages to right himself a few paces away, reaching out a hand as he tries desperately to reach his partner. “Grian!” He calls.

Scar doesn’t even look up as the avian propels himself low over his turned head.

Chapter Text

There’s something about the way that the sun hangs in the sky that seems almost… taunting.

The golden sunlight and cloudless blue is perfect, faultless, and it makes Grian feel like little more than a dark stain on the horizon. It’s the most perfect weather that any of them could have hoped for today; for everything that today was supposed to be. There is a delightful gleam to his feathers as they catch under the light, and a gorgeous, lush greenness to the trees and grasses below him.

It feels almost as though he’s wasting the goodness of that light; like he’s committing some heinous sin by allowing himself to exist in it. It’s as though the shadow he casts on the ground from high above is tainting the land, spreading an infection. A disease.

Even so, everything continues to shine, to glimmer, unbothered by the rot that he and his namesake are spreading throughout the roots and the leaves.

It’s only mid-afternoon, the sun reminds him as it showers down from directly overhead, and yet Grian is on his third breakdown of the day. It was only a little disagreement, it seems to call at him, one which hardly needs calls for such dramaticism.

He can’t help but agree - it all feels like an overreaction. Like he’s blowing everything out of proportion. But Scar’s words weigh like dark, blooming bruises being kissed along his shoulder blades, brought to the centre of his vision and the forefront of his mind by the blinding, blinding sunlight.

(“You’re going to keep going, aren’t you?”)

… He tries to keep to the shade as much as possible.

Grian isn’t exactly sure where he’s going as he flies – he could barely tell the sky from the seas with the way that tears blur his vision – but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to have a destination in mind as his wings carry him over the shopping district. He doesn’t need anything but the instinctive, desperate need to get out.  

It’s the same spiking adrenaline that had coursed through him when Mumbo clamped his hand over his mouth, or when Doc had walked in on him with vomit dripping from his lips. He hates it. Imagining himself without it feels… difficult, right now.

It doesn’t sound like there’s anyone following him – there’s no firing of rockets or calling of his name that he can make out – but maybe that’s just because of the way the wind whistles past his ears. Or the way that the pounding of his heart drowns out almost everything else. Either way, Grian is almost certain he isn’t being followed.

And- he doesn’t know why he even entertains the idea that someone might.

After all, why would the others want to follow him? Why would they care? Why would any of them want to see him after he had been so awful? So childish? So careless?

He upset Mumbo, he ruined the event that all of them had been so excited about, and worst of all Scar had been right about him. In every single word. He was being dramatic, flaky, selfish. He was hurting the person he promised to help – he was hurting all of them – because he’s a terrible, pathetic excuse for a friend. He’s cruel, and he’s inconsiderate, and he deserved every painful word thrown his way.

Grian’s wings ache. His back aches. 

… His heart aches most of all.

Everything is fuzzy and out of focus, from the trees on the horizon to the whistling of his feathers against the wind. He’s not sure where he is anymore. He’s barely breathing, barely thinking – he just knows that he needs to keep going; he has to keep pushing; he has to get far, far away.

He’s sure that the tears are rolling down his cheeks by now– they feel wet and frozen against the gusting wind – but with the way that everything sounds so loud, drowning out the possibility of hearing his own sobs, he can’t quite be sure. 

Distantly, he remembers something about a tree falling, about being around to hear it. Then the winds change again, churning, dragging him down a little too much for comfort, and he forgets all about it.

His flight has been bumpy so far, a constant push and pull that tosses him around like a ragdoll; a plaything. His injured wing strains and throbs under the stress of righting him in such turbulent weather, and it’s a struggle every time that he gets swept up. He knows he won’t get far, that his wings will give up on him soon enough as the gusts try to drag him back to where he’s just left, and–

(“Just leave, if you really can’t be here! You’ve been nothing but a hindrance all day anyway-”)

Making it to his mega base would have been ideal, even if he hadn’t realised that was the direction he was going before now, but with the way that every part of him is straining, he knows that it’s impossible. He’s already crashed once today, he’d much rather avoid crashing again.

… Part of him doesn’t want to go back there, even though it’s his primary base at the moment. Part of him doesn’t want to step foot back in the place he’s only just left. The place that had him trapped for so long. That saw him shaking and heaving and crying on the floor for days at a time, unable to pull himself out of bed. Unable to do anything at all.

It seems like a silly thing to have objections to now, but he can’t help it. Even crashing would be better than going back there to rot.

With furrowed brows, shaking wings and a deep, trembling breath, Grian tries to lower himself as gently as he can, his aching muscles and pounding head fighting every step of the way. He passes over the Entity, around Bdubs’ base and above the Hermissipi until he’s circling his starter base, getting lower and lower as he tries fruitlessly to focus his gaze long enough to figure out how close he is to the ground.

Everything is swimming, his head is pounding like a steel drum, and he can barely make out the fact that the grass has individual strands before his feet are touching the ground and he’s reeling forwards, stumbling clumsily across the dirt. His legs want to crumple under him, turning weak and shaky as he tries not to fall over immediately, but he digs his heels into the ground with a stubborn grunt.

“Shit–“ he exhales, the word barely a breath on his tongue. “I-”

He doesn’t know what to do, how to act in a situation like this. It’s unprecedented, how much he’s let everything get to him. How much he’s let all of it show.

Grian isn’t sure if he’s ever messed up so badly during his time as a Hermit– and he’s certain he hasn’t been so panicked around the friends who have steadily, unfairly snuck their way into being his family, since the start of Season 6. It feels almost foreign, almost completely unfamiliar, and the realisation is nearly as shuddering as he pinwheels towards the front door and throws it open, the hinges complaining loudly as he stumbles inside.

He’d been doing so well. He’d been so well, and now everything feels as though it’s falling apart. It’s like he’s new on the server again, afraid and uncertain, flinching at every touch and cowering at every shadow. He never meant to make everyone upset, he never meant to be such a burden on them, but he was and he is and he doesn’t know how to fix it–

It feels like a regression. Like a relapse.

Grian is barely present enough to pay any mind to the way that the dishes on the shelf rattle as the door slams harshly into the wall, adrenaline shoving him across the room until he’s digging his talons into the ladder. There’s no sense to his movements, no thought behind the way that his grip tightens, knuckles turning pale and bloodless. His claws leave divots in the carefully carved wood, something so akin to a scar that it makes him shake, but it doesn’t matter. 

He hauls himself up, rung after rung, his mind spinning and his chest aching. Every movement echoes, blends together like a dream or a distant wish, and it feels so much like he’s clambering towards something awful. Each shaving of wood that comes off under his hands feels like an omen.

It’s a terrifying mirror to the way he climbed out of that tent earlier in the day, clawing higher and higher as though reaching the top might offer him some salvation. As though brushing his fingers against the sunlight at the top of the climb might in some way lessen the pressure in his chest.

Grian finds himself almost shocked that the wood doesn’t flake into ash under his touch.

His heart beats like a stopclock, pounding through him like a stampede, and it sends an uncomfortable energy shimmying under his skin. He needs to do something, he has to do anything at all– the quick, rhythmic thumping in his ears is counting down, and he doesn’t know if he wants to figure out what it’s counting towards. All he knows is that he’s got to do something.

He has to move.

So he does.

He goes flying up the ladder, clawing his way onto the floor of his bedroom and looking frantically from wall to wall. The shadows are clamouring, intimidating, and it’s not enough. He needs to do something.

There is a nest here, he remembers as his eyes fall upon the half-circle of blankets and clothes on the opposite side of the room, though it only barely qualifies as one. 

Grian moved most of the fabrics and clothes to his mega base when he began to work on it, since he knew that he would be staying in this cottage so rarely after getting started on such a time consuming project. But, somewhat unsurprisingly, he didn’t manage to take everything over before getting distracted by something more entertaining – probably a prank on Mumbo, or a project with Scar. It- it means that this room - the entire upper floor, really - still smells like home. Like family.

It feels like he’s been punched in the face.

Approaching the pathetic excuse for a nest – something so puny and thin that he can see the floor underneath it peeking through the fabrics – makes him feel nauseous. There’s a ringing in his ears and a dryness to his mouth as he stands over it, casting a shadow that seems to engulf the entire thing, and all that Grian can think is that he doesn’t deserve this anymore. He doesn’t deserve the safety that it once provided. The trust that it once represented. 

He thinks of how angry they must be. Of how angry they deserve to be.

It’s so awful, he thinks. It’s so, so awful, just how easily everything fell apart. Just how easily he destroyed it all.

(“You’re such a bad friend sometimes Grian– you’re so- you’re flaky! You act like you don’t care about me!”)

He ruined it, everything that he had built with them and everything that they had offered him. And, worst of all, it was all for nothing. He didn’t have to blow up at Scar, he didn’t have to fall, he didn’t have to put up a fight at the idea of climbing back up that ladder and restarting the music.

But he did, and it ruined everything, and it was all because of nothing. 

He should have waited until after the event had finished to tell Scar what was going on. He should have stayed calm, quiet. He should have been docile and, he should have held it in and sucked it up and just gotten on with it, like any normal person would have. Like any of the Hermits would have.

He’s so worthless when compared to them, so pathetic and useless and inadequate in every way. They’re everything that he could never be. They’re so- they’re so good.

He wishes he could just be good.

The thought makes his hands ball into knuckles and his jaw turn stiff, claws digging painfully into his hands as he stands over the nest, rumpled and messy in his best, most uncomfortable suit. His hair falls in his eyes, too long and tangled by the wind, and Grian’s gaze darts about the room, searching.

Standing still feels wrong. Taking any time to think feels wrong. Pondering all of the things that he could have done differently, all of the things that he could have done to stop himself from destroying the event with all the grace of a child shattering a precious antique. 

He wants to hurt, to control the destruction that he spreads, to rip and shred and do something with the electricity crackling in his veins. With the thousands of needles that put pressure on his limbs every instant that they aren’t in motion. 

Adrenaline courses through him with all the force of a rapids, waves of crashing force and uncomfortable electricity, and he has to do something. The tips of his fingers prickle, the hairs on his neck stand on end, and suddenly Grian finds once again that he’s moving.

Vision blurring, Grian shambles forward clumsily, like gravity is something that he’s never known before today. He staggers forward until he’s passing the threshold of the nest, stumbling slightly as one of his feet catches on a jacket.

He doesn’t deserve to have this nest; to have these things belonging to the people that he’s wronged. He doesn’t deserve to take comfort in their misplaced love for him.

He has to do something.

Then there’s an instinct, an innate something - panicked and desperate - that seizes Grian’s body from his control and sends him falling to his knees in the nest he doesn’t deserve to have. The echoing, mocking countenance of Scar’s angry voice fades into nothingness. Only a beat later, he begins to tear. 

