#spaceapples writes

The outside air had been creeping in due to someone — her father, most likely — forgetting to close a window during the day, yet Natalie hadn’t shut it. The cold brought her out of the steady spiral she had been going down, made her realize — remember — that things were fine.

Fine is a funny word. It was a word she never thought she’d use, at least not genuinely. And she almost laughed calling everything fine when she had realized where in the house she’d subconsciously walked to.

She stared at the medicine cabinet, that familiar longing tugging at her; her hands twitched every time she neared the damned thing. She missed them in a fucked up, mentally ill kind of way. It made her emotions less, more manageable, and sometimes, she’d actually feel less. Or really — ideally — she wouldn’t feel at all; that was nice, too.

But as she reached for the cabinet knob, Natalie mentally hit herself, hastily bringing her hand back to her side. 

No matter how pleasant it was to stop feeling, it also stopped her from feeling human. This would usually be welcomed, but again, things were fine. And perhaps she wanted to be human again. It’s something Natalie couldn’t stop thinking about, as of late: that she doesn’t know how to be a concrete human being. 

She found herself thinking about this whenever Henry would tuck a stray hair behind her ear, when her father started giving more frequent hugs, when her mother reminded her to get some sleep — and especially when Natalie said she couldn’t, her mother would decide to stay up. Natalie thought of this whenever she felt something real, whenever she felt like she was real. 

Rather than taking drugs, she opened her fridge, looking for something to eat instead. When hearing movement upstairs, however, she instinctually froze as dread pooled in her stomach. Natalie tried to brush it away, reminding herself once again that things were fine.

Her mother had been doing better, even through some relapses. She just started living here after she had stayed at her grandparents’ house for a couple months, and her father — now that he had actually been talking about things — had become more open with Natalie, and even her mother at times.

In all honesty, before her mother told her how he died, Natalie had known nothing of her brother, except that she hated him. Now, she knew his favorite food had been mashed bananas before he had issues eating, she knew they always tried putting him in long-sleeves because he was perpetually cold, she knew whenever they tried leaving him to sleep on his own he would try clinging to them before they left. She knew he cried, and cried, and cried.

Her father had come home from therapy a couple hours ago, and asked if she wanted to hear it. Perhaps that was why she had taken a random break from homework at two in the morning to aimlessly stare, to space out.

She still didn’t know his name. Natalie never thought to seek it out herself — again, she hated him — and her parents never told her. Her father had always been brutally honest about everything — except for how he was feeling, except about his son. So when she hesitantly asked about it earlier, Natalie was surprised at his answer.

“I, uh — I don’t think I’m — I can’t tell you that, yet, Natalie, I — I’m —” Dan had stuttered over his words, but she interrupted before he could apologize.

“No, no, it’s — I understand it’s probably hard for you. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

She didn’t want to push him, not anymore. He’d tell her eventually, and really, that was all she could ask for.

Natalie jolted back into reality when the fridge started giving its, “I’ve been open too long,” noise. She — very annoyed — promptly grabbed a string cheese before closing it, staying there for a little longer, continuing to keep the window open. She wanted to sit in that moment for at least another hour, enjoying the air and only briefly worrying about things inside her head. 

But there was homework she hadn’t finished, and it wasn’t like she’ll never feel cold air again. So she closed it, locked it, then started up the stairs at a quick, quiet pace. 

Yet she was just as abruptly stopped when there was a random stranger — who could be no older than nineteen — blocked her way. His brown hair was a little bit of a mess, but the waviness of it reminded her of her mother. 

“Hey there, Sunshine.” The figure had a dopey smile on his face, though she hardly noticed. “Going to bed early, I see. That’s a first.”

Natalie nearly fell down the stairs, her heart beating out of her chest. 

“Who — who are you? What the hell are you doing in my house?” Natalie narrowed her eyes, trying to appear more threatening than terrified.

She wasn’t totally sure it worked, but the boy stopped in his tracks, eyes growing wide, then almost shifting into confusion. 

“You can see me?” Any trace of teasing left his voice, being replaced with what seemed to Natalie like desperate hope.

Except she didn’t care; she had no clue who this random guy that was in her house happened to be. It felt like a lifetime ago when she first talked to Henry about being a stalker — she didn’t actually want one.

“What kind of question is that? Of course I can fucking see you,” she said incredulously, forcefully. “What are you doing in my house?”

With a stranger here, Natalie hadn’t thought to be quiet. Her mother had started sleeping with noise canceling headphones on — she was a light sleeper, and already had trouble doing it without Natalie’s regular anxious rustling at night — so instead it was her father who turned on the hallway light.

“Natalie? It’s — ” he checked his wrist that had no watch on it. “— I don’t know, too late to be yelling. Why are — is everything good?”

She waited for him to alarmingly glance at the intruder as her answer, but he was pointedly staring at her, eyes blinking rapidly as most likely an attempt to stay properly awake.

“You — there’s —” She tried to subtly gesture to the boy, but her father merely furrowed his eyebrows, not following.

“I think you should go to sleep, Nat,” he said wearily, with concern lacing his tone.

Her heart was still hammering, and she kept clenching and uncleanching her fists.

