#limited life fic

[scribbling-dragon]

the world’s my oyster (i’m the pearl)

summary:

Um,” he stares at Scott for a moment longer. “Can I, uh, can I come in? Or,” he allows himself to trail off, still watching Scott. The crown certainly suits him, at least, even though the pinkish-orange colour of the coral is not something he’d ever have considered to go well with cyan.

The door swings open in front of him, and he almost startles at the abruptness of it, jerking his hand back and down to his side. “So,” Scott’s grinning, that grin that makes his teeth look far sharper than they actually are, “you've come crawling back, have you?”

“It’s,” he laughs, inching forward, “It’s not crawling back, it’s…sheepishly wandering in.” He smiles a little as he continues to inch his way forward, sliding past Scott and through the rather narrow ‘doorway’ when Scott doesn't move to stop him from entering.

-

Or, a 5 + 1 where Scott is acting suspicious, and Martyn is trying to figure out why

(ao3 link)

(11,149 words)

yeah the title’s a h2o reference. it’s comedy gold, alright (and mer scott. it just fits yk)

I.

The small, rather rickety path out into the water is what first grabs at his attention, snagging it and holding it as he steps a little closer. He crouches, trying not to come off as too suspicious, even though he is acting incredibly, incredibly suspicious right now, and anyone that might see him would be well-founded in whatever boogeyman-related accusation they throw his way.

The curse itches beneath his skin, far more intense than it had been in the previous games. It ticks alongside his slowly counting timer. The itching only grows more fierce the longer he sits around twiddling his thumbs, but he sits, squatted in the bushes and sheltered by the trees overhead, and watches as Scott moves around the small island he’s constructing.

As Martyn watches, he notices the way that Scott moves around the island is actually rather odd, especially as he occasionally jumps away from the edge, as though he’s been burned- which is impossible, because it’s water.

Despite his apparent hatred for the water, Scott continues to build where he is, sticking firmly to the centre of the small island that is beginning to take shape around him. The only part that remains unchanged is the small shelter right beside the bridge, though Scott does glance over at it occasionally.

More than once, Martyn swears Scott looks directly at him as well, eyes pausing for a moment over his hiding spot before he returns to whatever he was doing before. It makes the curse thrum a little louder, a little heavier, beneath his skin in anticipation. He squashes it down a little further, before creeping out from behind the bush he’d chosen to hide behind for the past…however long.

His timer tells him he’s only spent five minutes crouched there, but the moon had been high in the sky when he first started watching Scott, casting most of his surroundings into shadow - only the island had been lit up, a small beacon on light in the darkness swamping everything else - but now that same moon is incredibly close to setting, and the horizon is beginning to tinge pink with the sunrise.

He doesn't believe these timers one bit, not at all. There’s something wrong with them, but either everyone’s too caught up in the newness of this game to notice, or they have noticed and simply don't care enough to question it. Martyn didn't believe in the twenty-four hours, anyway, not when Grian announced it in such an odd way. And those watching on would hardly be satisfied with a day of entertainment.

The dirt bridge crumbles a little beneath his feet, and he pauses, holding his breath as he waits to see if it will take his weight- if it will betray his entrance onto the island. Scott’s back remains turned to him, and he watches as the man sifts through one of the chests he just set up.

He gives no reaction to Martyn’s approach, so he continues onwards, making an effort to place his feet a little lighter as he approaches, wary of alerting Scott. Martyn is well aware of Scott’s reputation in these games, of his seemingly inhuman hearing that catches even the smallest of sounds- Joel had told him once, in one of the afterparties they host once the games come to a close, that Scott had found him and Grian during last life because he breathed too loud. The man’s ears are entirely normal, too, not at all pointed or giving any indication that they're anything but human ears with normal, human-like hearing.

He realises, as Scott begins to turn, that he’s just been stood on the man’s bridge and staring at him like a creep. He scrambles for something to do, eyes landing on the odd shelter once more, spying the boat lodged into the side of the island and containing one zombified villager. Perfect.

He lunges for the boat, throwing himself into it and beginning to slowly push off the edge of the island, ignoring the thumping in his heart- the roaring in his ears that demands he kills Scott then and there, that he had had his back turned for several long minutes, in which he could have neatly lodged an axe in the man’s back and be rid of the curse.

“Uh,” he glances back, one hand still resting against the edge of the island, still in the process of getting the boat unlodged, Scott’s turned to face him, eyes wide with…shock? It doesn't look like shock, more like surprise. Martyn almost begins laughing. “No thank you.” Scott says, and the man is beside him a moment later, moving almost scarily quick, but he doesn't have much time to focus on that, instead focusing on not overbalancing and dragging them both into the water and Scott yanks him from the boat.

He stumbles a little as his feet make contact with ground, foot catching on nothing, and he grabs onto Scott’s shoulders to steady himself, gripping tightly to Scott’s shirt. And he almost succeeds in pulling both of them backwards into the water as he tips back, already laughing.

The water rushes up around him, and he inhales some as he laughs, popping back to the surface, coughing. His hair obscures most of his vision, dripping in front of his eyes even as he pushes it back out of the way; it only falls forward again, obscuring his vision once more and sticking to his face.

He continues laughing as soon as he’s certain he’s not going to inhale any more water and choke to death. He makes a grab for one of his sandals as it begins to float past, and it only makes him laugh a little harder at the sheer absurdity of it, having to grip onto the edge of the small island to make sure he doesn't go under again.

“Aw, man.” He manages to calm down momentarily, huffing out a breath, breathing out slowly as it threatens to turn into a laugh again. “You sounded so offended, man.” He grins up at Scott, pushing his hair back from his face again- seriously, what’s even the point of wearing a headband if it doesn't keep his hair out of his eyes.

“You tried to steal my villager,” Scott frowns down at him, but Martyn can see the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile, almost a laugh. “I think I have some right to be offended.” Scott tips his chin upwards, looking down at him almost haughtily- something that Martyn would only believe if he had known Scott for less than five minutes. The guy has some odd flair for the dramatics. It’s a shame that he and Ren never teamed, they would certainly have been interesting to watch.

“I guess so, thought you didn't hear me, though.”

“I heard you.” Scott says, looking down at him. The skin around his eyes catches the light slightly, flashing bright, but when Martyn takes a closer look, it’s just some rather bright eyeshadow the other has decided to wear. “I just thought I’d give you an easy kill.”

“An easy kill?” He laughs it off, ignoring how the itch beneath his skin seems to intensify with those few words- he already knows, he might as well. He shakes the thoughts off, pulling himself from the water. “Wait, wait, you think I’m the boogey?”

“Yes.”

“Aw, c’mon man,” Scott hops back a few steps as he approaches, looking more than a little nervous as Martyn steps forward. “That hurts, you think I've come here to just kill you in cold blood? Can't I just visit a friend?”

“While that’s a nice thought, I unfortunately don't believe you.” Scott smiles, expression not matching his words, the eyeshadow smudged around the corners of his eyes shimmering in the light again, drawing Martyn’s eyes back to it. “You got that whole-” Scott gestures at him, “-thing about you. Twitchy, like you're ready to swing at someone as soon as the opportunity presents itself.”

“I mean, you did that, didn't you?” His clothes stick to his skin rather uncomfortably, clinging. He finds a piece of seaweed stuck to his calf as well, peeling it off as he speaks. He flicks it at Scott, for a laugh, watching as the man jumps out of the seaweed’s path and sends a glare his way. “Poor Skizz, the man just wanted to chat with you.”

“He set it up so well, Martyn,” Scott groans, suspicion dissolving for a moment as he complains. “Everyone’s been getting on to me about it, especially after Bdubs’ stunt- which also wasn't my fault! But he was just saying all the right things- it was far too funny for me to let the opportunity pass up.” And Martyn’s sure that They rather enjoyed the show too, especially from the one person that refused to cooperate with their schemes the last two games.

“I hear you,” he laughs, even as he attempts to slip his foot back into his wet sandal without fiddling about with the straps too much. His clothes are going to be wet for the next while and the sun’s not even up yet meaning he’s going to be walking around in squeaky shoes for several long hours- no way he’s sneaking up on anyone like that. “But still not the boogey.” He grins, only sweating a little as Scott continues to look unconvinced- one word and everyone would start avoiding him like the plague.

“Mhm,” Scott looks him up and down, with a judgemental enough look that he almost cowers beneath it. But Martyn’s built of stronger stuff than that, staring back at Scott in return. “If you say so, then.”

Scott’s lips quirk up in the corner a little bit, as though there’s a joke only he’s been let in on. And Martyn has a pretty good idea that he’s probably the butt of said joke.

“Have fun sneaking up on people in your squeaky shoes,” Scott says, which. Great. Scott’s already noticed that and he’s not even moved yet, this is actually hopeless. He’s going to be yellow within the day, and there’s nothing he can even do about it.

“Still not the boogey.” He reminds. He leaves Scott to it, though, turning around and walking back down the bridge. His sandals squeak as he walks, and he does his best to ignore the snicker behind him. “Yeah, yeah,” he shouts back, turning around to face Scott, “laugh it up!”

He slips as he turns, some dirt giving way beneath his heel, and almost falls back into the ocean. He manages to regain his footing quickly, scrambling to maintain his balance on the rickety little path, glaring at Scott when the man’s snickering turns into a sharp bark of laughter.

He grumbles to himself, mind already running over the few ideas he has left, searching for an idea. His shoes continue squeaking as he walks, and all it does is distract him from his game plans, dragging his mind back towards Scott, and the man’s odd avoidance of the water’s edge and just water in general.

