Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Most people on the Island didn't know Fit had a prosthetic arm.

Not at first, anyways.

It was easy to mistake his prosthetic for a gauntlet or even part of his armor if someone wasn't paying close attention to it, and Fit wasn’t inclined to correct them. He had no real reason to hide it of course, not here on Quesadilla Island, but Fit had always been a private person and frankly: it was nobody's damn business. Fit didn't need anyone prying into his background or making assumptions about him, or – god forbid – pitying him.

Despite that, there were a few people who weren’t as easily tricked by this unintentional deception.

Philza knew because he knew more about Fit than most people, and their paths crossed long before either of them ever set foot on this Island. Fit had a feeling even without that history, Phil was still keen-eyed enough to suss something like that out himself. Whether he would say anything about it was another matter entirely, but Phil wasn't one for idle gossip. They had a bond you could only get after fighting wars side by side, and the mutual trust that came from it was a rare gift that surprised and humbled Fit, even now. 

Vegetta clocked it almost immediately. Fit only understood a handful of the things Vegetta said to him at the time, mamadisimo among them, but the enthusiasm and gestures at his arm were enough for Fit to get the jist. Vegetta then proceeded to tell Fit a long and very confusing story about a friend who had a cursed arm, and how he should've just let them cut it off and given him a prosthetic like Fit's to avoid the whole fiasco that came afterward. Having no idea what the appropriate response to that would be, Fit simply smiled and nodded encouragingly whenever Vegetta paused.

Ramon knew because… well, he was Ramon, Fit's beautiful baby boy who was an absolute genius.

Spreen found out about a week after Ramon was adopted. A mob tried to get the jump on his boy, but before it could do any damage, Fit intervened and punched it so hard the impact left dents in the knuckles of his prosthetic. Ramon was seemingly unfazed, laughing at how Fit's punch sent the mob flying. Spreen watched from a distance, a hand resting on the hilt of the half-drawn blade he'd readied for the fight before Fit quite literally beat him to the punch. Though he didn't say anything in the moment, Fit could easily see Spreen's raised eyebrows even behind his dark sunglasses and knew something clicked for him.

Foolish found out completely by accident. During a dungeon run they did together for an Egg quest, several mobs materialized out of nowhere and ambushed them. Two split off from the group to attack Leo, who managed to down the first one but was a little too slow raising her sword against the second. Fit intervened and got rid of it with a single-handed slash from his trident, but not before it sank its teeth deep into his prosthetic arm with the jaw strength of a gator. It took him a minute to dislodge it, and the giant teeth marks left behind made Foolish scream in horror so loudly Fit almost thought one of their kids got downed in the fight. Ramon and Leo giggled to themselves as they watched Foolish frantically search his backpack for a healing potion before Fit finally took pity on him and told Foolish it wasn't necessary.

Apart from these few individuals, Fit's secret remained a secret.

…That is, until the Brazilians arrived.

The Island was chaotic and unpredictable at the best of times, but the Brazilians brought their own unique flair that upended the cautious routines they'd all settled into the longer they lived there. Every Brazilian Islander had a certain energy about them that seemed to attract danger and chaos, which is why they probably should've anticipated what happened to Richarlyson.

It was astonishing and depressing how quickly Richarlyson lost his first life despite his horde of fathers and despite the Islanders' repeated warnings about how fragile the Eggs were. Fit felt a pang of sympathy and regret as he watched Richarlyson get fitted for a prosthetic after his accident with the bulls. Fit probably didn’t need to be there for this, but all the new Islanders were low on resources and Fit was still frustrated that his attempt to rescue Richarlyson failed by only a few seconds. He'd offered Tazercraft whatever items they needed to help Richarlyson, which meant he was stuck for the time being, awkwardly trying to stand a respectable distance away while still being close enough to offer assistance if Pac or Mike needed it. 

It quickly became clear to Fit that the only thing they really needed from him were his materials. Mike pulled out what looked like a custom-made toolset from god knows where and said something in Portuguese to Pac, who had Richarlyson’s prosthetic ready to go. It hadn’t taken long for them to create the temporary leg for Richarlyson after his respawn; one of Richarlyson's legs was already a bit deformed, and they'd drawn up plans for some kind of mobility aid for him before this accident happened. Their bigger challenge right now was getting Richarlyson to actually try on the prosthetic.

An unhappy impatient pout grew on Richarlyson's face the longer he had to stay still and wait for Mike to finish making the adjustments. The translator helped Fit pick up bits and pieces of their conversation – not much, but enough to get a vague idea of what was being said. He knew Mike was asking Richarlyson if anything felt uncomfortable or if the padding felt too tight around the remnant of his leg, and Richarlyson just nodded or shook his head. He looked a little bored, as if the fact that he just lost a life and half his leg was only a minor inconvenience.

Right as Fit was wondering whether or not he should offer to leave the pair a spare backpack full of materials and let them have their privacy, Pac leaned forward next to Richarlyson and with a loud overly-exaggerated whisper said, "It's OK Richas, we match now!"

Fit just assumed his translator was glitching again, confused by what Pac meant by that until Pac rolled up his pant leg and showed off the prosthetic underneath. It was a simple sleek design that started an inch or so below his knee, black and silver with a Creeper face and Pacman symbol etched onto the side.

Richarlyson's entire demeanor changed, and he looked genuinely delighted at the prospect of matching one of his dads. He furiously scribbled something on the notepad Mike handed him before returning to work on his leg, and the pair bantered back and forth with him in rapid-fire Portuguese and quickly scrawled messages. Based on the small fragments Fit's translator picked up, it sounded like Richarlyson was asking if he could paint their prosthetics, meanwhile Mike was trying to wrangle his fidgety kid into staying still long enough for him to strap the temporary prosthetic on.

"Oh, that sounds like a fun idea, Richas!" Pac said in English as he turned toward Fit. "I think 'draw with the baby' is one of today's quests, right? Maybe we can all get materials for paint together and Ramon can paint your prosthetic too.”

The comment, as well as the invitation, caught Fit so off-guard that he nearly sliced his thumb on a knife sticking out of the bag he was rummaging through. (That was the only reason. The surprising warmth in Pac's eyes as he looked at him had absolutely nothing to do with it.)

In the end, he told Tazercraft to go on without him since Ramon was still asleep and Phil needed a hand with one of his projects. But the way Pac had talked so casually about prosthetics and left his pant leg rolled up as they walked away stuck in Fit's mind long after they were gone.

Chapter Text

Where Fit came from, prosthetics meant the wearer was adaptable, intelligent, and above all else: damn hard to kill. It was a symbol of seniority, something emphasized every time new players tried to get the jump on Fit thinking his arm was a hindrance rather than an unpredictable threat.

In the wasteland, prosthetics were a great excuse to add custom weapons to your repertoire. He'd seen people add sharp metal claws to the tips of their prosthetic fingers, knives hidden in slots on the back of prosthetic legs, replacement teeth sharpened into needle-like points, and one time Fit even saw someone who managed to turn their prosthetic arm into a chainsaw. By comparison, Fit's prosthetic was pretty utilitarian. He still wanted to be able to use the damn thing on a day-to-day basis, after all. It wasn't articulated enough for Fit to confidently wield a sword or dagger, but it was sturdy enough to hold a shield. (He was lucky he’d always been a quick learner — it only took him a month to re-learn how to wield a sword with his non-dominant hand). Finesse wasn't a necessity to survival, so Fit didn't bother trying to make his prosthetic perfect. (With the limited resources he had access to, he couldn't have done that even if he wanted to.) As is, having an arm made of metal added a good amount of power to his punches, and he could use that arm to deflect blades when he was in a pinch.

Against newbies who expected his prosthetic to break after the first hit, his arm was something that could catch people off-guard. But against veterans?

It was a liability.

True 2B2T survivalists knew the easiest ways to disarm custom prosthetics (often literally – the fastest way to get rid of a potential threat was to remove the threat entirely, after all). They all knew what joints to target, which prosthetic to disable first if their opponent had more than one, and how much force it took to break vital parts. Everyone who survived at least as long as Fit knew these critical fighting tactics, and it was almost solely because they themselves had a prosthetic limb too. He’d even encountered a few sadistic bastards who kept their opponents’ prosthetics like morbid trophies, or used them as replacements for their own, rigging their old limbs with explosives to kill whatever hopeful scavenger came across it.

The most dangerous opponents Fit ever faced were ones who were like him.

But Pac wasn't like him.

...Not the person he was in 2B2T, anyways.

At a glance, Pac seemed friendly, kind, and relatively un-intimidating. Assumptions like these were fatal in the wasteland, and Fit knew better than to jump to those conclusions. People often made the same mistake about Phil, which was stupid because Phil never made any attempt to mask his abilities or his strength.

Pac did.

Pac seemed to know exactly how people saw him, and gladly used it to his advantage. He was a charming, athletic, and pretty man (these were objective facts, not a matter of Fit’s own opinion, thank you very much ), and Pac clearly knew how to weaponize his strengths against unsuspecting targets. But unlike most shady characters Fit had encountered before coming to Quesadilla Island, Pac’s objectives were never malicious. Sure, he’d occasionally steal from friends with a laugh (and often a “ passa tudo ”), but he never tried to seriously injure or kill anyone, and neither did Mike. They never stole anything that mattered, and they never caused lasting harm– to people or their builds.

(…None of the builds made by Islanders, anyways. Federation builds were another matter.)

When it came to the Federation, Pac and Mike were absolute menaces , but they still somehow managed to get themselves out of trouble almost as easily as they got themselves into it. Their increasingly absurd hijinks amused Fit as much as they seemed to frustrate Cucurucho, who looked like he was on his last nerve every time Fit saw him after the Brazilian’s arrival. Pac and Mike always acted innocent, “ burrinha inocente ” as Pac once said, feigning ignorance to Cucurucho’s questions to weasel out of punishment.

But Fit could read anyone like an open book, and Pac was no exception. It was easy to miss Pac’s tells if you weren’t looking for them, but Fit was an observant guy, and he knew what to look for. The callouses on Pac's hands suggested he was familiar with swords and daggers, and even without weapons he was likely confident in hand-to-hand combat as well. Even though they weren't the calluses of a mountain climber, Fit had a strong suspicion Pac could parkour up the side of a building with relative ease based on his overall coordination, arm strength, and build alone. Even with the prosthetic, his footsteps were lighter than most people's, which told Fit that up until this point, Pac and Mike probably lived a life that depended on their ability to be stealthy and silent.

But during the Brazilians’ first few weeks on the Island, Fit noticed something else about Pac that prompted more questions than answers. As a whole, the Brazilians all got along well together, and according to Pac and Mike, all four of them knew each other before coming to the Island. This was a weird enough coincidence as it was, but of the many mysteries they encountered while living on Quesadilla Island, it ranked fairly low on Fit’s long list of concerns.

What did concern him was the fact that Pac never turned his back on Cellbit.

It was a precaution Fit understood well. An attack could come from anyone, anywhere, at any time, and it was easier to deal with attacks you saw coming. Even half a second could make a difference between life or death; a disfiguring injury or barely scraping by with all limbs intact. It was one of the reasons why Fit usually kept his back against a wall or tree when talking to people for prolonged periods of time. Doing so gave him one less blindspot to worry about, and it meant he could keep an eye on his surroundings, and Ramon, better.

But Cellbit was the only person Pac did it around, and it didn’t even seem like a conscious choice. When they were in larger groups, Pac never worried about guarding his back. It was only in the rare moments when Mike wasn’t around that Pac would carefully angle himself so Cellbit was never out of his line of sight. Normally that would’ve set off alarm bells in Fit’s head, except Cellbit and Pac’s interactions were always friendly. When one of them was downed, the other stepped in to help, and when Pac was in charge of Richarlyson and Cellbit asked Richas to join him on an adventure, Pac let him go without complaint. Hell, he’d seen Pac and Cellbit guard each others’ backs in battle! Whatever this subconscious instinct stemmed from, it was clearly deeply rooted enough in Pac’s mind that even his positive relationship with Cellbit couldn’t completely erase it.

Cellbit seemed aware of that, even if Pac wasn’t. He never approached Pac from behind if he could help it, and when he needed to pull Pac aside to speak to him so they could hear each other over the cacophony of voices during event days, Fit noticed Cellbit making sure Mike was never too far away when he and Pac spoke one-on-one in private. Fit wasn’t sure what to make of that, and ultimately shrugged it off. It wasn’t his business. Pac seemed more relaxed in Cellbit’s presence these days anyways — or at least, as relaxed as an anxious man like him could be. But that didn't mean Fit forgot what he saw.

Ultimately, all of Fit’s observations told him that Tazercraft were more of a threat than people gave them credit for. In fact, most of the Island residents were dangerous in one way or another. With how well Spreen and Missa used to get along back when Spreen was still around, Fit had a feeling even that timid man had something going on with him (“wet cat” reputation notwithstanding).

Still, when Tazercraft ran up to Fit on their first day on the Island and said they were fans of his work — his historical archivist work — they surprised him. It was a bit novel being recognized for that rather than his, er… violent and bloody reputation. Fit thought his broadcasts and recordings never went further than the borders of 2b2t, but apparently his work spread farther than he thought.

It was… nice. It felt good knowing something he made might outlive him.

Tazercraft's ability to catch him off-guard when he least expected it only grew from there. Fit’s daily routine and crack of dawn schedule meant he ran into Pac and Mike fairly often, and soon it became an almost daily occurrence. It was impossible not to get attached to Tazercraft, and the more they interacted and got to know each other, the more Fit found himself growing fond of the odd duo. They were both funny, clever, and absolute bastards , but that was a plus in Fit’s eyes.

It was strange making allies outside of a survival setting. Usually, Fit knew he could rely on someone based on how well they handled themselves in battle. There was no honor, integrity, or loyalty amongst the inhabitants of 2b2t, so strength, ruthlessness, and tenacity were the most desirable traits to look for in a potential ally. Although Pac and Mike didn’t fit 2b2t’s traditional standards for what allies should be, they met Fit’s. But Pac and Mike weren’t allies — they were friends . It was difficult for Fit to distinguish exactly what set these two labels apart in his mind, and part of that was likely because one of his closest friends was the former, and over time became the latter. Maybe even one of the first. (Even after all this time, whenever Phil introduced Fit as his friend to other people, it put a smile on Fit’s face.)

The way Fit saw it, it was like the difference between a sword and a shield: both were useful to have in dire circumstances, but only one could be turned against you. It was an imperfect metaphor, but words had never been one of his strengths.

If this were 2b2t, Pac and Mike would be good allies, but Fit preferred having them as friends.

Fit didn't get to see Pac in battle often, but he'd seen enough that he'd be willing to bet good money on Pac in a fight, especially since he knew from personal experience that getting kicked by a running prosthetic like the one Pac usually wore hurt like hell. He overheard Etoiles complimenting Pac's fighting skills once after they came back from a dungeon run, and that alone was enough to solidify Fit's opinion of Pac's abilities.

The first time Fit ever saw Pac get downed, he was trying to rescue Richarlyson. Fit was exploring with Tazercraft and replenishing his resources when they stumbled across a dungeon, which Richarlyson and Ramon somehow convinced them to explore. The first few levels weren’t too bad – they breezed through the mobs inside with few injuries, finding good armor and even a few golden apples in several treasure chests. Ramon and Richarlyson were delighted, and the apprehension Fit felt upon entering the dungeon was finally starting to drain away. Mike went ahead of the group to make sure the mobs on the upper-level wouldn’t overwhelm them, and Pac waved him off, continuing to riffle through chests with the kids as Fit kept watch. As Pac turned toward Fit to show off the enchantment book he found, flecks of blood staining his hoodie and a grin on his face as he wiggled the book in Fit’s direction for him to come see, Richarlyson’s foot caught a tripwire trap. He stumbled, and as their attention was briefly drawn towards him, a previously locked door none of them could get through flung open and more enemies swarmed out.

Fit’s trident was in his hand in an instant as he dashed across the room to get to Ramon, who was by himself studying a trap they’d already disabled. He didn’t recognize what half these mobs were, but they were all heavy hitters. Most of them had swords, but some had thick spiked clubs, and each blow Fit blocked with his shield sent such a strong reverberation through his prosthetic arm, the rest of his body felt it.

Fit was busy keeping himself and Ramon from getting cornered in the dungeon by mobs and pillagers when Pac shouted Richarlyson’s name, and the fear in his voice made Fit expect the worst. He risked looking away from the enemy he just downed to search for Pac and Richarlyson in the sea of enemies. He spotted Richarlyson’s iconic yellow jersey and saw blood slowly staining one sleeve from a shallow but long gash on Richarlyson’s arm. A large mob was lumbering towards Richarlyson, who was quickly losing ground as each step backwards brought him closer and closer to a wall. Richarlyson was bravely standing firm, his hold tight on his sword, but Fit could already see what was about to happen — and he was too far away to help.

People always talked about time slowing down when death approached.

To Fit, it was never faster. But he’d watched a lot of people die in his life.

As the mob swung its spiked club down at Richarlyson, Pac intercepted its hit. The blow ricocheted off his shield, and Fit barely had a moment to marvel at the sheer amount of core strength Pac must have to not get knocked off balance by a hit like that before the mob swung again. This time, Pac wasn’t so lucky. Richarlyson was a smaller target, which meant the mob’s aim was lower than Pac was anticipating. The club bypassed Pac’s shield and slammed into his side hard . The impact probably would’ve broken his leg if it hadn’t collided with the side his prosthetic was on, but it still ripped a sharp cry of pain from Pac as the spikes punctured the flesh part of his leg and knocked him to the ground. The jolt made Pac lose his grip on his shield, which spun out of reach.