Sharp claws and old fabric make for a dangerous combination, and Grian hasn’t a moment to consider before he is ripping easily through the nest. His fingers are spread wide, muscles flexing as he tries to cut as much to ribbons as he can with every handful. It’s like a party popper has erupted, streamers of shaved fabric decorating the ground as he rips and shreds like a mindless animal, darkness creeping into the corners of his vision.

It doesn’t take long, which is perhaps the worst part of it all. Carving through every part of the nest is easy, quick, and it’s probably only a matter of minutes before stray threads and tattered rags are pooling around him like fresh, upturned dirt. 

It’s like he’s digging his own grave, or making space for himself in the ground, and Grian finds that he just can’t stop.

At some point, his talons must have caught him, because there are strange splotches of red intertwined in the wreckage surrounding him. It feels fitting.

He still doesn’t stop.

Breath ragged and mind spinning, Grian’s frenzied digging doesn’t end until his claws have made divots in the wooden flooring, every thin layer of the nest pruned back until wood shavings are mingling with his blood and the fabrics. His heart is pounding, his entire form shaking with the force of his adrenaline, but he can’t stop- he can’t take his eyes off of the gouges in the floor, the cadavers of everything his friends entrusted to him.

Distantly, he thinks that someone might be screaming. 

Distantly, he wonders if it might be him.

Grian clambers to his feet, kicking up rags as he does, and rushes to his wardrobe. Everything feels blurry, a slideshow of colours and smells and feelings that he can’t quite place as he throws open all the doors and begins tugging out long-forgotten clothes and sheets and building materials, shredding old blueprints and plans and letters–

Every item feels tainted, like it was stained, and then washed over and over again until he thought that those stains were gone. Like he’s only now realising that they never left, and everyone else has been able to see them all this time. 

It feels like spilled coffees and ink from late nights spent working, like perfume marks and old food stains that he just didn’t see before.

He has to get rid of them- of those stains. Of those oh-so-obvious blemishes.

They don’t stand a chance against the hysteric swiping of his claws, carelessly tossed to the ground in an instant with an unheard wail.

He needs to hurt more. To punish himself more. 

The palms of his hands throb steadily and his fingers shake, and he can’t allow himself to take comfort in this place, in this home that he doesn’t deserve any longer. In all of the good things he’s ruined. In all of the wonderful people that he’s hurt.

He can’t believe that he ever thought he deserved them in the first place. When did he start allowing himself things like those?

… Scar was right about him.

He was right.

A low buzzing that has settled over everything, a blanket of white noise similar to the humming of cicadas on early summer mornings. Similar to his own purrs and chirps when he’s content, or when he’s trying to pretend that he is. His movements are manic, completely automatic and fuelled by a desperate, rage-inducing panic. 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, not really. 

What he does know, however, is that it’s not enough.

It’s not enough to just throw things, to just tear them apart, and a sharp, guttural screech manages to break free from his throat as Grian hauls himself to his feet and rushes to tear his claws against the painting hung on the wall. He yanks the frame free from its hook and throws it, watching with a fixated fascination as the wood splinters apart as it collides with the ground. 

It’s still not enough.

Grian finds himself shaking out his wings as he digs his talons into the space between his wardrobe and the wall, tugging until there is enough room for him to stomp behind it. He doesn’t take a single moment to think before he is pushing pushing pushing until it falls, tipping over with a horrific crash.

Furniture, lamps, decorations, clothes- his vision fades in and out for what could be a few seconds, or minutes, or maybe hours. By the time he comes back to himself, his arms ache, his back hurts, and there is nothing left untouched in the room that he stayed in for so many months at the beginning of the season.

Claw marks litter the walls like scabs, uneven strokes that mix with his blood, painting the debris around him. His chest is heaving, his entire body is shuddering, and Grian doesn’t know why he’s doing this. He doesn’t- he doesn’t–

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. 

He doesn’t know why he’s destroying everything he’s worked so hard on. But it feels pretty fucking awful as he falls to his knees and curls in on himself, his entire body a taut string of tension that could snap at any moment. There is a breathless scream on his lips as his claws snap straight to his arms, scratching and scraping, tearing at whatever they can reach. 

It hurts, everything hurts– like a river overflowing, a waterfall pouring over a precipice, but he can’t stop it. He screams and screams and wails into the tattered rags and splintered wood and ruined work under him, hoarse and loud and consuming. 

It’s as though the whole world is spinning faster than it ever has, thrown off of its axis and bowled across the room.

He grieves, cries and sobs and mourns until he’s dizzy and his throat goes rough. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut and his hands rake up and down his arms, gently brushing along the broken skin like a pianist miming the notes of a song. 

Nothing is right anymore, he’s ruined everything and it feels as though there’s no coming back. As though he can’t fix all of the awful mistakes that he’s made. Everything is a mess, everything is broken, and, as Grian lies alone in the graveyard of the consequences of his love, he feels so fucking dramatic.

Scar told him he was taking things too far, Scar said that he was making something out of nothing, and – as Grian sobs into the wreckage of his home, surrounded by the shredded reminders of friendship and the destroyed evidence of hours of love and passion and creativity – he knows that Scar was right.

Everything throbs as he pulls himself to his knees, crawling across the floor until he can collapse on one of the ripped shirts that would have once been a part of his nest. 

It feels like a grave.

(He wishes he would die there.)

With a long, shaky exhale, Grian closes his eyes once again.

Maybe, if he pretends, he can exist like nothing is wrong for just a few moments more.

Maybe, if he ignores his own trembling, he can convince himself that he’s warm, lying in the centre of a delightful, perfect nest.

Maybe–

He murmurs fantasies to himself for- hours, probably. He weaves stories, plays make-believe with safety and love and contentment, dressing himself up like a doll in different words and personalities that would make him better. That would make him normal. Able. Whole.

Eventually, he stops shaking, his breathing evens out, and the blood on his arms turns tacky and brown. It’s not calm, per say, but there’s certainly an element of serenity to it. He feels fuzzy and distant, almost chillingly similar to how he thinks that he did at the beginning of all of this – like he’s nothing more than static on an old television.

The world is quieter than it was before – the drum-like thudding of his heart finally receding as he lies there and breathes. It’s probably only because of that quiet that he hears a firework outside – a distant noise, but one that repeats, getting steadily closer.

Hm, he thinks to himself, thoughts floaty and soft, how odd.

There is more noise, probably, but it barely registers in Grian’s mind. He thinks that maybe there is someone calling for him, perhaps even the sound of a door opening, or footsteps walking around downstairs.

He opens his eyes slowly, unfocused gaze stuck to the ceiling above him, gaze tracing the uneven, textured calcite. It doesn’t move, doesn’t swim in his vision or circle above him, so Grian concludes that there’s nothing to worry about.

There’s nothing but him and the ceiling and his warm, warm nest.

Nothing but– but the sound of footsteps creaking up the stairs.

He’s sat up in an instant, forcing his eyes to focus on the dimpled, damaged wood of the door. Grian can’t think of a single person who might want to be here, he can’t imagine what reason anyone would have for showing up. 

And, as the footsteps stop and the door handle begins to turn, Grian is certain that no matter the reason, it can’t be good.

Chapter Text

Mumbo can’t help but feel a little bit stupid as he paces back and forth, dress shoes thudding against the uneven ground as he walks.

Grian has become nothing more than a speck that he can barely see on the horizon, wings carrying him into the distance with a stuttered beats. Mumbo keeps his gaze fixed on the skies even as he leaves his view, mind running a million miles an hour as he tries to figure out what to do about the fact that his partner has just flown off. 

It was sudden - Grian’s leaving - just as everything that seems to have gone wrong today was. There was a moment of stillness as everything crumbled around them, and then he was gone. Though, from the avian’s quietness earlier, to him falling out of the sky as everyone watched, to the seemingly blowout argument that he’s just had with Scar, a sort of drastic conclusion doesn’t surprise Mumbo as much as it might have been any other day.

Don’t get him wrong, it had certainly been shocking- scary even- to watch as Grian fell silent for only a second, before he was spreading his wings, spitting apologies and flying away at speeds that had Mumbo craning his neck so quickly that it had twinged with whiplash. But even so, it wasn’t a surprise that all of the gallons of adrenaline flooding every party involved meant that the ending was a little dramatic.

Scar had yelled something after Grian as he flew away, and Mumbo had been left reeling at the horrible tension that remained strung in the air. There had been a pair of hollow thuds next to him, which he realises now were the sounds of Scar falling to his knees and then the ground, and a few strings of expletives that had him whipping around to face Scar just as quickly. 

Confused was probably a good way to sum up Mumbo’s experiences of the day, really. He had almost no idea what was going on, caught off guard by every strange behaviour and new revelation, even as he tried to offer comfort and support to his lover, who… really seemed to need it. For some reason.

Grian and Scar had always been best friends, closer than ever this season as they partook in new games, contests and storylines together. They were practically attached at the hip, the playful arguing and insults between them never reeking with the same wretched hostility that Mumbo has seen today. They were closer than Mumbo had seen many people, sharing vulnerabilities and understandings without any words, glances had always been enough communication between the pair of them. Especially when they were plotting something.

In any case, that didn’t seem to be the reason right now, and Mumbo finds himself with no explanation as to why. 

“What…?” He manages to stammer, biting at his bottom lip and running his knuckles against each other. His gaze catches for a second on the way that Scar seems to have resigned himself to sit messily in the dirt. “Scar- what?” 

Scar simply sighs, brushing his fingers delicately across the pebbles and dust of the coarse dirt pathway. He uproots a couple of the small stones, fingernails growing black and dirty as he picks them out from the ground, flicking them and watching as they spin away into the grass, lost from his eyes. It takes a few long moments for him to respond, curled posture straightening as he stretches his spine in a way that is almost as though he is resetting himself with a groan.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, Mumbo!” He locks his elbows, wincing as he shakily clambers to his feet before shooting Mumbo a showman’s smile. “It’s nothing. He’ll be alright!”

Mumbo is sure that's supposed to be reassuring, but the dirt on Scar’s trousers and his practically shredded waistcoat really ruin the effect. He looks dishevelled, hair a mess and eyes tired, and it really doesn’t project an image that he finds truthful. There's so much that he isn't being told, so much that he doesn’t understand, and Mumbo is starting to get pretty darn sick of it.

Scar seems to double down as he notes the hesitation in Mumbo’s expression. “He’ll get over it, I promise.”

"Uh- sorry, bud, but I'm not sure I buy that. He seemed really upset, and- and he’s just… been off today.” Mumbo's teeth continue to dig into his bottom lip harder and harder, worrying at the skin until the tangy taste of copper spills onto his tongue. "You have too."

Scar hums noncommittally, busying himself. He bends down to pick up his hat, brushing it off and straightening the pair of feathers that are pinned under its band. His expression is unreadable, something professional and withdrawn and planned on his features as he settles it back over the crown of his head.