It could also, very easily, be that the man was avoiding him. But he looked far more nervous than he needed to as Martyn approached him after his brief dip in the ocean, far too nervous for someone that was just worried about being murdered. And that also doesn't explain his behaviour before Martyn even approached, avoiding the surrounding ocean like his life depended on it; and unless Scott’s hearing has reached new levels of freaky, then he definitely wasn't watching for Martyn then.

When he glances back, Scott is still keeping his distance from the water.

He considers it for a moment, then shoves the thought aside. He has far more important things to worry about than Scott acting weird- he’s always acting weird! He’s a weird man.

=== === ===

II.

He stares at the ground in front of him, the bucket in his hands warm as he stares at the empty spot, where there had been a cow only moments before. He glances over at Etho from the corner of his eye, biting on his tongue so he doesn't start laughing at possibly the worst moment he’s had all day.

He still aches from the pufferfish Etho had flung at him earlier. It’s a very good reminder of why he should definitely not start laughing at something that is actually very, very bad.

“Dude,” Impulse is staring at him as well, face set into one of those I'm-not-mad-just-disappointed looks.

“I did not mean for that to happen,” he says. And he can hear the laugh bubbling in his throat, threatening to break free if he continues talking much longer. He clutches the lava bucket a little tighter, before deciding that is probably a bad thing to do because the metal is already heating up to a hazardous temperature. And he likes being able to use his hands. “I was just memeing Skizz, and then-” he cuts himself off again, peering up through the small hole in the ceiling to look at Skizz.

The man stares back down at him, one hand resting against the edge of the hole. Martyn had definitely considered simply leaving the lava there for Skizz to fall into, unaware, and taken the kill then and there, but the swift death of the cow had been enough to make him feel a little guilty.

“Aw,” he buries his face in his hands, stepping back from the small entrance. “I am so sorry.” His words are muffled slightly, but he’s sure the others can at least guess the sentiment of his words if they can't understand them. He pulls at his face a little bit, glancing up at the people around him.

Impulse just looks sad at this point, staring at the spot their cow had been only a few moments before. Martyn has never felt regret as intensely as he does in this moment, even if his whole visit had been a ploy to try and kill one of them.

“You gotta be kidding me right now.”

Martyn can feel his resolve begin to waver as they continue on about the cow, lips twitching into an almost-smile as Impulse continues to bemoan their loss. Etho, at least, seems to have planned ahead, or at least far enough ahead that he saw the cow not surviving for very long anyway, as he manages to retrieve a cow within a few minutes after the incident.

It’s as though the cow never died in the first place, and he watches it meander around the small base from the step. Impulse had told him, in very few words, that he’d prefer it if he sat up here and away from the cows for now. He hadn't minded it either, as it means he can sit a short distance away from everyone else- a long enough distance that the itch at the back of his brain is reduced, if only a little bit. The need for blood still lingers, but it’s nowhere near as intense as it had been before.

He can't help but panic a little, unable to see any of these people splitting off from the pack so that he can follow and murder them. He also can't see them just letting it slide if he does kill one of them, so maybe it’s not his greatest idea to pick one of these four.

“Oh, Skizz,” his ears prick up as a new voice joins the jumbled fray, a little louder than many of the others and much further away. He stands, moving from the step Impulse had instructed him to stay on so there weren't any more cow related accidents. “Bud.”

He can hear the sympathy in Scott’s voice, and when he pokes his head out of the entrance to the underground base, Scott is smiling sympathetically at Skizz. A boat rocks gently behind him, lodged firmly in the sand as Scott steps gingerly out of it, scurrying a few metres up the beach before he comes to a stop.

“Dude, it’s been brutal,” Skizz says.

Martyn emerges fully onto the small island, only because hovering in the darkness is making him far more suspicious, and it would be very easy for Scott to pin it on him right now- especially as the man seems convinced that it is him anyway.

“What happened?” Scott seems to be asking from a sympathetic standpoint, but Martyn also knows Scott, and knowing Scott means that he knows Scott just wants the details of what happened from the source. Martyn listens as well, nodding at Scott when the man’s eyes slide over to him.

“I was way, way deep down,” Skizz gestures to the ground beneath their feet, moving back and forth a little bit as they talk. “I was just looking for some diamonds, and a creeper killed me.” Skizz turns his back to Martyn, and he has the idea to just do it now- do it here. He’d considered it already, back in the cave when the curse first settled itself over his mind, but he’d resisted then. But he’s so close to running out of time, so close to failing-

His hand hovers over the sword at his hip, and Skizz’s back is still turned, and Scott had even proposed an alliance to him earlier today, so he doubts Scott’s going to rat him out right now. He glances up, hand still hovering, still uncertain.

Scott glances between him and Skizz, mouth setting into a grim line. He then shakes his head, slight enough that anyone not looking would have missed it. And Skizz continues talking, oblivious to the silent conversation that had just passed between him and Scott.

And Scott’s right, honestly. It would be a bad idea, and they would have four angry people after them, one of which is definitely going to be a yellow soon, and that’s not something he wants to see at all. He swallows, glancing away, mind racing, curse roaring, demanding he ignore Scott, that he does it anyway.

He takes a step back, away from the shoreline and Scott and Skizz, pulling his hand away from his sword forcefully, reminding himself that it would be a bad idea, over and over again, and that Skizz has already lost enough time as it is, to lose more would only put him on Skizz’s list.

He takes another step back, and his foot catches on something. He glances back, finding it to be the hole that leads to the base beneath the island. The…confined base that has little to no escape routes, something which could very easily be blown up.

He glances back to the talking pair on the beach. Neither of them watch him, neither of them are looking to see where he goes.

He drops down into the hole, ignoring the slight jolt in his ankles as he lands. He pauses, not daring to even breathe. He can't hear himself over the sound of blood roaring in his ears- he doesn't know how loud he would be, can't know how loud it would be. So he doesn't dare breathe, straining his ears to make sure that there are people in the base below him, that him tossing away the few resources he has won't go to waste.

He chips away at the wall in front of him, clenching his hands tight around his pickaxe to stop them from shaking. Ignores the pounding of his heart, the rushing in his ears as he breaks through the rock, pausing to heave in a breath and to check that he hasn't been heard- hasn't been found.

He can't be found, he can’t. He doesn't have long left for this, not long at all, and he can't be yellow. Not yet, it’s too soon. Far, far too soon.

He breaks down the few feet that separates him from the room below, pulling back as soon as the last chunk of rock has been chipped away. He has to let it fall, there’s no way he can grab it back now, just has to watch it plummet and hope no one pays attention to the sound.

He holds his breath, feeling it catch in his lungs until he feels as though he’s going to explode. He watches as Scott turns around and stares at the rock for a long, long moment. Long enough that Martyn thinks he might say something, that he might warn the others.

He doesn't, eyes glancing up, though he can't see him- the rock blocks him from seeing Martyn, tucked away in his little gap in the rock, just large enough for him to crouch in. And then Scott turns back around, and he doesn't say a word. He just listens as the team continues talking, chattering amongst themselves.

He doesn't dare breathe, not even a sigh of relief- it could tell them that he’s still here, that he’s not disappeared away again.

He pulls the first bundle of TNT from his inventory, holding it in shaking hands as he fumbles for his flint and steel, grasping it and bringing it up to the wick, striking it once, twice, three times, hands shaking as he tries to light it, watches as it continues to sputter out before the wick can catch.

And then it does catch, flaring to life with a sizzle and he shoves it away, pulling the next bundle free, lighting this one quicker than the previous. There’s a shout from below- someone spotting the TNT no doubt. But it hasn't exploded yet, he still has time.

He drops the second one.

The third is the easiest to light, and he drops that too, peering over the edge, some morbid curiosity filling him- to see if he can get the kill or not. To see if someone might stray a little too close to the detonating bomb.

But, no. They huddle in a corner, all watching the TNT with wide eyes, watching. Waiting. And then it explodes, and his ears beginning ringing, though not with bloodlust this time. Instead, he blinks, coughing as smoke fills his mouth and makes him choke. He pulls back from the small opening he created, hacking and choking on his own breath as shouts of panic break out below.

He peers in again, still blinking back the tears in his eyes, watches as the rock wall behind where everyone huddles begins to crack, begins to give way beneath the sudden lack of stability and structure.

Scott breaks free first, sprinting across the room and skidding to a halt before throwing himself up the small wall and onto the stairs. Only then does he turn back around, posture stiff and tense, watching as the room begins to flood through the small fissures in the rock.

The TIES groan and grumble at the sudden flooding, kicking through the water and sloshing it around their ankles. And Martyn should move on, should leave now that Scott has thrown him under the bus- they could say something in the general chat at any moment, could condemn him to failing his one task.

But they don't, they continue complaining, continue kicking the water around. And Martyn finds himself far more fascinated about how scared Scott seems to be of the water, backing further and further away from the main room, beginning a slow, jerking path up the stairs, away from the steadily rising water and out of the splash zone of where the TIES have begun splashing water at each other.

Martyn watches Scott, files this odd information into his brain, alongside the way Scott avoids water like the plague. Doesn't even go near it despite having chosen to take up residence in the middle of the ocean, where you are surrounded by water.

And then one of the TIES shouts for his blood- and he knows they can't do that, they can't. It’s against the rules. And yet he flees anyway, squeezing back down the small corridor he’d hewn out, and sprinting for the surface.

He only looks back once he’s a safe distance away, watching as Tango and Skizz patrol the surface of their island and Scott climbs into his boat, and begins rowing back to his own island. Rowing, where someone else would have swam the short distance.

But the curse still lingers, still has its hooks in his mind. And he doesn't have time to sit around and watch Scott act odd, because he has other, far more pressing matters to attend to.

For now, at least.

=== === ===

III.

Scott’s island is bigger than it had been before. Spanning over a larger stretch of land, half-grown shoots of bamboo sticking out of the earth, marking out a perimeter. The leaves rustle gently in the breeze, and a few of the closer sticks of bamboo knock into each other, rattling in the wind.