Ramon yelped as Fit quickly scooped him up in one arm. He blocked a flurry of arrows with his shield, shoving enemies out of his way rather than engaging with them, trying to get to Pac’s position while keeping Ramon tucked safely at his side behind his shield.

“VOLTAR! Get over here!” Fit shouted to Richarlyson, praying the little Portuguese he’d picked up was correct. He beckoned to Richas with his sword hand, trying to get him to run closer so he could protect him too, but Richarlyson either didn’t hear him or didn’t care. He crouched at Pac’s side, his eyes wide as he looked between Pac and the monster still advancing on them. Despite his injury, Pac was trying to get back up, using his sword to brace himself and putting an arm in front of Richarlyson in a desperate attempt to shield him. Fit knew exactly what was going through his mind — it didn't matter how bruised and bloody they got in battle because they could always respawn. Their kids couldn't.

In Fit’s split second of hesitation trying to figure out how to protect Richarlyson and Pac without putting Ramon in harm’s way, Mike practically materialized behind him and joined the battle.

Mike ran faster than Fit had ever seen, leaping over rocks and debris to get to Pac and Richarlyson, brandishing his sword and cursing out anything that came within 5 feet of them. Pac tried to give him backup and yelped as he put weight on his prosthetic leg, crumbling back to the ground and nearly falling on Richarlyson, who’d rushed to help. Resigned, Pac pulled a bow from his inventory and took aim at anything out of Mike or Fit’s range.

The battle didn't last much longer after that. Fit set a disgruntled Ramon back on his feet once he deemed it safe and approached Tazercraft to see how bad the damage was. “You guys alright?”

Mike was already at Pac's side, hissing in sympathy as he saw the injury and blood soaking through Pac’s pant leg. “ Caralho, o que aconteceu? ” Mike said, and Fit's translator spat out an approximation of ‘What happened?’ before Mike continued. “Você deveria ter me chamado. Tá louco…”

Fit couldn't speak Portuguese (well, he knew the last bit was ‘crazy’) but based on Mike's tone, Fit had a feeling he was scolding Pac. Pac hissed in pain when Mike put a hand near his knee, and Mike recoiled as if he’d been burned. “Acho que algo quebrou,” Pac said, and this time the translator caught it. ‘I think something broke.’ Fit sincerely hoped Pac was referring to his prosthetic and not his actual leg, though neither option was great.

“Eu preciso tirar isso,” Mike agreed grimly, and Pac nodded, looking resigned. “Desculpe.” ‘Sorry.’

Fit was about to ask how he could help when, to his surprise and mild horror, Mike reached down and started helping Pac carefully take off his prosthetic leg. Fit wasn't sure what surprised him more – the fact that Mike was handling Pac's leg and unlatching things with such expertise or the fact that Pac was letting him. The thought of someone else manhandling his arm, let alone taking it off made a numb tingle travel down Fit’s spine and linger in the place where his arm used to be. His prosthetic had been crushed, severed, and ripped from his body before, but no one had ever handled it with the level of delicate care and concern that Mike showed Pac.

Feeling vaguely uncomfortable, Fit turned away to give them privacy. It wasn’t that the sight of the blood or Pac’s residual limb made him queasy (he’d seen far worse before — hell, he’d done far worse), it just felt… too intimate. In 2b2t, a world where trust was a rare and volatile thing, removing your prosthetic in front of someone was one of the greatest acts of trust a person could do. It showed that you trusted your partner not to lodge a knife in your heart the second your guard was down, and Fit wasn’t sure he was deserving of that level of trust. It felt too vulnerable, too risky, like offering his neck to a naked blade — except in this case, Fit was the one holding the knife.

Fit dismissed that thought with a shake of his head. He respected Pac and Mike too much to ever consider exploiting that trust.

“Better to take it off. That's gonna swell and bruise, moço,”  Mike said with a sigh behind him. “Do you have any healing potions, Fit?”

“Of course,” Fit said, digging through his backpack to fish out the small pink bottle. He was grateful he had one at all; part of the reason he went exploring with them today was because he needed material to replenish his potion stock. Still averting his gaze, Fit handed the potion to Pac. Instead of drinking it, Pac offered it to Richarlyson, encouraging him to take a few sips first to heal up his arm. Very reluctantly, Richarlyson took a small sip. The potion immediately took effect, stitching up the gash in his arm and smoothing it over until all that was left was a faint line, as though the injury was already a few days old. Richarlyson corked the bottle and handed it back before throwing his arms around Pac’s neck and hugging him tight.

“Tudo bem, tudo bem, está tudo bem, Richas,” Pac reassured him, patting Richarlyson’s back. “I needed to repair my leg anyways. Now I don’t have an excuse to keep putting it off!” he said with a bright laugh, and Fit marveled at Pac’s ability to put on a happy smile for his kid while he had a fresh gaping wound on the side of his leg still steadily oozing blood.

When Richarlyson eventually pulled away, Pac brushed his curly black hair out of his eyes and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Richarlyson wrinkled his nose and dashed back to Ramon’s side, all guilt forgotten. Ramon smiled, silently reaching out and taking one of Richarlyson’s hands in his.

Fit continued to keep watch as Pac drank half the potion and poured the other half directly on the wound so Mike could safely bandage it up. Trying to do first aid in the immediate aftermath of a battle while still in a dangerous location was something Fit was very familiar with, but that didn’t mean it didn’t stress him out. He was used to dealing with his own injuries, not standing watch so others could deal with theirs. It made a different kind of anxiety crawl up his spine.

The trip back to Chume Labs was thankfully calm. Technically Fit probably didn’t have to escort them back, but he wanted to ensure nothing else tried to get the jump on them while Pac was injured. His injury was less of a concern now thanks to Fit’s healing potion, and it would probably heal up just fine with a few stitches and another potion or two. His prosthetic, on the other hand, was utterly trashed.

For all his talk about people underestimating Tazercraft, Fit was still surprised at how easily Mike was able to carry Pac on his back, as if they’d done it a hundred times before (with how long the pair had known each other, they probably had). Fit slung both of their backpacks over his shoulder before either of them could protest, saying he’d rather carry the bags than carry both of them and the bags if Mike fell over and got hurt while trying to carry everything.

The path from the warp stone to Chume Labs wasn’t very long, but Pac’s eyelids were already slipping shut as they walked. Fit couldn’t tell if he was actually drifting off or just resting his eyes, but either way, he couldn’t imagine falling asleep around (let alone on) someone else that easily. The bond between Tazercraft was truly something special, and he couldn’t hide his small smile as Mike adjusted Pac to get a better grip. He’d almost offered to carry Pac when they were preparing to leave the dungeon, but he’s glad he didn’t. It felt right seeing Pac and Mike together like this, and Fit could practically imagine a younger Pac and Mike reenacting this same scene years prior, trudging through the woods together like brave adventurers on a grand quest. He wondered just how young Pac was when he lost his leg.

“Does this happen to you guys a lot?” Fit finds himself asking, eyes drifting to the prosthetic leg Mike had to haphazardly shove in his backpack to keep his hands free.

Mike makes a half-hearted attempt to shrug, which he couldn’t execute well while carrying Pac. “Not really. Pac's better at dodging than I am. Usually it’s my glasses that get broken or lost, and that’s a pain in the ass to deal with. Pac's prosthetic is a lot stronger, but we haven't had a lot of time to work on it lately since coming here.”

Fit noted how Mike said “we” when talking about Pac's prosthetic and filed that away for later.

“Usually we don't fight long battles like that,” said Pac, opening his eyes and resting his head against Mike’s other shoulder to look at Fit. Ah, just resting then. “This Island is the first time we've had to do this much combat in a long time.”

“Makes sense. You guys said you were scientists, right?” Fit asked, remembering some of their old conversations and the brief tour he’d received of Chume Lab.

“Yep! The concept of Chume Labs existed before we came here. The… details are a bit fuzzy in my memory though,” Mike said, wrinkling his nose in a way that was oddly reminiscent of the way Richarlyson looked when he did that.

“What about you, Fit?” Pac asked, perking up. “Has your arm ever broken in a battle before?”

He probably should’ve expected that question, but today’s events had left Fit feeling a little off-kilter. Fit knew he could easily lie and say he couldn't remember, but he wouldn't be sharing anything too personal by answering. It just felt like picking at an old scab, something that should've healed over years ago. But Pac and Mike had their own scabs, and they hadn’t hesitated to share them with Fit.

“Yeah, a few times,” he admitted eventually. It was more than just a few times, but they didn’t need to know the exact number. “It was usually in fights against other people though, not mobs. One time I took an End Crystal blast up-close that probably would've killed me if I wasn't shielding my head with this arm. It's a hassle, but what can you do,” he said with a laugh that sounded a bit too casual even to his own ears.

Pac hummed thoughtfully. “That sounds tough. It's annoying to fix my leg when things break, and that's even with Mike's help. It must be hard fixing a prosthetic with only one arm. I think I'd rather have one leg.”

Ramon and Richarlyson, who’d both run ahead of their parents the second they reached the safety of Chume Labs, briefly paused to look behind them as Pac’s blunt response startled a laugh out of Fit. “I dunno Pac. I'm still able to fight with one arm, and if things get dicey — too difficult, I can always run away. I'd rather have that option.”

Fit winced, wondering if that was a bit insensitive, but Pac just shook his head.

“Well, that's why I have Mike!” he said cheerfully, squeezing his arms around Mike, who just huffed a quiet laugh in agreement. “It used to be scary when my leg stopped working, and it still is sometimes, but Mike is there for me to lean on, you know?”

“Makes sense. I’m glad you guys have each other,” Fit said, ready to let the subject drop when Pac added:

“Next time your arm doesn’t work, you can lean on us too!”

Fit’s brain stalled for a moment.

“Oh,” he said eloquently. That was… not what he’d expected Pac to say.

“Though I guess you wouldn’t really need to lean on us since you have both legs,” Pac frowned, oblivious to the effect his words just had on Fit. “Oh! You won’t need to lean, but–” Pac grinned at him, and in the deep voice he sometimes used to mimic Fit said– “If you need a hand, we can give you one! Maybe even two! One from me, one from Mike, you know?”

Fit laughed again, and Pac’s smile got even wider, as though Fit was the injured person who needed cheering up and not him. As though Fit was something radiant and beautiful and not—

Mike snorted at them. “Try fighting without your eyesight! You can't fight if you don't know who you're swinging at.”

Pac turned his attention back to Mike. “The last time you broke your glasses, you almost cut my head off because you thought I was a monster!”

“I couldn't see, ok?” Mike said with a groan, sounding like they’d had this argument a million times before.

Pac kicked Mike in the shin with his good leg. “What kind of monster wears a bright blue hoodie?!”

They quickly slipped back into Portuguese and continued arguing like that even as Mike set Pac down on a table and started patching up his wounds, and Fit listened the entire time with a smile on his face. Quesadilla Island was a nightmare, and they were constantly fighting for their own, and their children's lives, but Fit couldn't help but feel grateful that circumstances aligned to let him meet Tazercraft.

Chapter Text

The first pair of hearing aids Fit ever got cost him an arm and a leg.

…Not literally, but some people in the wasteland considered their resources as valuable as their own limbs, and often, those were what they risked when trying to steal other people's stashes or protect their own.

A few weeks after his rapidly deteriorating hearing nearly cost him his life in a surprise ambush, Fit finally decided to relent and trade some of his own precious materials to an old scrapper he'd had non-violent (...mostly non-violent) interactions with in the past. Nobody in the wasteland could be trusted, but Fit trusted that the trade he'd offered them was weighed unequally enough in their favor that the hearing aids they handed him weren't going to explode and kill him the second he put them on.

…Probably.

Finding a happy medium between making a trade worthwhile but not offering anything too extravagant lest people tail him and loot his corpse for any other valuables was a tricky balance to find, but Fit had over a decade’s worth of experience and hard-learned lessons on his side.

Considering the kind of life he led, the hearing aids held up surprisingly well. Sure, Fit had to deal with annoying feedback that crackled in his ear from time to time and it was difficult re-adjusting to life as a person who could actually more or less hear things again, but the hearing aids worked a lot better than he expected (though to be fair, the fact that they worked at all already exceeded his expectations, but that was beside the point.) It was a pain in the ass hunting down traders every few months for battery packs to recharge his hearing aids, but after a lot of trial and error, Fit eventually learned how to craft his own energy source and it became one less thing he needed to worry about. All in all, he considered his hearing aids well worth the items he traded for them, despite his initial doubts, and Fit knew they probably kept him alive longer than he would’ve survived on 2b2t without them.

So naturally, one month after he left the wasteland, the damn things broke.

Fit was in no mood to appreciate the irony of this, especially not when his head was throbbing and his vision was swimming, half-obscured by blood.

“Explore a dungeon with friends” was a fairly routine Egg quest at this point, and they all knew there was safety in numbers when raiding dungeons and protecting their kids. Parenthood didn't come easily to Fit, but fighting did, so when Phil, Roier, Jaiden, and their respective Eggs all agreed to visit a dungeon together, Fit took the lead. Roier and Jaiden stayed in the middle of the group with Ramon, Bobby, Tilin, and Chayanne, and Phil guarded the rear, making sure nothing could get the jump on them.

Most of the mobs they’d encountered thus-far on Quesadilla Island were ones Fit was familiar with. Skeletons, zombies, spiders, creepers — these were all known dangers. It was the mobs Fit didn't recognize that he was especially cautious around, and the huge armored bipedal lizards they encountered in the dungeon were definitely unfamiliar to him. They hit hard, but Fit hit harder. He was a survivor, a man with over a decade’s worth of experience living in one of the most cruel and inhospitable worlds imaginable. He was used to watching his back even when fighting alongside allies because on 2b2t, today’s ally could be tomorrow’s enemy. This mentality molded Fit into an observant, cautious fighter, and it kept him alive.

But for all his experience and expertise, he’d never been a father.

In most situations, Fit probably could’ve raised his shield fast enough to block the attack that took him down, or even used his metal arm to partially deflect it. But as Fit's opponent dodged his attack and spun around as if to retreat, Fit saw Ramon step forward out of the corner of his eye in pursuit, and an ominous foreboding feeling eclipsed his heart. Fit had next to no experience with kids (and he sure as hell didn’t have experience as a parent), but something in his gut made him thrust his arm out in warning for Ramon to stay back.

In that split-second window of distraction, the monster struck — its tail whipping around and slamming into Fit’s head with the force of a club.

Frankly, Fit was surprised the impact didn’t immediately trigger a respawn. His head throbbed so badly he’d be shocked if his skull wasn’t fractured. With blood in his eyes and the reverberating silence ringing in his ears, Fit almost wished he had respawned because he had no way of knowing where Ramon or his opponent was. One hearing aid was completely destroyed by his enemy, crushed by the impact and half dangling from his ear. The other crackled loudly, damaged when the blow knocked him to the ground and he hit his head.

Fit nearly jolted when he felt small hands clinging to his arm before he recognized them as Ramon’s, and a tiny flicker of relief knowing his son was safe momentarily outweighed his pain. Long-sleeved robes brushed Fit’s other side as another pair of hands reached down to tentatively check on him. Fit cracked his eyes open to try and see through the blood. A blur of green and blonde crouched next to him with a smaller brown blur near it, and Fit hazards a guess that Ramon and Phil were with him.

“Jesus ,” Phil hissed as Fit tried to turn toward the direction of his muffled voice before a wave of dizziness and pain made him freeze. “We're grabbing some healing potions, just stay upright and conscious, ok?” It was as if Phil was trying to speak to him underwater. His words were muffled and nearly incomprehensible to Fit, who couldn't focus on what Phil was saying anyways with everything that was happening.

Fit could blurrily make out Roier cutting down the last of their opponents and Jaiden shuffling the kids away from Fit, trying to shield them from what was likely a gruesome sight.

His sense of smell was one of the few senses still working, and the strong scent of mint filled the air and temporarily overpowered the smell of blood as splash potions of healing were tossed next to him. Another potion was pressed to his lips, and he protested for a moment before reluctantly taking a swig, reminding himself that he wasn’t around people who would willingly try and poison him. Fit knew some Islanders would just let themselves respawn rather than deal with pain or injuries, but Fit came from a world with very fickle, very specific respawn mechanics. People never knew when their deaths would stick. He wouldn't risk a respawn just for the sake of convenience, even if Quesadilla Island's respawn rules were pretty consistent thus-far. Phil was one of the few Islanders who understood his caution, he made no mention of it as he pulled Fit upright. He did, however, stay at arms-length for the remainder of their trip, a silent offer of help should Fit need it.

Their dungeon run didn't last much longer after that. They'd cleared enough for it to count as a completed quest, and neither Phil nor Jaiden and Roier were willing to risk their kids’ safety by pushing onward with an injured person. The healing potions were enough for Fit's head to stop aching, but the vertigo kept Fit dizzy and nauseous. He still waved Phil off when he (presumably) tried to offer Fit help getting back to his base. It wasn't the worst injury he’d ever had, and besides, it wasn’t Phil’s responsibility to worry about him.

Ramon wasn’t a clingy child (maybe he would’ve been, if Spreen hadn’t admonished him so much, or if Fit was a different kind of person) but that day, he clung to Fit’s arm until they returned home.

The week after his hearing aids broke sucked. 

