Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Mumbo sees Grian for the first time since his disappearance, it’s a rainy day.

He has just set foot on the Hermitcraft season 6 server for the first time, clambering through the portal onto the spawn island, and it’s perfect. The new seed looks wonderful, filled with vibrant greens and new sea life that he’s never seen before— Mumbo’s not sure if he’s ever been so excited to begin a new chapter in his life on Hermitcraft. 

The rain feels a little like a rebirth as it showers down, like it’s washing away the stress and progress of last season, stripping down layers of diamond armour and expensive tools, and leaving him a blank slate.

Mumbo finds that it’s always fun to start a new season, to build oneself back up from scratch with none of the items or resources backing you. Living becomes more akin to surviving again, for a little while, until the Hermits eventually work their way back up to the amenities that they’re used to. 

All in all, he’s excited. He feels refreshed and creative and inspired, and he’s looking forward to getting started again, practically bouncing around the island as he waits for the rest of the Hermits to arrive. Iskall seems to take notice of the way he’s almost vibrating out of his skin, coming to stand next to him and nudging him with their elbow, offering him a bright, knowing smile. Thankfully, it doesn’t take too much longer for the rest of the Hermits to appear from the portal, stumbling out one by one and joining the gathering crowd, easily falling into the familiar chatter and banter that Mumbo has grown to adore. 

Eventually, everyone has arrived, crowding around the portal where Xisuma stands above them, the last to come through. He types something into his comm, and Mumbo watches as the world-portal closes behind him, before clearing his throat.

“Hermits!” He calls excitedly, one hand pressed against the hollow portal frame. “Welcome to season six! As you’re all aware, we’re structuring the season around a district system, and I’m sure that you’ve all already chosen the locations of your bases. We don’t have any n-new hermits… uh—“

The spiel is familiar, but the way that their leader trails off is decidedly not, and Mumbo hums puzzledly as Xisuma straightens, something seemingly grabbing his attention away from the speech. His visor turns away from those before him towards the sky, glinting a little as he looks out over the crowd of awaiting Hermits. 

Mumbo gulps as murmuring begins from the others, Xisuma’s sudden silence clearly striking them all as odd. He watches as heads begin to turn and bodies begin to shift, searching to figure out what’s going on. Mumbo follows suit, driven by a sort of anxious curiosity that sits like a familiar ghost in the pit of his stomach. He turns, eyes following the others’ to try and see what’s causing the commotion, before suddenly there’s a couple of Hermits rushing past him with stammered apologies. 

He watches as they weave between those in front of him, annoyingly mobile in the crowd of twenty-something people that totally pin Mumbo in place as he tries to peer around them. The telltale sight of Stress’s cardigan and Keralis’s flannel disappears quickly past the Hermits who block Mumbo’s vision - Doc and Impulse - and he can’t stop himself as he asks, “What are they doing?”

No one around him seems interested in answering, muttering their own uncertain questions to each other as they watch. Mumbo tries again to peek over Doc’s shoulder, but the man’s towering frame blocks his view pretty entirely, broad shoulders and thick fur acting as a barrier that everything seems to disappear behind.

“What’s going on?” Mumbo asks again, this time leaning close to Iskall, and watching with poorly-contained fear as Joe weasels her way past Impulse, something strangely stoic in his expression. Iskall simply shrugs, muttering something about security under their breath.

It’s only then that Mumbo turns back to look at Xisuma, who is trying to make his way off of the mound that the portal stands on. He keeps glancing upwards, towards the sky, as he reaches for False’s hand to balance himself, as to not fall directly on top of his friends. 

Almost unconsciously, Mumbo can feel his own puzzled gaze follow, trailing up until he spots a dark plume of smoke towering into the air, winding high to the clouds. It's coming from somewhere close, close enough that Mumbo isn’t sure how he didn’t notice it the moment that he first stepped out of the portal, but he still can’t see exactly what’s causing it. He can’t help but be entranced by the sight, nonetheless.

There’s something… almost otherworldly about it. About the way that the smoke moves through the rain, twisting and turning in a complicated dance. It’s as though it’s avoiding every droplet, untouched and undisturbed by the simple force of nature around it. Bouncing on his heels nervously, Mumbo wonders once again what’s causing it. Perhaps it’s something magical, he thinks as he sniffs the air and breathes in nothing but ash and cinders. 

Suddenly, Xisuma calls from somewhere in the crowd, still behind Mumbo but certainly making his way closer, “Everyone, stay calm!”

“What?” Mumbo hisses to Iskall. He thinks the words are probably supposed to be comforting, but all they do is make him panic more- what is he supposed to be staying calm about? Is there something wrong? 