A door stands at the entryway to the island, though there is no frame surrounding it. Truly, there is nothing but manners stopping him from bypassing the door completely, and stepping around. And also because it is far too comedic to knock on the door as well.

“Hi,” Scott peers around his door, not even bothering to open it. And…he’s wearing an odd crown of coral. Something he hadn't been wearing last time, at least. And the coral hasn't begun to bleach yet, remaining colourful despite being on land.

“Hi.” He responds, peering around the door as well, fist still pressed against the wood from where he’d knocked. The bridge is larger this time, too, more stable than it had been previously. He feels far less like he’s about to take an unwelcome dip into the ocean and far more like he’s going to remain nice and warm and dry.

“Um,” he stares at Scott for a moment longer. “Can I, uh, can I come in? Or,” he allows himself to trail off, still watching Scott. The crown certainly suits him, at least, even though the pinkish-orange colour of the coral is not something he’d ever have considered to go well with cyan.

The door swings open in front of him, and he almost startles at the abruptness of it, jerking his hand back and down to his side. “So,” Scott’s grinning, that grin that makes his teeth look far sharper than they actually are, “you've come crawling back, have you?”

“It’s,” he laughs, inching forward, “It’s not crawling back, it’s…sheepishly wandering in.” He smiles a little as he continues to inch his way forward, sliding past Scott and through the rather narrow ‘doorway’ when Scott doesn't move to stop him from entering. “Look,”

“You abandoned me,” Scott says, frowning. The sadness in his voice is incredibly fake, truly, no one would be buying it. But Martyn has to make a good impression, because this is his only chance at an alliance, and Scott is definitely a good choice for a teammate.

“I didn't abandon you,” he protests.

Scott ignores him. “You came to the coral isles, and then you left.”

“I didn't wanna kill you!” He protests, throwing his arms out. When Scott doesn't try to interrupt him, he continues. “I was already the boogey at that point, yeah, yeah, well done, you guessed it. Whatever. And then you were in the TIES’ hole, and I attempted to kill you, and if you attempt to kill someone then you don't immediately go crawling back to them and ask for an alliance! You leave them to cool down, to work out their frustration for a few hours, and then you come to grovel.”

“You're grovelling right now?” Scott raises an eyebrow. “I've seen better grovelling from a dehydrated plant.”

“Now that’s just hurtful, man.” He presses a hand to his chest. “And I am grovelling, I said sorry.”

“No you didn't.”

“I'm sorry,” he tries. “For, uh, trying to kill you- but in my defence! I was almost out of time, and there was a big group, and I was almost certain that the TNT would have gotten them.”

“It would have, if you threw all of it in at once.” Scott crosses his arms. “Throwing in just one, right after you lit the fuse too, Martyn, means that they had the time to react and then huddle, so the other ones didn't do anything.”

“So, what? I should just hang onto the TNT until it’s about to explode?” He’d have probably blown himself up if he’d done that- he can hardly remember anything from that panic-filled haze, so he doubts his planning skills were actually being used at any point.

“Yes.” Scott says, then sighs. “But I get it,” he shrugs as he turns away, “you were panicked, there’s a lot of pressure. I took out the first person I saw.” Martyn follows after Scott as he moves a little closer to the centre of the island, unsure whether he’s actually welcome to stay here or if Scott’s just humouring him.

“So,” he decides to break the ice, trailing behind Scott. “Can, can I move in?” He scuffs his feet against the ground, and Scott turns at his question. Scott frowns, lips pursed as he looks him up and down again.

“You're wanting to be a coral kid?” Scott asks. He sounds almost…pleasantly surprised.

“Okay, uh,” he laughs, “maybe not a coral kid,” Scott frowns a little deeper, “but I've come back with ideas- name ideas, okay? You know, I've been out and about, travelling the world,” the tiny little world they're confined in for the foreseeable future. “Uh,” he scrambles to keep talking, taking a few steps back from Scott, away from the small area he has set up in the middle of the island. Scott doesn't follow after him, propping a hip against the crafting bench. “I'm older, I'm wiser. I'm smarter,” he nods to himself, glancing back at Scott.

Scott seems to be mildly amused by him, head tilted at a slight angle as he watches him talk, smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I've got some name suggestions,” he finishes, giving a little jazz hands as Scott continues to stare at him. He’s got that same eyeshadow on again, glinting around the corners of his eyes. Maybe it’s his new thing for this iteration of the games- people try new things all the time.

“Okay,” Scott drags the word out, but he gestures for him to continue. Martyn is absolutely going to get to stay on this island, thank god.

“Alright,” he rocks forward onto the balls of his feet before rocking back again, “so, obviously, there’s coral kids.” Scott nods his head, “Not too bad, but, you know, I think it makes us sound kinda like pushovers? Uh,” he thinks for a moment, “next one on the list honestly isn't that great either, though, so, damp dudes? Feeling that one?”

Scott clicks his tongue, leaning back on the crafting bench a little further, before shaking his head. “Nope, don't enjoy that one.”

“Alright,” that wasn't his best one, but better to lead with his worst because they can only get better from here on out. Hopefully. “Seeing as this isn't really much of an ocean,” and it isn't, “how about puddle pals?”

“No,” Scott’s response is immediate. “Puddle feels even less,” Scott pulls a face and Martyn gets the message.

“Okay.” Maybe he should have written them all down in a list. He’d spent most of last night brainstorming ideas, hoping to put himself on Scott’s right side and gain a teammate if he can impress him with a team name. “So, I was imagining leather jackets for this next one- like the bad boys’ jackets,”

“You know Jimmy just stole his from Tango, right?” Scott’s grinning, leaning forward a little.

“Really?” He blinks, thinks about it for a moment, then, “Yeah, that makes sense. Timmy doesn't seem like the kind to own a jacket more of a-”

“Denim guy, yeah.” Scott nods his head along, hair falling in front of his eyes before Scott brushes it back again. Martyn finds himself watching Scott for a moment too long before he averts his eyes again, moving a little further around the island. Scott swings his legs over the crafting table to watch him go.

“Alright, us in leather jackets: sons of beaches.” Scott doesn't say anything in response to that one, and when Martyn turns around the other is just staring at him, apparently slightly lost for words. He laughs a little, more out of nervousness at Scott’s silence.

“It’s, hm,” Scott pauses to think. “It’s better than the other two, but, uh.”

“Alright, alright. I've still got a few more,” he nods, even though his list is very rapidly running a little short. “I know you like the film Mean Girls,” Scott nods at that, “so what about Mean Shells?”

Scott tips his head to the side, still staring at Martyn. He stares for long enough, apparently lost enough in thought, that Martyn begins to feel a little flustered beneath Scott’s undivided attention. The green of the man’s eyes is far too intense compared to their normal blue, and it freaks him out. Just a bit.

“I like it,” Scott says, “but I don't know if people will get that reference.” Scott pulls a face, “Mean Gills, would’ve been-”

“Mean Gills!” He bounces a little in place, pointing at Scott and nodding. Scott looks a little taken aback by his enthusiasm, but smiles after a moment anyway. “Yeah, yeah! You've nailed that one there. Mean Gills,” he repeats to himself.

“Did you have any more?” Scott asks.

“Only a couple. What about beauty and the beach?”

“Okay,” Scott nods, “do like that. But which one of us is going to be the beauty and which one of us is gonna be the beach? Because I can tell you right now which one I don't want to be.”

“Oh yeah, alright. What about santa’s little kelpers?” He grins, quite proud of that one.

Scott looks rather unimpressed. “Bit too seasonal.”

“You're a harsh critic, Smajor.” He laughs, “Big buoys? Like, spelt like the, the floating things? B-U-O-Y-S.”

Scott shakes his hand back, side to side. “I think the bad boys would get annoyed with us there, encroaching on their territory and all that. And like, they might be bad at these games, but they've also got full diamond and enchanted armour, so I don't really want to go around annoying them, yeah? Trying not to make enemies just yet.”

“Sal-men?” He tries. His list is dwindling now, though Scott is cracking a smile at a few of these, so it’s not a total loss.

“Oh, no,” Scott shakes his head. “I've had a whole,” he gestures with a flippant hand, “salmon fiasco in the past. Let’s not go there.”

“LGB-Sea?” He says. “Like, like S-E-A?” He laughs a little, because it was a rather bad joke on its own really, but Scott seems to find it funny too because he’s laughing as well, leaning forward on his makeshift seat as he giggles.

“I like the-” Scott laughs again. “LGB-Sea is great.”

“Alright, alright, last one, and maybe we should just lock this one in straight away because I like this one: H-Two-Bros.”

“H-Two-Bros is great,” Scott’s lips are quirked up in a smile, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he smiles, that blue eyeshadow flashing in the light again. “But I'm kinda torn between that and mean gills.” Scott’s eyes then widen a little. “Not that either of us have gills, though,” he laughs, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “That would be ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” his eyebrows crinkle together. “Neither of us have gills. But we’re going for the ocean-y fish theme, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scott nods, “why don't we get Pearl’s opinion on this?”

Pearl’s? The question is half-formed on his tongue before Pearl pops out of the water, spraying it everywhere. Scott is halfway across the island a moment later, looking rather like a startled cat even though he was the one that requested Pearl join them.

Pearl then shakes like a dog, hair and water flying everywhere, hitting him as well. He winces as a stray chunk of hair hits him in the face. He backs up a few steps, away from the edge of the island and the danger zone that is currently surrounding Pearl.

“Ask me what?” She asks, rather cheery.

“We’re choosing a name for the people on this island,” Martyn gestures between him and Scott, who is yet to return from his corner of scared cat-ness. “And we’ve got two contenders currently: Mean Gills and H-Two-Bros.”