There is a strange, quiet dissonance between them for a few beats, a few seconds too long that are filled with nothing but the sound of breathing and shifting fabrics. Then, Scar tips his head back unnaturally and laughs, something bell-like and ingenuine. 

“I’m not sure what you mean!” He pulls his jacket off of his shoulders, thrusting it into Mumbo’s hands suddenly, and waiting for the man to take hold of it before taking off his waistcoat. He smirks a little as Mumbo does so without question, flashing his teeth as he continues, “Maybe the stress of the day is getting to you a little, hm?”

Mumbo scoffs, a pang of hurt making itself known in his posture. “That seems a little insulting, dude,” he says as he drapes the jacket over his shoulder and takes Scar’s discarded waistcoat in his hands too, trying desperately to ignore the way that they shake. “It’s just that- he seemed really upset earlier, and I tried to talk to him but he wouldn’t tell me what’s going on, and I just- I don’t…”

Scar redresses himself in his jacket as Mumbo rambles, unfinished sentences and pointless words spilling helplessly from his lips. The elf’s three-piece suit is down to a two-piece now, but he looks no less dapper; no less prepared to step into a spotlight and perform.

Strangely, after everything that has happened today, it’s as though it barely takes anything at all for Scar to be put together again, the evidence of Grian’s plight steadily disappearing from his silhouette as he rebuilds the scratched and torn pieces of himself. Looking at Scar now, at his cleverly constructed projection, it feels a little like a disguise. And- maybe it’s a bit of a disservice to the man, to think that the smile he wears is fake, but there’s something undeniably off about everything that’s gone down today that Mumbo just can’t ignore. Something that stinks like a corpse and blares like a siren.

Looking at Scar now, looking as deeply into his eyes as Mumbo can while the other man avoids his gaze, there’s some sort of guilt clawing underneath his expression. Something dark and oozing, something regretful.

Mumbo is confused. He’s baffled and puzzled and he doesn’t know what’s going on, but by Void if he isn’t going to find out.

It’s- he isn’t totally sure how to find out, not with all of the warning signs and unexpected boundaries he’s been walking into today, but normally he would just… ask. He can’t think of anything else to do, he doesn’t want to think that he can’t just ask his friends about something that’s bothering him, so- he has to. 

What happened? He wants to say. He wants an answer to. Why are you both acting like this? Are you okay?

Instead, what leaves his mouth is: “… Aren’t you worried?”

A beat.

There’s no reply, a pungent silence filling the space between them. Scar looks slightly distant, eyes fixed on Mumbo’s own but not quiet seeing. Not quite processing. The measured smile is still pasted on his lips, hanging there like a horseshoe over a door frame.

“I just mean-” the redstoner continues, “Like, what if he’s hurt? What- what if he fell? Again?”

Another pulse of silence. Another lack of a response. It almost makes Mumbo a little annoyed, something frigid crawling up his spine which has a slightly different flavour to that of the panic he was chewing on before.

“Scar.” He punctuates the word as much as he dares. “Are you even listening?”

“Hm?” Scar blinks at him, like he’s just now tuning into the conversation, “Oh, uh- of course I’m worried, Mumbolio,” he nods. “But I’m sure he’ll be fine. Let’s not focus on that, though - we gotta make sure we’re ready to dazzle all those folks waiting for us, right?”

“B-but, Grian–”

“Psh,” Scar laughs again, lurching forward robotically to grab at Mumbo’s hand and trying to pull him along. “He’ll be fine. I’m not one to give up so easily, Mumbo!”

The dig is clear enough that Mumbo finds himself suppressing a flinch, trying to tug his wrist away from Scar’s grasp as the elf tugs him towards the tent that the rest of the Hermits are in. “R-right. Uh- well, something happened, and- and Grian seemed really upset, and I’d appreciate if you could talk to me-“

“There’s nothing to talk about!” Scar waves him off again, insistent. “C’mon, we need to get back.”

“I don’t- you aren’t telling me what’s going on! Grian was- he might be- I’m worried that-“ Mumbo stutters, his words failing him. He yanks his wrist back harshly, trying to break free of Scar’s iron grip.

With a sigh, Scar loosens his fingers and turns back to Mumbo. He dips his head for a moment as he runs his fingers along the lapels of his jacket contemplatively. “Look, man, you're worried- I get it!” He squeezes Mumbo’s fingers, a pressure that feels familiar enough to be comforting, despite the situation. “But we have bigger things to think about right now, don’t we?"

Bigger things to worry about? What?

Every loose end, every unexplained thread- they all whirl through Mumbo’s mind like a hurricane. He feels like a child, one who has just been left by his parents for the first time. It warps his surroundings, it makes everything seem so scary and different and lonely- he wants to go home, wants to be somewhere that he understands and belongs. But he isn’t, and he can’t, because Scar won’t talk to him and Grian is gone.

Mumbo feels so lost, so confused, so unbelievably out of the loop. He’s just- just-

Helpless, standing there with his hand cradled in Scar’s warm grip. 

‘I told you I couldn’t be here today! I told you I wouldn’t stream! I told you- and you just keep-!’ He remembers Grian shouting, and how he wishes he knew what that meant.  

But he very pointedly, frustratedly doesn’t, and he can’t ask anybody, and the event around him keeps chugging along even so. They keep living and breathing and moving, even though Mumbo can barely understand why they’re bothering.  

He just needs a moment of pause, he thinks. Just two seconds of quiet.

… He doesn’t get one, because everything keeps moving. Scar keeps talking.

“-We can talk with him later if we have to!” The man blathers with a smile, and it’s inviting and warm and sends a shudder right down Mumbo’s spine. “But right now, we gotta focus on the matter at hand, this is important stuff.”

Mumbo grimaces. His head is spinning. His hands are shaking. “Scar- Scar–“ 

“Of course, I knew you would understand, Mumbo. We’ve got people relying on us, don’t we?”

 “That’s not-” He tries to pull away, but it doesn’t work. Not while Scar just keeps talking.

Scar beams at him, “C’mon now, let’s go! We can’t be wasting time!”

“Scar! Scar!” Mumbo’s voice is choked, something wet and strangled in it that makes the other man pause in his ramblings. He yanks his hand back, snatches it from Scar’s gentle grip and holds it close to his chest. “I really don’t know what’s– we need to- we need to go after him! I’m not going to- to just pretend that didn’t happen!“

He thinks he might throw up. Why does Scar want to brush past something so awful? Grian is so obviously in need of their company, why can’t Scar stop for a minute to understand that?

Scar looks like he wants to touch him, like he wants to place a soothing hand on his shoulder or lace their fingers together again, like he wants to provide a comfort. But he doesn’t - perhaps because he knows that it won’t. Perhaps because Mumbo has begun to pull each of his extremities as close to himself as possible, pointedly out of reach. 

Instead, he tries to meet Mumbo’s eyes, the smile on his lips turning strained. “Well, why not?” He asks, a sort of unyielding stubbornness in his features.

“W-why not?” Mumbo echoes. “Because we shouldn’t just leave him to be upset by himself! We should- check on him?”

Scar sighs, his expression almost seeming puzzled at Mumbo's insistence, if not a little annoyed. "Mumbo," he starts, "Birdie made the decision to fly off, just like he made the decision to be here in the first place! I know you're worried, but that doesn't stop the fact that we're in the middle of one of the biggest events this season so far!" His voice is strained, a sort of stringy, taut quality to it. "That- that doesn't go away because he decided to - I don't know - to throw a tantrum."

Mumbo pauses to take in the other man's words, paling. They feel charged, almost electric, but with a strange weight to them. It does nothing to push down Mumbo's yearning for understanding; it does nothing to dissuade him from trying to pick apart the bags under Scar's eyes, and the hunch in his posture.

"Are... are you kidding?" Mumbo can feel a cold sweat settling over his brow. "Scar, he just–"

"Mumbo." The elf is tense. His shoulders are straightened, pulled up to his ears, and the curl in his spine has corrected itself. He stands tall, not taller than Mumbo, but tall nonetheless. 

It's not necessarily intimidating, and it's definitely not threatening or anything of the sort, but it's strange. Unusual.

There are the remnants of tears in Scar's eyes as he stares up at Mumbo, piercing. His hat is just slightly askew on his head. He seems tired, like he's falling, like the mask that he's been wearing is starting to slip. Like there is something else to be revealed.

"Scar," Mumbo responds in kind, his own gaze unwavering, unblinking.

It seems to make Scar pause, unused to the way that he isn't backing down, isn't curling up or giving in, submitting to some strange or random scheme like he usually would. 

"I– I don't know what you want me to do about him." He says, his words strained and warbling. "I can't get him to come back or anything - he made his choice-"

Mumbo takes a few frantic steps back, a nervous energy thrumming through him. It’s frustrating, the way that he’s being fought every step of the way, in a way that Mumbo isn’t particularly familiar with. 

He sucks in a deep breath to try and calm himself, pacing back and forth, back and forth. "It’s not about that! You know that any of us would drop everything to help you out– Grian needs that now! We have to–!"

"I can't!” Scar interrupts, crying out. “I- I have things to do here, even if Grian doesn't seem to think that they're important! I have so many people counting on me- I don't have time for his- his-"

"C'mon, mate." Mumbo tries his best to remain firm, unyielding, tapping the toe of his dress shoes against the uneven dirt. "The others could handle it here, if you let them. He was upset- he was hurt, so I need you to help me-"

“Look!” He bursts out with, in a strange, uncanny rage that Mumbo really can’t place the source of. He’s sure that the adrenaline is still rushing through Scar’s veins, only driven faster every moment that he’s away from his stream and his event, but still. It seems out of place. Like he’s trying to save face. “If you want to chase after him, then be my guest! But I won’t, and I would hope that you care enough about me not to flake, too.” 

“Scar- you-“ Mumbo sputters. “You’re serious.”

It’s not a question, not anymore.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

It’s dismissal, it’s nonchalance, and it makes Mumbo feel as though he’s been thrown through a loop. He doesn’t know how to handle this, how to fix it.

"He– Scar- your best friend just flew off incredibly upset. Why would you stay?”

They’re going around in circles, he knows. They’ve been talking about this forever, he knows. There’s no right answer, no solution.

"I'm busy, Mumbo! I can't just drop everything to run after him or- or whatever you want me to do! He's being selfish- this isn't about him! But he's still- he's been so set on ruining everything all day!"

Those words have Mumbo’s blood boiling. It’s been an annoyance to keep running in these pointless circles when Grian could have crashed somewhere, where his partner could be hurt, but this- is genuine anger.

Mumbo can feel as his hands clench into fists, nails digging into the calloused and worked skin of his palm. The hair on his neck stands on end, something electric and furious working its way through him as his eyes narrow into a glare.