If her father was able to see him, he was either very good at pretending or Natalie was too panicked to even register a carefully crafted expression.

She looked back to the boy, whose eyes were still blown wide, and when she blinked again, he was suddenly gone.

Natalie suddenly felt very, very cold. Not the cold she found comfort in only a couple minutes prior, but the type that made her feel wrong.

Her father didn’t see him. Her father didn’t see him. Her father didn’t see him.

In all honesty, she wished she had taken the drugs; she could have blamed hallucinating on being high. Yet here she was, horribly sober, seeing people who didn’t exist.

“I see me in you,” her mother had said, so very long ago. She was probably trying to be reassuring, but that was the worst thing she could have said to try and calm Natalie down. Natalie did not want to be like her. But here she is, seeing people who didn’t exist. 

Just like her mother.

“Yea, y-you’re right. G — ‘night, Dad.” She barely heard his response before barreling to her room, tears forming in her eyes before she roughly swiped them away.

She was so tired of crying.

Things were supposed to be fine now. They were supposed to be fine. 

Against Natalie’s better judgment, she got out her phone, opening Henry’s contact and shakily sending a text.

               Me — 2:46AM

               you awkae?

               Me — 2:46AM

               awake*

Almost an immediate response, which should have eased the ache she felt in her chest.

               Hank <3 — 2:46AM

               ya

               Hank <3 — 2:47AM

               you ok ?

She stared at that message for a while, debating whether or not to be honest. Natalie knew what he’d say, knew what kindness he’d provide. On top of that, Natalie didn’t particularly enjoy lying to Henry. She knew he’d respect her decision not to talk about it if she just told him that. But she didn’t want to be crazy. She couldn’t be crazy. 

               Hank <3 — 2:50AM

               nat ?

               Me — 2:51AM

               sorry, was just thinking. I don’t really

               know how to explain

               Me — 2:51AM

               and I don’t feel very good

This was true. In the past couple minutes, her anxiety pooled so much she felt it in her stomach. This was a part of the new additions to her mental health symptoms that she did not care for. She wasn’t chronically anxious anymore — to her great surprise — which meant she started actually feeling it now; it was incredibly fucking stupid. But it’s the side effect of being happier, Natalie supposed.

She would ruin that if she told him. If she told anyone.

               Hank <3 — 2:51AM

               im sorry, luv

               Hank <3 — 2:52AM

               is there anything i can do for u ?

               Me — 2:54AM

               I don’t know, I don’t think I should be

               alone right now.

She didn’t want to be alone right now, but this was as close as she could be to admitting that.

               Hank <3 — 2:54AM

               we culd ft ? as we fall asleep ?

               Hank <3 — 2:54AM

               or as i fall asleep and u do hw LOL

Despite herself, Natalie softly smiled. She still did have a lot of homework to finish. And she needed to study for her upcoming chemistry test.

               Me — 2:54AM

               okay

               Me — 2:54AM

               sounds like a plan

               Hank <3 — 2:55AM

               ok ! i can in like a cuple minutes. that alr ?

               Me — 2:55AM

               yeah. thank you, henry

               Me — 2:56AM

               I love you

               Hank <3 — 2:56AM

               i love you too <3

               Hank <3 — 2:56AM

               and its not a problem at all, ml

True to his word, Henry called her after she waited for a little bit, and when she answered, his face was way too close to the camera to be anything but intentional. He stuck his tongue out at her, and Natalie rolled her eyes with so much love, affection, joy, it made her feel sick; though this time, in a better way than before.

“Hey,” she murmured, her voice breathless.

“Hey,” he replied, in a much chipper tone than anyone should have when half asleep. “What are you working on?”

Natalie looked over her work with a sigh, all other worries momentarily forgotten for the sake of worrying about this. She talked to him about her math problems, rambling about antiderivatives. It was a simpler concept, and although she learned the basics in her last calculus course, AP classes were no joke. 

Henry hummed along as if he understood, but he most likely didn’t get a lick of it. He was more into the humanities courses, and in fact had opted out of taking math in his senior year. But she appreciated him letting her talk; it was a good distraction, and Henry most likely knew this. 

After a while, when she looked up from her work, she saw Henry tiredly smiling at her — he was always smiling — despite being on the cusp of sleep.

“I can’t believe you’re still awake,” Natalie teased, a small smile of her own actually reaching her face.

“Me neither,” he said, yawning. “Do you want to talk about what upset you?”

And just as quickly as it came, her smile faded as she was reminded of what she had seen; what her father had not seen.

Shaking her head vigorously, she put her pencil down.

“No. Not — no,” she replied, almost apologetically. “I think my dad was right about getting some sleep. I’ve been a little too wired the past few days to go to bed early.”

“I noticed you’ve been falling asleep in floral,” Henry said, his eyebrows furrowing. He seemed to be in thought, but shook his own head slightly to get rid of it. His ever present smile waned. “Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do for you?”

“If I can think of something, you’ll most definitely be the first to know,” Natalie said, and she was bewildered at how genuine — how soft — her voice sounded. Love makes people do weird things.