“I like Mean Gills better, it’s kinda cute.” Pearl laughs.

The conversation devolves from there, and before he knows it he’s rummaging around in his inventory to find a few bits of gunpowder and handing them over to Pearl. “I cremated her.” He says with a smile, watching as Pearl’s eyes widen slightly, glancing up at him, then back down at the gunpowder.

“I'm leaving,” she says, voice high-pitched. “This is not,” she shakes her head, hopping back into the ocean. She doesn't emerge until she’s several feet away from the island, water splashing as she kicks her way towards the next body of land.

“I don't know what she wanted me to say!” He laughs, though it’s a poor defence, really. Scott laughs a little as well, moving back towards the centre of the island now that Pearl has left. Scott didn't seem to hold any ill will towards Pearl, so Martyn doesn't understand why he avoided her so clearly. “She wants her dead dog from the last games, I don't have anything for her!”

“You could've saved that until she gave me the grass,” Scott frowns. “We only have a little bit now.”

“Eh, it’ll spread in no time.” He assures.

=== === ===

IV.

His hourglass is beginning to come together nicely, even with only the barebones of the structure constructed so far. The chest of resources he’s gathered for this mini project sits a few feet behind him, lid swung open so he doesn't have to keep opening it whilst building.

Scott sits on the small deck chair he’s built for himself, leaning back in it and watching him build. He had been wearing sunglasses, up until the point where Martyn had pointed out that he looked like one of the bad boys and he’d taken them off rather quickly after that.

He’s squinting against the sun as he watches Martyn build, still wearing that eyeshadow despite only getting up half an hour earlier. Martyn hadn't even seen him put it on, but it had been there as soon as he was up, so he must have put it on at some point.

Not that he noticed it immediately. He’s taken to watching Scott recently, but he’s not been staring at his eyes. His eyes might look rather nice, but that doesn't mean Martyn is caught up in staring at them all the time.

“See something you like?” Scott tips his head to the side, eyes still squinted mostly shut. Scott then stretches out on the deck chair, raising one arm above his head. He even winks, just to add to the effect.

“Not really,” he snorts, turning back to his hourglass. He still needs to add most of the glass to it, and that’s definitely going to be the most time-consuming part of this whole affair; he’s going to have to make sure he doesn't bend any of the glass too far and shatter it- why did he decide to build this again? It’s hardly going to be functional and Scott’s beach house is plenty large enough for the two of them. Their beds are side by side in there, too, and he’s not going to be moving out of there any time soon. “Keep dreaming, Scott.”

Scott hums behind him, and he can feel the other man’s eyes on him as he rummages through the chest, collecting as much glass as he can comfortably hold.

“Make sure you don't bend it too far,” Scott says as he starts to place the glass into its frame. “It’s an inflexible material and it will just shatter if you bend it too far.”

“Thanks for that, Scott. I am well aware.”

“Just making sure!” When he looks back Scott’s got his hands raised in surrender, drink held in one of them- when did he get a drink? He stares at Scott for a moment, and Scott stares back at him, before taking a sip from his drink. Where did he even get a straw from? Did he bring it with him?

…Honestly, he can see Scott doing exactly that for a moment like this.

“I just don't want to be the one cleaning you up if you manage to slice your hand open on some of the glass.” Scott shrugs, drink sloshing dangerously against the side of his glass. Scott seems to realise this, jerking the drink away from him hurriedly, before grinning at Martyn.

“I'm hardly going to slice my hand open on the glass,” he snorts. “What do you take me for, some kind of idiot?”

“Just remember that I dated Jimmy for a while, okay?” Scott says. Martyn takes his momentary distraction to slot a few of the glass panes in without any judgement or commentary. He’s all for ribbing at someone, but Scott takes it to an entirely new, rather impressive, level. “Love the guy, he’s great, but he was rather accident prone. I'm just making sure you don't hurt yourself.”

“Giving me the boyfriend treatment, Smajor?” He calls back, picking up the next piece of glass, bending it ever so slightly, careful with the amount of force he applies as he begins slotting it into its place.

“If you want, I've been told I'm rather good.”

The glass breaks in his hands, unable to withstand the sudden increase in pressure from his grip. And, hm. He stares down at his hands, brain not quite registering the pain yet, only that there is a lot of red. Probably a bit more than there should be.

“Scott?” He calls, not turning back around. Scott hasn't made any quip about him breaking the glass, so Martyn doubts he actually heard the glass breaking.

“Yeah,” Martyn can hear the rattling of ice against glass.

“Can you get tetanus from glass?” He asks. The pain is beginning to filter through his system, overtaking the shock and adrenaline of moments later to begin stinging. And then burning, a little.

“Uh,” Scott goes silent for a moment. “I don't think so?”

“That’s good.” He nods along. That is quite a bit of blood, and he thinks he might be going a bit light-headed from the blood loss. “You gotta promise not to make fun of me, alright?”

“I am not promising that.” Scott says. He can hear someone standing up. “Turn around, Martyn.”

He does, not sure what else to do. Scott is only a few inches from him when he turns around, and it’s enough to make him startle. Scott frowns at him for a moment- and they're both far closer than they've been during Martyn’s small stay here, and he can see the eyeshadow up close now, and it almost looks like-

“What did I tell you?” Scott interrupts his thoughts, and he snaps back into focus, slightly.

“Lots of things.”

“About the glass,” Scott stresses, grabbing his hand and shaking that as well a moment.

“Oh, yeah, don't bend it.”

“And what did you do?” Scott asks.

“Bend it?” He responds. “Look, man, I just wanna sit down, alright? I'm not…feeling great.”

“Yeah, no shit, Martyn. Look at this!” He shakes Martyn’s hand around a little, fingers smearing with blood. “This is why we don't play around with glass.”

“It’s your fault, anyway.” He frowns at Scott. “You surprised me.”

“I surprised you.” Scott deadpans. “And so it’s my fault.”

“Exactly.” He tries to point at Scott, but Scott is still holding one of his wrists, so the movement is far less confident and smooth than he had been hoping it would be.

“God, you're worse than Jimmy.” Scott drags a hand down his face. And his hand had blood on it, meaning he’s just smearing blood over his face. “How are you worse than Jimmy?”

“I take offence at that.”

“You can take offence at it when you're not about to pass out at the sight of some blood.”

“I'm not about to pass out,” he scoffs. Or tries to. He doesn't actually know how convincing it is, because everything sounds like it’s underwater. “It’s the blood loss.”

“You have not lost enough blood to feel dizzy.” Scott tells him, still gripping his wrist. “You're just squeamish.”

“Am not.” He tugs at the grip Scott’s got on him. “No way I’d have made it through so, so many of these games if I was squeamish.” It’s the blood loss- the same blood loss that is making the world spin around him like everything just’s been cranked up really high on speed, and his eyes ache with it.

“Martyn,” Scott sighs, but his voice is really muffled, and, wow, is that the ocean? The water is always super warm around here, he’s pretty sure it’s because of the biome they're in, but he always enjoys it. It’s like a slightly colder than usual bath- still warm but not too warm.

And it’s just as warm this time as he sinks into it, breath escaping him in a bubbly sigh.

There’s a loud splashing sound above him, and he squints his eyes open, but the saltwater makes everything blurry, and his eyes hurt already, so he squints them shut again. Something grabs at his arm, yanking him upwards.

And he resists, because this water is really warm and nice, and he actually rather likes it, really. Whatever is dragging him around, though, doesn't seem to care what he thinks, but he’s unceremoniously pushed onto dry land a moment later.

He breathes in, coughing a little and squinting his eyes open to watch as he coughs up water. His throat feels dry and scratchy, and his vision is still blurry. Blurry enough that he can't see much beyond vague shapes and colours.

Something moves in front of him, a little water lapping at his fingers as he opens his eyes a little more to try and get a better look at the- whatever it is in front of him. There’s a flash of deep blue, and then the whatever-it-was thing is gone. Huh.

Something flicks him on the forehead, and he blinks his eyes open again, finding that he’s lying on something far softer than the dirt ground, and blinking up at Scott. Scott is staring down at him, eyes flicking over his face, before he leans back so there’s more than just an inch of space between them.

“Good to see you're awake.” Scott says.

“When did I fall asleep?” He asks, going to push himself up, only to wince when sharp pain lances through his hand. He hisses beneath his breath, easing his weight off that hand.

“You didn't.” Scott smiles at him, but it’s the kind of smile someone wears when they're trying to hold back a laugh. “I didn't know you were squeamish.”

“I'm not.”

“Then why did you pass out at the sight of blood?” Scott asks, head tilting to the side. The bandages around Martyn’s fingers make them feel thick and clumsy, and the pain that sparks through his palm every time he flexes them is enough to stop him from moving that hand too much. “Sounds like you're pretty squeamish to me.”

“I'm not.” He protests, though his attempts seem to be in vain because Scott has actually started laughing at him now.

“Mhm,” Scott nods. “Seems like your hourglass is going on hiatus for a short while.”

“Ugh,” he lets his head drop back to the pillow, staring up at the sky. It’s cloudless. “Did I fall in the water?” He asks, after a moment.

“Yes, why?”

“My clothes feel all…disgusting.”

“Well, I didn't wash them for you. I'm not your personal servant.” Scott pokes him on the arm, just hard enough to hurt.

“Never said you were,” he rubs at his arm absently, frowning at Scott. “Did you see any big fish while I was attempting to drown myself?”

“Big…fish?” Scott’s back has gone a little stiff, and he looks down at Martyn with confusion.

“Yeah, kinda blue-y. Didn't see it for long, but.” He shrugs, which is actually a lot more difficult to do lying down than he thought it would be.