"You're being ridiculous, Scar," he growls, ignoring the way that he can feel his vocal chords rumble with the noise. “This is Grian that you’re talking about.”

Scar simply shakes his head, pacing away from Mumbo like a prowling animal. He circles closer to the Hermits, to the backdrop of the minigames and stalls that have been set up throughout the district. 

"Am I?” He questions, the shadow of his hat falling over his eyes, exaggerating the bags that hang deep under them. “For trying to prioritise everyone else – the work that we're doing and the people that we're helping – over a stupid little- little tantrum? Am I really?" 

Scar's voice is hoarse from all the shouting, a certain wild quality behind his eyes that… scares Mumbo more than he cares to admit. He looks like he wants to pounce, like he expects to be able to simply roar and have command over all the other animals in the jungle. His hat slips a little further, a clear tilt to the way that it perches on his head. Mumbo clenches his teeth.

"I have people relying on me,” he says. “I have people that I won't let down."

The ‘ unlike him’ goes unspoken.

He’s not going to get answers, Mumbo realises, trying desperately to calm himself, to clear his thoughts. He won’t get answers, not like this, not with Scar being just as angry as he is. Nothing that he’s saying seems to get through to him, nothing seems to break the strange sheen of betrayal or treachery that has coated Scar’s vision like tar, no matter how hard Mumbo tries.

It feels like a lost cause, trying to talk to him, and the thought is so raw that it almost hurts. Mumbo wants to help, but Scar doesn’t seem to want to let him, or– or doesn’t seem to know that he’s offering. 

It’s a strange… disconnect, almost. Like a redstone wire that is just one signal strength short of setting a machine in motion, or a cable that is just a centimetre too short to reach its destination. He doesn’t know how to get around it, not without shuffling everything around or tearing everything apart. But the lack of a solution doesn’t stop the fact that he has to start somewhere. That he has to start dismantling the behemoth before him, even though it doesn’t feel like progress- because it is. It’s a start. 

Scar isn’t going to give him any answers, and neither of them are willing to back down. So he just needs to take that leap, he just needs to go, and do what he thinks is right. Even if Scar won’t be there to back him up.

This revelation, that Scar won’t let him in on whatever has happened and isn’t about to do a single thing to help his friend, has Mumbo settling into a strange sort of numbness. 

He feels a little blank, a little empty, as he says, "You, Scar, need to get your head on straight."

"E-excuse me?" The man sputters in reply.

"You need to pull your head out of your arse and think about anything other than today, just for a minute.” Mumbo’s tone is even, low. “Your- your stress doesn't permit your bad behaviour!"

A harsh, vitriol scoff curbs its way from Scar’s throat, the noise tearing and frayed. “My bad behaviour? Are you kidding?!" The elf is red in the face, his fists are clenched tightly, and Mumbo finds himself glad that he shook off the man’s grip when he did. "Mumbo, he was here entirely voluntarily, helping me out because he promised that he would and that's what friends are for. He is the one who chose to cause a scene, to overshadow every good thing that I worked so hard to make sure that today was-" 

He barely takes a breath between his words, a furious, poisonous ramble cascading out of him. "I am not some kind of- of villain for getting upset when my friend is choosing to ruin something I've poured so much into because he just- just doesn't care about my hard work! If he really 'couldn't' be here, then he wouldn't be-"

“–That's not fair, Scar-!"

"No! What’s not fair is that he showed up knowing that he was going to do something to mess everything up!–” He yells, staggering forward on a jerky, unstable gait. It sends his hat careening from his head, falling to the dirt without a single glance being thrown its way. The feathers in the band are crushed under its weight, the webs and barbs breaking apart as they are forced into the mud. 

Even so, Scar continues. Even as the hat rolls slowly away from him, stopping a metre or so from Mumbo’s scuffed dress shoes. 

“–What’s not fair is that he carried on anyway, just so that he could ruin it! What’s not fair is that he chose to ruin this for me, that he decided to rock up and ruin all of the hundreds of hours I’ve put into this! This whole thing is on my head, on my name, and he- he-!"

"... Scar."

Mumbo stands stock-still now, watching with a dawned horror as Scar pants in front of him, his words cutting off at the interruption. They are quiet for a few long moments, total silence falling between them as if the whole world were holding its breath, and then Scar lets out a sigh, a perfect salesman smile placed easily upon his lips. He stumbles forward, bending at the waist to pick his hat up with flick of his wrist, shaky hands disguised by a dramatic flourish. He is still smiling as he straightens back up. 

"I need to go." It’s almost a shock how miserable Scar’s words sound, with the wide, convincing smile on his face. "I have work to do."

"... Once this is over,” Mumbo says, slowly. “I hope you spend a long, long time thinking about it." His eyes flit around the figure before him, taking in all of the little details about how he holds himself, how he stitches the tatters of his facade back together. "I hope you feel guilty."

Scar's eyes crinkle perfectly as he grins. It's too perfect. unnaturally so. 

"Are you coming?" He asks.

Mumbo just laughs, barking and harsh. He says, "No," turning away from Scar and pulling his rockets out of his inventory. "Good luck for the rest of it."

Chapter Text

It’s only after he’s launched himself into the air, with the skyline of the Events’ District fading into the horizon, that Mumbo realises he probably should have messaged Grian before he took off.

Realistically, he has no idea where the man could have gone. The Hermitcraft server has builds stretching far and wide, with so many projects dotted all over the world that he would never be able to list them all. There’s a thousand different places to check, a truth which is so overwhelming that the man almost wants to turn back and ask for help in his search. A few more pairs of eyes would certainly make this easier, but he thinks that Scar might be the second Hermit of the day to have a breakdown if he dared, so, instead, Mumbo tries to focus on the places Grian is most likely to be.

He can probably rule out something like- Joe’s pinball machine, for example. The avian wouldn’t have gone somewhere that wasn’t familiar to him, with the way that he seemed to be functioning almost entirely on muscle memory.

Mumbo sucks in a deep breath, holding the cold air in his chest for as long as he can while he tries to focus.

(“We have bigger things to think about right now, don’t we?”)

A flinch runs through him automatically, something coiling and cold that travels up his spine with all the grace of a striking snake. How can he focus after a conversation like that? After witnessing the argument that he just did?

Everything feels frantic, alight with a terrible adrenaline that Mumbo doesn’t quite know how to quell while his mind runs frantically. He turns over the events of the last hour again and again, trying to get to the bottom of everything that’s occurred. It’s as though he’s suddenly nose to nose with some sort of cipher; a puzzle or code that normally he would adore using his time to crack. Instead, it hangs over him like a ticking time-bomb, counting down to something unfathomable. Something dangerous.

He wants to think there’s a solution, a right answer to all of this or a single missing piece that will put everything into perspective, but - as the sight of Grian crashing to the ground, screaming at his best friend and partner, and then flying off without another word remain burned into the back of Mumbo's eyelids - that’s beginning to look unlikely.

His fingers itch with the desperate, nervous energy that would usually be put towards running them through his hair, or rubbing his knuckles together. Without that simple outlet, it’s beginning to feel a little bit like he’ll explode, but still: he can’t afford to lose focus as he releases firework after firework, scanning the ground and sky for his partner.

“Think… think!” Mumbo mutters, his grip tight on his firework rockets as panic floods his mind. 

Where on earth could Grian have gone? To Dwayne, the same place that he’s been hiding out all this time? Or perhaps somewhere further, like the trading hall storm? Or- or-

“Let’s think about this logically,” Mumbo reprimands himself, trying to curb his thoughts as they begin to spiral out of control once again. “He’d go somewhere familiar. His mega base, probably? Or mine?”

There’s something about that statement that just doesn’t fit right, like a newly tailored jacket that has been pulled in just an inch too much. It’s uncomfortable on his tongue, strangely sour in his throat, and Mumbo frowns, dark hair whipping around his face as he pulls another stack of rockets from his inventory.

That can’t be right, but why? Why does that seem so impossible?

He takes another deep breath, pushing down the guilt that is steadfastly clawing its way into his gut.

“His… his wing was hurt,” he reminds himself with a wince, the terrifying sight of his lover crashing to the ground flashing through his mind like a lightning bolt. It’s… unlikely that Grian would have made it as far as he might have liked, given the events of the afternoon.

Which- Void, isn’t that awful? He could have been so badly hurt, and Mumbo still let him slip through his fingers? What if he’s already crashed again, bleeding out somewhere in a ditch? Isn’t that all Mumbo’s fault?

Bile rushes into his throat like fire, burning and stinging as he blinks rapidly under the weight of those thoughts. It’s all so complicated, so terribly, terribly convoluted, and he can’t help but feel like he’s stuck in the mud somewhere. Like they’re running a race, and Mumbo has been left alone at the starting line. He doesn’t know what’s gone wrong, he doesn’t know if Grian is okay, hell- he doesn’t know if Scar is okay!

He’s never seen the man act that way before, so… disregarding of his friend’s happiness. The whole situation feels wrong, in every possible way, and Mumbo just wants to run the race like everybody else. He can’t stand the not-knowing, the being left in the dark.

His heartbeat is echoing in his ears, every rocket sounds like it’s firing from behind a wall of brick and stone. There are tears in his eyes, he thinks, but none of that matters because he needs to get to Grian- he needs to be there for him, to be better than he was before.

… Landing in front of the entity and sprinting inside feels like a fever dream. He can feel himself panting, but he can’t quite hear it; he can feel the squelching of the beast’s fleshy inside under the sole of his shoe, but that grotesque noise never meets his ears. Inside of the shop is just as horrifying in there as he remembers, just as hollow and creepy, and- there’s nothing, no sign of Grian, no other footprints indented into the walls of muscle. Then, in the next moment, Mumbo is back in the skies.

His head is spinning, and there’s something tight that sits in the base of his throat and makes it difficult to concentrate. Everything has gone so wrong, and Mumbo- Mumbo feels useless! He’s all alone- he’s trying and he thinks that he might be failing. What if it’s already too late? What if Grian is in respawn, or he’s logged out? What if he’s hidden too well for Mumbo to find him? Or he’s hurt worse than he already was?

A million different worst-case scenarios ricochet through Mumbo’s mind as he flies, breaths not feeling quite as full as they did before. 

“Dwayne, vault, storm,” he repeats to himself over and over, adrenaline storming through his body. “Dwayne, vault, st-”

At that moment, Grian’s starter base passes under him, and Mumbo finds himself circling back with a gasp. He’d forgotten about the quaint little cottage along the river, the one that his partner had built at the beginning of the season and rarely stayed at since then, but- but- it’s as good a place to look as any. It’s… not impossible to imagine that Grian ended up there – it’s close enough, and acts as a decent spot to hide. 

If nothing else, he has to look. He can’t afford to miss anything, Mumbo thinks, trying to ignore how that fills him with dread.