“Are you — I know you don’t like me asking this — ”

“Yes, I’m clean.” She tried not to snap, but she didn’t think she was totally successful. “Sorry. I just — yes, Henry. I’m clean.”

“I’m sorry too. And I’m also sorry if I’m pushing.”

“You aren’t,” Natalie insisted. “Again, I probably just need some sleep.”

“Want to stay on call? We could both go to sleep now.”

His offer was tempting, but she still had a page of problems left.

“Your homework will be there in the morning,” he added, reassuring. “Plus we have history before you have Calc, right? If you don’t finish before school you can finish it then.”

Natalie shrugged, then thought of that delusion she had seen and decided to cave.

“Okay,” she affirmed.

As she laid in bed, she couldn’t stop thinking about who she saw — what she saw. Maybe she’d never see it again. It was a one off experience; it didn’t have to matter. She didn’t want it to matter.

Things had been fine. They’d been fine for months.

He’s succeeded his task, and the wind was faintly blowing in his ear, almost sounding like laughter.

He’s succeeded his task, and the sun was just peeking over the mountains. He didn’t even realize he’d gone the whole night without a blink. 

He’s succeeded his task, and the cold air was gnawing against his skin. He could hardly care anymore. 

Win Secret Life. Win Secret Life. Win Secret Life.

He was drowning now, and felt the familiar sense of life being drained from him before arriving back at the Secret Keeper. He stared at it coldly (everything was cold.)

A skeleton was somewhere in the distance. It was shooting at him, but Scar couldn’t be bothered to care. The arrows buried themselves into his skin, but as he bled and whatever remaining life source once again drained out of him, Scar didn’t recognize the pain as much as he should have. All he really felt was numbness, a fucked up sense of relief. He closed his eyes, exhaling softly, wishing, hoping, praying for release.

If he died now, he would be gone. He would be free. 

Of course the Gods above cared too much about their entertainment to let him go. So when he opened his eyes, the arrows were gone. The only mark left that showed they were ever there were the scars. More to add to the collection, he supposed, bitterly staring up at the Secret Keeper statue. 

Scar wanted to scream at it, to get TNT and blow the stupid thing to dust and rubble. 

He pressed the button once more, wildly, angrily, and cursing so much that a sailor would cringe away. 

Win Secret Life, it said. As always. He did win. As always. 

Pressing the button over and over again wouldn’t do anything, but he did anyway, something in him snapping. Only getting more desperate and upset with each hit as it gave him more and more books. He didn’t care that his hand was getting splintered, that a nasty bruise was starting to form, that he felt it breaking. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care about anything anymore, he couldn’t focus on caring. Scar just wanted to go home. 

He didn’t even realize when he started rapidly hitting the stone instead, putting so much weight and force into his attacks that the button had broken. When he paused long enough to realize, he swore he couldn’t feel himself breathing anymore. The books were splattered around, his hand was bloodied, and his legs crumbled from underneath him. 

Scar prided himself on being resilient, only crying once or twice after a Life Game. But seeing his own blood on a half beaten rock where the button should have been, feeling the cold air biting at his skin, the awareness that he was irrefutably alone, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to do anything in order to go home, shattered any resolve he so wished to keep. 

His hands didn’t seem like his as he laid them, shakily, gently, carefully, on pedestal once more. His whole body shook, wracked with impending doom. He was sobbing, he realized, though the tears never seemed real. None of this seemed real. He couldn’t breathe through it, and some sick part of him hoped that it would continue, that his body would finally collapse and allow him to be detached from this world. 

But maybe he deserved this. 

Maybe with how many people he killed, how many people he made suffer, this was his punishment. A permanent loop, a permanent limbo, forever cursed to be alone. 

Maybe that was the reason for his time here; showing that his destiny, his purpose, his fate, was to be on his own. Where he grew up, it wasn’t exactly an option to talk with other people, and perhaps he got too comfortable in Hermitcraft. Last Life should have been his reminder, his push in the right direction, but he wanted the interaction. The comfort of being near someone was too tempting to turn down. Yet the bite of cold he felt constantly growing up in the apocalypse, it was the same he felt on that horrible mountain in Last Life. It was the same he felt now. He couldn’t escape it, no matter how many blankets or campfires he had, just like how he wouldn’t ever be able to be relieved of the crippling isolation that threatened to overflow and drown him. 

He didn’t know when time started to blur even more, he didn’t know when he started to feel so numb that it felt like he couldn’t move his legs. He couldn’t care for it. He wasn’t sure if he was capable of doing just that. The sun was blaring, it might have stung to look at, yet he just kept staring upward, blankly. There wasn’t much else he could do, anyways. He broke the button. He probably broke his hand too, but he was floating too much to really register it.

He didn’t notice when his legs became anchored to the ground. The hope that the possibility of his opponents (they were friends, they were friends, they were friends) cared enough to come back, to check in on him, was of course foolish. They wouldn’t. It should have bothered him more, and maybe some part of him was uneasy. But a bigger part of him was tired. 

Now, his legs didn’t just feel heavy, they felt like stone. 

And that’s when he noticed he couldn’t sit up. That everything was so much colder. That he was so much more aware of the world. He could make out every grass blade being eaten by grazing animals, the fish wading through the waters, and he didn't even flinch at the desperate snarling of the Undead– the zombies. They were hungry, ravenous, and all he could really do was shift his energy away from it. 