“No, I didn't see anything like that.”

“Hm.” Is all Martyn says in response. He doesn't buy it for one moment, but Scott’s stiffer than a stick of bamboo, and he knows when to leave well enough alone. “Alright then.”

=== === ===

V.

He wakes up to something that is very much so silence, but there was also definitely something that just woke him up- something that was not silence. But it’s dark, and the moon is just past a new moon, meaning he is blind and left scrambling around in the dark for a light source that might reveal what just made a noise and then abruptly stopped making noise.

He fumbles around for a few moments longer, attempting to find a light source- any kind will do, really, he just wants to be able to see rather than scramble around helplessly and hope that it’s not someone come to kill him. Oh god, he hopes it’s not someone come to kill him.

He manages to find a torch eventually, hands closing tightly around it, before he begins another search for something to light it with. It takes him several more long and painful moments to find something to light it with. Because it is dark, and he is blind.

When he does light it, he almost expects to find someone looming over him, before unseen in the darkness now brought into the light and silhouetted by the moon before they kill him where he sleeps. But the torch doesn't light up any ominous figure, and it doesn't reflect off of any weaponry either.

He relaxes a little, laughing to himself slightly as he slumps down into his bed. He’s careful to keep the torch away from his bedsheets, as he’d rather not accidentally set himself on fire. He’s had enough accidents in the past few days, and his hand is still sore and tender from his most recent stunt.

But he still hasn't found whatever it was that woke him up in the first place- and it wouldn't have been the bamboo or sugarcane shaking in the breeze either, because he’s gotten used to the quiet sounds they make when the breeze leaps over the water and towards them- hard not to get used to them when he’s constantly surrounded by the sound.

The sound of the waves against the edges of the island also hadn't bothered him beyond the first night, where he’d had to cover his ears with his pillow because he just couldn't sleep and the waves didn't stop. But he can tune them out easily now, and it becomes just another part of the background noise of their island.

He laughs a little to himself as he continues to look around, because he is being far, far, too paranoid for his own good, really. No one has even gone red yet! It’s way too early for someone to be red, and the next boogeyman hasn't even been picked yet. So, really, the only thing he’s got to worry about is Skizz. And he highly doubts Skizz is going to make a trip over to their base in the middle of the night to murder him in his sleep. Especially when Scott is right next to him and it would be two-versus-one-

Or, it would be, if Scott was currently in his bed. Which he’s not. The bedsheets are pushed down to the bottom of the bed, lying in a crumpled heap that is a far cry from the way Scott normally makes his bed (Martyn’s convinced Scott does it just to shame him into making his bed as well. Which won't work! It’s been tried before, and it’s not going to start working now, of all times).

But the bed has obviously been slept in, which Martyn also knows because they’d gone to bed at the same time after putting the campfire out. Martyn had chucked a bucket of water over it for good measure, aware of how easily the fire could spread to the grass and then they’d be toast - literally.

He does a cursory glance around the island, holding the torch up a little higher as he peers around. But it’s not a very big island, and the only potential hiding spots are behind his hourglass (which is see-through) and behind the chests (which is just dumb). And Scott is nowhere to be seen, even as Martyn looks around again, in case he missed something on his first sweep.

But the results remain the same, and Scott is nowhere to be seen. But, when he presses a hand to Scott’s bed, it’s still warm, meaning he can't have been gone for very long. Which also means that Scott moving about was probably what woke him up in the first place.

The circumstances are still odd, but Scott has had multiple chances to let him die over the past few days, so he’s feeling rather secure in their alliance right now.

Scott’s mysterious disappearance aside, he’s awake now, and rather unlikely to go back to sleep anytime soon. Especially as Scott is still gone, and he probably won't be able to relax until the other returns. Safety in numbers, and all that. If it’s just him on his own, he’s much more vulnerable to an attack, but if Scott’s here, then there’s two of them, and they can both make sure the other doesn't die in a stupid way.

And he might also be a little worried.

Sue him! His teammate disappears in the middle of the night without so much as a word, a note, or even a private message to let him know where he’s gone. Instead, he’s left on an island in the pitch dark with no knowledge about his teammate’s whereabouts.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, shuffling towards where he’d kicked his sandals off earlier. The sound of his feet against the wooden boards is barely audible. He slips the sandals on easily, stepping down onto the grass a moment later, beginning to putter around their area.

Some of the sugar cane has grown tall enough to be harvested, and so he chops a few of the stems, bundling them together in one hand as he moves onto the next plant, repeating the process. Once he has enough sugarcane that he can't carry any more, he meanders over to their chests, dumping the sugarcane inside, organising it slightly so Scott doesn't complain about it in the morning.

He goes back over to the next section of sugarcane that has grown enough, cutting the stems again, repeating until he can't carry anymore. He returns to the chest with his second load. He doesn't return to cutting the sugarcane after that, mainly because there isn't any more sugarcane to cut, but also because Scott isn't back yet, and he’s beginning to get more than a little worried about his wellbeing.

He sits at the edge of their island, in a small gap he’s created in the bamboo and sugarcane, for easy access for boats from the rear of the island- perfect for a quick escape if they ever needed to make one.

He allows his legs to trail through the water, kicking them back and forth, watching as it laps at his knees, the waves breaking before they reach the very edge of the island. The water is as warm as it always is, just a little bit cooler than a hot bath, but it’s darker than it usually is as well.

During the day, the waters are a crystalline blue, allowing them to see to the very bottom. He’s spent more than a few hours sat watching the wildlife dart in and out of the coral, tracking the shimmering shoals of fish that make their slow way through the coral reef.

He can hardly see the coral now, only vague shapes clustered together, some of them stretching up higher than the others. He can't see anything swimming between the bits of coral, but that doesn't mean that there’s nothing down there- there is almost certainly something that he can't see.

Even the faint glow of the sea pickles is hardly enough to light up the seabed, only a small pool of light around each one that’s so dim he can hardly see it.

He continues to sit there, ignoring thoughts of something swimming up and grabbing his ankle to pull him into the depths- there’s not going to be anything large enough to do that to him, and a small clownfish isn't going to be big enough to eat him, even if it tries its very best.

The water is soothing, at least, and he allows himself to stare at the small ripples, forgetting about his worry for a brief moment.

At least, he manages to forget about it until he sees something move out of the corner of his eye. He freezes, hands twisting into the grass at his side, threatening to uproot it. He watches as the shape moves, glittering scales outlining the apparent size of the thing.

It’s…large. Very big. Easily half the length of their entire island, if not a bit over. And things that big are hardly ever herbivores. And it is with that thought that he rather hurriedly pulls his legs out of the water, standing up. He doesn't move away from the edge, though, watching as the shimmering scales- bioluminescent, his brain reminds him, continue to circle around the island, almost lazily, before disappearing from sight.

He swallows, brain flashing to all worst-case scenarios. All of which involve him still being stood at the edge of the island when that…whatever it was reappears.

He backpedals, maybe a little hastily, and it might be stupid to feel a little safer when he’s back in his bed, sandals kicked off at the bottom of it. But Martyn has long since accepted that he might be a little stupid.

That feeling of safety doesn't help him get much sleep, though. But he must have fallen asleep at some point, because when he wakes up Scott is back, and he’s handing him a mug of coffee almost immediately- and Scott is definitely a godsend at times like this, he can't even deny it.

He doesn't ask where Scott went the previous night, and Scott doesn't offer any explanations. He also puts the sea monster (he is perfectly justified in calling it that! He doesn't know what it is!) out of his mind as best as he can.

And his best is almost good enough for him to completely forget about it

=== === ===

VI.

In all honesty, he had expected Scott’s suspicious behaviour to have more of a dramatic conclusion to it- something that would be shocking and just! Something different from what actually happened, at least. Because the way it happened is possibly the most stupid way Martyn has found out someone’s big and terrible secret (and he’s discovered several big secrets, each of which had far more explosive endings than this one did).

He pushes the door open with his shoulder, both of his arms full of the logs Martyn had left to collect because they were running low, and he rather enjoys their evenings around the fire with nothing but the crackling flames between them, which cast a rather complimentary light onto Scott’s face and makes the eyeshadow he wears glow even brighter than normal.

He makes direct eye contact with Scott, and Scott stares back at him. Scott is dripping wet, arms braced on the edge of their grassy island and in the process of hauling himself up. Scott is staring at him, and Martyn continues to stare back at him. Scott is covered in scales, deep blue scales that are really quite familiar-

Scott disappears with a small splash. Martyn drops the logs, not really caring if they land on the island or roll merrily into the water, instead sprinting over to the other side of the island and dropping to the ground, peering down into the water, hoping to catch any glimpse of Scott.

There’s a flash of blue scales between two things of coral, and he spares about a second to think through his idea before he’s kicking his sandals in and dropping his jacket off. He hesitates for a millisecond after that, and then simply dives in, plunging beneath the surface.

The one thing he appreciates about this biome is that the water is never a cold shock. The worst part about diving into water is always the cold shock, but the water here is warm, meaning he doesn't have to regather his bearings before he starts swimming after Scott.

It takes him a few seconds to realise that there is absolutely no way he’s going to catch up with Scott when the man is some kind of aquatic hybrid adapted for swimming. And he’s struggling to catch up with the other man for god’s sake.

He swims between the pieces of coral he had seen Scott swim between, ignoring the burn that’s beginning in his lungs, glancing around and squinting for any flicker of scales that would betray Scott’s whereabouts.

Something grabs him from behind, and he thrashes around for a moment, bubbles spilling from his mouth, and he almost inhales again on instinct before realising that he’s underwater, and that he definitely can't breathe underwater.

He breaks the surface, gasping for air as the grip on his arm remains iron, keeping him afloat as he regains his breath. He hadn't even realised his vision had started greying out a little until it began to clear up.