Fit knew how to repair a lot of things — swords, daggers, bows, radios, his prosthetic arm, and more — but repairing hearing aids was unfortunately not something he excelled at. They were small and delicate, and he didn't have much finger dexterity with only one hand. After a few days of frustration and struggling with repairs, Fit tossed the broken hearing aids into the trash. He wasn't a sentimental man; not when it came to things like this, anyways. If something was broken beyond repair, there was no sense hauling around junk if it couldn't be repurposed into something else. 

Ramon was too good to him, patient and understanding as Fit once again readjusted to a life without hearing aids. This wasn't unusual for Ramon; sometimes his boy acted more mature than other Islanders, and Fit wasn’t sure if he was proud or sad about that. It wasn’t fair that their kids needed to grow up so fast, but Fit knew better than to expect life to be fair.

It was lucky he didn’t need to rely on his hearing to communicate with the Eggs or read their signs, so he and Ramon had no trouble understanding each other. If he missed what someone else said to him, he could cheat by casually looking at the translations on his communicator for a transcript. Downplaying one’s disabilities was a habit carried over from his 2b2t days, but Fit was cautious about revealing too much about his situation for reasons other than impending death or threats of violence now. Fit didn’t think any of the Islanders would take advantage of his poor hearing and try to kill him, but he knew many of them would get too nosy about his business, and other well-meaning ones might start talking in loud exaggerated voices around him in an attempt to help him hear better.

At this point in his life, Fit was fairly decent at lip-reading. It was a skill he picked up long before his hearing started failing, and often gave him an upper-hand when spying on enemy camps, but exaggerated speaking made it all but impossible for him to do it. (Though lip-reading wasn’t much use on this Island anyways; he couldn’t always be certain people were speaking English around him).

It was one of the reasons he started hanging out with Phil more frequently. Even though Phil had an accent, it was one Fit was used to, and Phil always enunciated his words clearly enough that Fit was able to catch what he said most of the time. That, and Phil already knew about his hearing loss. He was always willing to repeat himself if it seemed like Fit missed something or didn’t hear him, even without Fit asking, and he never made a big deal about it. Considering Phil was dealing with a disability of his own, Fit understood. (Muscles atrophied faster than people thought. Wings were meant to be used, not hidden away under cloaks and backpacks.)

Hearing was convenient, but Fit had gone without hearing aids before and he could do it again. He just needed to suck it up and tough it out.

The second pair of hearing aids Fit received were, ironically, from the Federation.

He found them in a chest sitting on the stone steps outside his house a week after his hearing aids broke. The chest had an official-looking letter from the Federation, which Fit skimmed half-heartedly after checking to make sure the chest wasn't trapped. Like with most messages from the Federation, there were a whole lotta words that said a whole lotta nothing, and halfway through, Fit crumpled up the letter and tossed it into his bag to dispose of later. According to the letter, The Federation wanted ‘the highest quality of life possible for its residents,’ and they were ‘more than happy to provide any necessary equipment to ensure all residents were comfortable.’ Fit wasn’t sure what to expect when he cautiously opened the box left inside the chest, but it certainly wasn’t what he saw.

The sterile white hearing aids lying inside the pristine little box looked twenty times nicer (and cleaner) than the ones he previously wore. They looked new, high-tech, and very expensive. The box, stamped with Cucurucho’s face on the front, had gold lining and a silky white interior along with a small case to carry the hearing aids in. The presentation made the hearing aids feel more like fancy jewelry than– well, hearing aids.

Ritzy design or no, this was the kind of thing people on 2b2t would (and often did) kill for.

Fit chucked them in a river as soon as he got the chance. 

The next week, he received another chest and note reiterating that the Federation was dedicated to improving Islanders’ experiences. The only difference in this letter was a small addition at the bottom, which explained that his new hearing aids were now waterproof.

Fit melted that pair in a pool of lava while exploring a dungeon far away from his home. The Federation either thought he was stupid or they were wildly underestimating his ability to function without hearing aids. There was no way he'd willingly walk around with a Fed bug in his ear.

(Frankly, even if they weren’t some kind of weird spying device or something that would inevitably try to brainwash him, Fit would rather die than walk around wearing Cucurucho-branded anything.)

When the third pair of hearing aids appeared a few days later, this time in a chest left inside his house, Fit was nearing the limits of his patience. Angry and slightly paranoid that the Federation broke into his house specifically to keep pushing an unwanted gift on him, Fit stomped toward the chest, ignoring the sign Ramon was hastily scribbling, and tossed the unopened box inside into the fireplace without a second thought.

A moment later, Fit was lunging forward to drag Ramon away from the fire he'd just stuck his hands into.

Ramon’s unusual dragon genes meant he'd always been a little more resistant to fire than most– even amongst his siblings (it was a fact Fit found out the same week he learned just how much Ramon liked explosives). Instinct still had him checking Ramon's hands for burns, carefully holding his boy's small hands in his as he looked for damage.

“Ramon, you need to be more careful, what were you thinking?” Fit tried to keep his voice from rising too much, trying to convey his concern while also not wanting to make Ramon think he was angry with him. Danger wasn’t new to Fit, and neither was fear. He’d learned long ago how to keep a tight lid on his emotions, but when it came to Ramon, it wasn’t always so easy.

Ramon needed his hands to reply, so Fit reluctantly released him as soon as he was sure his boy wasn't hurt. 

I made them for you, Ramon wrote. Fit wasn’t sure what Ramon meant until he held up a small (slightly charred) brown box he’d rescued from the fireplace before Fit yanked him away from it. Ramon's gift was in a simple brown wooden box, and seeing what was inside surprised Fit even more than the Federation’s 'present'.

It was a pair of hearing aids.

The first thing that struck Fit was the fact that — unlike the Federation’s — these hearing aids weren’t sterile white. They were a subtle peach color, just a few shades off his skin tone. They didn’t look elegant or delicate like the previous pairs Fit got rid of; these looked sturdy and reliable, like something Fit would actually wear. There was no fancy design stamped on it, but Fit could just make out a very thin logo of a mustache carefully etched on the side of one.

I'm sorry if they're not perfect, Ramon wrote quickly. I couldn’t fix the old ones, so I made these instead.

“Ramon, this is…” he had no words. Fit could count the number of times he’d received a gift this thoughtful — scratch that; a gift period — on one hand, and every single instance had occurred on Quesadilla Island. “How did you do this?”

Ramon immediately perked up hearing his question. He dug around in one of his many pockets until he fished something small out, and Fit immediately recognized it as the broken hearing aids he’d thrown away. 

I looked at these and tried to copy the design. I don't know if I did it right, but... Ramon glanced down at his feet before looking back up at Fit with a hopeful and expectant gaze as he held up his sign. If they don't work, can I try making them again?

Fit could feel the anxiety behind Ramon’s words. He knew Ramon’s hesitant confidence would crumple at the first hint of rejection or disapproval, but there was no need for Fit to mask his reaction.

“My beautiful baby boy,” he held his arm open, and Ramon rushed forward to receive the hug. Ramon wasn't a very physically-affectionate child in public, but he was still a big fan of his father's hugs.

Fit pulled Ramon into a gentle but firm embrace. Words had never been his forte, but he hoped the hug helped convey his gratitude and love for his son. “Thank you, Ramon. You're too good to me. Can you show me how they work?”

Unlike the Islanders, the Eggs were not a high priority for the Federation.

This wasn't new information to Fit, but recent events were an aggravating reminder of that fact.

When he and Phil found Tallulah in a secret room above the Egg adoption center, it quickly became clear that she had hearing problems too. Certain sounds made her ears feel sensitive while others she couldn't hear at all. Despite this, Tallulah was immediately enamored by Missa and his guitar, and she always watched Missa with rapt attention whenever he played his guitar for Chayanne. When she was a little bolder and more comfortable around people, she'd lay the tips of her fingers against the body of the guitar, feeling each note’s reverberations to make up for the occasional note she couldn't hear. It was one of the reasons she started learning to play the flute– the notes were the right pitch for her to hear. The first few weeks of practice were rough, but she picked it up surprisingly well.

Chayanne was never far from her side, helping Tallulah by keeping an ear out (literally) for danger. After Tilin died, he’d become more high-strung and serious than before. Fit knew Chayanne and Tilin were close, and he wondered if Chayanne’s caution with Tallulah was a result of that loss.

But the problem of Tallulah's hearing still remained, and no amount of protection could save her if she was alone in a place where sharp ears could be a matter of life or death.

Cucurucho was absolutely no help, and neither he nor the Federation gave Tallulah the same accommodations they offered Fit. Fit knew this even before Phil told him because Phil cursed Cucurucho out so thoroughly in the global chat that Bad spammed “LANGUAGE!!!” until Phil's message could no longer be seen on their communicators without scrolling up (which everyone did immediately).

What Fit hadn’t expected was Phil showing up to ask him and Ramon directly if they had any suggestions or a way to help. It was a testament to how serious the situation was — Philza was a man who rarely ever asked for help (even to his own detriment). Little by little, the Eggs were changing all of them in unexpected ways, even the most stubborn amongst them. The knowledge probably should’ve unnerved Fit more than it did, but perhaps this was just another example of that change.

“I know Ramon was able to make you new hearing aids, so do you think that's something he could do again? I can get any materials he needs, if there’s anything you guys are missing.”

Fit looked to Ramon, encouraging him with a small nod to answer for himself. 

Ramon slowly shook his head, anxious about being the bearer of bad news. I built yours using pieces of the ones that broke.

Suddenly Fit wished he hadn't thrown away the hearing aids the Federation gave him. Phil groaned, but he still patted Ramon's head to reassure him that he wasn’t mad or disappointed in him. “That's alright, Ramon,” he said kindly. “It's an adult problem anyways, you don't need to worry about any of that, mate.”

“It’s gonna be the Federation’s problem if they don’t hurry up and do something. They have no idea they’re pissing off one of the saltiest bastards on the planet,” Fit said with a wry smile.

Phil threw his head back with a laugh. “They haven’t seen the half of it yet! I’ll go Karen-mode if I have to next time I see Cucurucho, I swear to god, but if that doesn’t work… Well. There are always other methods.” Phil flashed him a grin, and Fit was instantly reminded of his time as a mercenary in a snowy Antarctic kingdom, and how frequently that very smile spelled trouble. “Whaddya say, mate? Up for a little anarchy?”

And like he’d done so many years ago, Fit laughed and replied, “With you, Phil? Always.”

As was often the case on Quesadilla Island, their plans didn’t go exactly as expected.

With warnings of an immediate yet unknown danger to their kids approaching, the Islanders were doing everything they could just to scrape by with their sanity intact. The temporary disappearance of their kids and the arrival of the Brazilians made their lives fall into further chaos, and it took everyone a few weeks to recover from the onslaught of one exhausting event after another. Tallulah's poor hearing was just one more concern added to the heap, which was quickly becoming a mountain.

Tallulah wasn’t Fit's kid, and if he still had the mentality he had during that first week of the Egg event, Fit wouldn’t spare a single thought for her. Ramon had endeared himself to Fit faster than he wanted to admit back then, but he wasn't concerned about the other Eggs. In time, however, everyone on the Island grew fond of all the kids, even those they weren’t responsible for, and Fit was no exception. ‘It takes a village to raise a child ’ was a quote frequently parroted by the other parents, but Fit felt like it took a village just to keep their damn kids alive .

He tried his best to advise Tallulah on ways to stay sharp despite her poor hearing, but she wasn't a fighter. Even if she was, she still couldn't rely on the same instincts he did. The instincts Fit had couldn't be taught; they were created from a decade’s-worth of experience and hard learned lessons. The Eggs didn't have the luxury of time or forgiving respawns, and unfortunately, none of the Islanders had any ideas or resources that could help Tallulah.

Tazercraft, on the other hand, didn't seem to have that problem.

Neither Fit nor Phil thought to bring the issue up with Pac and Mike, despite knowing how clever they were. It wasn't that either of them doubted Tazercraft's abilities; the simple fact of the matter was that so much had happened in the weeks since the Brazilians arrived that this concern, while still important, was sidelined in favor of more immediately-urgent matters. Luckily for Tallulah, Richarlyson mentioned her hearing problems in passing to his fathers, asking if there was something they could create to help her like they were able to help him with his leg, and Tazercraft immediately rose to the challenge.

Pac was a man who constantly grappled with anxiety, but in spite of that (or perhaps because of that), he had a talent for soothing others’ worries. When he and Mike heard about Tallulah's predicament, Pac gave her such a warm, kind smile that for a moment, Fit understood why Pac had so quickly and so easily won the affection of so many Eggs and Islanders alike.

Placing a hand over his heart like he was swearing a vow, Pac declared, “Me and Mike can definitely make you hearing aids! We’ve never made any before, but I think we can figure it out.” He glanced at Mike as he said this, and Mike shrugged in response.

“We can try. I think we can make it, but I don't know how good they'll turn out. It's easier building things when I've taken them apart before.”

No one turned to Fit, no one glanced his way, no one gave any indication that they had expectations of him, but Fit still felt as though Mike’s words had shunted him into the spotlight. He watched the scene with a grimace, noticing the way Phil’s brow creased as he listened to Mike speak. Fit was almost certain that the worry line Phil’s frown created bore a permanent mark on his friend’s face now. They’d both experienced countless dangers and frustrations in their lives, but the responsibility of parenthood felt incomparable to those from their murky memories. The domineering presence of the Federation made it so their actions rarely mattered on this Island, and no matter what they did or what precautions they took, there was almost nothing they could do to protect their kids. Helplessness was suffocating, and right now, Phil looked like he was drowning.

“Well,” Fit began slowly, a prickle of discomfort traveling up his spine as attention moved to him. “I mean, I've got hearing aids. I'm not really sure how serious taking them apart would be, but as long as I get them back in working condition, I'm willing to let you both look at mine.” He paused for a beat, then added, “If you're OK with it, Ramon.”

Ramon looked up at him in surprise and Fit gave him an encouraging nod. He was willing to help out Tallulah (and Phil and Tazercraft by extension), but his hearing aids were a gift his son worked hard on, and he wanted to be considerate of that.

Very hesitantly, Ramon nodded. Fit saw him briefly glance at Chayanne and Tallulah, who were standing with their hands tightly clasped together, and then nodded again with more confidence.

“Wait, if Tallulah can't get hearing aids, then how did Fit get his?” asked Mike, ever shrewd. From anyone else, the comment might have sounded accusatory, but Fit knew it was just curiosity that prompted Mike’s question.

“Maybe he had them before coming to the Island,” Pac suggested easily before Fit could respond.

“Well, that's kind of right,” Fit said. “I've had hearing aids for a few years, but mine broke about a month after we first came to the Island. It's thanks to Ramon that I've got working ones again.”

“Ramon made them?” Tazercraft both turned to look at Ramon.

“Wow Ramon, that's amazing! Fully-functional hearing aids… You must be a genius!” Pac beamed at him, and Ramon blushed. He tugged his Meathead hat down to cover his eyes and ears, which Fit knew were turning red at the praise. Ramon loved compliments and was always seeking the approval of others, but the second attention was turned on him, he got embarrassed. Fit smiled warmly at the sight. He was always grateful when the others praised his boy and made him feel appreciated.

“He sure is. My little genius.” He patted Ramon on the head, and Ramon leaned against him, shyly hiding his face in Fit's shirt. “He looked at my broken ones and used them as a reference to make these.”

“Learning from broken things is helpful,” Mike agreed.

Fit chuckled, but he sincerely hoped they learned how to make Tallulah's hearing aids without having to break his first.

Chume Labs wasn't what Fit imagined when he thought of a scientist’s laboratory. To be honest, his idea of laboratories ranged from sterile white rooms like the Federation’s to dungeons that birthed Frankenstein-esque monsters, but Chume Labs was neither.

Fit wouldn't call it messy per say, because there was clearly an organized structure to most things and the majority of the lab felt oddly vacant, but every flat surface had books and sheets of paper scattered across it. Drawings of potions and blueprints and chemical equations were scribbled in the corner of notebook pages and book margins, and drawing utensils were periodically placed every few feet.

But Chume Labs had its own sense of style. Apart from the iconic blue and green chairs, it had an artistic flair that only a Tazercraft build could have. It wasn't nearly as fancy as some of their other builds they were working on for their Hide and Seek game, but it was nevertheless impressive, particularly the outside.

Fit considered himself a pretty observant man, but standing in the lab waiting for Pac and Mike to finish setting up their workshop gave him time to notice all the small details he'd overlooked. Ramon sat cross-legged in a plush chair next to him, idly sketching ideas for his next project. 

Tazercraft had invited Ramon to watch the process and hear his input, and they gave his commentary as much weight as if Ramon was an expert in his field. They appreciated his skills and insight and didn't baby him or brush off his ideas — a trait that had long since endeared them to Ramon.

“Ramon,” came Mike’s voice, drawing Fit out of his thoughts. “Do you have any drawings you did when making the hearing aids? It might be helpful to see them.”

Ramon eagerly hopped off the couch, pausing a moment for Fit's nod of approval before practically skipping over to Mike in the other room with his notebook in hand. He passed Pac, who was just exiting through the doorway.

“I think we have everything ready now, sorry for making you wait.”

“It's no trouble, Pac. Not like I had any other important appointments to get to,” Fit said with an amused huff.

“No big adventures planned today, then?” Pac asked, returning his laugh with ease but making no attempt to smother the sound.