He still felt like he was being stared at, yet he couldn’t detect the stare of the Secret Keeper anymore. It bothered him in the back of his mind. In the dark corners, it felt more than simply wrong. His eyes felt sluggish, but somehow he knew he wouldn’t be able to close them. Now he had to watch, to feel more than the ground below him, the suffocating air around him. It was dark. It was bright. It was hot, but so so so cold. 

All he could do was stare into the sky, watching the sun reach into his peripherals and watch it fade away into a cold night, stars tracing each speck of his vision. It should have been the only thing he saw. He didn’t know how he saw everything. But the statue wasn’t there anymore, it wasn’t watching along beside him. 

He tried to regard it as a good thing. That he didn’t have to feel that prying stare bear into him. But all he could think was that he was now those intrusive, intense, invading eyes. It wasn’t that it was gone, it was that he took its place. He didn’t know if shattering that stupid button was the cause, but he didn’t even mean to break it. He had just wanted to go home.

He can’t even think of how he’d do that now. He barely remembers the faces of his opponents. No, no, they were his friends. Yes, his friends. He couldn’t remember the faces of his friends. They were all muddled and blurry, just like the memories of their time together, hardly resurfacing when he tried to remember. He remembers a boat pole? Bluebells— no, that wasn’t right. He couldn’t frame it correctly, but akin to. A flower of sorts, poisonous to something. He remembers vague things about vexes, though they were just a– a mob with no real significance. He can’t quite... God, why can’t he remember. They were his friends, he said it himself, they were kind and funny and. He wished he could remember more about them other than their bloodshed, than their violence. There were pieces he was missing.

(He misses them. He needs them. He doesn’t know why he’s here, why he’s had to isolate and disconnect from everyone he knew for the sake of Watching. But it isn’t his job to question it, if he could even do such a thing. At least not anymore.)

Time passed on, he knows it’s passed on. There’s little, in this world at least, he doesn’t know at this point. But as far as the people who are gone, the people he killed, he doesn’t know where they are now. How long it’s been for them. He knows there’s not much he can do about it. There’s not much they can do to save him. He thought, he hoped, the numbness was back.

He didn’t know how much he even felt anymore, he wasn’t sure he was capable of feeling. So why, why, is there so much dread in the pits of his stomach. Why is there nausea building in his body, his head throbbing with a migraine. Why did his fear come back all at once, his disquiet of being so utterly alone solitary abandoned abandoned abandoned being seemingly worse than before. It’s not like it ever left, but if it did, it came back stronger than it ever was prior. He didn’t mind being numb, really. He half-heartedly wished for it back. He vaguely realized in his mind he won’t be going home anymore. And this wasn’t at all what he wanted. To be trapped in a never ending loop of pain and pressing buttons was hardly on anyone’s bucket list. He didn't even know what he wanted now, other than to simply rest. 

Though now he figured this was why he was here. Why wouldn’t they want someone already contiguous to not one soul— someone so bloodthirsty— in their grasp. Playing their sick games until he could only regurgitate futile means of escaping. Watching for them. Commanding for them. Succeeding for them. Maybe he should have felt horrified at the prospect, and maybe he did, but if it wasn’t at the forefront, he could hardly be expected to feel anything other than that flooding sense of numbness. Maybe he didn’t want to be here. Maybe he did. It didn’t matter now. He had a job to do. 

He succeeded his task, and it was then he noticed the button on the stone pedestal was back. It was nicer than the old one. Engraved in markings he recognized. It was the traditional Elven designs that coiled around harsh stone, though he could already feel the connection to his identity fading away.

He succeeded his task, and yet when he tried to reach out for it, he couldn’t move his hand anymore.

He succeeded his task, and now he’d be making sure when others came along, they’d succeed too. 

He could vaguely remember that he was Scar, but even that was fading from his mind. Now he was the keeper, the beholder, the Successor of the thing that was here before.

.

. 

. 

.

.

They had no idea how long they were trapped in there. They tried to glance around, and though they could technically see, they couldn’t See, not how they were used to. They didn’t wish for it back. Or perhaps they did. But the harsh transition made it difficult to look around at all.

They knew they were not envious of their replacement— though it was still hard to grasp that they could feel, really feel again. The sensations latched onto them like they'd always been there; like it was coming home— but they couldn’t remember anything to match it, or anything at all. It had been too overwhelming to have so many of them, to notice and detect sensations other than stone and that icy cold that swallowed them whole.

 It had been far too long to even remember their name. They were trying awfully hard as well, to remember the identity they had left behind. Before all the buttons, before all the colored names and hopeless faces showed, before all the cravings of violence just to get a sick taste of what being angry meant. They had a life, surely. 

They looked down at their new body. This one couldn’t have been their old one– Staring into the reflection they remembered the face of their Successor, eyes still red and running rampant on Red Life urges. They weren’t in that world, and yet. They wondered if the bloodshed would ever stop.

 It was rather warm here, they noticed, but for some reason they could still sense that bite of cold they felt as the Keeper. 