“Man,” he laughs. “I have gotta stop drowning myself, huh?”

“You are so incredibly stupid!” Scott responds, voice growling as he yells at him. “What the hell were you even thinking?”

“Wasn't, really.” He would shrug, but he’d also rather not accidentally submerge himself again, so he settles for a grin.

“I just-” Scott cuts himself off, shaking his head. It’s then that Martyn really gets an opportunity to take Scott in, eyes drifting over his face, taking in every small detail. He can see now, closer, that the eyeshadow that decorates the edges of Scott’s eyes isn't actually eyeshadow and is instead small scales. Scales which now spread to cover his cheeks and nose like some kind of freckle. Like, deep blue freckles.

In contrast, the fins at the side of his head are an orange-pink, fluttering slightly in agitation as they fan open before snapping shut again. The membrane of them is thin enough that he can see the sunlight filtering through them, making them almost glow.

“Huh.” He says, which is apparently enough to get Scott’s attention.

“Are you even listening to me?” Scott asks, and, huh, he didn't know Scott could growl like that.

“Not really,” he says. “I'm more caught up in your whole.” He gestures, because he doesn't really have words for what he’s thinking or feeling right now.

Scott’s eyes narrow and he pulls the arm supporting Martyn back, meaning he has to work to keep his head afloat. He reaches out for Scott again, grabbing onto his shoulders- and, oh wow, he’s not wearing a shirt. Like, at all. Huh.

He stares at Scott’s chest, and the scales covering large parts of it. They glint in the sunlight, wet from the water, which only makes them shine even more. They're smooth beneath his hand, and he finds himself rubbing a thumb back and forth over Scott’s shoulder without even thinking about it.

“Martyn,” Scott’s voice is half-strangled as he speaks, and when Martyn looks back at his face, away from the tail he had just noticed, he finds that Scott’s fins are pressed flat against his head, face faintly pink.

“Ah, sorry.” He stops rubbing his thumb over the scales on Scott’s shoulder, even though the pink flush of his face is really quite pretty- and. He’s not going to think about that one too hard, actually.

“It’s fine they're just,” Scott clears his throat, “sensitive.” One of Scott’s hands comes to rest beneath his elbow, supporting him a little more. “Aren't you a little- y’know, unnerved?”

“By what?”

“The whole scales and fishtail thing?” Scott quirks an eyebrow. “Normally people run screaming the other way.”

“I was more worried you were gonna freak out, honestly.” Martyn confesses. You looked a bit stressed before you just ducked back under.”

“Well, I am fine.” Scott clears his throat again, glancing away. “As lovely as this conversation is, I’d rather not be caught looking like this.”

“Why not? You look quite nice, honestly.”

“I- what?” The pink flush staining Scott’s cheeks is only barely visible beneath the scales covering most of them, but the scale-less parts of his neck and shoulders have turned pink as well.

“Aw, c’mon, Scott,” he leans a little closer, which isn't actually all that hard with their current positions. “You've been flirting with me for several days now, don't think I didn't notice.”

“I am a fish, Martyn.” Scott deadpans. “I am a literal fish and you're still absolutely onboard with this.”

“Absolutely still onboard with this, besides.” He rubs his thumb over Scott’s shoulder again, summoning his confidence with the action as he leans a little closer, close enough for their noses to brush. “You look really quite lovely right now- I thought you were wearing some really nice eyeshadow this whole time, and instead it’s these wonderful scales.”

“Martyn, stop, you're being ridiculous.”

“Aw, Scott.” He frowns as Scott pushes him away.

“I am not kissing you while we’re both in the middle of the ocean.” Scott says. “Also you stink of sweat.”

“I do not!”

“Yes, you do.” Scott pats him on the cheek. “You've been chopping trees all morning, and you're definitely flattering me right now; but I also have standards, and those standards include not kissing people that smell of sweat.”

“You're so rude to me, and after I was so nice to you.”

“I’ll be nice to you once you don't smell of sweat, dear.”

[salemoleander]

Joel is lounging around on Potato Pier, evening darkening to purple as Jimmy and Grian argue about something stupid in the background. He dips a hand in and out of the water elevator, in and out, and again; and after every splash he's seeing the same numbers.

"Time's stopped," Joel says absently. The lulling noise of the background conversation grinds to a halt.

"Sorry, what?" Jimmy asks.

"I said, the blimming-" Joel realizes what he's saying as he says it, snapped from dreamy to alert in a moment. Grian's head whips up.

Jimmy looks down at his own arm. "The time's stopped. The time has stopped? Grian?"

Already reaching for his comm, Grian says with a forcedly casual tone, "No it hasn't."

Then he blanches, eyes flicking over the screen.

"WHAT."

Joel snorts and looks out over the map. No one is noticeably freaking out yet- the only group he can see out and about this late in the day is the Clockers, busy fixing up the cliff face on their side of the No-Man's-Land with Pearl and BigB. He watches as Bdubs falls in the chicken pit for the umpteenth time. Joel snickers.

He looks up, and catches sight of Grian's expression. He stops snickering.

--------------------

"What do you MEAN," Cleo yells, "that the clocks have stopped?" One of their arms is looped firmly around Scar's shoulders, which seems prudent given his tendency to wander off and either explode or kill whoever he bumps into. He still looks slightly singed from earlier, giving an overall impression of a puppy that cannot be left alone with electric cords.

Slumped against a rough stone wall reloading a crossbow, Joel scoffs. "What do you bloody well think it means?"

"HEY," Bdubs exclaims, "Don't talk to-" Aaand he's in the horse pit.

"It's fine Bdubs." Cleo rolls her eyes. "My fault. What I meant to ask is, why are you-" she points to Grian, who squawks, "-telling us about it? Why aren't you just fixing it?"

"Well he can't, can he?" Jimmy pipes up from his seat at the dining table. "Else he would. He's in here with us, though."

Cleo doesn't stop staring at Grian, and boy is Joel glad he's not Grian right now. Both because being himself is obviously the best option always, and because an angry Cleo is a very scary Cleo.

Reluctantly, slowly, Grian nods. "I can't fix it."

No one says anything.

The dripping from the ceiling to the floor makes Joel think someone really ought to fix up the roof. They'll have the time for it, he reckons. Then Joel remembers that the Bad Boys had, in fact, bombed the clocktower not an hour before, and decides now is really not the time to mention it.

Finally: "I really can't. It's not-" Grian sighs. "I set this thing up. It can run just fine on autopilot, pretty much. If I were on the outside as an admin-" he grimaces, "...like I should be, it wouldn't be an issue. But it's like the pilot is locked inside the bathroom while the plane-" Grian stops talking.

"Crashes? While it crashes." Cleo sounds displeased. Joel starts drafting an obituary. Bdubs has clambered up from the horse pit by now and is sitting on the edge of it, nervously messing with a janky old pocket watch.

"I would really prefer not to be stuck in an airplane bathroom forever," Scar says forlornly.

"Oh for goodness' sake," Joel says. "There has to be someone on this server who can fix this. Grian can't be the first idiot who's ever done something this stupid."

"I'll take that bet," Bdubs mutters darkly. Cleo shoots him a look, and he raises both hands and scoots forward to disappear down into the horse pit again.

Cleo pinches the bridge of their nose. "Alright, let's go find out if someone else on this server has already been a bigger idiot than Grian."

(Part 1)

[tunastime]

no place for strangers

in which BigB realizes that there are a significant number of difference sbetween him and his friends, and in which BigB decides he doesn’t really care that much.

(2333 words)

A portion of the night sky, night for only a fraction of time, is blotted out by the shape of two dark, mottled-grey wings. 

He supposes he's a little jealous of that, the wings, how they shed loose feathers, how they flutter and swish and practically make no noise at all when extended. He's a bit jealous of Grian, known Watcher, much more powerful, hands twisted in the reigns of his own creation—the games. He's as much a pawn in this one as he has been in the others. But unlike BigB, he's hungry. The killing doesn't do it for him. Neither does the dying. Grian’s new—the Watchers don’t let him stay full. They chastise him for a million things and make sure he suffers, and at this point, BigB watches it happen. There isn’t much left he can do. He does less Watching and more supervising.

Maybe he's jealous of Pearl, with thin black and gold wings like a moth, ears wispy and pointed up toward the sky. The way her drooping eyes never dim, the way they both glow, silver and gold. She’s got it just as good as him, doesn’t she? Secretive and distant. Away enough to matter but not enough to cause a fuss.

But maybe he isn't. Isn't there something lurking behind his eyes when he stares at his reflection too long? Wouldn't redstone glow in his presence? Wouldn't the forest go silent and the earth hold its breath as he waited, as he watched? Wasn't there the purple remnant of where he once stood?

It doesn't matter. BigB stares up at the messy splotch that is Grian against the night sky and sighs something profound. He tried to understand him. To love him. But Grian is a widow, and everyone that loves him suffers the same. They just have, actually. Joel and Jimmy. And now Grian perches and watches and BigB watches him and there's a muted sting behind his eyes as he does. Grian doesn't turn. But his wings flutter.

"Good to know that some things stay the same," BigB says, cutting through the warm night air with a voice he hopes matches it, but he isn't sure. Grian hums, mostly questioning. His feet stay planted. BigB starts to scale the wall.

"Don't know what you mean by that," Grian questions. He turns his head slightly to the sound of BigB climbing the ladder to the top, but doesn't do much else.

"You," BigB huffs. He rests his hands on the top of the wall, pulling himself over the flat edge. He swings his legs over, and his heels bounce against the cobbles. It’s an uncomfortable resting place. He watches Grian shift from foot to foot, and wonders if the same cobbles are digging into the soles of his feet, the same way they dig into the underside of BigB’s thighs. 