“Ehh, I think we both know better than to look for adventure on this Island. Adventure and shenanigans are always bound to find us, whether we look for them or not.” Fit saw Pac silently echoing the word ‘shenanigans’ and he smiled, then raised a hand to his ear saying, “So, should I just pop these out and hand them over, or…?”

Pac stopped him by raising his own hands, waving them frantically before him. “ Espere , not yet! We want to take a few photos first so we can reference it. It looks different when they’re being worn, you know?”

“Makes sense.” Fit watched Pac dig a camera out of his inventory and turned his head so Pac could get a clear shot. He’d never liked being photographed — having your name and face floating around 2b2t was annoying at best and an outright death sentence at worst — but people on Quesadilla Island were so photo-happy with all the kids around that Fit was forced to shelve his paranoia for the time being and slap an attempt at a friendly smile on his face every time a camera was pointed in his direction. Still, when he was the only person in a photo, some of that old survivalist caution reared its head in the back of his mind.

Strangely, he didn’t feel that way when Pac raised his camera and snapped the first photo. (That didn’t mean he was entirely comfortable being the center of attention, however.)

“I’m no model, so don’t expect much,” Fit said, hoping his mild discomfort wasn’t too visible in the photos.

He heard the shutter click, then Pac circled around to photograph his other ear. “Don’t worry, you don’t need to dress up in any fancy clothes or do a special pose,” Pac teased. “Besides—” he glanced at the first polaroid photo to see how it turned out— “You are a very handsome man, even if you can’t pose.”

Fit didn’t have much experience graciously receiving compliments, and he was still a bit stunlocked when Pac stood in front of him and took one last photo from head-on before Fit could compose himself. Pac looked at the photo and smiled briefly before tucking it into the front-pocket of his lab coat, putting the rest in another pocket. Fit prayed that the photo didn’t capture him looking as wide-eyed and flustered as he felt.

“Well, I’m uh, happy to help.” He could hear Mike chatting with Ramon in the other room and the excited scratching of Ramon’s pencil against the rough texture of his notebook paper (Fit taught him how to make his own paper the previous week). “I’m glad Ramon can talk about this kind of stuff with you guys. I try to encourage his projects by giving him whatever resources he needs and celebrating the results and all, but I can’t keep up with him. Ramon probably gets tired of having to dumb things down all the time, so talking to you two is a breath of fresh air for him.”

“We like talking to him too. But I think Ramon’s lucky to have you as a father — it’s probably nice having someone who encourages you all the time, right?” 

Fit shook his head. “Ramon’s an incredibly kind and smart boy, he just happened to get landed with my sorry ass. If anything, I’m the lucky one. I’m just bumbling through this parenting gig trying my damnedest to be the father a boy like him deserves.”

Pac moved a little closer so he could nudge Fit with his elbow. “I think we're all lucky. Richas is an amazing boy too," he said, leaning against the wall next to Fit. "I can't believe he didn't exist in my life until a month ago.”

“Yeah, it's pretty crazy to think about,” Fit agreed with a small laugh of disbelief. “Never thought I’d be going on fishing trips or playing hide and seek or setting up playdates.” Children were the last thing on his mind before arriving on Quesadilla Island. They were unheard of on 2b2t, and the young teens who occasionally popped up around Spawn were usually killed within the first few minutes of their arrival. It was one of the few acts of mercy 2b2t veterans were still capable of.

“So you never wanted to be a Big Daddy ?”

Fit laughed so loud the talking in the other room stopped momentarily. Ramon poked his head out to see what was going on, and Fit waved him off, not wanting to interrupt his and Mike’s conversation or — god forbid — explain to Ramon why he was laughing.

Pac innocently continued talking as if he hadn’t said anything unusual, though a cheeky smile was curling the corners of his mouth. “I used to think twins would be nice when I was younger, but Mike and I were on the run so much I think it would have been hard for a child to keep up with us. Actually–” he laughed, “If any kid could keep up, Richinhas could. He’s got so much energy.” 

“That’s for sure; kid’s full of nothing but energy.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a minute before Fit remembered why they were there. He took out his hearing aids and set them inside the carrying case Ramon made for him before handing them to Pac, who handled it as gently as if Fit had given him a baby bird.

“Anyways, I can come back a bit later if you guys need some peace and quiet to work?” Fit offered, not wanting to impose.

“We don’t mind having you here!” Pac protested immediately. “You should wait until we give you your hearing aids back, at least.”

“It’s fine – I’ve got some chests I should probably organize sooner or later, and that’ll keep me busy for a few hours. I don’t need my hearing aids for that. Besides, I don’t want to keep you from any design conversations, or whatever’s happening in there,” he said with a gesture at the other room Mike and Ramon were in.

Pac suddenly looked a little sheepish. “Oh, that’s ok. Mike just wanted to talk about some stuff with Ramon, you know? How to design the speakers and, um… amplificadores e microfones.”

Fit didn’t need his translator for that one. “That seems pretty important. Shouldn’t you be there?”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say. Pac looked even more embarrassed, hunching his shoulders as though trying to retreat into his hoodie like a tortoise into its shell. “Well… Mike is a better builder — a better engenheiro — than I am, so he's working on the main design. He’s better with technology, you know? He likes working on little builds, and I like working on big builds.” Pac paused for a moment. “...Actually, Mike is better at big builds too. I help when he needs something, but Mike is way more talented than I am.”

Fit was more taken-aback by Pac’s admission than he would’ve been if Pac had suddenly started speaking Chinese. There was no resentment or envy in Pac’s tone; he said it as casually as if he was stating a fact like ‘the sky is blue’ or ‘Cucurucho is a bastard’.

“Don’t say that Pac. If you put Mike on that high of a pedestal, where does that leave the rest of us?” Fit joked, cautiously testing the waters.

For once, Pac didn’t laugh. “Sorry. It’s true though — Mike is really good at what he does! He even made my first prosthetic when I lost my leg. He could probably do everything without me, especially since Ramon is here. I’d probably just get in their way, you know?”

The worst part was Pac didn’t even sound self-pitying. He said it like it was a joke, like he expected Fit to laugh.

Fit didn’t find it funny.

This was not the kind of conversation Fit was prepared to have on a bright and early Monday morning. He wasn’t a person who could express himself well through words or say things that were particularly reassuring, but he didn’t want to let this pass without comment.

“I dunno, Pac,” Fit said slowly. “There’s a reason why you’re called Tazercraft, right? I’ve always seen the two of you as equals, and I’ve seen the kind of things you’ve built; together and on your own. I’m not much of an engineer or a builder, so maybe my opinion doesn’t mean much, but I don’t think I need to be either to see how impressive your creations are. Give yourself more credit, Pac. I think you’re pretty damn incredible.”

Fit considered himself a fairly blunt person, maybe even a little uncouth by some people’s standards, but maybe that straightforwardness could be a good thing. Seeing Pac’s reaction, he certainly thought so. Pac’s cheeks were flushed a rosy red and his dark brown eyes were wide, as if receiving a genuine compliment was as much of an oddity for him as it was for Fit. His gaze briefly flicked to his translator then back to Fit’s face like he couldn’t believe what he heard and was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Right then and there, Fit resolved to voice his thoughts and praise more often if it meant this much to Pac. It made a world of difference for Ramon, and Fit had a feeling it would have a similar effect on Pac.

Pac opened and closed his mouth several times, trying and failing to respond. Fit wasn’t sure if he was silent or if he made a noise Fit just couldn’t hear. Eventually he coughed and looked away, lightly tugging on the drawstrings of his hoodie as if he wanted to yank them tight and hide his face completely in his hood.

“Thank you, Fit.” He whispered it almost too quietly for Fit to hear him. “Mike and I do make some pretty cool things together. Sorry. I feel a bit shy now.”

“You don’t need to apologize for anything,” Fit said firmly. “We all have moments of self-doubt now and then. Just don’t expect to get away with any self-deprecating comments around me.”

It took one week for Tazercraft (and Ramon) to finish Tallulah’s hearing aids, with many sleepless nights spent tinkering with the prototype and remaking it from scratch after getting feedback from Tallulah. Fit carried a sleepy Ramon home most days, putting him to bed as Ramon sleepily wrote ‘It's hard working on small stuff,’ before passing out under the covers. Ramon’s forte was large machinery and explosives, and though he could work with tiny delicate circuitry, Fit thought it seemed more anxiety-inducing than exhilarating for his poor boy at times, especially since expectations were so high.

Luckily, Tazercraft’s expertise kept the experience from being too stressful for Ramon, and Fit was grateful as always for their presence. Pac and Mike usually fell asleep at their desks when they weren’t pulling all-nighters, and the first few nights Fit tried gently shaking their shoulders to wake them up before deeming it a lost cause and tossing a blanket over them every time before he left with Ramon. 

The results were well-worth their efforts and sacrificed sleep schedules, however. Fit couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Tallulah (or Phil) smile so wide. Tallulah gave all four of them giant hugs with tears in her eyes after Pac and Mike walked her through how to use her hearing aids one last time before switching them on. She nearly lifted Ramon off the ground when it was his turn to be hugged, and Ramon quickly grabbed onto Chayanne’s arm so their sister’s enthusiasm wouldn’t accidentally topple him over. The kids were all growing so fast, but Tallulah’s height was already starting to outpace Ramon’s, much to his chagrin.

In the moment however, his boy couldn’t look happier.

Tallulah wasn’t the only one with upgraded hearing though — Fit’s hearing aids also received an update as hers were being worked on. Under Tazercraft’s tutelage, Ramon made adjustments to his hearing aids that almost made them feel like an entirely new model altogether. The biggest change was that the audio levels were crisper and customizable now. They didn't raise the volume of everything , only quiet noises that Fit always had trouble hearing even with his previous hearing aids. He could properly hear the flute songs the kids played together now, and he could hear the hiss of a fuse being lit warning him of an impending explosion triggered by Ramon.

The update helped him notice other things too, like the way Pac sometimes said ‘Fitché’ instead of ‘Fit.’ He found it endearing, but Fit didn’t dare point it out, not wanting to risk potentially embarrassing Pac and making him stop if that was something he was sensitive about. Despite his reassurances that he didn’t mind — and actually enjoyed — hearing Pac speak Portuguese, Pac still defaulted to English around him. Fit was grateful, since it did make communication a little faster and easier on his end, but he still felt a twinge of guilt knowing that he was putting the onus on Pac when it came to communication. In Fit’s defense, he never really had much time to practice anything other than the occasional Spanish phrase here or there while on 2b2t, but it was a pretty brittle defense given that Pac and Mike spoke almost perfect English despite being on the run from the law for most of their lives.

“Oi Fitché!”

Speak of the devil.

Pac cheerfully plopped down next to Fit on one of the soft mossy patches under a pretty cherry tree in Tallulah’s garden. It was a relatively secure area, and there were enough competent adults around that Fit felt comfortable letting his guard down a little and enjoying the moment as he watched Ramon play with his siblings.

“I'm so happy it's working ok for her. I know we tested it, but I always worry,” Pac sighed, looking like he was ready to flop onto the moss in relief and take a nap right then and there.

“At least you guys are here to help her if anything does wind up breaking. I don't think Tallulah roughhouses enough with the others for that to be a problem though.”

Pac groaned. “I wish that was true for Richas. We’ve already replaced his leg twice! We don't even know how he keeps breaking it, but I guess I should be glad it isn't his actual leg.”

Fit chuckled, imagining a few possibilities. “Now that this project is finished, maybe you and Mike can finally catch up on all the sleep you’ve missed.”

“Meu deus, yes. We can both go a long time without sleep, but neither of us really enjoy doing that, you know? I think it was worth it though.” His expression softened as he watched Richarlyson scrambling away from Tallulah, who had her eyes squeezed shut and was flailing around trying to tag whoever was closest to her in a roped-off section of the garden.

Tazercraft’s word was all well and good, but in the Eggs’ eyes, Tallulah’s hearing aids could only be truly tested through a game of ‘Marco Polo’. Pomme did an impressive (and perhaps excessive) somersault to avoid Tallulah cornering her in their makeshift garden arena, and despite only knowing her for a short time, Fit could already see aspects of Etoiles’ influence on her. Tallulah cheered in triumph when she finally swatted Chayanne, who didn’t look at all disappointed at being tagged. Out of everyone, Chayanne was probably the happiest about Tallulah’s hearing aids, rivaled only by Phil. Chayanne was less expressive than other members in his family, but that only made his smiles and laughter all the more precious. Fit was glad to see it. It felt like seeing the sun finally break through storm clouds after a long winter.

Fit hadn’t noticed Pac shift his attention from the kids to him. Pac was watching Fit with an unreadable expression, thoughtful and pensive as he watched both Fit and the scene in front of them, like Fit was an equation to be solved; one he finally had an answer to. 

“You’re a very kind man, Fit.”

After the last incident, Fit thought he’d be prepared for anything Pac threw at him, but yet again Pac somehow managed to catch him completely off-guard. He could honestly say that he’d never been praised for being kind before, and his surprise was probably reflected in his expression because Pac laughed.

“I mean it! You’re the reason we were able to help Tallulah. I also want to help the Eggs, but I think I would be nervous if I let someone borrow my leg, you know?” He patted the knee of his prosthetic for emphasis.

Fit chuckled. “You guys would’ve figured it out sooner or later, with or without me. And it’s not so bad being without my hearing aids now and then; I’ve gone without them for a long time before, so it’s not a huge change. Especially since I knew I’d be getting them back. It’s sometimes inconvenient– er, annoying not being able to hear well, but it’s not like I can’t function at all without my hearing aids.” Then, realizing what he was implying by that, Fit quickly added, “It’s probably annoying trying to do things without your leg too, right?”

“Yeah, it is,” Pac sighed. “I have to take it off every time I bathe. It’s not that hard if I’m taking a bath, but showering is so frustrating! I always have to sit down to do it, you know? It takes too long.”

“I get that. Trying to bathe with only one arm is a hassle sometimes too, but at least I don't have to worry about washing my hair.”

Pac contemplated that, raising one arm and miming rubbing shampoo into his hair with only one hand. “Agh — My hair is so thick, that would take forever to wash out!” He huffed a sigh, as if the thought alone was enough to annoy him. “I think I'd go bald too, just so I don't have to deal with it.”

Fit opened his mouth to comment that Pac would probably look just as nice even if he shaved all his hair off since he had good bone structure and a nice complexion, then quickly snapped his mouth shut again. It was true, but that didn't mean he needed to say it. He didn't want to make Pac uncomfortable or send the wrong message.

“I've got a razor if you want me to shave your hair right now, moço,” came Mike's reply as he rounded the corner of a tall bush, briefly raising one hand to greet Fit. 

Pac laughed. “No, I like my hair too much. I'd only shave it off if I had to.”

Mike joined them under the tree, taking a seat on Pac’s other side. Without another word, he hooked an arm around Pac’s shoulders and dragged them both to the ground. Pac yelped in surprise but offered no resistance, lying sprawled on the moss next to Mike with his black hair fanned out underneath him like a halo.

“I’m going to sleep,” Mike announced, taking his glasses off and storing them in his inventory before curling up next to Pac. “Wake us up in an hour, or if Richas needs something.”

“I can watch Richarlyson if you guys want to go home and rest?” Fit offered, a bit baffled as they got cozy for a nap right next to him in the middle of a very open public space.

“Não, that’s ok,” Pac smiled up at him from the ground, fixing his hood so it wasn’t pressing uncomfortably against his back. “He’s having fun, so we don’t mind waiting.”

Fit figured Pac and Mike were probably used to sneaking a few Z’s wherever and whenever they could back when they were wanted fugitives, because it was only a few minutes before they were both out like a light. Mike slept on his side with an arm tossed over Pac’s torso in a loose half-hug, chin tucked to his chest and leaning against Pac’s shoulder. Pac fell asleep on his back initially, but slowly ended up lying on his side as the minutes passed, curled towards Mike and resting one hand on his, as if Pac had instinctively reached out for Mike in his sleep.

When Tazercraft first arrived on the Island, Fit didn't know what to make of their relationship. Whether they were brothers or friends or partners or something else entirely, Fit didn’t have a clue, but he quickly realized there was no definition for what they were. The closest thing he'd seen similar to it before now was the dynamic between Philza and Technoblade during their Antarctic Empire days, though even that didn't quite mirror the dynamic Tazercraft had. Ultimately, comparisons didn’t matter, and neither did anyone’s understanding. They were Tazercraft, and that was all anybody ever needed to know.

Pac and Mike were a mix of complimentary contradictions. They weren't each other's ‘other half’ and they weren't each other’s ‘yin and yang’ — they were a balanced chemical equation, a mix of elements left to their own devices in some grand harmonious experiment. They were a pair, a unit, a duo that could rely on one another as much as, and maybe even more than, they could rely on themselves.

Yet here they were, sleeping in the open completely unarmored, trusting Fit to protect them as easily as Pac and Mike would trust each other. 

And he would. He’d protect them with his life.

It should scare him, how quickly he’d come to care for Tazercraft and all the other Eggs and Islanders in only a handful of weeks. The depths of that care — that love — and how far he’d be willing to go to protect the people he loved on this Island would inevitably compromise his mission, and his freedom (assuming it didn’t cost him his life).

There were plenty of reasons not to tether himself to others, and not just because of his employer’s warning.

But as he sat there in Tallulah’s garden, seeing Ramon laugh as he played with his siblings and hearing Tazercraft’s sleepy sighs as they dozed curled up next to him, Fit couldn’t regret a single thing.
 