Mumbo lands with a slight thud and too-little grace for someone who has been using elytra for years, squinting at the cottage with a suspicious gaze. It’s undeniably cute, with its curled roof and tasteful gradients, but something about it feels almost… deceiving. Like something is off.

Mumbo takes a breath and steels himself, fists clenching by his sides as he looks around quickly, scanning over the details. Wheat fields line the sides of the building, lit up by torches that have long since burned out, and there are a few rows of flowerbeds along the path. He follows them with a careful gait, heading for the front door, before something about the neat, preened rose bushes catches his attention. 

Mumbo knows that Scar planted them for Grian towards the beginning of the season, beautiful pink and yellow flowers that the pair of them cared for from bulbs. He remembers how proud of them they were, how eager they were to show Mumbo when the first one finally bloomed. 

They’re gorgeous.

(“We have bigger things to think about right now, don’t we?”)

Or- they were.

The bushes by the front door are visibly, notably disturbed, broken stems standing out starkly in the foliage. Petals float towards the ground like autumn leaves, and his breath catches in his throat at the few flowers that lay crushed into the mud. Mumbo leans closer, shaking out his fingers for a few moments as he surveys the damage. It’s almost unthinkable that Grian would have let them get this damaged, so…

There’s a flash of colour between the foliage, the drooping pink and yellow flowers parting to reveal–

“A feather..?” Mumbo plucks it out of the bush with a careful hand, holding it close to his face. Familiar barbs of red and blue are what greet him, and suddenly there’s not an inch of doubt in his mind. 

Grian has to be here.

He’s shoving his way into the cottage without a second thought, feather crushed unthinkingly in his grip.

“Grian!” He yells breathlessly, eyes darting from corner to corner as he scans for those familiar, vibrant colours. For any sign of his partner, any evidence that he’s alright.

The first thing that Mumbo notices as he turns in a slow circle is that, gosh, it’s dusty in here.

The second is that destruction must’ve been following in Grian’s wake.

There is a smashed dish on the floor in the kitchen and scratch marks tracked all the way across the cottage - deep, carved divots from curling talons that pave a path of hurried carnage. The whole place seems almost gutted, electric with the tragedy of whatever has been lost here. It’s alive and mourning, glowering around him like a rising storm.

A trail of debris cuts across the room, splinters and rose petals and shredded strips of red fabric carpet a path towards the ladder, laid out one after the other like a map. Mumbo can’t help but get caught on the sight, the trail of a hurricane that has gathered everything in its path and crushed it between wind-kissed knuckles, painting behind it a route for him to take. 

He gasps against the terrible adrenaline in the air, calling out again, “Grian!”

Mumbo waits for only a second, before he cannot bring himself to wait any longer. There’s no response to his cry, only a buzzing in his ears and a static in his lips, and it’s not nearly as good company as he thinks he needs. 

Grian must be here, there’s no other explanation for- the flowers, the feather, the carnage. He must be here, he’s just not replying, but- but he must be okay.

Mumbo doesn’t know what he’ll do with himself if Grian isn’t okay.

Scanning the open-plan room reveals nothing other than destruction, and so Mumbo makes his way towards the ladder up to the second story. He moves quickly and frantically, manoeuvring around the aching pockmarks of the wooden floor like a ballroom dancer, spinning on his heel with what feels like every step. The tapping of his dress shoes against the ground rings out like a gong, deep and echoing, and Mumbo wishes that he could just hear Grian’s voice instead.

“This is fine,” he whispers to himself, steeling his nerves with a breath. “He’s fine, he’s- he’ll be okay.”

The ladder looks… fragile, he notices as he rests a hand on the first rung. Scratch marks decorate it like stickers, like something frivolous and generous and frenzied. They carve at each inch of the handholds, whittling them into something that Mumbo doesn’t quite think that he trusts, but he doesn’t have a choice, nor a moment to really stop and think.

“It’s okay,” he reminds himself again, taking that first step with a hasty tug.

When the wood doesn’t immediately give out under his weight, he lets himself stop thinking about it and scrambles to the top, throwing the trapdoor at the top out of the way without a knock or pause. Mumbo hauls himself over the precipice, dread itching through every inch of his body, and the overwrought fever of the storm downstairs falls away.

The first thing that he notices as he breathes in this place is the– staleness, to it all.

This place feels as if it’s been frozen in time, encased in resin and preserved like a rose. The destruction is here, as he knew that it would be, but it doesn’t feel like it’s churning anymore. It’s not bubbling in the air, hysteric or overwrought. Instead, it’s like the whole world lays dormant, every whirlwind in his mind settling like dust around his feet, turning the whole place into a ghost town. 

The world is stagnant, all of a sudden. Stale, as he peers through the shadows hoping to find light.

“Grian?” Mumbo calls out hesitantly, and the word tastes like chalk on his tongue as he pulls himself to his feet. “Are you here?”

There’s nothing, for a few long moments - an eerie sort of total, blanketing silence that lies heavily atop him - and then the silence transitions into quiet. Into a calm something, rather than an absence of anything- as slow, serene breathing finally meets Mumbo’s ears.

He begins towards it without a thought, stumbling through the hallway like that heavy, muffling blanket is falling from his shoulders and trailing behind him. He wants to call out, but the quiet around them feels too precious, like a held breath or a rubber band being held taut. 

… The even pace of those breaths almost scares him, honestly. 

It must be Grian, it couldn't be from anyone else, but- in the midst of all this damage, could he really be so calm? So unbothered? Mumbo can’t help but think that it must lend itself to something more, something deeper than serenity, and that scares him. It scares him that he doesn’t know what to expect. Everything from the last few hours has already left him so baffled, he doesn’t know what he’d do if any more unexplainable things were added to that pile.

Mumbo’s hands are shaking as he presses his palm against the wall, fingers trailing along it until they are suddenly meeting empty air. He turns the corner, one that he could barely see approaching in the dim light, and- 

Even in the dimness of the room, Mumbo knows that he has arrived in the eye of the storm.

The sound of breathing is before him now, loud enough that he could almost mistake the breaths as his own, but Mumbo does not find himself caught on that detail for a few long moments. Instead, he feels his eyes grow wide as he takes in the state of the room, filled to the brim as it is with shredded clothes and ruined sheets. Nothing has been left untouched, destruction wrought on every inch of the space, wrecking it to the point that Mumbo struggles to recall what it looked like before now. 

“Grian,” he whimpers a little pathetically, the breath finally being released. The band finally snapping.

“I told you I couldn’t be here today, I told you,“ he remembers Grian’s plea to Scar like it’s being screamed at him now. Like it’s ricocheting throughout his entire body, running through his veins, because-

Every precious memory that had been left here, preserved in a freeze-frame of the beginning of the season, it’s all gone. 

Everything that was built here, every loving creation, has been torn to ribbons.

He takes it in slowly, gaze passing over upturned furniture and broken picture frames, his expression crumbling more and more as the destruction piles up, before Mumbo finds himself caught on the remains of what must’ve been Grian’s nest at one point, surely.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

He can’t even focus on the figure in the nest, the one laid on his back with his wings cocooned around him, not when the precious, precious centrepiece of the room has been torn apart. 

The space that Grian dedicated to his nests always seemed so sacred before now, so untouchable. It was selected carefully, always high-up and out of reach, somewhere defendable and cared for. Hours were spent debating every detail, collecting every contribution, threading fabric together carefully and perfectly. 

Mumbo doesn’t think that he can recall a single time that Grian’s nest had ever been anything less than immaculate, perfectly planned and organised in a way that you wouldn’t think he was capable of, if you took just one look at his usual organisation. Mumbo is used to seeing Grian’s nest as a perfect little haven, a snippet of safety that would never be interrupted by the storylines of the server or pried into by the overeager eyes of outsiders. Mumbo is used to seeing Grian’s nest as special, as exempt from every bit of bad fortune or chaos.

But now- now, thinking of it as a utopia feels misplaced. It’s like the illusion that no harm could reach that place has been shattered, and Mumbo has a churning in his gut that makes him a little worried he’s going to vomit.

“Fuck,” he gasps again, and he needs to keep it together for Grian. He needs to be strong, to be someone that he can rely on, even as the world feels like it’s falling apart around him. 

There might be tears in his eyes, but he needs to stay strong as he tries to wrestle with all of the awful implications of Grian being so upset that he’d destroy his house, his nest–

(“We have bigger things to think about right now, don’t we?”)

It’s his fault, he realises distantly, as his eyes finally land upon a tacky patch of half-dried blood. It’s his fault, and Mumbo’s heart is in his throat as he rushes forward, fighting down tears the whole way.

There are deep scratches tracing the curve of Grian’s forearms, blots of dark blood staining his clothes and trapped under his claws that all come into focus as Mumbo falls to his knees beside his partner.

It’s his fault.

Chapter Text

Grian's ears are filled with a droning, cottony buzzing, those echoing footsteps fading to white noise under the weight of it.

The whole world is blurry; distant and fuzzy around the edges. It’s as if he’s at the bottom of the ocean, wrapped up in icy water that clings to his entire body. The pressure clogs up his ears and squeezes his head, crushing him under its mighty fist, and Grian thinks that this is the kind of pain he’s been deserving of. 

The sort that will consume him. The sort that will destroy him.

His arms ache, for some reason that he can’t quite put his finger on; a constant, methodic thud that pounds in time with his heartbeat. The pain only serves to blur his vision more, to make it harder to focus. He wonders why he’s hurting so badly.

For some reason, under the weight of the cold and the dark and the hurt, Grian is certain that no life boat will ever arrive. There will never be a careful hand in his, pulling him towards the surface, or a boat he can clamber into, heading for the safety of the coast. He knows that he will be trapped here forever, lost and alone, swallowed up by a pain that is enough to be overwhelming, but too little to remind him of why.

It’s a terrible purgatory, a tipping point over the edge of something that Grian cannot describe.

And then, there’s a soft voice, breaking through the buzzing.

“Oh, fiddlesticks,” the voice says, and Grian is in freefall.

It sounds like a sunrise, is the first thing that he really, truly thinks. It sounds like the first vestiges of light peering over the horizon, spindling fingers running carefully over barren lands and turning them to gold. This light is guiding, he thinks, like a lighthouse. It’s clever and warm and sweet. It will take care of him, of that he is certain.

He feels himself relax under that presence, under the familiar tenure of that voice. He lets himself fall still, tense muscles going limp and pliant as that body falls into place next to him. Grian expects- warmth, maybe? He expects to be held, to be safe as the voice whimpers, “I’m so sorry-”, and then—

Pain.

There are hands on him, followed by more whispered, frantic apologies as Grian suddenly finds himself fighting a grip that lands right on the wet blood covering his arms. He’s being skinned, surely; being torn apart and sewn back together by some cruel power he can’t yet understand. That touch stabs through him, digs under his nerves and his veins as it wraps tightly around his wrists and holds them in place. The hurt feels alive, wriggling under his skin and worming its way down deep. It's tearing him apart from the inside out, eating through the body that he finds himself in like a starved beast.