They didn’t quite know where they were, but they could hear someone approaching. They almost expected a button to be pressed, for them to make a request. Of course that didn’t happen here, and instead a voice called out. 

Excited, concerned, afraid, afraid, afraid—

“Scar, oh my god.” The person, upon seeing them, ran over much faster than they had expected. And to their own surprise, they recognized their– her– voice. She was hard to forget, really, because admittedly, she was one of their favorites. The Newbie, the first to truly find the End in their domain. (Their old domain. It wasn’t theirs anymore.) One with such promise, such potential. Of course now they’re rather glad she didn’t win. “Scar, where have you been?”

They forgot they were in place of the Successor, they forgot that was even his name. They tried to open their mouth to respond, but it turns out after spending what felt like centuries with their mouth made of literal stone, it was a bit harder to get words out. They were sure it’d be raspy anyway, from the misuse.

They remembered her name now, and vague recollections of Scar’s memories came back from when they Saw him. Her name was Gem. 

Gem frowned at his silence, and Scar– not Scar, they’re not Scar– tensed, worried that they’d already be found out within five seconds. 

“I won’t– I won’t push you into talking, Scar,” she said, to their surprise. She surveyed them with such concern that it made them discern… something. Guilt? Embarrassment? She continued, spurred on by them remaining silent. “It’s just– you’ve been gone for almost, uh, two months now. I think.”

They didn’t have to pretend to shudder at the time frame. 

It had been way longer than just two months.

Honestly, they really did try getting their mouth open to speak, to demand, but all they could manage were raspy grunts. Gem winced, yet kept her relatively calm demeanor. 

“It’s okay, I don’t want to force you.” She reaches over slowly, maybe so that if they wanted to back away, they would. They didn’t. It could have been because moving was so unknown, unfamiliar. Or because they regarded Gem as more than just trustworthy; as safe.

The touch burned before it felt like a regular mortal being was actually holding them. She gently encouraged them to move forward, for them to follow her, a smile now plastered on her face. 

 “Come on, Scar, let’s get you home, yea?” 

Home. 

In their last moments before the Successor took over, they remembered his last thoughts were wistfully praying that he’d be let go. Back to wherever here was, where they could pretend his past was long gone and have fun and play— not dangerous— games. Where they could have just a little company. 

The memory made them feel like something was twisting in their gut, their throat closing up with such a tightness it felt like they were forgetting how to breathe. They didn’t remember what that feeling was. But they needed to get rid of it, and Gem’s words were so warm, such a drastic change from the icy wind clawing at each part of them, threatening to freeze them over. 

Gem’s offer didn’t seem to hold the same malice, but when they tried to see into it, see her intentions, they were swiftly reminded their abilities were no longer with them. The similar sensation in their gut came back, and it screamed and yelled at them to run, to get far away. Logically, though, if they were to run, Gem would most likely catch them a lot easier than they’d like to admit. They were not used to having legs that— more or less— work. And if she wanted to kill them she would have already done so. 

So they nod, following her carefully after she takes her hand off their shoulder. She let go, and it still felt like it was there, still felt like it was burning, still felt like it was there to keep it burning. Gem’s touch wasn’t bad, at least they didn’t think so. They hadn’t had any contact with anyone or anything for so long, and perhaps that was why it felt so sudden. So much. They tried to trail behind her as best they could, only becoming more overwhelmed with each step. 

They’re not familiar with so much of this, so many textures, so many potential people around, so many so many so many—

It wasn’t her fault, really. 

She just kept leading on, adding little comments here and there. It was hard to keep paying attention to her when she wasn’t the only one making noise. Grass crunched from underneath them, water was crashing a little while away, Gem’s armor was rattling against itself with every step, there were probably people in the distance, not bothering to keep their voices down. 

Their vision got blurry after a while, their legs felt like mush. They didn’t think it had been that long, though that didn’t make them feel better. They could barely make out Gem’s face, her antlers being the only thing that they could really see. 

Everything was spinning around them, going too fast. Or it could have been that they were going too slow. It hurt to keep their eyes open, but the worry that if they closed them now, the worry it’ll be like before made them try so very hard to not blink.

And despite their best efforts, they felt the impact of hitting the ground before anything else.

And despite themself, they knew their eyes were rolling back into their head. 

At least it wasn’t everything all at once, but now it was— once again— nothing. 

.

.

.

.

They woke up, not expecting to be able to feel the softness of whatever they were laying on. They were laying down as well, a position they hadn’t been able to be in before. Though they half expected to be frozen like that, it was certainly a lot more comfortable now than it used to be. They didn’t try to move, at least not for a while, unsure they even could. 

They were talking about them. Not them. Well, maybe it was them technically, but it was still about Scar. The Scar they knew.

“—Just overwhelmed, maybe,” a voice— they could recognize once more as Gem— said, most likely contributing to a conversation that had already started. “I don’t know. He’s been gone for months.”

“Oh, trust me, I’m aware, Gem.” 

Grian. That voice belonged to Grian. They didn’t have the same excitement towards the man as maybe some of the Others did. They didn’t want to like Grian, and as much as They tried to make them favor him, they had leaned towards Gem. 