Chapter Text

Restful uninterrupted sleep was a luxury where Fit came from.

It wasn’t uncommon to see thieves setting up respawn traps around sleeping victims to ensure no retribution would follow them. An endless cycle of dying to lava, respawning, then slowly dying again minutes later wasn’t the cruelest form of torture in the Wasteland, but it was a popular choice. Fit was always on the watch for these traps and robbers, and anyone willing to get the jump on him. He was a light sleeper, and rarely (if ever) got a full night’s sleep, even on a good day.

But on Quesadilla Island, Fit was spoiled. Sure, there were some pretty horrifying mobs and the Federation was an omnipresent threat breathing down their necks at all time, but it was people who made the biggest difference. None of the other Islanders were seriously malicious or cruel, and even when they played pranks on each other, it was always just lighthearted fun teasing between friends. There were people he could rely on here, people he trusted, and people who trusted him in return. It was a novelty to him. More than that — it was something precious. And with Ramon, his beautiful baby boy, life was finally starting to look up.

Naturally, that's when everything fell apart.

The Eggs were missing, Mike got kidnapped, the Federation was becoming more openly hostile against any perceived act of rebellion, and Fit's sleeping schedule was all but nonexistent. It wasn't that he didn't want to sleep (god knows, he's tried) but it was impossibly out of reach for him. His mind was a warzone of negativity and anxiety, and trying to sleep meant isolating himself with those gloomy thoughts.

Realistically, Fit knew their troubles actually started the moment they set foot on the Island, but in his eyes, things started snowballing after Pac was kidnapped.

Mike was understandably furious when he recounted the story to Fit shortly after (with Fit’s communicator making a valiant effort to translate all the curses Mike was shouting). According to Mike, a Code Monster ambushed them out of nowhere while they were exploring. Unlike its previous appearances, it made no move to attack Richarlyson and instead focused solely on Pac and Mike. They barely managed to type a “ttttt” warning in the Island's global chat, and it was nearly five minutes of nonstop fighting before they put enough distance between themselves and their attacker to warp back to Chume Labs. Tazercraft's relief was short-lived, however. Pac was snatched from the safety of their own home, as though some invisible force hooked him with a fishing line and suddenly pulled.

“I saw his name on the map a second before he disappeared,” Mike spoke through gritted teeth. “He was in the middle of the ocean. Pac was carrying both his and Richarlyson’s backpacks, and didn't have the right prosthetic on to swim, but he hasn't respawned yet and—"

Mike shook with rage, choked by his emotions.

“I'm going to find out who did this, Fit, and I'm going to kill them.”

He grit his teeth so hard Fit worried they might crack.

Fit had half a mind to pull out his own map and trident and scan every body of water for a familiar blue hoodie, trying not to imagine Pac being dragged into the depths by his own equipment, but he knew better. He also knew it would do nothing to help Mike.

He put a hand on Mike's shoulder, half expecting him to shrug it off. When Mike didn’t, Fit tried to offer reassurances. "I don't think the Federation will leave him to drown. If they went out of their way to kidnap him, then they must have something else planned.”

"We don't even know if they're working with the Code Monster. What if this isn't the Federation?"

“Well…” Fit said with a little less certainty. “Even if this isn't the Federation, I still believe what I said. They could've killed both you and Pac there, but they didn't. They separated you because they knew Tazercraft are unstoppable together."

They never did find out why the Code Monster and (apparently) the Federation wanted to kidnap Pac. One day several weeks after Pac went missing, Mike suddenly messaged Fit saying he’d rescued Pac, and that was that.

Fit would never forget the moment he reunited with them, or the sight that met him when he descended the elevator shaft at Chume Labs and finally saw Pac again for the first time since his friend was kidnapped. The dirty white clothes Pac was dressed in during his imprisonment were thin and torn, revealing patches of bruised and freshly scabbed-over skin underneath. Weeks of captivity and abuse left Pac with a thin gaunt appearance, and he looked up at Fit with the most haunted eyes Fit had ever seen.

He was gentle when he enveloped Pac and Mike in a hug, holding them both close to his chest as if that alone could shield them from further harm. Pac was physically and emotionally exhausted, but he clung to Fit with a strength that surprised him. He leaned his head on Fit’s shoulder, and slowly, Fit felt Pac’s anxious heartbeat calm to a steady rhythm that matched his own.

The soft words Pac whispered were almost too quiet for him to hear.

“If I'm safe right now, it’s because of both of you. Thank you, thank you.”

Hugging wasn't new to Fit, but the regularity of it on the Island definitely took some getting used to. The Eggs accounted for some of it; whenever Fit was having a long conversation with another parent and Ramon didn't have anything to keep his hands occupied, he'd wrap his arms around Fit's waist and lean his head against Fit's side, tiny horns digging into him as a reminder that his darling boy's patience only lasted so long. Chayanne was never too proud to give his ‘Tio Fit’ a hug before he and Phil headed off to do whatever their plans were for the day, and the other kids often designated Fit as the ‘safe spot’ when they played tag, shrieking with laughter and throwing their arms around him in a desperate attempt to avoid getting tagged. 

But it wasn't just the kids. Many of the other Islanders were also more touchy-feely than Fit expected. Maybe everyone just felt a little safer expressing themselves after spending so much time raising their kids together and fighting the Federation side-by-side. Maybe it was a case of community and camaraderie naturally developing in the face of an environment that was so openly hostile towards them.

Personally, Fit thought everyone on the Island just seemed a bit lonely.

Even Phil, who Fit had known longer than anyone else on the Island, was different. Though his old friend had always been more expressive with his care than most people with their background, such acts were more frequent now than before they were on the Island. Fit admired Phil in many ways, but especially the way his wings curled around those he cared about, a silent vow of protection, a shield against anything that would try and harm what he loved. 

It was this thought that made Fit pull Tazercraft close, silently wishing he could convey that same promise through his action.

But as expected, Fit’s promise amounted to nothing.

They had no control over their lives on this Island, and now Mike was missing.

They had no way of knowing whether the Federation or the Code were even involved in his disappearance. He and Pac were exploring an abandoned tower in a distant snowy biome, and after warning Pac to stay back, Mike was suddenly swallowed by a gaping chasm that opened beneath his feet. There was no death message, no respawn. It was as if Mike was suddenly wiped from existence.

The only similarity between Pac and Mike’s kidnappings was the fact that the perpetrators were reluctant to take both of them at the same time. That, and Fit felt just as useless as he had when Pac was kidnapped.

Everyone was on-edge the week after Mike’s abrupt disappearance. As much as they liked to joke about how frequently people were kidnapped, each occurrence only heightened everyone’s paranoia and anxiety.

No one was hurt more by this latest disappearance than Pac. Whenever Fit saw him, Pac was frantically searching for clues or investigating the area where Mike vanished. There wasn't anything new to find there, but Pac kept going back to that pit, standing on its edge and looking down into the dark void enough times that Fit started accompanying him. Just in case.

But Pac was braver than most people gave him credit for.

“I’m gonna try to get used to not being with Mike,” Pac told him on the one month anniversary of Mike’s disappearance. He tried to sound like his usual chipper self, but exhaustion laced his voice with a rougher edge than normal. “That’s a first for me actually, ‘cuz I’m always with him. We are kinda like best friends. We’ve been together since we were kids, so… It’s gonna be a hard time for me, I think.”

It sounded almost like Pac was trying to justify his emotions, and not for the first time, Fit wished he knew how to offer meaningful words of comfort. They stood side-by-side on Ilha Chume Labs admiring the flower garden Pac started working on during Mike's absence. Without Richarlyson or the various half-finished Tazercraft builds Pac was unwilling to work on without Mike, Pac found himself with more time on his hands than he knew what to do with.

Fit bumped shoulders with Pac, hoping his physical presence made up for any comments Pac found lacking. “We’ll be right there with you. Until we find Mike, we’ve got each other, and we’ve got all of our neighbors on the Island. You’ll be alright, Pac. I have confidence we'll find him.”

Pac gazed at the roses and carnations swaying in the warm summer breeze with unseeing eyes, his mind clearly drifting elsewhere.

“...I’m not hopeless, you know,” Pac said after the brief silence. “I trust Mike. He’s a tough guy – he’s a different kind of breed. I think he’s gonna be alright. I don’t know if I can handle myself, but I know Mike can.”

“I think you’ll be ok, Pac,” Fit said earnestly and automatically. At this point in their friendship, he was used to shutting down Pac’s self-deprecating comments, but that didn’t mean he was any less concerned by their increasing frequency. “You’re tough. You’ve got this.”

The contrast between Pac and Mike had never been more apparent than it was in that moment. When Pac disappeared, Mike went on a warpath, ready to overthrow the Federation single-handedly if that’s what it took to save Pac. Fit understood anger and the impulse to burn everything to the ground, so Mike’s anarchist tendencies were familiar to him.

Grief, however…Grief wasn’t something he knew how to handle.

His own, or other people’s.

Fit tried to stay busy when disaster struck. There was nothing he could do about things outside of his control, so he tried to maintain what little sanity he had left by working on things that were.

…Whether he was successful in that attempt or not remained to be seen.

Despite how unpredictable and chaotic as life on Quesadilla Island could be, Fit’s life was quickly becoming a monotonous cycle. At the start of the day, he’d dig through his chests for materials (putting off organization for another time), check Ramon's house, visit the other Islanders, check Ramon's house, help Tubbo with his factory, then check Ramon's house again…

Fit took walks when he was feeling particularly restless, and tonight was one of those nights. The full moon gleamed in the sky, and everything was bathed in a silver light. The areas around spawn were well-lit now thanks to his job from Cucurucho, so he didn't have to worry about getting jumped by too many mobs (mines, on the other hand, were always a concern, and he kept an eye out for discolored patches of grass or dirt). The mines were less of a hazard now that the Eggs were… missing, but they could still be a bit of a nuisance, and Fit didn't want to bother dealing with a respawn on top of everything else.

The night was quieter than normal – or maybe it just felt that way. There was no pitter-patter of little feet behind him, no signs placed down for him to read, no hissing fuses and subsequent TNT explosions – explosions that always illuminated Ramon's grinning face in a brilliant light.

Dammit.

No matter how much Fit tried to take his mind off it, Ramon was always at the forefront of his thoughts. In the wasteland, he'd been so used to his solitary existence that anything else felt abnormal, yet after a handful of months spending time with Ramon and bonding with him and the other kids, it was impossible to not think about his boy.

In a roundabout way, Spreen was to blame for all this.

Spreen was a complicated guy, and although Fit never got to know him well enough to call him a friend, he knew enough. Fit knew Spreen was a strong fighter, and although there were people he got along with, he preferred being a loner. He saw the way Spreen always carried himself with a detached air, like he was trying to shake the ghost of some terrible misdeed that clung to him like a shroud.

Fit also knew Spreen was young, and he wasn't prepared to be a dad, even if he’d tried his damndest those first few days. Hell, Fit hadn't been prepared to have a kid dropped on him either, but he couldn't run away. Not when he had a mission to complete, and not when Ramon had no one else to look after him.

Sometimes Fit wondered if he had a different partner, someone more responsible and caring, if he would've run off just like Spreen. He didn't like entertaining that thought. It was easier to curse Spreen, turning it into a blame game that always made Ramon laugh. It was better that way, and if poking fun at Spreen was how Fit could keep Ramon from missing him?

Well, that was a small price to pay.

Fit couldn't ignore the mission that brought him here, but he couldn't pretend like Ramon wasn't his biggest priority anymore either. This whole operation was more complicated than it already was because he'd gotten attached, but Fit didn't even have it in him to be bitter about it. He wouldn't trade his son for the world, and he'd be damned if he gave up on Ramon now.

He cursed as he nearly stepped directly onto a ghost block placed surreptitiously next to a waystone. Willy was a bastard, but at least the close call shocked Fit out of his spiraling thoughts. That was another issue — although Quesadilla Island was dangerous, its dangers were wildly different from the ones Fit had grown accustomed to over the last 10 years. He was getting sloppy. On 2B2T, a mistake like that could easily cost someone their limbs, or even their life.

After a quick glance to make sure no one was around, Fit allowed himself a very small moment of weakness as he pressed his palms against his eyes and breathed out a long aggravated sigh. These thoughts would get him nowhere. They didn't have any leads on the Eggs, and they didn't have enough information to do anything remotely useful to find them. Right now, all he could do was wait.

"Fit?"

Fit turned around. Near the end of the winding road by Spawn stood someone wearing a familiar blue hoodie.

It seemed like he wasn't the only one taking a late-night stroll.

Fit tried to ignore the twinge of guilt after the initial relief he felt upon seeing Pac. At this time of night, Pac should be asleep back at Chume Labs, but Fit was grateful to see him. His ‘Morning Crew’ companions always helped take his mind off stressful matters (in Tubbo’s case, often by creating new issues to stress about), but Pac had the ability to settle his soul in a way that few other things could.

It wasn’t the same calm he felt around Phil. Phil was the comfort of a storm heard from inside the safety of a home, the comfort of familiar surroundings in the midst of unknown change. Pac was… something else entirely. Fit never allowed himself to think about it long enough to put the feeling into words.

"Hey," Fit raised a hand in greeting, jogging over so Pac wouldn't have to walk to him. "Everything alright?"

"What? Oh–" Pac looked confused by his question for a moment before glancing down at the cane he was leaning on, a cane Fit rarely saw him use. "Yeah, I'm fine. My leg is a bit sore lately, so this–” he tapped on the cane– “helps take pressure off it, you know?”

"I see… Is there anything I can do to help?" Fit asked automatically before realizing how stupid that sounded given the context. He winced, and Pac stifled a laugh.

"I'm fine, I’m not doing anything crazy today, I just wanted to go on a walk because I was having a hard time sleeping.” He shifted his stance a little so less weight was resting on his prosthetic leg. “I meant to do some uh… fixes? Ajuste…” Pac glanced at his translator. “Ah, adjustments. I meant to do some adjustments to it, but I get distracted and I forget. That’s happened a lot lately.”

Fit listened to Pac talk with a concerned frown as he noticed just how exhausted his friend looked. With everything that happened to him recently — the kidnapping, Mike’s disappearance, Richarlyson’s disappearance, and who knows what else — it was understandable. He wondered if Pac had managed to get more than a few hours of sleep in the past month. With his hood up and with hair shading part of his face, it was easy to miss the dark circles under Pac’s eyes.

(Well, easy for others maybe, but he knew Pac well enough to notice a detail like that.)

Fit grimaced, but he knew there wasn’t much he could do to fix that, especially when he had his own insomnia to deal with. 

"Yeah, I get that,” he said instead. “I’m overdue for some maintenance on my arm too. I'm usually pretty on top of it, but the last few weeks have been rough."

Whenever Fit sat down to make adjustments to his prosthetic arm, Ramon always sat with him with eyes wide in fascination and interest. He was always so attentive as Fit walked him through the process, shedding the armored gauntlet covering his prosthetic and removing the layers piece by piece to reveal the delicate wiring inside. Things sometimes got knocked out of place or damaged in fights, but usually the repairs he had to make were minimal. Fit had promised Ramon he could try doing the repairs himself next time it needed maintenance, and Fit had never seen his son look so excited.

"Fit?"

Fit blinked, realizing he'd zoned out in the middle of their conversation. "Sorry, I must be more tired than I thought," he said with an embarrassed laugh.

"Oh, I don't want to bother you if you're tired! I just wanted to see what you were doing.” Pac started to take half a step back, then seemed to think better of it when he put weight on his prosthetic leg and winced.

Fit noticed the wince, but let it go without comment. "I mean, I am tired, but I can’t really sleep either. Just taking a walk to clear my head.”

“I’d ask if I could go with you, but I think I might need to sit down for a while,” Pac said sheepishly. “Maybe I should’ve worked on my leg before going on a walk.

He hobbled to a nearby bench — one of Foolish’s designs, from the look of it — and plopped down with a relieved sigh.

“In that case,” Fit said, staying close to Pac until he sat down just in case he needed a hand, “You mind if I join you?”

Pac smiled. It was a tired smile, but a smile nevertheless. "That'd be nice."

He patted the spot next to him and Fit joined him on the bench.

The weather was always pleasant on Quesadilla Island. It was unsettling in the beginning, but they’d all grown used to it after a while. Fit enjoyed rainy days, partially because he liked taking advantage of the boost it gave him with his trident and partially because he just enjoyed the sight of it, but he was glad for the mild weather tonight. The torches glimmered in the gentle night breeze around them, not at risk of being snuffed out, simply creating a glowing aura of orange and yellow lights around them that flickered and dimmed then flared again in a nameless pattern. They sat in companionable silence, watching stars wink at them and the occasional cloud pass across the moon.

2B2T wasn’t exactly known for its industry or technological advancements (apart from the various weapons and death-machines people made), but the sky was still so thick with smog that most people rarely saw the stars. (People who looked for them, anyways. The majority of the 2B2T populace were more concerned with what was happening in front of them than what was happening in the cosmos above them, but Fit relied on stars for navigation to help orient himself when he was traveling long distances. They’d always been more consistent and reliable than maps).

Pac seemed to share his appreciation for the stars. He leaned against the bench, letting his head fall back to gaze up at them with a gentle smile. His expression was the most relaxed Fit had seen in weeks.

“Did I ever tell you the conspiracy theory me and Mike came up with?”

That definitely wasn’t the kind of comment Fit was expecting.

“Uhh,” Fit paused, uncertain if Pac was teasing him or not. “No Pac, I don’t think you have.”