He yells and cries and screams as something stinging is lathered onto his open wounds, writhing against the cold, hard ground like he actually has enough strength to do anything about the touch. What feels like bandages follow shortly after, pulled tight around his arms as that voice pleads with him to stay still.

"Grian!" It cries into his ear, shrill and unbearable. "Please, stop moving! I need to- to stop the bleeding, oh Void-"

He only sobs harder, trying fruitlessly to tug his throbbing injuries out of that vice-like grip. Every new inch of gauze that touches him feels like fire, licking up his arms with a hideous fury. He needs it to stop, he needs those hands to stop touching him, he needs- he needs-

“You’re okay,” the voice repeats over and over, rolling through him like a wave amidst the ocean. It’s watery and choked, but it's getting quieter as his strength begins to fail him, so Grian finds himself clinging to it even when it hurts.

He tries to focus on the shape of the other body pressed against his own; on their warmth, their careful touch. He tries to think about anything other than this unbearable pain that has dragged him from his peace, and the soft, devastating hands that wrought it.

"There we go, sweetheart," that voice whimpers as he cries. He can just about hear the sound of the gauze being tied in place, webbed bandages knotting together with a tug. "Can- can you hear me?"

The pain is still there, still aching and raw under the bandages, but the suddenness of being torn into motion by caring, painful hands has worn off enough that Grian doesn't have to fight to think about anything else, anymore. It hurts, but it's no longer consuming - he's stepped out of the fire and back into his lake, his ocean, swaddled carefully in its comfortable chill.

"G-Grian," the voice says again, and it sounds broken.

He wants to hum, to nod or say something that will stop them from sounding so upset. The thought suddenly comes to mind that it shouldn’t sound so upset over someone like him, why is it wasting its time? He doesn’t deserve something so comfortable, so precious... does he?

Instead, even as he thinks he should fight it, all Grian can do is curl a little closer to the body beside him, allowing it to scoop him up into its arms. The voice doesn’t reply, falling eerily silent until he feels the person shuffle. They tilt him upwards, taking one of his hands in their own and cupping an arm around his back. They don't say anything, but still Grian feels seen. It's like they're looking down at him, staring with such intention that it injects itself into his veins. His skin prickles, as Grian wonders what they see.

Maybe they're just seeing their own handiwork - the bandages that wrap around his arms like vices, a new, strange weight that sits at the back of his mind. Or... maybe they’re wondering what’s wrong with him, as he lies against them like a child with red, tear-streaked cheeks. Grian wonders what’s wrong with him, sometimes. He thinks that there might be more things than he could count.

He wishes that he could tell. Even if that person - that voice, that body, those hands - only wanted to know his sins, his weaknesses, he still wishes that he knew who they are. He tries to pay attention, tries to pry his eyes open with all the strength that he can muster, but… all that effort does is make his arms hurt more pointedly than they did before. They throb, a strangely consistent tempo that climbs up his fingers and through his wrists, clambering forward until it's gnawing at his elbows, making his joints creak and complain under its weight.

He winces, coughing once and then twice, before the voice asks, "Can you look at me?", and Grian realises that his eyes are open.

His eyes are open, and he's staring forward at a scratched, spruce wall, and he could turn his head to look towards the voice, if he really wanted to.

"Grian?"

He really wants to.

He needs to put a face to that voice. He needs to know who it is that set him ablaze with hands that he could never blame. He needs to know who it is that feels like safety and comfort and trust, yet remains just out of reach. Like a word stuck on the tip of his tongue.

It takes more effort than it should, turning his head and taking in the pressed silk of a black suit jacket, but he manages it. With a groan, he keeps going. He breathes, slow and even, and Grian looks up.

“Hi there,” Mumbo greets gently as brown eyes meet red. His voice is a little thicker than usual, lined with something vaguely shaken, but it’s still as warm as the sunrise even so.

It feels like a shocking revelation, that Mumbo is there with him, and Grian isn't quite sure why. They're partners, doesn't it make sense for them to be together? Why wouldn't it be Mumbo, to find him like this?

Grian’s eyes are too bleary to know for sure, but he thinks that he can see the beginnings of tears clinging to Mumbo’s lashes, turning them wet and dewy. He wants to say something, wants to ask why he’s crying- he wants to help, to do anything to take away that shiver in the man’s tone.

He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to say anything at all, even if he did.

Mumbo doesn’t look surprised by the lack of response, pushing past it without a second thought. Grian can’t tell if he should be pleased that he doesn’t have to relearn how to speak right this instant or not.

“There you are. Are you with me?” He prods again, gently.

The avian finds himself nodding again, and it only feels a little bit as though someone is tugging his chin, moving his head for him. Most of the action feels like it’s come from Grian himself, and he only has to blink a few more times before a sharp clarity washes over him.

The upturned furniture and torn-up nest come into focus (and- Void, don't they hurt to see), the room suddenly awash with, albeit dim in the lighting, colour. It's clear now that Grian is leaning against Mumbo's unshaking, reliable chest, and- he’s not bleeding anymore either, Grian realises with a start. The cuts have been bandaged, the blood flow cut off by tight layers of gauze. How long has it been? How long was he so gone that he couldn't even realise that the hurt was simply... him being patched up?

“Mumbo,” Grian finds his words just as suddenly as he found the strength to wish he had them. He doesn’t quite know what he’s trying to say, where he’s trying to take the realisation that he’s alive and living, with a body that he can control.

Mumbo seems to recognise that conflict, his eyes softening as Grian trails off. His smile grows just a little wider, slowly stroking through the avian’s hair with a careful, slow touch.

“It’s okay,” Mumbo murmurs, and he sounds so heartbroken as he does. “You’re safe, you’re alright.”

Grian wants to agree, if only to take away the pain in the other man’s voice, but- is he? Is he really? He doesn't feel okay. How could any of this be okay?

With a blurry gaze, he looks over his destroyed nest, examining the ruins of something that had been precious. It feels a lot like mourning, like he’s grieving something that has passed, and - briefly - Grian’s mind flits to the memories of his fight with Scar. Was that a symbol of something passing, too? Was that an ending? 

“I’m so sorry,” Grian whimpers, shaking his head to try and stop himself from dwelling on it. His voice is tight and choked as he sits up, bringing his hands up to his face until he can press his shaking fingers against his eyelids so hard that he sees stars. His entire face feels raw from crying, as if he's done nothing else for days on end, but he still can't manage to stop the tears that escape down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to shout at Scar, I promise, and- and- I caused a scene-”

Mumbo holds him tightly as he rambles, pulling him close like letting go would mean the end of the world. The hand in Grian’s hair falls down to brush the tears from his cheeks, hovering around his face with an obvious tremble. “You-”

“-I ruined everything,” Grian sobs dryly, thinking back to the tension, the fury, that had laden Scar’s face. “Destroyed m’ nest.” 

Mumbo’s expression is tight and distressed, his eyebrows knitted together with concern as he tries to work out what to say. “It’s- it’s okay,” is what he settles on eventually. “It’s alright. You didn’t do anything wrong. We- we can fix it, Gri.”

The words should probably feel placating or forced as Mumbo babbles useless, repetitive comforts, but, instead, they just leave Grian exhausted. 

He wants to fight, he knows that he should as guilt closes in on him from every angle. He doesn’t deserve any sort of comfort, not when he’s forced the one providing it into this situation; not when he’s done everything wrong from the very beginning.

“I’m with you, I’m not going anywhere. I- I’m going to make this better,” he promises, and Grian is too tired to do anything but believe him.

Everything is so awful, he can’t remember a time when every word or twitch of his fingers felt like such a battle, where breathing and blinking felt like such an arduous chore. He can’t fix this, not by himself. And- he might not deserve the generous hand that’s being offered for him to hold, but Grian can’t find it in himself to push it away. If Mumbo says it will be fine, he doesn’t know how to argue against that.

“Hey,” Mumbo nudges him. “Can you look at me, lovely?”

And he does, without a second thought. 

There’s a raging storm in his chest, howling gales in his mind that pull him to and fro, but, throughout it all, Mumbo is there. He feels a little pliant under that pain, a little too malleable to say that he’s feeling like himself again, but it’s okay. 

Mumbo’s right: it’s okay, because there’s someone here for him to fall back on. There’s someone who can hold all of the pieces of himself together until he’s able to do it on his own again. There’s someone who can stand tall in the force of those galing winds, someone who can hold their hands over his ears and muffle the sound of thunder.

He’s hurting, but that truth doesn’t seem so scary in the face of some good company and unwavering support.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Mumbo brushes the hair from his eyes as Grian blinks up at him owlishly. The motion surely looks like it’s lagging, slightly too sluggish to be normal, but Mumbo just seems pleased that he heard him at all. “I’m going to take care of you,” he says, as something that burdensome could be at all worth it. “I promise.”

Grian can do nothing but slump into him with an exhausted sob, as Mumbo holds him close and gets to work.

Chapter Text

Grian blinks, and then he’s being guided to his feet and led towards the small bathroom down the hall - the only other room on the top floor of the build.

Mumbo is muttering under his breath all the while, a looping series of words that he can't quite make out despite being so close to him that he swears he can almost hear the man's heartbeat. The words don't seem to be for him, like he's being made privy to something that was meant to be kept internal, so he lets the mumbling fade into white noise, attention instead taken by the way that his partner's hand trembles slightly where it's curled around his wrist.

It’s a loose grip, whether intentionally or not giving Grian an out if he decides that he needs it, and it shakes with all the force of an earthquake. Mumbo's terror is clear as he blinks frantically while they walk, and Grian can do nothing but hate himself as he watches Mumbo try to push through it without a word of complaint.

He doesn't know what to do, rational thought coming back to him slowly as they make their way through the dim hallway. Grian finds himself mourning the faux peace that had been blanketed over him in the nest. It's truly setting in now, the shock of everything that's happened over the last few hours. It's finally dawning, from the awful words that had been shared at the event-ground to the fact of blood and scratches staining Grian's forearms.

He slides his wrist out of Mumbo's grip and laces their fingers together. It's meant as a comfort, but all it does is make Mumbo's expression crumble as he looks back at their linked fingers and catches a glimpse of the haphazard bandages around his wrists. Guilt storms through him in an instant.

"I- thanks," Mumbo says, his eyebrows knitting together and his eyes turning glossy. There is so much pain in his voice, and it makes Grian wish the floor would open up to swallow him whole. 

(Scar was right about him, he can’t help but think. He’s an awful friend.)

Mumbo tries to smile, even with the pain clear on his face. "I want to get you into something clean, okay?"