“Me?” Grian parrots. His eyes flick over to BigB, quick, but not so quick that BigB doesn’t catch the nervous glint of them. He rests back on his hands. The rough rock presses back against his palms, cold and uncomfortable. Luckily, the air around them is thick with humidity, heat, and a faint metallic smell. And the hum of cicadas. Their drone blocks out everything else, except the words bouncing around in BigB’s head.

"You're still no good at the emotions thing, are you?" he asks. He tilts his head as he says it, cocking it to one side as he looks over at Grian. He watches Grian’s nose wrinkle, the beginnings of his teeth baring back, as if he could bite and make anything more than an impression. BigB almost laughs. He gets it, he really does. 

The thing about Grian is that he’s not an easy shape to love, and an even less easy shape to hold. Like every bird, he fears being caged, and arms are no more than a cage, and someone holding his heart is no more than a cage, so he can’t sit still, even now, even on the edge of a wall. BigB watches his wings twitch. They’re gorgeous, but there’s a sharp line through them where the flight feathers should be. They’re not much more than deadweight. Anyway—where was he? Right. Grian. Impossible to love, impossible to hold. A widow, of sorts. The words tumbled out of Scar’s mouth one time, scorned and scoffed. Grian was no more than a widow mourning the first partner he took—Scar—trying to find someone who fit the hole but wasn’t him. 

But Grian kills. Who could say it was even his fault? Scar. BigB. Jimmy. Joel. Everyone he tries to love, in any shape, dies. He’s forced to starve. He’s forced to feed a higher cause. 

BigB can see Grian’s calloused fingers from here, at least the pale shape of them, balanced over his shins as his wrists drape over the sharp edge of his knee. He studies him in the dim lighting before he looks away, feeling something curdling in his stomach. BigB knows his time is short. Unremarkable. And normally forgotten. That doesn’t really bother him, though. He knows the importance of his impression, here. But he wants to tug this string, just once. He knows where all the strings lie—even his own, unfortunately. Maybe that’s the one thing he knows better than Grian—he’s aware of the outcome before it happens. He doesn’t have to stop to wonder what his odds are.

“That’s not nice,” Grian begins, and BigB shrugs. The cicadas stop singing. BigB’s voice cuts through the night like a knife, cool and even.

“I’m just being honest,” he starts. He watches the stone of the clock tower for movement, eyes flicking over the shape in the dark. “Jimmy and Joel just died and you’re already trying to replace them.”

Grian huffs. He sounds indignant, almost twinged with hurt. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

BigB raises his eyebrows, tilts his head again. Grian catches his eye for a second longer, this time, and his eyes are dark and wide. His jaw is tightly set. He looks like, at any moment, his lips might curl back and expose blunt, powerless teeth. BigB wonders what that might feel like—surely unpleasant, to have someone bite down on you with the intent to do harm, but he wonders if Grian could kill him on purpose and if it might rid him of anything. It might make the smell of guilt worse, actually.

“I think you do,” BigB says.

“Enlighten me, then,” Grian grits out, teeth closing around the words with a sharp snap. “Since I can feel you trying to figure me out.”

“Not me,” BigB says. Grian shuts his eyes, pinching his eyebrows together, before he twists his body around, fast enough to hear the slight pop of his spine as it cracks. BigB can feel the hair rise on the back of his neck as Grian searches, eyes scorching the earth for any sign of—

“Pearl—”

BigB hums, but it sounds more like a laugh.

“You’re just no good at it,” he says after a beat. Grian resettles, but his wings stay fluffed, body tight with tension. He radiates energy like a coil tightly wound. BigB can feel it seeping into the seams of him, and shifts as it prickles over his skin. He leans back on his hands a little further, hoping they can carry the weight. He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know what that means, BigB,” Grian sighs, short and through his nose. His hair blows into his face. “What d’you—” He sighs again, cutting himself off with a wave of his hand. 

He seems annoyed about the whole prospect of their conversation. It’s not unfounded, honestly. BigB did just climb up the ladder and start unpacking years worth of issues in front of Grian, trying to dig at the soft, bleeding center of the thing. He’s pretty sure Joel’s blood is still under his fingernails. He’s not sure if he saw it all happen. He definitely didn’t see Jimmy’s body hit the ground. Lucky, that. He’s not sure if he could watch people so used to flying be unable to use their wings when they needed it most. He thinks he might’ve seen Joel in the moment before Jimmy disappeared—Joel who was never one to let fear and grief trump anger. Or maybe the anger was his grief, like it was Tango’s, or Scar’s. Not that he saw much of that, either. Stories, mostly, things that get passed around a dim campfire at the end of the world. 

Jimmy was probably just a near-lifeless body in Joel's arms, right before he was gone. Poor guy. Grian didn’t even get to them in time before it was too late. He was too late for Joel, too. Joel was ash before Grian could even make his mouth into the shape of his name. BigB wonders if they got a grave. Grian was good at building graves, so he’d like to think so. It only made sense. Grian seemed to get over it faster when there was something to mourn to.

BigB takes a second to think, pressing his tongue between his back teeth. The air is quiet around them, still, like it, too, holds the tension in Grian’s spine, like it might be twisting it taut. 

“You just don’t understand how it works, you’re not good at grieving, and you’re not good at the whole grief thing, either.” BigB shrugs again, shoulders lifting just enough to be visible. He’s still not watching Grian, as much as Grian isn’t watching him, aside from the hum of them both, something wholly inhuman brushing shoulders with something that craved humanity more than anything else in the world, but could never figure out how to get it. 

“You don’t get it.”

“I do.” Grian starts.

“No, you don’t,” BigB turns toward him, finally, furrowing his eyebrows. “Grian, dude—you’re faking this whole human thing to begin with, and it’s not working—”

Grian whips around to face him. His face is sharp, jaw set. “Stop—”

BigB waves him off. His voice, unlike Grian’s, stays level, twinged with annoyance, rather than anything else. 

“You don’t understand what you should be guilty of, but you’re feeling it like it’s like…rotting something inside of you but you still don’t know why, and jeez, Grian, you’ve made it a crime for you to feel something.” 

He sighs, waving his hands around as if it could help bolster his point any further. He feels something ache in his chest—something aching to explain it in a way that Grian could understand, in a way that he wouldn’t just fight. Grian visibly bristles, feathers on his ears rising, the red and yellow tips of them stark in the night, even in the lantern light. 

“You’re on this planet too, you know, you’re allowed to let yourself feel. Messy and gross as it is. I mean, they died, man, is that anything?”

Grian swallows. BigB doesn’t watch the bob of his throat, or the way his feathers are still raised in alert as he jerks his head away. He follows Grian’s line of sight down the clock tower, where Bdubs and Cleo are talking. Bdubs looks over after a second. BigB feels a cold line run down his spine, but refuses to break his gaze. There are no sounds now, not even of his own heartbeat.

“No,” Grian manages.

BigB relaxes. Something of an easy smile finds his face, softening the shape of his eyes and the line of his jaw. He shakes his head. Grian shies away from him, but his feathers lower, and his posture sinks. He finally lowers himself to a sit, throwing his legs over the side of the wall. His hands cradle in his lap, and he stares into the palms of them. BigB remembers them as calloused, cold, and hard to hold properly. But he’s sure someone out there enjoys them. 

“You’re a really bad liar,” he laughs. Grian shakes his head. His voice is much quieter as he speaks.

“I don’t care. I don’t care.”

BigB turns his head. There, for a short moment in the moonlight, he watches the shape of Grian’s left shoulder turned toward him. They rise and fall as he breathes, shudder when he sniffs and sighs, move as he shifts his body, likely feeling those same, cold, hard cobbles pressing into the soft back of his legs. He sees where the back meets the wing, where the wing relaxes down and where feathers brush stone. He sees where they rest against the cobbles, half held and half upright, as if he wants to be ready to leap at a moment's notice. As if he doesn’t know that he, too, would die on impact. BigB reaches out, settling one soft hand on his shoulder. Grian tenses, but does not jump. 

“‘S alright, buddy.”

Instead, Grian deflates. BigB runs his thumb over the side of his shoulder, a friendly, comforting thing, as Grian leans back to his hand. His posture sinks to the touch, muscles weakening, wings folding back and down. Every molecule of his body, and BigB almost feels this in the air, grows heavy and tired at the subtle comfort. Grian draws what he can from it before he speaks. His voice sounds even, now, and tired.

“I miss them…” He starts. He swallows. “I missed you, too. I missed Scar.”

BigB sighs, giving Grian’s shoulder a long, warm squeeze before he lets go. Grian sways but catches himself on his hands. His body stays curved into itself. 

“I know,” BigB says. “But you’ll never be over it if you never break that cycle.”

Grian shrugs. The steel starts to slip back into his voice, firm. 

“I will when I win.”

BigB smiles.

“Maybe,” he says. He’s not sure he can see the end of that string yet, but the results don’t exactly look promising. “Who knows what’s in the cards?”

[canarydarity]

Tango hadn’t quite yet wrapped his mind around the fact that he was here. Having done it now three times before didn’t make starting over any easier, didn’t make the game any less terrifying. He tried not to let his eyes stray to the timer perpetually counting down in the corner of his vision, but it didn’t matter—each beat of his heart was a second, and his pulse was keeping time even if he was trying not to. 

Tango thrust the shovel back into the ground, the dirt on their island moist and clumpy instead of crumbling and dry, and resolutely ignored the reminder that this game—like all the others—would likely end with him fertilizing this very ground. He wasn’t really expecting to win. Tango had no idea why it was that he was here. 