Pac sat up straighter and turned to look at him. “So me and Mike were wondering why Etoiles is so powerful, right? I said it was because he trained a lot and got super strong, but Mike thought there had to be more to it. We started thinking about how he’s a hybrid and everything, and we came to an agreement.”

“Yeah?” Fit asked with some trepidation.

“He’s the result of a Nether Star falling into a cucumber patch!”

A poorly-repressed smile crept onto Pac’s face as Fit stared at him, utterly dumbfounded and at a loss for words. The longer his silence stretched, the more Pac’s smile grew until a snort finally slipped out and he burst into laughter. 

Fit still felt a bit baffled, trying to wrap his head around Tazercraft’s theory about Etoiles being some… Nether Star cucumber fusion or something, but the science didn’t matter. Not if it made Pac smile as wide as he was smiling now. It’d been so long since he’d heard Pac laugh like this, holding his sides as he sat almost doubled-over next to Fit.

The giggles eventually died down and Pac shook his head. “Desculpe, Fit. We don't really think that. Not seriously, you know, but we couldn't think of a good enough reason, so we came up with our own answer. Richas suggested it, actually.”

Fit snorted. That didn't surprise him, somehow. “Well, Etoiles holds his own a lot better than most people, I can't argue with that. I guess it is pretty hard to believe he’s just a regular guy who trained hard when he's out there 1v1ing the Code after half the people on this Island got their asses kicked by it.”

He couldn't compete with Etoiles’ win streak, but Fit was pretty proud of the fact that he was the first person to down the Code. The first time it appeared it was tailing Phil, and the bastard didn’t expect the bomb Fit launched at it. (He and Phil still had a good laugh about that from time to time.)

Pac hummed in agreement. “I actually asked Etoiles about our theory a while back. I wanted to see what he thought.”

“Yeah? What’d he say?”

“He thought it was funny, and he joked that one of his parents must have eaten a Nether Star cucumber salad. I don't think Etoiles took it seriously really, but he said if anyone could Frankenstein a cucumber and a Nether Star together, it’d be me and Mike.” Pac sounded a bit embarrassed repeating Etoiles’ words, retreating a little into his hoodie as he spoke.

“He's got that right, you and Mike could make just about anything. I’ve never met anyone as clever, creative, or crazy as the two of you,” Fit said with a chuckle, fondly watching a pleased flush color Pac’s cheeks as he sank a little further into his hoodie. Pac mumbled something Fit couldn’t catch, but he wasn’t responding to Fit’s praise with an outright denial of his own scientific prowess, so Fit counted it as a win.

Still, he didn’t want to overdo it and risk making Pac feel uncomfortable, so he changed the subject to ask a question that had been in the back of his mind for a long while. “I know Etoiles jokes a lot about being a cucumber, but has he ever said what he is exactly?”

Pac emerged from his hoodie so he could shrug. “Besides being French? I don't really know, but I don’t think Etoiles knows either. I asked him some questions about it once, actually. …Well, I tried to, but we ended up talking about other things instead. I wanted to learn more about his diabetes, ‘cuz I wasn't sure if it worked differently for him since he’s some kind of plant hybrid, you know? Biology is a big interest for me, and I was curious.”

The scientist in Pac lit up as he explained what Etoiles told him, and some of the exhaustion seemed to lift from his weary shoulders as he spoke. Fit smiled at the sight.

“Some things we didn't know how to translate, so it was really nice to rely on the translator to help us. He said it’s similar to regular diabetes in some ways because his body makes too much… ah…” Pac hesitated. “Glicose? I don't know how to say this word.”

“Glucose?” Fit prompted after glancing at his translator.

Pac grinned. “Wow, the words are really similar! Yeah, he said his body is ‘too tryhard’ and makes more than he needs. I thought it was just sugary food that affected him, but apparently it's because of fotossíntese too, and the way his body digests things.”

“Hang on–” Fit held a hand up to stop Pac as he paused for breath, ready to dive into a longer explanation. “‘Fotossíntese.’ As in, photosynthesis? You tellin’ me Etoiles does photosynthesis?”

Pac looked surprised. “Of course! He's a plant hybrid, right?”

Well. That was certainly one way to think about it.

“Y'know when you put it that way, I guess that should've been pretty obvious, huh?” He laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “It's just a bit strange remembering that the strongest warrior on this Island is apparently an actual cucumber.”

“A cucumber and a star!” Pac laughed too, and yet again Fit was reminded how nice it was hearing that sound. “Maybe–” Pac stifled his laugh so he could voice his thought. “Maybe if we find some Nether Stars we can plant them in a cucumber field and test our theory! We should take Ramon and Richas out tomorrow with Mike and—”

Pac’s voice abruptly sputtered out.

Fit saw the exact moment Pac remembered Mike and the Eggs were missing.

The warmth and joy vanished from Pac’s eyes like a candle suddenly being snuffed out, and the night felt colder in their absence. All the grief and exhaustion he seemed to shed earlier came back tenfold with his memory, and Pac’s shoulders sagged under its weight. It felt cruel, even if Fit knew Pac would have to remember reality sooner or later. There was nothing Fit could do to help him bear it either, not when he was shouldering that same weight — a weight that threatened to crush them both the moment they let their guard down.

But Pac’s hands were trembling. He gripped the curved edge of the bench seat tightly, digging his nails into the wood as if that could steady them. There was nothing Fit could do for Ramon, Richarlyson, Mike, or any of their other missing loved ones, but maybe he could do something small for Pac right now.

Slowly, and with considerable hesitation, Fit silently reached his hand out and laid it over Pac’s. He wasn’t the most emotionally intelligent guy out there, and he definitely wasn’t qualified enough to talk about grief or loss, but Fit wasn’t sure there was anything to say right now. No words or elegant speeches could fix the situation they were in. He couldn’t promise Pac that nothing bad would happen, or that things wouldn’t get worse before they got better. All he could do was remind Pac that he wasn’t alone.

Fit’s hearing aids barely caught the soft breath of surprise that left Pac when he squeezed his hand. It was followed almost immediately by a wretched, heartbreaking keen, which was quickly muffled as Pac covered his mouth with his other hand. Fit barely caught sight of Pac’s expression and the tears threatening to spill over before he bowed his head, his hood effectively shielding his face from Fit’s line of sight.

Unsure if his actions just made things worse, Fit was about to pull away when he felt Pac move his hand, turning so it was facing palm-up. Pac laced their fingers together and held on tight to Fit’s hand like it was his lifeline.

It hurt seeing Pac like this, and it hurt Fit more knowing he was the last person that should be witnessing it. He wasn’t meant to be the one sitting with Pac right now — hell, Fit wasn’t supposed to be on the Island to begin with. It was supposed to be Mike holding Pac’s hand and comforting him, carrying their grief together the same way Tazercraft carries everything together. It was supposed to be Felps and Cellbit reminiscing with Pac about happier times and making plans to find Mike and their lost son. 

But Mike was missing, Felps had no control over the deep slumber that claimed him, and Fit had no idea what the hell Cellbit was even up to these days. Pac had other friends on the Island, but there was no one else he valued more than Mike and the Favela. They were the first people Pac turned to for help — on the rare occasion that he actually asked for help — and Pac relied on them more than anyone else.

Fit wasn’t a religious man, but he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of god could be cruel enough to make Pac have to rely on him of all people. Fate had a nasty sense of humor, and Fit didn’t find it funny.

A weight at his side brought Fit out of his thoughts, and he was surprised to see Pac leaning against him. Pac was still holding his hand, but he’d moved their intertwined hands onto his lap. He rested his head against Fit’s shoulder with a heavy sigh, and for once, Fit was grateful his prosthetic was on his other arm.

“I’m so tired, Fit.”

All the life and energy had drained from Pac’s voice. He sounded exhausted, but Fit knew this wasn’t the kind of exhaustion sleep could solve.

Pac stared unseeingly into the darkness, past the ring of light cast by the surrounding torches. It was as if he was a specter, a spirit haunting his former life and the memories that resided there.

“Mike would find a way to fix things, if he was here,” Pac said after a long silence. “He would have a plan. I have nothing. I don’t know what my next step should be. I’m just waiting for… something. Anything. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Fit knew that feeling all too well. “I think all we can do is wait right now. But just because we don’t have any leads, that doesn’t mean we’ve given up. We’re all gonna make it through this, and we’re going to find our kids. They have to be safe. They have to be.”

Maybe if he said it enough times, it would become a certainty instead of an increasingly desperate plea to the universe.

Pac sighed again, but Fit felt him slowly nod, still leaning against his shoulder. “...I trust you, Fit. I’ll… I’ll try to trust that they will be ok too.”

Very gently, Fit pulled Pac’s hand to the side, a motion which Pac initially resisted as if he feared Fit was about to let go. When he realized Fit moved so he could offer his other hand, Pac relented and held Fit’s prosthetic hand instead. Fit briefly regretted the loss, watching Pac lace their fingers together just as carefully as he had before, as though Fit could still feel his grasp. He used his newly-freed arm to wrap around Pac’s shoulders and pull him closer. It was a little different from their normal hugs, but he hoped it still gave Pac some comfort, at least.

A few lingering tears soaked into Fit’s sleeve, but Pac melted into the hug the same way he had when they first reunited after Mike’s successful rescue mission. Fit had no plans to move until Pac did. Usually he tried not to let his touch linger, but today... today he was content to sit there and hold Pac for as long as he was allowed.

Pac’s breaths became a slow even rhythm, and Fit wasn’t sure how much time passed before he realized Pac fell asleep. He felt heavier against Fit’s side now, all his tension eroded away by the tranquil tides of slumber. Fit had a feeling if he wasn't there for Pac to lean on, Pac would've slid right off the bench when he'd fallen asleep. 

Carefully, Fit adjusted Pac so his head rested at a better angle, but he didn’t dare jostle Pac more than that. A sore neck wasn’t the worst price to pay for some desperately-needed rest.

Sunrise was still a few hours away, but Fit was happy to stay there and let Pac sleep as long as he needed. They were close enough to Spawn that they didn’t have to worry about mobs, and the area where they sat down was pretty secluded. Tall flowering apple trees surrounded them, so it wasn't likely that any Islanders would notice them if they happened to be taking a late-night stroll too.

A few petals drifted down like pale pink snowflakes and landed on top of Pac’s hood. Yet again, Fit found his thoughts returning to Ramon. He wondered what Ramon would think of all this, and he breathed an amused huff of air imagining Ramon’s indignant expression finding out he missed so many new developments in his and Pac’s… friendship.

Fit let out a long sigh of his own, gently leaning his head against the top of Pac’s. Ramon would come home someday, and he’d gladly take every tiny-fisted blow Ramon threw at him for daring to have any interesting moment alone with Pac without him.

In the meantime, all he could do was wait and hope Pac's trust in him wasn't misplaced.

Chapter Text

Something was wrong with Pac.

Scratch that— many things were wrong with Pac, but this was a new and growing concern; one Fit wasn't sure he could help with.

He wasn’t even sure if Pac could help himself.

Quesadilla Island felt even more chaotic and miserable than ever after their kids vanished. Most people were either keeping to themselves or keeping their heads down while trying to push through their suffering with sheer stubbornness and willpower; Fit included. They all had their own problems to deal with, and it was difficult to know when someone else was struggling if they didn’t speak up about it.

Pac wasn’t the kind of person who asked for help, and Fit didn’t have much experience comforting people who were suffering. Maybe it was a lost cause from the beginning.

Whenever Fit tried to ask Pac if he was alright or offered to listen to him, Pac would start to speak, then pause for far too long before cheerfully responding with:

“It's nothing. I’m fine, don't worry about it!”

In Fit's experience, nothing was a bigger red flag than someone saying they were ‘fine’ when they obviously weren’t. Those were the kind of people who would rather keel over dead than imply they were suffering and risk inconveniencing someone.

…But Fit had no idea how to broach that topic. Dealing with messy emotions, his own or others’, wasn't his forte. Fit did what he could, but if he really wanted to help Pac, they needed to find their kids and Mike. Anything else would only be a band aid on a gaping wound. Pac just needed to trust that things would get better, and hold onto that hope to help get through this rough patch.

Even though he knew that fact, Fit couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding seeing how bad-off Pac was. He clearly wasn't sleeping, his clothes and hair were dirty and disheveled, and he didn't put much weight on his prosthetic leg, as though something about it was hurting him.

But Pac was a grown-ass man. No matter how much he hated troubling people with his problems, even Pac would ask for help before he reached his breaking point. Surely.

The Risus Potion — or ‘Happy Pills’ as they later dubbed them — were powerful drugs. Something meant to ‘help’ the Islanders and keep them ‘calm’ during these stressful times, though they all knew control was the Federation’s true objective. Fit and the rest of his fellow Islanders had very little to lose now that their children were missing, and the Federation knew that.

Although Cucurucho currently gave people the impression they could voluntarily take the pills, it was only a matter of time before Happy Pills were slipped into their food and drinks. Even if the Federation didn’t see every Islander as a threat to them, there was no doubt in Fit’s mind that the majority of his friends would be first on their list, and Fit doubted his position as Federation janitor would grant him immunity either. He was pretty confident in his ability to resist most poisons, but not whatever the Feds cooked up in their lab.

Losing any Islander to the Happy Pills would be devastating, but privately, many of them agreed that Cellbit and Etoiles would be two of the worst people to lose. It wasn’t just because Cellbit and Etoiles were their friends; it was because everyone placed their trust in them. In a sense, Cellbit and Etoiles were the Islanders’ sword and shield, and their hope.

They trusted Etoiles’ ability to defend them and their Eggs against the Code. Even if– when the Eggs came home– they would have a hard time keeping them safe without him, if things kept progressing the way they were.

They trusted Cellbit’s ability to combat the Federation using his wits and strategy, infiltrating their ranks to systematically gut them from the inside out. And now that the Eggs were gone, they needed Cellbit’s sharp mind more than ever.

They had almost no leads to go off, but whenever someone had a plausible theory about the Eggs’ disappearance, or found something that could be a clue, the information always made its way to Cellbit. They weren’t twiddling their thumbs and sitting on their asses waiting for Cellbit to fix everything for them – Fit would be damned if he let someone else be responsible for finding Ramon – but it was reassuring knowing a genius enigma-solver like Cellbit was on their side. Without him, they could be running in circles for weeks trying to decode clues. Worse, they might waste time following trails that lead to dead ends, and all the while their Eggs could be in mortal peril waiting for their guardians to save them.

Fit was no stranger to worst-case scenarios. Hell, that was a regular Tuesday on 2b2t. Expecting the unexpected, caution and preparation, and sheer dumb luck were the only reasons he was able to survive disaster time and time again. The only trouble was that this time, Fit wasn’t just looking out for himself. There were more people he needed to worry about, and potential casualties weren’t just numbers anymore; they were the names and faces of his friends.

And sometimes those friends were just as unpredictable as the enemy they were facing.

There was a time for planning and a time for action, but before any of them – including the Federation – could make a move, Pac became a martyr.

Pac had a nice smile.

No, it wasn't just nice – it was a beautiful smile. A smile that invited others to smile, a smile full of warmth and love that conveyed only a fraction of Pac's bright soul.

Pac's current smile was nothing of the sort. It stretched across his face almost painfully, unnaturally wide like an elastic band pulled so taut it might snap at any moment.

The Tazercraft-branded prosthetic he usually sported was nowhere to be seen, replaced instead by a sterile white one stamped with Cucurucho’s face on the side. It reminded Fit of the hearing aids the Federation tried to force on him, and it made his skin crawl seeing it on Pac. Pac’s familiar blue hoodie was also replaced by an equally-steril white one that looked jarring on him, almost as out of place as the smile. Perhaps it lacked the same roomy comforts of Pac’s old hoodie or perhaps he just wasn’t slouching to hide in this new one as much, but it made Pac look taller. Thinner. Desaturated and sickly like a once-cherished doll forgotten and faded by time, broken and bleached and replaced with new parts until it was transformed into something alien.

Fit understood why Pac took the drugs. Pac knew what was at stake, and he was probably the only person who could find a cure to the Happy Pills before there were dire consequences.

But the knowledge didn’t make Fit feel any better about seeing his friend suffer.

One week after Pac started taking the pills, Fit heard him sobbing in the Favela.

It was a terrible, heart-wrenching sound that made Fit’s own heart seize in his chest.

Seeing Pac under the influence of the Happy Pills was… difficult. Not nearly as bad as taking the damn things of course, but still difficult. Standing on the sidelines always was.

The drugs were transforming Pac into someone almost unrecognizable. The obscenely-wide smile and glassy eyes were bad enough without the manic laughter that burst out of Pac completely unprompted at seemingly random moments, but the worst change was to Pac’s spirit. The pills warped his personality, and even when his true self struggled to the surface for moments at a time, it was feeble and subdued.

Pac needed to create a cure, but the longer he took the pills, the more dangerous they were for him. During his rare moments of clarity, Pac sounded defeated. Hopeless. Resigned to his fate in a way that made Fit question whether withdrawals were the source of Pac’s negative thoughts or if he always felt like this, and just didn’t have the will to hide it anymore.

But maybe Pac wasn’t trying to hide it. Maybe they just weren’t listening well enough.

Fit could still vividly remember the near-breakdown Pac had while speaking with him and Tubbo on the roof of the Ninho.

“My life is pointless right now, my life is just pointless… My purpose is to live my life and free up this place to make Richarlyson happy! And now Richarlyson is gone, and Mike is gone too.... Everyone is gone.”