He punctuates the words with a nod towards Grian's bloodied sleeves, rolled up as they are around his elbows. It's fair enough honestly, this shirt is most definitely stained beyond repair, but the blatant acknowledgement of the blood blood blood makes Grian flinch.

He watches as Mumbo holds his breath, steps stumbling to a stop, and Grian is halfway tempted to blame the instinct on someone else. It didn't feel like something that belonged to him, he didn't mean for it to happen, so- so-

"Okay," is all that he can manage to reply, feathers rustling behind him. "That would be good."

Mumbo nods wordlessly, a wet sounding breath breaking free from his throat. He turns away, the shining indications of tear tracks on his cheeks visible for only a moment before he is tugging Grian into the bathroom. Mumbo flicks on the light as the avian sits on the closed toilet-lid with a grunt, and waits.

They don't look at each other again for a few moments, before Mumbo's hand is disappearing to wipe his cheeks. He turns back to Grian with a quivering shield of a smile on his lips, and quietly asks, "Will you be okay if I leave you on your own? It'll only be for a couple of minutes, promise."

He looks so scared as he speaks, as if saying the wrong words would make Grian drop like a stone, and there's a part of Grian that wants to scream under that heavy, rotten gaze.

Instead, Grian caresses his knuckles and nods, dread burning in his chest like fire at the reality that he's made his partner so afraid. He doesn't want Mumbo to be afraid, not ever. 

Mumbo is far too kind for that, far too selfless.

He can't think of a single word to say to reassure him, so instead, Grian watches as Mumbo backs slowly out of the room, his eyes reddening as he leaves. He keeps his gaze locked on the avian for as long as he can, in a way that has Grian pulling his wings tightly against his back; like being small and out of sight will do anything to fix this.

As Mumbo disappears around the corner - and down the ladder a few moments later if the sound of creaking wood is anything to go by -  Grian finds himself sighing with  a terrible, guilt-ridden relief. It's- almost good, to be alone. Grian finds himself thankful for the moment of reprieve. He needs a second to breathe, to sift through exactly what he's feeling, and- isn't that awful of him?

Whiplash twinges through every shadow and contour of his frame, anxiety pools in his stomach, and there's a shiver in his breath at the sudden force of it all. It's all just so wrong, and Grian wishes with a hideous shudder that he could just be happy. He wishes he could turn back time and redo this entire awful day, that he could relieve the burden of his suffering from Mumbo's shoulders and soothe Doc's worries at his illness and calm Scar's anger at his incompetence.

He wishes it was that easy.

"Bathtub," Grian mutters under his breath, clawed fingers tapping against his thigh, "Towels, sink, toothbrush, mirror. Five."

Part of him itches to check his communicator, to see if there's been any updates from the others or to check if the event is still going, but- he knows it wouldn't help. Hell, Grian doesn't even know what time it is, what is he going to do with the confirmation that everyone either carried on about their days or that the whole thing crashed and burned because of his stupid little tantrum?

No one would win if he knew, no one would be better off. So, he stays and waits, leg tapping restlessly against the cold floor as he wonders and wonders never finds out.

The not-knowing might drive him mad, Grian can't help but think as he pulls one of his wings into his lap. It wouldn't help anybody, he doesn't know if it would be worse if the Hermits stopped because of him or if they carried on, but it feels important to be sure of either way. Like knowing would help him understand the magnitude of his sins. Like knowing would let him hate himself in the most effective way possible.

Grian's fingers drag roughly through his messy feathers as he thinks, mind running in circles loudly enough that he misses the sound of a body suddenly hurrying its way back up the ladder.

He jolts as Mumbo's face suddenly reappears over the wooden ledge, his hands catching on a knot of feathers and twigs in the centre of his wings. He winces, giving a short hiss of pain at the twinge that goes shooting through him and doubling over, unable to even spare a second thought for the redness around his partner's eyes.

"Shoot!" Mumbo exclaims, hauling himself back over that precipice and rushing to the builder's side. "I'm so sorry!" He cries again, any inch of the strong facade he's been trying to put on stripped from his expression in an instant.

His hands flutter uselessly around them, a bundle of fabric trapped under his arm as Grian tries desperately to get a handle on himself, breathing heavily through the wave of pain. Mumbo kneels quickly on the floor beside him, his knees hitting the tiles with a painful sounding thud as his face screws up in concentration.

He waits until Grian's forced breaths have slowed into something more natural, something that sounds less like he's trying to let his chest move as little as possible to help with the pain, before placing a hand on the avian's knee.

"You okay?" He asks gently, eyes filled with a terrified concern that Grian can just about make out through his squinted vision.

With another heaving inhale, Grian nods. "Sorry," he croaks, letting his shoulders fall limp in an attempt to soothe the man. To get that awful worry to melt off of his features. "You surprised me, is all..."

"Don't apologise! If anything, I should be the one apologising for scaring you," Mumbo exclaims, and if that doesn't make Grian feel like the worst person in the world, he doesn't know what would. "I'm-"

"Don't," Grian interrupts him like a whip, his vision bursting into such sharp focus that it's like every other sense he has has fallen away.

He doesn't know why his throat feels like it's closing, nor does he know why he sounds quite so stern. All Grian knows, really, is that he doesn't want to hear another apology. Not as Mumbo kneels on the cold floor before him, holding clean clothes that he's just gone to fetch just for Grian. Not as he keeps going out of his way without a word of complaint, as if Grian's somehow worth all of that trouble.

He doesn't know how to say all of that. He doesn't know how to express how guilty all of this makes him feel- as if Scar was right about him when he said that he was a bad friend. When he said that he was careless, or selfish.

Grian thinks that there aren't enough words on earth to express something like that, so instead, he murmurs, "How about neither of us are sorry. What then, huh?"

A shocked laugh bursts from Mumbo's lips, something sharp and discordant like the yowl of a displeased cat, and he nods his head. His shoulders slump as if he's ridding himself of a heavy jacket, like there's some invisible weight that's falling from them at the meagre attempt of banter.

"Right," Mumbo agrees with a smile that does not quite manage to mask the final vestiges of tears on his lashes.

The quiet that follows is unbearable, even though it barely exists for a second before Grian is rushing to fill it. It opens a yawning pit in his stomach, coiling around his heart as he opens and closes his mouth pathetically, trying to muster the words to say.

"Well- uh..." He trails off unnaturally, and it seems to kick Mumbo into a flurry of motion.

"I- I set up a bed next door, it's not the most lavish, but I could only find so much wool in those chests of yours. Oh! And I got these from downstairs," Mumbo holds out the bundle of clothes that have begun to crease, as if that isn't the most thoughtful thing.

He passes them to Grian gently, a pair of soft blue pyjamas that very strikingly do not belong to the small avian. In fact, they're far more likely to belong to Mumbo himself; probably left downstairs in case of any impromptu sleepovers. Grian knows they'll be far too big on him, but he can't bring himself to care as he ungracefully rubs the fabric between his fingers.

He should be happy as he's presented with evidence of such care, he should be grateful, but all that he can feel is guilt. Guilt as Mumbo passes him evidence of him going out of his way, of him doing something for Grian that the avian is in no position to return. Because... isn't he useless? Isn't he thrusting so much suffering upon his partner, and then making him do even more?

Such a simple gesture makes him want to scream, because he doesn't deserve even an inch of it, but Mumbo's eyes are wide and hesitant and fragile. Grian cannot say no.

With a quivering lip, he pulls the clothes to his chest, and watches as Mumbo stands wordlessly and turns around in the doorway. He looks like he's standing guard; a tall, willowy protector, trying to give him some faux semblance of privacy.

Grian exhales shakily, standing with a strained grunt. He steps out of his trousers easily, kicking the least damaged item of his ensemble to the side without a second thought. His legs are pale, he thinks; covered in browning bruises that he cannot place the origin of. It's a little surreal, to look down at his body and wonder just how long it's been since he last saw himself. When's the last time he looked in the mirror? Really looked? Really saw?

Grian shakes it off, stepping into the too-long pyjama bottoms distractedly as he bites back tears. He has to roll up the cuffs four times and tie the waistband as tightly as it can go, but they're not too bad in all - they hang low on his hips, but he's not going to trip over them, at least.

Working up the courage to take off his shirt takes longer. It always takes longer.

Somehow, this time, the dysphoria of seeing himself shirtless pales in comparison to the idea of seeing the stained, yellowed gauze against his too-pale skin. It's daunting, as he tugs that uncomfortable, stiff shirt over his head with his eyes shut, and can't quite muster up the courage to open them again. His teeth ache with how tightly his jaw is clenched, and Grian thinks that he might have to be content to spend this rest of his life frozen like this - eyes closed against the world, as if it doesn't exist anymore. 

He sniffles, uncontrollably, and it’s something pathetic and whiny and childish that only serves to make him more ashamed.

Why can’t he just be good enough? 

Why can’t he just be good?

–

Mumbo is trying his best to be as considerate as possible, he really is.

He doesn’t want to rush anything, he doesn’t want to make Grian uncomfortable or upset, but it’s hard. It’s hard, when his mind is screaming at him because there are so many things that are so obviously wrong; it’s hard, when his partner whimpers behind him like he’s been punched in the gut.

Mumbo doesn’t take a single moment to think before he’s turning back to the man with outstretched arms.

“Grian?” He asks, and watches as the avian crumbles in on himself further at the sound, a couple of stray tears making their way down his cheeks.

Grian’s eyes are tightly shut, so tightly that there must be stars bursting behind his eyelids. Mumbo can’t help but wince sympathetically at the sight, his gaze trailing down almost unconsciously. Down, past Grian’s feathery shoulders which are raised so close to his ears and trembling violently. Down, past the familiar cream of the binder that normally looks similar enough to his partner’s skin tone but- stands out terribly now. Down, past the equally familiar bruises painting Grian’s ribs and the meagre spatterings of chest hair that cover them.

Down to ribs that are more visible than they should be, more visible than they were a month ago. Down, to dried blood and raw, red skin.

That’s familiar too, Mumbo hates to admit.

“Been a while since we’ve been here,” he utters, unthinking, his mind reeling at the idea that Grian has been in pain for long enough to lose so much weight again, and he didn’t know.

Then he sees Grian go stock-still and rigid out of the corner of his eye, and the words register in Mumbo’s mind.

Horror floods him, palms growing sweaty and heart hammering in his chest. “I-I,” he stutters, watching Grian’s eyes flutter open to stare at him. He barely looks like he’s breathing, but that piercing brown of his pupils writhes and screams and wages war on whatever is behind them like there is something to avenge in Mumbo’s words.

“I’m so sorry-” Mumbo breathes, because everything he could say right now feels like a new mistake. "I didn't mean- that's not what I meant. These things happen, Grian, I'm not- I'm not upset with you."