“Calm,” Iskall repeats, squeezing his hand. There is something determined in their expression, in the way that their brows tick downwards and their jaw clenches. “We don’t know what’s going on, so there’s no reason to worry about it. The others have it handled.” They manage to keep their voice steady even as Xisuma finally shoulders past the pair of them, shoving around Mumbo and then between Doc and Impulse, before the crowd of Hermits swallow him up.

He tries to let the words soothe him, squeezing Iskall’s hand in time with a rhythm that only he knows, as he tries to stay calm. He tries, he really does, but then the plume of smoke grows darker and thicker, and those who have gone towards it begin to yell loudly enough to be heard over the claustrophobic muttering of the others, and Mumbo is pretty sure he hasn’t felt this stressed since he first lied about his age to join the server.

It could be glitch, is the first thing that his mind goes to as his free hand climbs to his hair, running through it in a familiarly stressed, anxious tic. It could just be a glitch. Maybe they spawned near a lava pool, and firetick hasn’t been disabled properly, or- or—

But then he hears a high, wavering moan of pain, and suddenly Mumbo is more scared that it’s a hacker.

“Everyone-!” Xisuma shouts again, and doesn’t say anything more, interrupted by a second noise, something choked and gagging. 

He whimpers a little as the sound grows gurgling, almost gruesome, and watches as Doc curses something colourful and brash before rushing towards the source of the smoke. His departure finally gives Mumbo a decent view of the scene that has grabbed everyone’s attention, and he watches with horror as Doc falls to his knees beside a Player-shaped figure that cries and shakes and smoulders like a bonfire. 

They’re burning, with thick rivets of smoke pouring off of their clothes and twisting into the clouds, and Mumbo is almost certain that he can see blood soaking into the grass below them. Ashes and cinders dance around them playfully, a terrifying contrast to the literal fire that consumes the Player who is not welcome on their world.

“Fuck—“ he hears Iskall breathe as the admins and medics surrounding the figure down fire resistance potions, and Stress brings their head into her lap.

“Fuck,” Mumbo aptly agrees, as she demands something and brushes their hair out of their face, one palm outstretched towards Xisuma. 

And then–

Impulse shifts in a way that blocks Mumbo’s view as their features are finally uncovered, so Mumbo misses whatever it is that rips a wave of gasps from the crowd around him.

“Is that-” Tango whimpers, and Bdubs makes a gagging noise to his right as Cleo stutters, “Oh my God.”

“What?” Mumbo asks for a third, unanswered time as he tries to peer around the man.

Iskall curses, something Swedish which he only understands as a curse because of the countless hours they’ve spent in each other’s company. “Nej,” they continue, a few shades paler than they were before, pulling on their joined hands firmly, “Mumbo, let’s go—“

“Huh?” The redstoner questions, untangling his fingers from Iskall’s own and moving forward. His eyes are glued to the scene that Impulse is hiding from him. He needs to know what’s happening- he knows that it’s important. “No, I need to—”

Then Iskall's hands are clinging onto the bulk of his jacket as they try to tug him away, and the way that his vision is being blocked feels a little more intentional. He can see Xisuma’s head shoot up, his worried eyes connecting to Mumbo’s own in an instant as whispers wrack the hermits, and it only serves to make him fight Iskall harder.

“Now, Mumbo!” They exclaim, their grip beginning to slip as the pair of them pull in opposite directions, “C’mon, we gotta-”

And then Mumbo is stumbling forwards as the seam of his jacket rips under the force, a muffled thud sounding behind him as Iskall goes crashing to the ground. He daren’t even waste time turning around to check they’re okay, too afraid that someone will stop him, so Mumbo instead uses the momentum to shove bodily, and guiltily, past Impulse.  

“Hey—“ someone cries, as another hand tries to latch onto him and another body tries to hold him back.

But it’s too late.

Everything feels as though it’s underwater, a strange sort of disconnected from the facts of the situation as a coldness blooms through every inch of his body. Mumbo’s eyes grow wide as he stares blinklessly ahead, lurching forward with a desperate, unconscious cry. 

He feels a little bit like a caged animal, desperately trying to escape its restraints, as everything aside from that face fades into the background. He’s not concerned for the people around him anymore; he’s not paying attention to the people that he is scratching and clawing as he hauls himself between clamouring bodies. He’s not, because- 

Because the face that greets him, turned upwards towards the sky behind a flickering overlay of burning hot red and yellow and blue, is one that he has seen many times before.

It’s one that he hasn’t seen in years.

