Reminders
A group of drabbles that I wrote on a whim. Enjoy!
It's been some time since Tubbo last saw the morning crew altogether. It wasn't something he lingered on, he had plenty of machines to distract himself with. Yet every so often, the thought would seep in between the brief spaces between his geers. Lingering laughter intermixed fragments of English and Portuguese. The smell of coffee and oil intermixed with wine, dandelions, and sweat. Sometimes he would space out mid-experiment only to be taken out with the howls of his business partner or the reminder of his ever-sleeping daughter.
Forexample, just earlier today, as the young satyr was reading himself for the day, he passed a loose calendar on his way to the coffee pot. Most of the time Tubbo would pay it no mind. However, a day was circled in pink marker- marking the day as one sunny made sure to remember in the case Tubbo did, which he is always one to do. Ceasing his trip mid-step, he lingered on the brief note longer than he should.
"Fit's Arm"
A few charges in his brain fire, a smile, small and tired, slowly creeps onto his face. He didn't get to ask Fit about his arm. It must've slipped by with a myriad of things Tubbo's sure to have missed throughout his life. But, with this newfound vigor, he can't help but chuckle. Maybe later today he'll stop by Fit's place. Pac's too if he can't find the Florida man. A laugh follows as he gets back to his journey to the coffee pot at the realization that he'd give up an arm and a leg for his morning crew
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Phil wasn't that worried when he saw his children still in bed. He made sure to check their temperatures, to which both were fine, and sighed when nothing changed after three days. This isn't anything new to Phil, Chyanne and Tallulah on separate occasions have had their bouts of long rests. Yet when Bagi and Tina reported that the other eggs were the same, Phil could only fear the worst. It was one thing for the Ender King to go after him, that's fine. But children? This was a new low.
Even though he was a vessel of the gods, he could only do so much when it came to their rights. So in solidarity, he lit some incense, burned a few roses, and prayed that his anxieties weren't reality. In the meantime, making medicine for the eggs when they were lucid enough to take some.
It's been weeks now, and nothing has changed. Phil was sitting on the fishing perch with a fresh cup of green tea in his hands, contemplating the horizon for the twelfth time that week. His eyes and throat stung and exhaustion was on the cusp of his soul. Yet he remained. "Darling, please," A voice he only heard in his dreams coaxed. One that was sweat like honey and dark as night. "You know I won't go down easily love," He relented. A shared sigh followed as a light touch made contact with his shoulder. "I know."
He turns his head. A form he knew too well greets him, veiled from the sun and other's gaze. "It's been too long." She admits. Phil smiles before glancing at the door. Eyes do wide with panic. "Please don't tell me you're here for-" She puts her other hand on his other shoulder, holding him together. "No." Her hat moves with her shaking head. "No. I am here strictly for personal reasons. I have no business here, I promise you." A breath he didn't know he was holding almost took the man's soul. "Thank the gods," She slaps his shoulder. "I would never do that to you, you know that!"
"I know you wouldn't! It's just, others... have come here. 'Sinked their claim into my family, Kristen." She sighs. A tear slips though the warrior's gaze. "I'm so sorry my love." A hand holds his face as the cracks slowly grow in his guard. Who knew the reaper mourned the living?
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The movement of his weapon carried Pac through his nights. With thoughts of his beloved haunting him in his dreams only to take up to see his sons trapped in their haze of sickness, the only thing that seemed to get him through these restless nights was monster slaying. Something about it was so cathartic. The repetitive swing of an axe, scythe, or sword and the groans of pain of those he vanquished. In a way, it was a great form of exertion. One that made his mind blur into itself while his body acted on sharpened instinct after a year of hostility.
While he replayed a conversation with Ramon in his head, he was taking out half a dozen zombies at a time. Hoards of them have turned into a nuisance more than a lingering fear. "Oi!" The break through the groans snaps Pac out of his haze, his body turning to the noise. Mike stands on a nearby hill, waving something bright in his hands. A surge of pain trails up Pac's arm, redirecting himself on the annoyance at hand.
It doesn't take him too long to clean up the group but the clearer Mike's voice became, the faster the exhaustion laced itself through his muscles. Before he knew it the grip he had on his sword gave. He could hear Mike clearly now but the words were nothing more than white noise as his knees gave into the gravity of the situation Pac put himself in.
Mike was there to catch him before he hit the ground. Concern and panic flooded his mind as he pulled out his warp stone. "Sinto muito, meu amigo. Eu deveria ter ajudado você" he mumbled through the echo of the contraption. Within moments they were at Pac's house. The sun was rising over the savannah as Mike carried his friend inside. "Há quanto tempo você é assim?" Silence was what he expected, but from Pac's position over his shoulders, he could hear the mumbling "Fitch... Why, Por que você teve que sair?" He looked down. He and Pac had been through hell together, but he knew Pac would hate to see him like this. So instead he tried to look for the secret warp to his basement and bit his lip to shush himself. The ass beating he had in store for FitMC- *"I'm so sorry my friend. I should have been there for you." .... "How long have you been like this?" *"Why did you have to leave?"
Eventually, he found it, teleporting him and his semi-conscious brother to his bedroom. "Pac, faça-me um favor e vá dormir, porra." He ordered, tossing the smaller onto his bed. A groan was all he needed to hear. "Não dou a mínima para o fato de você estar triste, você está cansado. E eu só consigo lidar com uma emoção de cada vez no momento." He waited a moment for any bitebacks but he was relieved to be met with obnoxious but believable snores. *"Pac, do me a favor and go to fucking sleep." ... "I don't give a shit that your sad, you're tired. And I can only handle one emotion at a time right now."
Whether it be out of paranoia or satisfaction, he lingers for what he hoped was only a few minutes. Eventually, he vacated the basement upstairs. There he put on a kettle to brew some tea. From there he would take the rest of the day to pick up after Pac as he slept for the first time in who knew how long. It wasn't a lot, at least to Mike but it was a good start for an overdue apology.