Fit and Tubbo had given him words of encouragement back then, but it wasn’t enough. There were no magic words that could make someone feel better when their child and partner were missing.

The last conversation he had with Pac before Pac took the pills haunted him.

"You'll see tomorrow, Fit. I think things are going to be different tomorrow."

And like a fool, Fit told him, "If you can find out what the Happy Pills are made of, maybe an antidote is possible."

He didn't think about why Pac went so quiet. At the time, he was too concerned with the known danger to consider the ramifications of his words, or their effect on Pac. According to Cellbit, the letter Pac left him implied that he'd been thinking about taking the pills to find a cure for a while, so it wasn't necessarily Fit's words that damned him, but…

"Everything's gonna be alright, Fit. Take care of yourself, ok? I'll see you tomorrow."

The day after their conversation, Pac started taking the Happy Pills.

Every day since then, Pac looked like he was fighting a losing battle, and none of them knew how to save him. They just had to hope Pac was strong enough to save himself.

Despite the hopelessness of their situation and despite his own misgivings, Fit couldn’t help wandering to their old hangout spots. He didn’t seek Pac out like he used to, but he wasn’t going out of his way to avoid Pac either, torn between wanting to support Pac and wanting to stay the hell away. Even if that artificial smile filled him with dread, the idea of letting Pac suffer alone felt worse.

Fit couldn’t ignore Pac when he was in such obvious distress. The moment he heard Pac’s muffled sobs in the Favela, he ran.

Fit was still a 2b2t veteran at heart, so when he approached the Favela, it was with his trident in hand. If there was danger, Fit wanted to be prepared for it. He doubted Pac could fight in his drugged state, even if he was normally a force to be reckoned with in combat.

But when he rounded the corner and saw Pac on his knees weeping into his hands, it became obvious what the source of his distress was.

Art can be found everywhere, even in anarchist wastelands or hellish islands that were advertised as vacation getaways. Some people said adversity created the best art, but Fit was pretty sure folks could be a hell of a lot more creative if they weren’t constantly fighting to stay alive. Still, Richarlyson was in a league of his own. His murals across Quesadilla Island were stunning no matter how many times Fit saw them, and today was no different.

This was a new one Fit hadn’t seen before. He saw Richarlyson’s original sketches for it briefly one lazy afternoon before Richarlyson squirreled them away, cheeks puffed up in faux-annoyance. He was clearly worried Fit might tell his dads about it and spoil the surprise, but Fit vowed not to say anything, and he’d been a man of his word.

The mural was pretty big compared to some of the others Richarlyson painted in the past, though not as big as the one Richas did of himself and all his siblings. It covered the side of a large Favela house, warm colors glowing in the sunset’s golden light. It was a painting of Richarlyson and his four fathers — Pac and Mike on his right, Felps and Cellbit on his left. They all had their arms around each others’ shoulders, leaning in towards Richarlyson as though huddling in close for a photo (and maybe somewhere a photo like this did exist).

Fit wasn’t sure how long Pac had been sitting in front of the mural before he arrived. Based on how wrecked his voice sounded, it was clear he’d been here for a while. Pac was muttering under his breath, arms wrapped tightly around himself. His nails were dug into the fabric of his hoodie so hard Fit was sure Pac would draw blood if not for the fabric separating nails from skin.

Pac needed help. Badly.

Fit wasn’t a scientist who could help Pac find the cure, and he wasn’t an eloquent speaker who knew how to soothe people’s hearts with words. But he knew how to be a rock in raging waters. There was so much uncertainty and instability in their lives, so if Pac needed someone to lean on to resist drowning in despair, if Fit could be something stable for Pac to hold onto when his will faltered, he’d do it.

It was all Fit could do.

He knelt next to Pac, who took his hand as soon as Fit offered it, squeezing tight like it really was his lifeline. They sat there together until the sun set completely and the last rays of light faded, casting Richarlyson’s painting into darkness.

Pac unscrewed the Happy Pill bottle with trembling hands and took another dose.

There was nothing Fit could say to stop him.

Every time Fit thought of Ramon or Pac, his boss’ warning rang as clear in his mind as it had that first day:

Don’t form attachments.

Fit should know better– he did know better. He never named anything or loved anything because he knew it was all so temporary. Death was inevitable, and suffering was inescapable for residents of 2b2t regardless of where they ended up. It wasn’t a matter of ‘if’– just one of when and how. The most they could do was steel their hearts and brace for whatever the world threw at them, or tried to rip away the second they found a shred of happiness.

But the people on this island were impossible not to love.

…It was easier for Fit to put the blame on them than himself.

“You might think I’m the weakest to use the drugs, but I’m actually not, you know?”

It was another one of Pac’s lucid moments. They were getting shorter and rarer to catch the longer he took those Happy Pills.

Pac sat on the swings of a half-constructed playground, forlornly staring at the ground. Fit wondered who built it, and why he’d never seen any of their kids playing on it before realizing it was close to the Egg graves. They would’ve loved it.

Pac sometimes asked him about the other Eggs, since they were before his time. Fit was ashamed he couldn’t recall all that much about them. Trumpet's life was snuffed out too soon, and JuanaFlippa was doted on so much by her fathers that Fit rarely saw her before she died. Tilin was starved for love, that much was easy to see, but he didn’t know much beyond that. They never had time to settle into their ‘selves’ and Fit never got to know them or see their personalities develop. He never cared enough to get to know them before they were gone.

Fit’s heart sank at the thought of a new group of Islanders someday arriving and asking him about Ramon because they never got the chance to meet him. He quickly discarded that thought, feeling nauseous.

Pac shuffled his feet, fidgeting with a loose seam on his sleeve. “It takes a lot of courage to step into that door, to take the pills.” His voice was so soft Fit’s hearing aids barely caught it. “…It took me a lot of courage.”

It did. It was one thing to be brave in the face of danger and another to willingly walk into danger knowing it might destroy you. Pac was braver than all of them. Fit just wished finding a cure didn’t require Pac to sacrifice himself like this.

The slight frown on Pac’s face faded from one moment to the next, quickly replaced with that artificial smile again.

“But it’s gonna be alright! At least I’m not feeling sad anymore. The medicine kinda makes me feel better you know? I’m uplifted, I’m feeling better, I’m happier, that’s all that matters in the end!" He leapt off the swing, spinning in a semicircle to face Fit. “I just have to enjoy the Island, and that’s what I’m trying to do. You should too, Fit!”

He approached Fit with purpose, which didn’t bode well. Even in his right state of mind, it was too easy for Pac to catch him off-guard; something few people ever managed. But perhaps that said more about Fit than Pac. If a caged animal spent its entire life expecting violence, of course it wouldn’t know how to respond to kindness.

And even drugged, Pac somehow retained his kindness. He was grief-stricken and bitter and angry, but beneath it all was that kind heart that got Pac into this situation in the first place.

When Pac took Fit’s hands in his, his movements were clumsy but kind. He held onto Fit’s hands like Fit was the one who needed to be reassured that everything was going to be ok.

Fit wished he could believe him.

Abruptly, Pac tried to spin in a circle, still holding one of Fit’s hands as though they were dancing. Fit’s prosthetic was too stiff and awkward to facilitate the motion, and Fit himself didn't have enough practice to assist even if he wanted to. Pac tried spinning in a circle again, trying to take Fit with him this time, but Fit remained stubbornly where he was.

Pac didn’t seem to mind, opting to link their fingers together again and slowly make their hands sway from side to side as though they were doing a slow stationary dance. He looked delighted, completely lost in his delusions, and Fit knew better than to try and shake him back to reality. Pac would come back in his own time, as he always inevitably did.

For now.

Fit understood why Pac wanted to rely on the pills. Folks on 2b2t had their own way of dealing with constant stress and trauma, and their coping methods were hardly healthy. People who turned to drugs or alcohol never survived long – sure, they dulled people's senses and helped them relax, but survival in the wasteland depended on constant vigilance. If they weren’t murdered, they were inevitably killed by their addiction. The easiest drugs to get were made and sold by amateurs at best or people who were in it for a quick coin at worst, waiting for their buyer to drop dead from whatever concoction they cooked up so they could swipe their items. Alcohol was safer and easier to get since some traders accepted it as payment for goods, and it wasn’t too hard for more established groups with a home base to make their own wine, beer, or vodka. Even on 2b2t, people somehow still found ways to indulge in their hobbies.

Fit knew a few people years ago who were dragged under by their addiction, either dead or better off dead when he last saw them. 2b2t was a world where your own survival took priority over everything else, but even if that wasn’t the case, there was nothing Fit could have done to save them. He tried once, when he was younger and hadn’t yet buried the natural human instinct to form connections and help his fellow man. He nearly wound up with a knife in his gut for it, his old ally willing to kill anything or anyone if it got them enough items to trade for more drugs.

Pac didn’t seem like he was at the point where he would stab someone yet, but the Happy Pill withdrawals gave him terrible mood swings that either sent him spiraling back into his depressed state or made his frustrations erupt out of him, burning fiercely like a flare before it was snuffed out moments later.

Right now however, Pac was in his typical drug-induced cheerful state. His eyes were hazy, and his movements were slow and feather-light, as though he was wading through deep water or wandering within a dream. The hands clasping Fit’s were cold and damp with sweat, yet feverish heat radiated from Pac's body in waves. Fit wondered whether it was a side-effect from the pills, or if Pac caught a cold. Pac didn’t need to be dealing with something like that on top of everything else, but it was one more thing Fit couldn’t help him with.

"Pac…" Fit began slowly, and Pac's brow furrowed just enough to crack his happy carefree mask.

"Don't," he said sharply, a little sharper than even Pac seemed to expect. He blinked in surprise, then let his happy masquerade continue as though nothing had interrupted it. "I’m happy you care about me and you’re worried about me, but I’m doing just fine, you know? I’m feeling like… the best I have ever felt!"

"I know it makes you feel happy, but this whole thing is only gonna get worse. Soon you won't feel as happy as you are now; you’re going to start needing more and more medicine to make you feel just as happy–" Pac started to pull his hands away, but Fit held onto him. A firm pressure, nothing more. "You're headed down a very dark path, a dark spiral, and it’s not going to end well if this keeps up."

Fit didn't know why he was trying so hard to pursue this topic again when it would inevitably end just as badly as all their past conversations had, but he needed to try. For Pac's sake, and his own. For everyone's sake.

Sure enough, Pac's expression darkened for a moment yet again. He took a step back away from Fit, ripping one hand away as he shouted, "How do you know it’s gonna be a dark time or a dark spiral! How do you know? You don’t know!"

Pac's other hand was trembling in his. Exhaustion or emotion or withdrawals – Fit couldn't say what the cause was, but he knew Pac was hurting one way or another.

"I wanted– I wanted to take them so I could make a cure, but now?" Pac shook his head, using one sleeve of his hoodie to wipe away the stray tears accumulating in his eyes. "I'm realizing right now that the pills are the solution. They're making me feel better. I know people can't tell from the outside, but I was losing my mind before the pills."

"Maybe I was looking ok, but only on the outside. Inside I was losing my mind. I was trying to distract myself, go with the flow, but I couldn't. I couldn't. It was too much for me. I was losing it. I was losing my mind. I don't know how long I could take it."

That was what Pac said to him and Tubbo last week. Fit knew Pac was struggling, but he expected Pac to tough it out like he always did, because that was all they could do.

But it was impossible to hold on forever, and unlike Fit, Pac had someone he was used to trusting and relying on whenever he needed to endure. Tazercraft balanced each other in a way no other could; a push-and-pull of counterbalances and support keeping each other afloat no matter what happened. But Mike wasn't here anymore.

"I prefer taking my pills. I’m feeling way better now, at least I’m not crying in some random corner of the Island expecting my friends to come save me, and nobody comes to save me! Or expecting Mike to pop back up out of nowhere– I DON’T WANT THAT! I don’t want that. I prefer to take the pills…"

Maybe Pac should've reached out and asked for help before things got this bad, but maybe Fit also could've been a better friend to him. Maybe this all could've been avoided somehow, if one of them had acted differently.

Pac continued talking, starting to ramble on the longer Fit remained silent, becoming less and less coherent with every sentence. "The pills to me are like the Eggs. The Eggs made me feel better, made me feel happy, but now the pills are doing the same effect for me. I feel happy.”

"But that feeling isn't real, Pac. It's not reality."

"And what is real, Fit?!" he snapped. "What is reality?! The reality that we have is like, 'Just wait until the Eggs show up,' or 'Just wait for something to happen'!" Pac shook his head again and again, his free hand curling into a fist. "I’m fine with my medicine, you know? I’m fine with Cucurucho helping me! It’s making me feel way better! Reality is the thing that you accept, so I’m accepting this as my reality."

Before Fit could respond, Pac was already ducking his head, all the rage draining from him. "Sorry, Fit. Sorry, I just– sorry," he said in a quiet voice. "I didn't mean to scream at you, I'm sorry."

Fit exhaled a slow breath, trying to maintain his composure. What the hell was he trying to accomplish here? Pac was clearly content to stay completely untethered from reality. He couldn't throw Pac a lifeline and pull him back if Pac refused to hold on.

"Was finding a cure the only reason you took these pills?"

Fit only half expected a reply from Pac.

"...I didn’t have any other choice. I was hopeless," Pac said, still speaking with a quiet voice as though it would make up for his outburst. "If Cellbit put himself in this position, it's worse for everyone. Cellbit is better at coming up with strategic plans, but if he's not in control of his mind, he can't solve this problem. It's better this way. I'm better this way."

Pac was mumbling so quietly Fit almost couldn't hear what he was saying. Pac's head was still bowed, and his hand still rested limply in Fit's.

"It was my only choice. That's all. That's why I need to… that's why I'm still gonna use it. Until I forget. That's what I'm going to do."

Lifelines be damned— Fit wasn't giving up on Pac that easily, and he wasn't about to let Pac give up on himself.

"I know you're still in there somewhere, Pac." He grabbed Pac's shoulder, shaking it a little, trying to keep him grounded. "I know you still remember everything. I need you to remember why you're doing this. For the Favela. For the Eggs. For Richarlyson."

Two teardrops rolled down Pac's cheeks, staining the sand beneath them as they fell.

"I just want to be happy," Pac whispered. "I just want to feel safe."

Fit gently squeezed Pac's hand. It was still so cold.

"I know you might feel happy and safe with the pills, but none of us are safe on this Island. The Federation and Cucurucho just want to make us dependent on them and their medication to feel happy. It's just another cage they want to trap us in." Pac hadn't pulled away his hand yet, so Fit hoped at least some of this was getting through to him. "I know you, Pac. I know you're not someone who likes being trapped behind bars, and I know you're smart enough to figure a way out."

“Maybe I’m safer like that.” Pac tucked his chin to his chest, hanging his head again. His free hand slipped into the pocket of his hoodie. "Maybe I'm safer in a cage."

Fit was going to murder that goddamn bear. And then burn the Federation to the ground.

He remembered Pac saying the Favela houses he was building were comforting– the ones with iron bars over the windows. If this was some kind of trauma response, it was a cruel one.

On instinct, Fit pulled Pac into a hug.

Fit rarely initiated hugs, and when he did, he always asked beforehand. Fit never wanted to make Pac feel obligated or trapped, and frankly, he was still pretty new to the whole "hugging" thing in general. He preferred following Pac's lead.

But Pac was so damn bad at asking for what he needed and Fit was too emotionally constipated to know what that was without Pac saying it, so… here they were.

Pac didn't move. One arm hung limply at his side and the other was pinned between them, resting lightly on Fit's shoulder. As far as hugs went, it wasn't one of Fit's better ones, but he was trying his best. Pac made no motion to hug him back, though Fit felt his other arm shift for a moment before returning to his side.

Not for the first time, Fit wondered what Mike would do or say to Pac in this situation. Nothing came to mind, and Fit already said everything he could. Anything else would be redundant, or fall on deaf ears.

Fit didn't let the hug last longer than a few moments. He was already taking a step back when Pac suddenly moved forward with him. For a moment Fit deluded himself into thinking Pac just wanted another hug, but he was too close for that– stepping into Fit's personal space in a way he'd never dare to normally. He respected Fit too much– respected the fragile, unnamed thing cultivating between them.

The expression on Pac's face was one of sheer euphoria.

With a sinking feeling, Fit realized why Pac was rummaging around in his hoodie pocket. He'd taken another pill.

The feverish heat radiating off of Pac felt almost stifling now that they were practically standing chest to chest, but the hand that reached up to cup Fit's cheek was still just as cold and damp as before. "I miss seeing your smile, Fit. I don't know how to make you stop feeling sad, but I know the pills can help you! They will take all your sadness away, you'll see."

"Pac–" Fit began in warning, but Pac continued speaking in that happy, eerily calm tone as though he was in a daze. Pac's smile stretched wider across his face even as tears threatened to spill from the corners of his eyes.

"I can't save Mike or Richarlyson, and I'm not strong enough to help Cellbit or Felps, but maybe I can help you…?" He reached up as though to cup Fit's face with both hands, hands that were cold as death itself. Fit was too stunned to react. "I want everyone to be happy. I want us to be..."

Pac was too close. He was rising up on the balls of his feet to match Fit's height, his lashes fluttering shut, and Fit—

Fit automatically jerked away the moment Pac’s other hand brushed his face.

Instantly, Pac recoiled and snatched his hands back like he’d been burned. He stared up at Fit with wide, mortified eyes, seemingly more shocked by his own actions than Fit's. He looked hesitant, confused, and hurt all at once.