They thought she’d be smart enough to figure it out. Clearly, they had thought wrong.

They still weren’t moving, afraid to even try, and instead waded through the waters of their mind, through every crevice of newfound sensations, newfound thoughts. It still felt they weren’t their own, as if they were still rifling through someone else’s head. 

They couldn’t tell if they still felt like it was burning, and they were once again worried they were back there again because even with however many sensations their body may have been experiencing, it still felt so far away. 

They realized they were shaking. 

Which was good, they thought. Good that they could move, at least. They couldn’t think much of anything else when trying to refocus on Gem and Grian, whose voices had become slightly raised. 

“That’s not what I meant,” she huffed, inhaling sharply. “I am glad he’s back, I was just— concerned.”

“We all had this after the first Death Game, Gem. Scar shouldn’t feel more violent than, you know, he usually is.”

“But his eyes— even if they weren’t red— they were so empty.”

“Winning a game can be a lot. And Scar was by himself that whole time, even before his, uh, extended hiatus. I think we both know that Scar being alone isn't his favorite thing in the world.” 

“You— Okay, I can see that. I mean I think the Death Games can be a lot for anyone, just on its own. But sure.” She let out a long sigh, as if she hadn’t taken a breath throughout that entire conversation. “I care about him too, Grian. It’s not just you.”

They were both silent for a moment, and for a small second, they thought they had walked away. That was until Grian spoke.

“I know.” His voice was so soft, almost a whisper. “I know. I just— Let’s just make sure to make something fun for when he wakes up. Or at least a cup of water.”

Gem lets out a hum of agreement, and they can’t help but feel that pain in their chest. One that seems bad at first, yet seems to feel more comforting. Even as they hear the door being opened and closed, it remains.

It’s a feeling that, although they barely remembered anything, they know they craved and strived to have it. The feeling of being cared for, of knowing that you’re cared for. 

It was ridiculous, especially as they weren’t even Scar. It was only a matter of time before they found out, before they kicked them right back out for very justifiable reasons. And yet it was hard to deny the temptation of staying, just to feel wanted for even a little while. To have a connection with a real person, a real being. They know it won’t last, as things usually do, but they didn’t see why they couldn't savor this. 

It’s not theirs to savor, they know this. But there’s no one else to provide that connection to them anymore. Even if there was, they don’t remember. It’s frustrating how much they don’t remember, how much they remember about Scar more than they remember about themself. 

They knew they should say something, but the thought of being cast aside was enough to replace the feeling in their chest with a much heavier weight. 

They knew they weren’t Scar, but for now, they could pretend. 

The sun was just rising from the horizon, but Mumbo was awake. It wasn’t the first time– it wouldn’t be the last either– yet he could feel his eyes ever drooping. Despite that, he remained awake, not particularly doing anything but observing, noticing, discerning. Scar was asleep, of course, next to him, and it was times like these that Mumbo was reminded just how beautiful Scar was. His long brown hair, slightly tangled but still woven around his head so delicately that Mumbo could trail his fingers through his husband’s– husband, husband, husband, oh gods his husband’s– hair. The sun’s light was not quite reaching his face, but Scar had still radiated warmth. Even the things that weren’t typically seen as “perfect,” or what wasn’t societally deemed charming, Mumbo paid attention to each detail as if it was the last thing he’d ever pay attention to. Mumbo could only hope that he gave as much warmth to Scar as he did him.

What if Mumbo didn’t? What if he wasn’t enough?

A short yawn and a couple blinks broke Mumbo from his trance, and Scar slightly jolted, giggling softly to himself.

“Well, hello there,” he said groggily. “It’s so early, why’re you awake already?”

Mumbo’s soft smile grew ever more sheepish as he tried to think of a legitimate reason other than ‘I thought my husband was pretty.’ or, ‘I thought you were pretty.’

“Oh, uh– I dunno– Uh– I was– I was looking at– Looking for uhm–”

Scar was waiting patiently, although his eyes were still half lidded, and his blinks were getting longer each time he started to close his eyes.

“Oh geez. I’ve bored you already.” Mumbo brang a hand up to his forehead, probably attempting to hide his face, but Scar grabbed it before he fell down a self-hatred spiral.

“No, my love, you’re not boring me,” he started. “It’s just that it’s five– six o’clock in the morning, and I was too busy staring at you last night to actually go to sleep.”

Mumbo could only get out one word of surprise.

“Oh.”

But his thoughts clouded and interrupted each other in a fit of… excitement? Being Flustered? Either way, all he could think of was oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, he was looking at me, he was looking at me, he was looking at me, I want to hold him and never let him go. Mumbo cleared his throat.

“O-Oh,” he repeated, simply. His ears had turned bright pink.

“Oh,” Scar also said, another giggle escaping his lips. Scar kissed his forehead, and Mumbo’s ears turned even redder as he went back to sleep.

Mumbo flipped out his communicator, quite almost immediately, in a frightful mess.

< Mumbo Jumbo > Whispers to Grian… Oh my gosh, dude. What do I even do, oh my gosh.

< Grian > Whispers to you... well. you could always use tnt?

< Grian > Whispers to you... give them a little scare. touch their redstone. start wars.