It’s one that steals the breath from his lungs, and the words from his lips; one that has him falling to his knees in the wet dirt of the starter island. 

It’s one that brings tears to his eyes, as he crawls along the muddy ground to cradle that face, that face.

Gri—

Chapter Text

When Grian awakens, it’s with a gasp. 

He’s somewhere unfamiliar, and that has him shaking as he hurriedly sits up, head whipping around confusedly. He’s in a… bed. It’s comfortable, lush, with silken sheets and a soft duvet, and it’s so terrifyingly out of place that the softness against his skin burns like fire. 

Or maybe that’s just the red, aching blisters that slick over every inch of skin that he can see.

His vision is somewhat blurry, like someone has dragged their fingers through the wet paint of his iris, and that sets him on edge in an instant. Grian blinks furiously, looking around the room as quickly as he dares, to try and make out where he is. 

The room looks slightly hastily made, with crates of supplies stacked against the wall, but that makes it no less beautiful. It’s bright and airy, with sterile, white walls and a single, tall window. The world outside of the window is blue and wet, a stark contrast to the blacks and purples of the void that he is used to. It’s cracked open just slightly, and the thin curtains framing the woodwork flutter in the breeze from the outside. 

It’s pretty, and Grian finds himself craning his neck with a groan to make out the rest of the room. He’s almost eager, driven by a quiet desperation as he roves his eyes over the first build he’s seen in years that doesn’t have any trace of the Watcher’s influence on it. There are no deep, purple bricks lining the walls; no grand, stained-glass windows with depictions of Gods and their devouts; no eye detailing or vast, stretching portal frames.

Is this it? Is he free? Because- because-

Everything about this place looks alive. Like it was made by a Player.

Grian resents how rare that sight has become. 

A row of plastic chairs line the space next to the bed that Grian finds himself in. Most of them are unoccupied, save for one. 

A hunched, blurry figure sits in the chair closest to the door, and the sight of someone near him sets his hair on end. He wants to believe that he was successful- that he escaped from that place and he’ll never have to go back- but still… Grian finds himself cautious. He can’t afford to be wrong about his freedom, after all. 

His heart pounds in his ears as he stares at the unclear form, blinking the haze from his eyes a few more times until it comes slightly more into focus. It’s a tall man, dressed in a three-piece suit that he is sure would usually be dapper enough to seem inappropriate for the situation. Now though, it’s unironed and messy, with creases and wrinkles that are only emphasised by the man’s exhausted, dishevelled appearance. He seems to perk up upon notice that Grian is awake, the Watcher’s purple eyes wandering slowly up to the man’s face, to the little bit of stubble on his chin, the three dark moles on his cheek, the dark, uncombed moustache above his lip-

“Mumbo?” Grian whispers as he stares at the man’s face, tears immediately coming to his eyes.

It can’t be. It can’t be. Surely- surely not.

Maybe he was wrong to think that he was somewhere touched by Players. Maybe he never escaped and this is all just a trick; a cruel display of power to put him in his place. Maybe he never left the Watchers, and the vague memories he has of waiting until there was a small flicker in the stability of the strongest firewalls he could find, the tiniest trough that allowed him to pry his way in, are all fabricated. 

Or maybe they’re real, and the Watchers simply followed him through, more powerful than he would ever hope to be.

“Grian,” the man – the one who can’t be Mumbo – replies. 

His voice is every bit as familiar as his face, beautiful and delicate and instantly recognisable in its tenure. It wavers, overwhelmed by an emotion that Grian doesn’t know how to place, but it’s still just as pretty as it was before. 

Mumbo’s voice is kind, but more importantly, it’s cruel.

“I’m- I’m so glad you’re awake!” The imposter cries, lurching towards Grian with outstretched arms. “I missed you, I-“

It’s like a punch in the gut, or a bullet tearing through his brain, visceral and bloody. It’s so painful to watch his best friend like this: animated and alive and familiar. Grian thought he would never get the chance to see him like this again. No, he will never get a chance to see Mumbo like this again, because – and he can’t forget this – the being before him now can’t be Mumbo.

It can’t be, not after everything that’s happened. Not after the thousands of ways that Grian has been changed, warped, ruined.  Not after Grian has been torn to pieces and put back together into an ugly facsimile of himself, something that no one would ever choose to be near. That can’t be Mumbo, standing before him and awaiting a response like an overeager puppy. 

It’s not, and he’s failed.

He’s failed, because that can’t be Mumbo, and so surely, Grian never escaped. Surely, these walls that look so imperfect and personal were never touched by a Player. He is still held within the cage of Their claws, and he never escaped in the first place.