Grian nods, though it's stiff and barely there to begin with. His wings slump low, unfolding until they are brushing against the ground, and Mumbo feels a pang of pity at the sight. He looks defeated, he looks guilty.

"I'm sorry," Mumbo says again, and he isn't sure whether to touch the other or not. He isn't sure whether wrapping him up in a hug or helping him into his shirt would be pushing too far, even though he aches to help in some way.

It's just another example of him screwing up, Mumbo supposes.

Grian breathes slowly, something measured and careful, in through his nose and out through his mouth, before he whispers, "I thought- we agreed no sorries."

Mumbo slowly kneels to grab the shirt that had fallen from the counter at some point through this whole ordeal, avoiding the other man's eyes. He nods, something heavy and tar-like clogging his throat, and tries to smile.

"You're right," Mumbo croaks. He takes a step towards Grian and holds out the shirt, gaze roving over ribs and bruises and too many sharp edges. "Here," he offers, "Do you want me to help?"

Grian nods again, running one hand absentmindedly over the ridged edges of his bandages.

It's slow going, but neither are in a rush as they work Grian's arms through the holes of the soft lilac shirt, stopping at every wince or hissed breath. Mumbo is careful, revenant, as he tugs the fabric down inch by inch, not saying a word whenever Grian stops to inhale its scent deeply.

Something about that moment feels like it needs to be untouched, he thinks. Anything else would be sacrilegious.

So, it's slow going, but they get there in the end. Grian sits back with a groan, his eyes drooping like he's fighting sleep. Mumbo chuckles at the sight, thumbing along the man's shoulder with a gentle grip.

"Should I go and fetch you anything?" He asks, mind going to the mess around the corner. To the lack of places for them to settle down or sleep.

If he could only pop to his vault, or over to Dwayne - he could grab some fresh sheets or pick up some fresh food... it might be good, better than trying to make Grian feel better in a place that is the epitome of their failures; the wreckage leftover from every error of the night.

… What might the others be doing now? Do they realise just how badly everything has gone wrong?

"No," Grian interrupts his thoughts, and - for the first time, he sounds certain. Unwavering.He stands, albeit shakily, and places a hand on Mumbo's chest, looking him directly in the eyes with an unblinking, unavoidant look. "Please don't leave, don’t go," Grian begs, and his lashes wet in a way that makes Mumbo suddenly afraid that he's going to cry.

And that’s that.

Mumbo is careful as he leads the way to the bed that he has set up in Grian’s nestroom. He approaches it slowly, letting Grian hold onto his wrist with a firm grip, and hopes that the sight of his shredded nest that has been pushed to the side doesn’t upset him too much.

Mumbo tried to salvage what he could when he set this up earlier, he really did. He’s placed the few untouched shirts atop the cot that has been haphazardly set up in the centre of the room, but- admittedly, there weren’t too many things that were left untouched by the raging, ravaging storm. He isn’t too sure what to do as they turn the corner that reveals it all, as Grian’s steps stutter for a single, almost unnoticeable moment.

He doesn't stop, however, and Mumbo is slightly awed as he barely spares it a glance.

Grian’s steps are clumsy as he walks past the overturned furniture and the pile of irreparable fabrics, parading onwards as if he stops moving, he won't be able to start again. Mumbo watches as the avian overtakes him, now using that firm grasp to tug Mumbo along, before he settles on top of the bed.

He looks thoughtful as he sifts through the clothing atop it, turning back to Mumbo quickly and tugging more pointedly at his jacket. It’s as clear a sign as any, and soon Mumbo is shrugging it off and passing it over. Grian folds the jacket wordlessly, and places it next to the pillow on his side of the bed, his talons pressing it into place until it fits against the sheet like it has been there forever.

It’s difficult to be content with something as small as that, Mumbo can see it on his face, but it’s a start.

“... It’s perfect,” Mumbo encourages, as Grian starts to move the other items of clothing that remain.

"Hardly," Grian scoffs, blinking tiredly, and he sounds so unhappy that Mumbo's knees suddenly feel a little weak.

"Hey," Mumbo sits next to him, "It's a good start, isn't it?"

Grian doesn't reply, instead focusing on laying out what looks like one of Pearl's scarves on the mattress, shoving it into place with more force than is strictly necessary, and Mumbo…

… He wants to ask.

There are so many questions haunting him, so many words repeating in his mind like ghosts, circling in a way that tells him they won’t leave until they’re said out loud.

‘I told you I couldn’t be here today!’ Grian’s yell haunts him, and he wants so badly to ask why he said that. ‘I told you I wouldn’t stream! I told you- and you just keep-!’

He wants to ask why Grian hurt himself. Why he destroyed something so important. He wants to ask what Scar did that he wasn’t privy to, because there has to have been something more, surely-

… He wants to ask why everything fell apart so abruptly, why he snapped in a way that Mumbo doesn’t think he’s ever heard from the avian before, but the specifics feel like too much for either of them to bear.

Instead, Mumbo urges, "Talk to me, G," his hands itching to reach out and grab the other’s. To hold them and steal the man's attention, and beg him to clarify. To tell Mumbo what to do next.

He doesn't know where to go from here, uncertainty clouding his every idea, and it weighs on his mind like a ball and chain. He needs Grian to talk to him, he needs Grian to tell him. Those continuous unknowns sting like freshly bitten wounds, red and raw and inflamed where they lie. Mumbo needs answers, he needs to know what questions to ask, but Grian won't allow him even a hint of where to look.

The man still refuses to look at him. He gives no indication that he even heard.

Mumbo tries again. "Please. Gri- we should talk about this."

"About what?" Grian mutters like it doesn't matter. Like the last few hours of their lives haven't been a storm-wrecked ship on a terrible, terrible ocean.

"All- all of this!" Mumbo exclaims, a newfound desperation bubbling into his tone. "The fact that you've- relapsed. Everything that happened with Scar. It..." He clicks his tongue, trying to choose his words as carefully as he can even with the buzzing under his skin, prickling at the million different thoughts flitting through his mind.

He's walking in a minefield, Mumbo knows that better than anything now.

"It sounded like it was a long time coming," is what he finally settles on.

Grian’s nose wrinkles bitterly. "I don't want to talk about this," the smaller man whimpers, pressing the final shirt into place with far more force than it needs.

Mumbo tries not to let it upset him, tries to keep a level head even as he craves answers. He needs to know what happened, needs to know why Grian didn't reach out sooner, or why he even came to the event in the first place. He has so many burning, smouldering questions; so many desperate pleas that shudder and squirm behind his teeth like insects. 

And yet- Mumbo can't bring himself to push.

"We need to talk about it at some point," he points out with a sigh, watching carefully as Grian shakes his head.

There's a laden pause, and then, quietly: "Not tonight." Grian utters, and it rings like a prayer. "Please, not tonight."

Mumbo can't argue, can't do anything but agree, when he sounds like that.

"... Lay down," he says instead, ignoring the way that the logical part of his mind is screaming at him for not prodding further.  

Grian's gaze snaps to him instantly, clearly not expecting it either, if the way that his brows knit together is any indication.

"C'mon. If we're not talking about it tonight, let's get some rest instead." Mumbo smiles, and it only feels a tad weak, so hopefully it's not too hard to believe. "After all, you've built us such a wonderful nest - it'd be a shame to waste it."

Grian gapes at him for a moment, before his eyes are lighting up in a way that spills something warm and honeyed down Mumbo's spine, a soft shiver running through him that makes the not-knowing almost worth it. He watches as Grian's lashes flutter, bright and alive and happy for the time being. He looks himself again, briefly and fleetingly, and Mumbo didn't know until this very moment just how much he had missed that.

"Thank you," Grian says, and there's a warble in his tone that lends to nothing but happiness. He leans up and presses a gentle kiss to Mumbo's lips, something chaste and warm, familiar in all of the right ways, and he’s missed that as well.

The avian pulls away quickly, scooting under the covers quickly and tugging Mumbo down with him. Mumbo yelps out a laugh, and Grian giggles in return, something high and twinkling and- it feels close to the beach on a warm summer's day. To a satisfying early morning, and watching the sunrise. To the fulfilling, final moments of a project that you’ve poured so much of yourself into.

It's just as familiar to pull Grian close, to tuck the avian's head into the crook of his neck and shiver as he breathes a yawn over the sensitive skin.

Yeah, he thinks. The not-knowing is worth it, if it means that he gets to hold his lover like this.

-

It's not quite dark out anymore, Mumbo notes.

That's just about all that he can make out through the half-obscured window in Grian's bedroom, the light of the new day is just beginning to peek its way over the horizon; a bright, healthy blue taking over the edges of the sky.

Grian is snoring against him, deeply asleep for the first time in what seems like days, and Mumbo isn't too sure if he's slept. Time moves slowly, as he lies there and does nothing much at all, but- at least it seems like Grian won't be waking anytime soon.

It's that certainty that he leans on as he works his way out of bed, shuffling away from the avian who lies practically on top of him, cocooning the pair of them with his wings. Extracting himself from the feathery cage doesn't take as long as he thought it might either, and Grian doesn't so much as stir throughout the whole process.

Mumbo breathes out a sigh of relief as he gets to his feet beside the bed, looking silently over his partner for a few moments more before swiping his communicator off of the floor and tiptoeing towards the ladder.

He spares another look at Grian before descending, comm in hand as he makes his way down the rickety ladder.

Mumbo settles into the corner of the kitchen with practised ease, pulling his legs to his chest until he can squeeze between the counter and furnace. It's always a little awkward, what with his general lankiness, but he makes do. It's by far his favourite place to sit in this base, one that he discovered both humorously and accidentally towards the beginning of the season.

"Right," Mumbo says under his breath, holding his comm up with a deep inhale. Nerves are commonplace to him, but- for something like this? Just checking his messages? He hasn't been this anxious for something so mundane in a very long while.

But- the fallout of all of this could be disastrous. The Hermits might not see things the way that he does, or - even if they do - they might think that he and Grian and Scar handled it poorly. They might agree with Scar, that Grian was unnecessarily disruptive, that he ruined a lot of the good that they were trying to do.

It seems unlikely, even with anxiety wracking him like a storm, but still.

What would he do if that was the case?

What would he do if he had to keep that to himself? To protect Grian from it, at least until he was feeling a little better?

What would he see if he had a look at what Chat were saying? What their viewers were discussing?

His hands are shaking, the redstoner realises with a start. He can barely see the screen as he presses the power button and watches it light up, tears gathering in his vision.

Mumbo wouldn't know how to fix this, if it did turn out that way; if he saw his friends berating Grian, or their fans mocking him. He wouldn't know how to make any of it better, and that fact is terrifying, enough to make him vaguely nauseous.

Mumbo takes another deep breath and hastily wipes the tears from his eyes before they gain the audacity to fall.

"Just look," he berates. "We'll deal with it as it comes. We can't do that until we know. Just look."

... And he does.