He rolled his eyes, chuckling softly to himself. Mumbo supposed he should have given context, because of course Grian would suggest something like that if he didn’t know what was going on. To be honest, Grian probably would suggest something like that even if he did know what was going on.

< Mumbo Jumbo > Whispers to Grian… Sorry. I’m talking about Scar.

< Mumbo Jumbo > Whispers to Grian… He’s just so sweet, Grian.

< Grian > Whispers to you... oh

< Grian > Whispers to you... im guessing youre not going to use the tnt then?

< Mumbo Jumbo > Whispers to Grian…Definitely not.

< Grian > Whispers to you... boring

Mumbo rolled his eyes, and thinking that was the end of it, he closed his communicator. Until it buzzed again.

Grian blew up.

< Grian > Whispers to you... see? im not boring like you gay people

He cackled before putting it away– really, this time– and traveled quickly to see if Grian needed any help getting his stuff back.

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The day had started out well enough, but that high of being near his husband and having fun with Grian was slowly fading. Mumbo needed to finish this stupid project. It was so close to being finished, all he had to do was set all of the redstone to be in its place, but Mumbo’s head started hurting after a few hours. He couldn’t really understand why. Sure, he was sleep deprived, but it shouldn’t have been as terrible as he felt at this current moment. He felt a buzz from his communicator, and while he really did want to check it, he decided against it in an attempt to stop the repeated pulsing that was going on in his head. He needed to focus on trying to get this redstone pulse to start going, anyways.

The comm buzzed again, and he forced himself to place it where he couldn’t see it; he couldn’t finish this project if his migraine got worse, and he didn’t want to think about how bad it would get if he stared at his electronic device for too long.

It faintly buzzed for a third time while Mumbo put it in his bag, and he bit his lip, wondering if it was important. He faintly wondered if he didn’t answer now, would he get in trouble? Would people be mad at him?

What if whoever was messaging him was in trouble, and all he was doing was setting up pointless redstone contraptions. What if whoever was messaging him was dying, was asking him for help, and he wasn’t looking because if Mumbo so much as blinked too hard, his head would scream at him.

This was stupid. He was stupid. He should just check the goddamn thing.

And– No. It would be fine, Mumbo thought. It wouldn’t be that big of a deal. People don’t answer messages all the time, and so far nothing tragic has happened. Mumbo compelled himself to keep going, to avoid checking whatever messages he had gotten, and to just take a deep breath. It would be fine. He would be fine.

Still, still, that nagging voice that had stuck into his brain kept asking him the same thing; what if he wasn’t good enough?

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Mumbo, per usual, wasn’t sure if he knew what was going on. His migraine had alleviated over the next few hours, albeit slightly, but coming back home had made it spike right back up again. Scar was sitting at the table, spinning the small spoon in his tea. Scar looked at the cup so intently, it was like he was trying to memorize each individual tea leaf. Normally, Mumbo would come home before Scar. Normally, Mumbo would notice the slight tremble in his partner’s hands, the slight quiver in his voice as he said his greetings, the nervous and terrified look his eyes seemed to possess.

Normally, when Scar would ask Mumbo about his day, he’d go on about all the different changes in the flowers scattered across his and Grian’s base, about the changes he made in his vault, the work he’d done, the redstone that gave Scar a headache when Mumbo would try to explain. But now–

“It was good,” was the short and simple reply to Scar’s question. Scar seemed to deflate in response to his words, and normally– normally– Mumbo would notice. But his head felt like it was splitting into pieces, and he couldn’t act the way he ordinarily would. On any other day, he would have wanted to ask what was wrong, what he could do, but right now? All Mumbo wanted to do was sleep.

“Have– Have I done something wrong?” It was so quiet Mumbo almost missed it. Almost.

“What?” Mumbo finally, finally truly opened his eyes to see Scar nervously fidgeting with the different sets of earrings. “Not– Not at all, dear. Have I done something to make you feel like you’ve done something wrong?”

Scar shrunk a bit more into himself. Ah. So that’s a yes. Guilt poured through his chest, and despite not knowing what he did, Scar was upset. He was the one who made Scar upset. He wanted to cry, he wanted to berate himself and never show his face ever again. Mumbo’s head was screaming, shouting at him– not enough, not enough, not enough, not enough– before he shut that down. This was about Scar. He could resolve his own guilt later.

“What’s going on, love?” Mumbo’s voice was soft– partly because saying things too loudly made his headache worse, mostly because he didn’t want Scar to feel more upset than he already was.

Scar bit his lip, as if he was hesitant to share. At that, Mumbo continued, trying to ignore the blaring spikes in his head.

“I want to help soothe whatever is making you feel–” Like you’re not enough. “–whatever it is you’re feeling right now. But– But I can’t stop doing something that makes you feel bad if– if you don’t tell me. I’m a genius, but erm– I haven’t figured out how to read minds yet. Unfortunately, erm– Unfortunately Minecraft Redstone For Dummies doesn’t exactly cover it.”