They stared at each other in silence, neither knowing how to respond.

If this was a fairytale, everything would be solved by "true love’s kiss". Some terrible evil would be defeated, the curse befalling the handsome prince would be broken, and the heroes would ride off into the sunset and get married, or something equally sappy. Fit usually changed the endings when he read those stories to Ramon, preferring something a little more exciting and realistic.

But Fit wasn’t a hero, and Pac wasn’t a frail, helpless prince in distress acting like a side character in his own story. Life wasn’t a tidy little fairytale devoid of conflict that wrapped up with a neatly packaged bow saying "Happily Ever After". The reality they lived in was grim and unfair. People got hurt, "good" and "evil" were subjective, and heroes didn’t always win. Sometimes there were never any heroes to begin with.

But it didn't matter what character Fit was playing in this story the universe was trying to write; he wasn't going to let Pac kiss him when Pac clearly wasn’t in his right mind.

The awful silence between them made Pac crumble first. He took several slow steps backwards away from Fit, eyes downcast as he wilted under Fit's unintentionally stern gaze. Shame seemed to have sobered him up, somewhat.

“Disculpa. I’m sorry,” Pac whispered in a quiet voice, hugging himself and rubbing his arms like he was trying to get warm. He looked like he was going to be sick.

“Pac…” Fit sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wanted to comfort Pac and reassure him that everything was going to be ok, but he had no idea what the hell was going on on the Island anymore – not that any of them ever did – and he still had no idea what to do about Pac.

But the sun was starting to set, and the breeze was chillier than normal today. And Pac was shivering.

Without a second thought, Fit shrugged off his jacket. It was old and worn – probably overdue for a wash and in sore need of some patching up – but most importantly: it was well-made and warm.

Pac anxiously watched his every movement, glancing down uncertainly at the jacket Fit offered, then back up at his face. When Fit didn't retract the offer, Pac slowly reached out and accepted it. Their fingers lightly brushed and Pac visibly cringed, nearly dropping the jacket so he could back off and give Fit his space, but Fit just pushed the jacket more firmly into Pac's hands.

He wasn’t much smaller than Fit, but the jacket still fit comfortably over Pac’s hoodie, clashing magnificently with the sterile white Federation clothes. It was a dark shade of forest green, and even though it wasn't Pac’s trademark blue, it still made Pac look more like himself.

“Obrigado, Fitche.”

It wasn't much, but it was a start.

The pills made Pac forgetful. Some days he forgot that Mike and the Eggs were missing. Other days he broke down into tears then minutes later forgot why he was crying, tears still rolling down his cheeks.

Eating was another thing Pac forgot about.

He’d steadily been losing weight since Richarlyson and Mike went missing. Fit wasn’t sure whether it was because of stress or because Mike wasn’t there to remind him to eat, but either way, Pac was suffering the consequences. The pills weren't helping matters either. Fit had a feeling that even if Pac was eating regularly, the Happy Pills wouldn't let him retain any weight from it.

It was horrible to watch, and it was worse knowing this was just one more hardship Pac had to shoulder when he was already going through so much.

Fit couldn’t stand seeing Pac like that, but he knew it was selfish to distance himself. He checked in on Pac when he could, and Fit always carried around extra food for Pac, even if his gifts were turned down with a cheerful smile more often than not. He had better luck when Pac was near Starbobby, and he tried to stick around long enough for Pac to finish eating. If Fit dropped off some food or left it somewhere Pac could find it, it was usually ignored or forgotten.

Fit didn’t know why he chose to visit Chume Labs specifically that day. Several days had passed since he last saw Pac, and while that wasn't all that unusual, something about it worried Fit. His instincts rarely failed him, and he followed that apprehensive concern all the way into the dark, empty lab where his call for Pac was met with silence. Fit planned to just leave the basket of food there, toeing the line between wanting to support Pac and wanting to respect Tazercraft’s privacy–

And then he saw bloody fingerprints on the table.

They were still fresh.

Between one blink and the next, Fit was inside the lab, hurrying between rooms and down staircases trying to follow the bloody trail to its source. It didn't take him long to find their origin, or Pac.

Fit almost didn't see him – the room was completely dark except for the blinking light of a machine Fit didn't recognize, but he didn't pay much attention to it after the dim light briefly illuminated the collapsed form of his friend.

Pac was lying motionless on the cold tiled floor of the lab. Shattered glass vials were next to him, as if he’d fallen while holding them or they rolled off the table after his fall. The room reeked of blood, bile, and something burnt— a familiar stench that reminded Fit too much of 2b2t's Spawn region.

His survival instincts screamed at him to take cover and check for enemies before rushing in, but Fit was already disregarding the thought before it could even fully form. His ears were ringing as if he was standing in the aftermath of an explosion, and Fit wasted no time dashing to Pac's side, dropping to one knee beside him and scanning Pac for injuries.

Pac’s outbursts and slow decline the past few weeks was extremely concerning, but Fit never felt truly scared for Pac until this moment.

Fit quickly shoved aside the fabric of Pac's hoodie, pressing two fingers against his neck as he searched for Pac's pulse. Respawns existed on Quesadilla Island, but Fit's own heartbeat didn’t relax until he felt the faint rhythm of Pac’s weary heart.

He looked more closely at Pac, trying to figure out what happened. Pac's hoodie was stained with blood; some fresh, some dried. Fit didn't see an obvious wound, but there was too much blood to write it off as a simple lab accident. A few ruby drops stained one corner of Pac's mouth, and Fit's brows knit together with concern.

He paused halfway through digging a healing potion out of his bag, unsure if it would negatively interact with the drugs already in Pac's system, but Pac's immediate health came first. Fit shattered a splash potion of healing next to Pac, and the familiar cool scent of menthol drifted around them, temporarily overwhelming the more unpleasant odors.

"Pac?" Fit gently shook his shoulder. He didn't want to move Pac and risk hurting him further, but he had to make sure Pac didn't need more serious medical attention. His chest was visibly rising and falling, and it didn't sound like anything was obstructing his airway, but Fit didn't stop until he got a response.

Hollow and shadowed eyes finally opened after a tense minute of silence, taking another minute to focus their gaze on Fit.

"Fitchi…?"

Pac's voice was weak and exhausted, barely audible. He tried clearing his throat and instead sent himself into a wet coughing fit that shook his body.

"Whoa, easy–" Fit carefully slid a hand under Pac's upper back, raising him up and supporting Pac's head so he wouldn't choke on whatever he was trying to cough up.

It turned out to be more blood, which soaked into the front of Pac's hoodie and stained Fit's gauntleted arm. Fit held Pac until his coughing fit subsided, quietly cursing under his breath. If there was some kind of internal damage...

"I'm going to use another splash potion on you. That alright?" Fit's voice was clear and strong, but his mind was racing.

Pac didn't respond, his gaze sliding from Fit to the room around them and back again, unfocused.

"You hear me Pac? Blink twice if that's ok."

Slowly, far too slowly, Pac blinked twice.

Another splash potion filled the lab with that same minty smell, and Pac's breaths became less-labored as he breathed it in. Fit breathed his own small sigh of relief seeing that, some of the tension in his body ebbing, but not entirely.

"Do you think you can drink a healing potion? It'll be more effective than the splash potions. Blink twice if you can," he added belatedly when Pac didn't respond.

After receiving confirmation via blinks, Fit slowly helped Pac sit up further. He was worried about Pac choking on a potion, but he was also worried about causing another coughing fit if he jostled Pac too much. Some of the color had returned to him with those two splash potions, but Pac still looked so grey and sickly– even more than usual.

Supporting Pac's head, Fit slowly brought the healing potion to Pac's lips, tilting it ever so slightly so Pac wouldn't be overwhelmed. A bit spilled from the corners of his mouth before Pac and Fit found a good balance.

It took ten long, agonizing minutes for Pac to drain the entire healing potion. He no longer looked like he was on death's doorstep, and Fit's muscles ached from how tense they'd been.

Fit poured water from his canteen onto a spare handkerchief, gently cleaning the blood and bile from Pac's face as Pac leaned against him, recovering from the effort it took to drink the potion and remain sitting upright.

"What the hell happened here?” Fit kept a hand on Pac’s back to steady him, still looking for any other obvious injuries he could help with. Pac felt too thin, even through the fabric of his hoodie.

He continued cleaning Pac's hands and arms once he finished with Pac's face, half expecting to find injuries every time he wiped away a patch of blood, but none could be found. Fit wasn't sure if he should be worried about that or not.

Pac ignored his question, reaching with his free hand for the small notebook that had fallen to the floor beside him. Fit saw what he was doing and pulled it closer, handing it to Pac in spite of his concern and curiosity. With trembling hands, Pac scribbled notes down in shaky font, something in Portuguese Fit couldn't read. He waited until Pac’s frantic writing paused, then asked again.

"What happened here? Are you ok?'

A brief pause, then Pac gave a half aborted shrug, unable to follow through on the motion fully.

"Cure," Pac wheezed. "I'm trying to– cure."

"You're trying to figure out a cure?" Fit felt a rush of relief at Pac's slow nod. Finally, some progress was being made. The sooner Pac figured out a cure, the sooner he could stop taking these damn pills. "What's all this blood from?"

"Tests."

Pac slowly turned his gaze to look up at Fit. His eyes looked tired, but clearer than they had in weeks. Fit wondered if throwing up purged some of the Happy Pills out of Pac's system.

"Bad reactions. Withdrawals. And…"

Pac glanced away from him, back at the shattered glass bottles around them. Fit only used two splash potions of healing, but there were more bottles around them, more broken pieces of glass. On a table, test tube racks were filled with labeled vials of red liquid, and several needles lay on the floor as though someone had dropped them with shaking hands.

Slowly, Fit took another look at Pac's arms, gently shifting his forearm. There were no open wounds, but the back of his hands and the inside of his elbows were discolored and bruised.

The puzzle pieces clicked together in Fit's brain.

Scientist and test subject

"Oh, Pac…"

Whatever else he wanted to say was drowned out with more of Pac's coughs. Pac sat up straighter so he wouldn't choke, turning away from Fit. There wasn't any blood from the coughs this time, but it was a small mercy.

Fit looked around the lab with newfound knowledge, wondering just how long Pac had been working down here, and how much of his own blood he'd drawn trying to create a cure. He wasn't a doctor, but seeing the way Pac slumped against the edge of a table next to him when the coughs subsided made Fit think it was too much.

Tears blurred Pac's vision as he looked down at the floor. "Disculpa," Pac said in a wrecked, exhausted voice. Then, more quietly, Fit heard Pac whisper, "Disculpa, Richas. Disculpa, Mike. Isso é demais, não consigo fazer isso."

This is too much. I can't do it.

Fit felt his heart break a little hearing those words.

Pac started slipping back to the floor, but Fit was by his side in an instant, two strong hands on Pac's shoulders to keep him steady.

"You can." He gently encouraged Pac to lean against him again, supporting his weight so he wouldn't collapse. "You're strong, Pac. You're tough, you have no idea–"

"I don't want to feel like this anymore, Fit." Pac's voice cracked, struggling to force the words out like there was a weight on his chest. Tears fell freely down his cheeks, but his voice was too ragged for him to actually sob like he otherwise might. "I'm tired of trying to be strong."

"You are strong–" Fit began, but Pac was already shaking his head.

"I'm not like you or Mike. I'm not strong enough."

"You are," Fit said firmly, leaving no room for argument. "You’re a survivor, just like Richarlyson, just like Mike–"

Just like me.

"Life keeps throwing punches, but no matter how many times it tries to knock you down, you keep standing back up! You're the smartest person on this goddamn Island, and if it wasn't for you we'd be helpless against these Happy Pills."

Pac was still silently weeping, but he didn't try to interrupt again. He leaned forward until his forehead pressed against Fit's shoulder, hugging himself like he was cold.

Immediately, Fits arms were around Pac, holding him close to his heart. "I know you're hurting, and I know you've been hurting for a long time. It sounds cruel to ask you to keep being strong, but you gotta make it through to the end of this, Pac. It's gonna get better."

"You don't know that."

"No, I don't," Fit conceded. "I can't promise you things are going to turn all sunshine and daisies overnight, but I do know that right now, you're holding your ground. No matter how exhausted and hopeless you feel, you're still here, and that means you'll still be here when things finally do get better." He adjusted his hold so he could cradle Pac's head in a comforting motion. "The sun's just over the horizon. Just because we can't see it, that doesn't mean it's not there. We just have to hold on until daybreak."

Slowly, oh so slowly, Pac unwound his arms from around himself. He leaned against Fit like a puppet with its strings cut, sinking fully into the hug and returning it with as much strength as he could muster.

"Until that happens, we'll be there right beside you. 'Cuz you know what they say," he added, giving Pac an extra squeeze. "Misery loves company."

Fit felt a soft puff of breath against his neck. He hopes that made Pac laugh.

"You're too good to me, Fit."

They stayed like that, holding onto each other far longer than their usual hugs lasted.

Fit missed him. He didn't realize just how badly he missed Pac until now.

He wasn't lying when he told Pac things would get better (for one, Fit wasn't sure things could get much worse). Fit truly believed they would find their kids and Mike. Hope was a siren song that led people to ruin, but this wasn't 2b2t. Quesadilla Island had its own horrors, but the happiest moments of his life happened on this Island. If it was possible for someone like him to be happy, then almost anything was possible.

Like the next words Pac said.

"You make me feel safe."

Those words did something funny to Fit's heart that made it ache.

As was often the case, Fit didn't know how to respond to that. He tucked Pac's head under his chin instead, continuing to hold Pac close as long as he needed. As long as he allowed.

Another few minutes passed like that until Pac finally raised his head, his hair slightly messier than before.

“I feel pretty tired,” Pac admitted quietly. “But… Can you stay with me? Just until I fall asleep?”

Fit knew it was a request made out of desperation. Pac hated inconveniencing others, even if this request was anything but.

“Of course, Pac. Can I…?"

Pac nodded.

As carefully as he could, Fit slipped a hand behind Pac's back and under his knees, slowly lifting him up. Pac still made a small noise of surprise at how easily Fit moved him, but really, Fit was used to carrying much, much heavier things than a half-starved man.

A few of Pac’s little ratinhos tumbled from his pockets and squeaked their complaints in Pac’s lap before burrowing back into his hoodie. Their tails curled fondly around Pac's fingers, and Fit smiled at the sight. It was good to see them– a relief to know that no matter what happened, at least Pac always had them nearby.

One adventurous black ratinho scurried up Fit's arm, its tiny claws making a faint pitter-patter against the metal plating. It perched on his shoulder, swaying as they walked through the lab to Tazercraft's bedrooms.

With how detailed and decorated the rest of their builds were (and how packed Chume Labs typically was), Fit wasn't expecting to see empty rooms. He'd seen Pac and Mike fall asleep practically everywhere, especially in the lab, but it didn't seem like they spent enough time in their own bedrooms to bother decorating them.

He paused at the halfway point between Pac and Mike's room. He had a feeling Pac was probably sleeping in Mike's room lately, but when he started to walk inside, Pac abruptly became much more alert.

"No!" Pac croaked just as Fit stepped inside Mike's room and noticed three small mounds on the floor with something sprouting near their base. "Not here. Not tonight. Please."

There was blood on the floor here too.

In any other circumstance, Fit's concern and curiosity might tempt him to question it. But Pac was trembling in his arms, and as Fit turned around, he knew this would have to be a conversation for another day. Whatever secrets lay behind them weren't his to uncover. Not now.

Pac's room was, somehow, more vacant than Mike's. The only furniture inside was a small bed, and the only other things in the room were hastily scribbled notes and some small lab tools, all strewn across the floor. Fit was careful to avoid stepping on them, as though they were mines that might blow up at the slightest disturbance. There was an organized chaos to it, and Fit wasn't sure if this mess was made before or after Pac started taking the pills.

Fit carefully set Pac down on the bed, which didn't look like it got much use. Maybe Pac usually did sleep in Mike's room– assuming he slept at all.

Before he could ask Pac if he needed anything or wanted help changing out of the dirty, bloody hoodie, Pac was fast asleep. He slept on his side with his face tucked against a pillow, curled inward as if even in his dreams he was searching for something. Fit sighed, pulling a blanket over Pac and absently tucking it around him out of habit. Ramon usually kicked his blankets off halfway through the night, and Fit was always fixing them for him, too fond to feel annoyed. He'd argued with Spreen about that, once.

A handful of extra pillows were piled on Pac's small bed, probably stolen from Mike's room. Fit wondered how Mike put up with it until he realized Pac probably started sleeping with extra pillows because he missed Mike and Richarlyson. How many nights had Pac woken up from a nightmare only to find nothing but a cold pillow to cling to for comfort?

Fit sat down near the window by Pac's bed, leaning his back against the wall. Pac only asked him to stay until he fell asleep, but Pac was exhausted and grief-stricken, and Fit had a feeling leaving Pac alone like this or letting him wake up with no one around would be both cruel and dangerous. Fit could afford one sleepless night; he was used to that on 2b2t. It was a small price to pay for Pac's comfort.

After everything that happened, he wasn't sure he'd be able to sleep anyways.

Tomorrow, Pac would wake up suffering from withdrawals and he'd be at the mercy of the Happy Pills again. But at least for tonight, Pac was himself, and he'd proven he was still fighting. Fit couldn't ask for more.

He still believed things would get better.

The only question now was how far off that better future was.