So, as he tucks his shaking hands behind his back and settles into a facade of stoicism, Grian pleads, “Don’t you… do none of you have any mercy?”

It feels a strange mix of satisfying and guilty to watch the beaming smile slip off of the man’s lips. It wraps around his neck like a fist, a vice, choking him- but it’s warm. It’s pleasing. Even under the weight of the eyes on the back of his neck.

“Do you really have to keep- taunting me like this?” He pushes further, his eyes growing wet. “Again?”

He knows that he’s a failure to the Watchers– they take every opportunity they can to remind him of the fact. So, surely, this is just another one of those times. This is another example of him failing to escape, of them luring him into a false sense of security by taunting him with what he will never have again. 

He has to stay on his guard , Grian warns himself as Mumbo goes stiff, straightening up until he’s standing with one foot hooked behind the other just like he always used to. 

“What?” Mumbo – Not-Mumbo? – questions, blanching. 

“You’ve done this before,” Grian murmurs, observing as a surely faux confusion blooms over not-Mumbo’s face. 

Maybe he should be panicking more than he is, filled with terror at the certain punishment that will soon befall him, but… this isn’t the first time he’s been caught. It’s not the first time he’s been given false hope. It’s not the first time, so instead of panicking, Grian is left… emboldened, almost. This is something that’s familiar, something that he knows well enough to give him the strength to reach up and brush the beginnings of tears from his eyes, leaving them dry and hardened.

Not-Mumbo looks around the room, as if he doesn’t understand, and- why is this little charade still going? Why are They drawing this out? Grian knows that he went wrong, he knows that they caught him, so- why?

“You’d done it before. Looked like him,” Grian whispers, daring to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment. The shivering, cold truth is that Grian has learned to associate Mumbo’s face with hopelessness, with helplessness. 

That night flashes like fireworks behind his eyelids. It explodes into shimmering waves of light and sound.

He recalls the way that the Watcher – the one wearing his best friend's face, when Grian was the lowest that he thinks he’s ever been – had knelt before him and wrapped him up in long, warm arms.

He recalls the way that the Watcher uttered words of love and reassurance, unfulfilled promises of company and safety, before their arms turned crushing; strangling until Grian was sent into a horrific loop of respawns that still leave him aching, whenever it rains.

He recalls. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget that. 

“I’m sorry I ran,” he whispers, reticent. “I didn’t think…”

I didn’t think that you would catch me, Grian echoes in his mind, because there’s no other way of saying it, not really. He isn’t sorry for his own freedom, he’s only sorry that he got caught.

He’s sure that the Watcher wearing the face of his best friend knows as much.

“W-what are you talking about?” Not-Mumbo pleads.

“I get it, I know that I shouldn’t have- please just stop–”

“Grian, I think you- you must be confused. We’re on Hermitcraft, we-”

“We don’t have to do this again. I’ll be- I’ll be good, just….” Grian wants to sob. Every word feels like a boil, swelling with pus and infection, hot to the touch. It wells up, and he’s trying so hard to contain himself, to feel nothing about the fact that he’s failed again. To feel nothing about the fact that his kidnappers, his tormentors, are wearing his best friend’s face again.

“Grian, you’re safe, you’re home-”

“Please just stop,” Grian begs, dizzy, “I can’t do this again! I can’t do it!”

Grian has failed so many times throughout his life– he got everyone on Evo killed, he didn’t manage to save his sister or his friends, he allowed himself to be taken and trapped for so long, waiting for a mercy that never arrived. He has failed, again and again, over and over in a cycle that seemingly has no end.

But despite that, despite all of the ways that he has hurt the people that he cares about, despite all of the ways that he has failed himself and everyone around him: Grian thinks that this time might be the one that hurts the most. 

As Mumbo (not-Mumbo, this is not-Mumbo) stands before him, at the end of a warm, comfortable bed in a warm, comfortable room, something–

Something breaks.

Suddenly, like a storm rolling in over a crashing shore, Grian can’t stand it anymore. Grief tears through him like a knife, like he’s been physically injured, and he finds himself doubling over in the bed, helpless as the Watcher stutters before him. Something acidic sits in the back of his throat, a festering infection, and he wants to scream– to cry and hit and rip himself to shreds.

Maybe if he did, if he took himself apart piece by piece, he would finally be able to find the thing that makes him rot. Maybe then, he would finally be able to cut out the badness, tear out its roots, and maybe, just maybe, he would be able to turn into something better.

(“Metamorphosis,” one of the figures crowding him had echoed the first time that he was changed.)

“Metamorphosis,” he whispers to himself now, as that awful stranger towers over him, wearing a face that he misses so badly it’s killing him.  