Scar gave a half smile, and that should have been enough to make Mumbo’s headache go away, if that was at all how headaches worked. But– he frowned again, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

“I don’t want to make a big deal–”

“Sorry to interrupt, my love, you know I really enjoy hearing what you have to say– But this is a big deal,” he said, and rushed to his next words upon seeing Scar’s expression. “And that’s alright! Things are– Things are allowed to be a big deal.”

A few seconds passed, then a minute. And though Mumbo’s migraine was getting ever so worse, he stayed, patiently waiting for Scar to share however little or however much he wanted to.

“We– Gods, this is going to sound so stupid, but I got really– I got really nervous when I woke up by myself this morning, because I– I didn’t know where you went.” Scar wasn’t looking at Mumbo in the eye, yet Mumbo hoped Scar knew that he wasn’t angry at him as he was talking.

“I’m not– I don’t really know why it bothered me so much, but then I messaged you after I had a scary time in the nether, but I didn’t get a response, and then– I guess– I guess I’m just used to hearing a lot about your day. I love hearing about your day, because you just– you have this contagious excitement whenever you’re talking about random redstone mumbo jumbo that I have absolutely zero clue on what you’re talking about. Redstone mumbo jumbo–” he repeated the words. “–it makes you so happy, and you, Mumbo Jumbo. You make me happy. But today– it might be an off day, or something, because I just– I was worried that I wasn’t making you feel happy anymore.”

Near the end, Scar became more quiet, slumping even more, and looked down at his hands self consciously. In return, Mumbo gently cupped Scar’s face with his own hand, tracing his cheek lightly tracing one of Scar’s horns with the other.

“Scar, I don’t think you understand how happy I am when I’m with you, Just– just thinking about you makes my chest beat a little bit faster.” Mumbo gently grabbed his husband’s hand, putting it lightly against his own chest. “Honestly, I don’t even know if you can feel it. I don’t know how that works, but I– I hope you get the sentiment.”

Scar’s face crinkled in small amusement, and Mumbo continued.

“I– I’ve had a horrid migraine this whole day,” he admitted. “I’m sorry I didn’t communicate that.”

Scar’s eyes widened, and he broke Mumbo’s hold by placing his head in his hands.

“O-Oh gods, that– Makes a whole lot more sense.”

“No need to be upset with yourself, love–”

“I’m not– I mean, I slightly am, but only because I didn’t notice.”

“Scar, it’s not a physical thing, I don’t expect you to notice a physical thing,” Mumbo said lightly.

“It’s not a physical thing, but you do physical things when you’re in pain,” Scar murmured. “You furrow your eyebrows sometimes. You– you do this thing where you pinch your nose with your fingers. Your voice gets really strained when you try and talk, and–”

Mumbo’s ears were turning pink in embarrassment.

“I– I didn’t realize how you– how much I– Am I that predictable?”

“Mumbo, I don't think you understand how much I love you.” Scar softly smiled, lightly bonking his forehead against Mumbo’s. Ow. “You’re not predictable– Well, maybe you are a little bit– but that’s only because we’ve been together for so long.”

Mumbo’s ears turned a darker shade of red.

“O-Oh,” he fumbled over his words. “G-Gosh darn it, Scar, I was trying to help you, and now you’ve– Oh gosh–”

Scar stifled giggles before responding.

“You have helped me. You’ve helped me more than you know.”

“...Really?” Just like Scar previously, Mumbo was hesitant to believe it. He didn’t think he was particularly helpful. He didn’t think he was particularly good enough. Scar pulled away from the hold to kiss him lightly on the forehead, as if that would cure his blazing headache.

“I mean– all of my silly little insecurities won’t go away in an instant, but I– you being around me at all just makes me feel a bit better. You don’t even have to do anything, if I know you aren’t tired of me or something.”

“I could never be tired of you,” Mumbo hastily said, and Scar softly smiled.

“And I could never be tired of you, sunshine. You– You make me happy, is what I’m trying to say. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who’s made me as happy as you have.”

Oh. Oh. That. Oh.

Mumbo didn’t know how to respond, and apparently Scar knew that, because he stood up, walking with his cane over to the kitchen. He came back after a few seconds, holding a couple of Advil pills and a glass of water.

Mumbo was amazed, to say the least.

“Can you– Can you mindread?”

Scar giggled.

“No, sunshine. I’ve been married to you for two years,” he said fondly. “Now go to sleep.”

Mumbo wanted to stay up later, but the pain in his head made it pretty difficult to argue, plus, Scar was warm, and he didn’t want to leave that alone.

Sometimes Scar’s heart was so warm it burned himself, and Mumbo knew this.

He was really hoping Scar wasn’t deflecting his own issues to comfort Mumbo’s, but once he remembered the words his husband had spoken he couldn’t stop thinking about them.

“You have helped me. You’ve helped me more than you know.”

And maybe– just maybe– Mumbo’s worries about not being good enough lessened.

And as Mumbo snuggled in closer towards Scar, maybe his worries about being unloved had lessened, too.

Like Scar had said earlier, it wouldn’t be rid of right off the bat, but maybe– maybe they didn’t have to get rid of their “What if”’s– at least, not completely.

Because, as much as Scar wonders, “What if he doesn’t love me?” he should counter with, “But what if he does?”

Maybe that would be good enough for now.