“–promise it’s okay–” that stranger is saying, and the world is warping around him. Grian can’t see through his tears, through his shaking fingers and weak, traitorous heart.

“Are you going to kill me again?” Grian sniffs, but he does not allow a single tear to fall. It’s hardly a question when he says it, really. It’s more of an acceptance, a manifestation.

“Wh– of course not!” Not-Mumbo wails, and, hah!

A distant, hysterical part of Grian’s mind chuckles. That tone- he’s certain it makes the stranger’s moustache quiver; a sight Grian thinks he might know better than he knows himself, these days. He doesn’t even need to look up at the fake to picture it. 

“Grian– it’s me, it’s just me,” that voice repeats uselessly, senselessly, and it sounds so tortured. 

Grian has to remind himself that he can’t be fooled. 

“You don’t have to lie,” he says, hooking the blanket over his knees and up to his chest and holding it there, nuzzling his face into the softness that will be snatched away soon. He has to enjoy it while he can, before he’s locked somewhere that he will never reach something as wonderful ever again. 

“I’m not– I’m not going to hurt you!”

Grian cannot stop shaking. He’s falling apart, shaking until his seams are all coming undone, he’s sure of it, because–

He doesn’t know what this Watcher (this fraud, this monster) wants to hear. 

He should allow himself to cry, maybe. To take whatever small, human victory he can before he gets sent back, but… maybe he is too broken, maybe that is why it feels so out of reach. Heartache crushes him like a rock, smearing him into a paste. Feelings that he cannot name are spiralling together in his gut, an awful, poisonous concoction that he shoves down desperately, endlessly. 

Grian breathes through the possibility that they might send him back into that death loop. Maybe they’ll even take something more permanently this time. Maybe they’ll leave more than just a few scars.

“...Okay,” he whispers, as if trying to speak it into existence.

“Grian- Grian, I promise you’re safe. I, uh, I can prove it!” And he sounds so desperate as he says it that Grian simply sighs, a thick silence hanging between them for a few moments before Not-Mumbo tries again.

“We- we met when we were children, I think I was twelve, so you must’ve been fourteen. You had- you had neon yellow hair, you said that your sister had pranked you. We met in the summer, then school started again and you went to high school in a different country, but- but we made sure to keep in touch.”

Every detail that the man before him recites is correct, like he’s pulling it straight from his own memory, but–

“We would write letters, but we didn’t see each other again until after you had graduated, and- and as soon as I finished school, we rented a terrible little apartment together, do you remember?”

Of course he does, he remembers that apartment like the back of his hand. He’s revisited that place so many times, in all the time he’s spent watching over different worlds, but–

“There was a patch of mould right over your bed, and whenever it got particularly gross, you’d crawl in with me instead. I used to joke that it was just an excuse, and you’d always tell me that I was imagining things- that the mould fumes must be getting to me.”

But it’s not enough.

Grian meets the imposter’s eyes, and they are shining with optimism. With poorly suppressed tears and delighted recollections. “You’re right,” He nods, staring dead ahead. “You’ve looked through my head too many times. I’ve never been able to hide anything from you.”

“What? Wh…” Not-Mumbo whispers, shaky and fragile. He cuts himself off before he can finish the thought, whatever words he meant to follow after turning into a tiny, gasped breath.

It’s eerily human. 

“I’m not-” The stranger clasps a hand over his mouth, breathing raspily around it. He whispers, “Oh, God. I don’t know how to convince you.”

Hope has been a stranger to Grian for such a long time. It has evaded him at every turn, slipping through his fingers every time that he manages to reach out. Hope has become a stranger – a childhood friend that he can no longer recognise, an unwelcome visitor asking to come in. And– the Watcher before him is faking anyway, so…

Why does it ache so badly to see this fake’s expression turn lax? To take in his lips turning down at the corners with a childish, youthful wobble?

Part of Grian – some unkillable, terrible part of him – wants to apologise. He almost can’t resist the look in Mumbo’s (NOT- Mumbo’s) eyes.

The larger part of Grian’s rationale turns up its nose and braces for impact.

“I promise it’s only me, whatever– whatever you’re scared of, I won’t l-let it get to you!” The Watcher sobs gutterally. “I love you–”

“–Stop!” Grian is ashamed as he yells, because- this is giving in to their dirty tactics, isn’t it? This is proving that mimicking the face of his loved ones works. “Please, just– stop! Get on with it!”

There is no response, not from either of them, as they break down and weep. A bedside vigil and a fallen angel, side by side and miles apart.

Grian chokes on his grief, and he has never felt further from home.