“Oh, it’s Joel!” Etho called from the other end of their small patch of land, and the call sounded like a warning. At first, Tango was thinking about how you almost wouldn’t believe the two had been soulmates last time, but as he thought about it, he changed his mind; what is a soulmate but he who knows and understands you best of all? If Etho’s call was a warning, it was because he knew Joel demanded one. 

He hadn’t looked up, but the waves made by Etho’s boat washed further up the shore toward the ground Tango was terraforming, and he shuffled a step or two to the side in distaste. He hated the water; it always made him feel…extinguished. 

“I can’t believe you’ve replaced me with a cow, Etho!” 

Tango snorted. No offense to Joel, but he could. It was probably more telling of Etho though than his spurned ex-soulmate. 

Tango pulled his shovel out of the ground, tossing its contents off to the side. He primed to dig into the ground again.

“Hey guys, are you setting up here, by the way?”

He stopped. Tango knew that voice—he spent weeks obtaining fluency in its passive anxiety, in the undertones of worry about doing something wrong. 

He had no trouble finding Jimmy; Tango simply looked up and he was there, one hand in his pocket, the other scratching the back of his neck like he did when he was feeling unsure. His face was scrunched in a kind of wince and his eyes shifty, but this too was not unusual for him. The familiarity hit Tango like a truck—no, that wasn’t enough. What hit harder than a truck?

He hadn’t seen Jimmy since…

Since when? Since they’d watched Scar get eaten by zombies? Since they got separated in the commotion of having succeeded in leveling the playing field of green names and changing targets? Since whatever last brush of shoulders or arms or hands occurred before he fell to his knees, alone, on the doorstep of the boat Joel and Etho argued over now only a few feet away?

“Cause…we’re the bad boys and we were gonna set up here.” Jimmy finished awkwardly, trying to sound firm and falling flat; the phrase came off like it was said by a kid who was threatening you with a toy sword but acting like he could use it to deal you some good damage. 

Tango raised an eyebrow; it took him only a second later to realize that he was smiling (he wondered when that had started). Bad boys, huh? One guess as to where that name came from—but Tango couldn’t let his gaze stray from Jimmy to lay eyes on Joel; he heard him and Etho bickering in the background, but it breached not a thought in Tango’s mind. 

He wanted to laugh, or—no, he wanted to play scared; he wanted to double over and fake being in pain like anyone should do when pretend stabbed by a kid playing with things he couldn’t understand. 

But Joel was still yelling and Etho was still taunting, and the division between this little island and the hill across the water was clear. Tango dropped his shovel and wiped his hands off on his pants so he didn’t do anything stupider.

Skizz and Impulse giggled and laughed about Jimmy’s claims, but Jimmy seemed none the wiser; stopping to place a furnace and quickly cook some steak; glancing over his shoulder, glancing at those on the island, glancing at Joel. These games always made him jumpy, Tango knew that. 

Tango hadn’t looked away, which was how he knew Jimmy’s gaze didn’t land on him once. 

It was Etho that caught his attention at last. “No! Don’t you dare…”

Tango scrambled up the slant he was working on to see Etho on the other side rowing away, cow in tow, and Joel smirking on the edge of the sand, arrow notched. There was not a second more of observation before he let it fly and it made its mark. 

Tango whined at the loss; of course, Joel had no way of knowing just how hard a time they’d been having with their bovine friends, but even if he had, he’d likely just have laughed. 

“YES!” he heard Joel scream, jumping around in the sand; a sore-winner he definitely was. 

Tango was already skidding down the side of their island and into the water when Joel shouted again, “Jimmy, run!”

He heard his soulmates cry of “wait wait wait!” but wasted no glance backward as he climbed up onto the mainland, shaking water out of his hair as he did; steam evaporated off of him as droplets flew. 

“Hey!” Tango shouted after Joel, though he clearly only had eyes for antagonizing Etho. “that took us 30 minutes to find!” 

Tango was knocked over from behind before he got the chance to see if he’d managed to get through to Joel at all (this was probably for the best, as he definitely hadn’t). He felt the fine gravel of the sand dig into his palms where he caught himself, but he barely registered the tick of damage from the shove and subsequent collapse; not like he felt it from the realization of who it had come from.  

Eyes wide and blinking like he couldn’t believe what it was he’d done either, there was Jimmy, only a few feet away. His chest heaved from the running, but he was otherwise still, half turned towards where Tango kneeled on the ground, half turned towards where Joel was running off into the woods. 

Neither of them looked away. Tango felt his health regenerate, but he didn’t think he believed it. Sure, he was at full hearts, but then why did he feel like the sand beneath him was shifting and making space for his burial; had Grian coded in some sort of quicksand?

Tango used their hesitation to process the fact that this hit hadn’t harmed them both; he knew logically that it shouldn’t have, but the experience was something else entirely; the feeling somewhat akin to grief.

“C'mon, Jimmy,” fell out of the trees to which Jimmy’s back was turned, and Tango watched him tense as the sound reached them both. Also behind him and to their right was Etho climbing out of his boat, feet touching down on the shore, path ahead pre-determined. 

Jimmy broke their eye contact only to close his eyes, and when he opened them again he swallowed and said “sorry, rancher,” feet beginning to backpedal. It was quiet enough that Tango could believe it just for him, and that implication of not wanting anyone else to hear shoveled the last of the dirt on Tango’s corpse, surely, it had to. Jimmy didn’t turn away—not until he stumbled and absolutely had to, not being able to risk the danger of walking backwards anymore. 

Tango rubbed his hands on his pants, feeling the sand and stray pebbles peel themselves from the indents they’d created in his palms upon impact, scrambling to his feet to follow. He bent only to scoop up a rock on his way. 

Even just inside the first row of trees, the forest was a different place entirely. The beach fell away, but the scene change didn’t do anything to turn the tide of their circumstances. Tango stopped just behind Etho, caught up just in time to hear:

“Everything precious you have in this series, Joel, it’ll be taken from you, you understand?”

Joel didn’t look concerned. He was still smirking, still playing up the part of the bitter ex (and seemingly getting too much enjoyment out of it, for Tango's liking). It was just like Joel to enjoy the breakup more than the relationship. 

Jimmy was further away, half behind Joel and resolutely avoiding looking in Tango’s direction; he was always hiding behind things he was taller than. Tango remembered when Jimmy’s go-to source of cover used to be him. 

Joel just rolled his eyes, a scoff his only response. He placed both hands on Jimmy and pushed, jumpstarting him into moving. Tango somehow managed to resist the urge to narrow his eyes further. He dropped the rock he was holding—he felt stupid for grabbing it now; it wasn’t like he was going to throw it; it wasn’t like he was capable. 

Bad boys they’d said; the Jimmy that Tango remembered had been kind. Maybe he had to rework his definition of a soulmate; he didn’t think he wanted to. 

Etho turned too, having done what he’d intended. Tango felt more so than saw Etho pat him on the shoulder as he passed. He didn’t need to look at his timer to know that not even 3 minutes had passed. 

“Yeah, I’m with you, Etho,” he said—but he was still staring off into the trees. He watched until Joel and Jimmy had woven too far into them to be visible anymore, but Jimmy didn’t turn back once.

[blocksruinedme]

Top 5 favorite fics (either ones you've written or ones you've read)

Going with mine, cause the other is way too hard. I'm not going to rank them, just top 5

"Stay?" - Joel/Jimmy, empires s2. 2.6k. Very straightforward, Jimmy and Joel have been hooking up, Joel always leaves after, Jimmy asks him to stay. Joel thinks about it! Joel POV

whatcha gonna do? - Bad Boys ship, Limited Life. It's not done, but you could end it where it is, which is "fade to black". Joel and Grian are trying to seduce Jimmy and he's very clueless. He gets into a bit of a negative headspace as he goes farther into his denial that they could want him. Ch 2 will be just... very very spicy. I have several sequels planned out but SO MANY WIPS so we'll see. It's currently 7k and ch 2 might bring it to like... 18k. IDK. I think ch2 is really good. Jimmy POV.

with the time they had - Flower Husbands, Bad Boys ship, Limited Life, no on screen sex but it's a little spicy. Note: Many meta things are left unresolved, but the core emotional arc comes to a conclusion, for that night. The premise: Every time one of the the traffic life games get set up, no one remembers. This time something is different, and Jimmy keep getting to the edge of remembering things, and sliding off. Grian is also going through a time! "Joel is just some guy". Along comes Scott, who stumbled into remembering, and really wants Jimmy to remember. I cried writing the ending. 12k, Jimmy POV.

Damn I I can't pick between my two smalletho week fics, i'll do both quickly. Call Off Your Ghost - Joel is obsessed with Etho, who does not realize this, and he's going crazy - and he's insanely jealous of Bdubs. Set after DL but written before limited life. It's the first fic I've written that I might not read based on what I saw, but I would like it. Joel POV. Blame it on the Moonlight  - Joel and Etho are Red, the end is in sight, and Joel really wants to kiss Etho. 1.4k, shortest thing I'm written that's longer than 100 words. Joel POV.

I Hope You Have The Time of My Life - Bad Boys ship, limited life, set after episode 6. RED LIVES RED LIVES RED LIVES. I'm really into all the possibilities of Red Lives. Grian will let Jimmy kill him for time, but only if they make it gay. It's Joel POV, a ton of thinking about the dynamics of all of them, especially Grian/Jimmy. He knows he is unexpectedly the glue of the team, which is confusing but it's worth the effort to keep the boys together. Chapter 2 keeps getting more complicated but also better. I hope to have it out soon! chapter one is 4.3k and chapter 2 is, idk. less than 10k, i hope.

....it's all joel pov and jimmy pov, huh. Very well. "with the time they had" was originally going to be scott pov and much much simpler, but doing jimmy pov and his struggles to remember and confusion was much more interesting than a lot of "scott saw jimmy slipping away again".

[birrdies]

deadweight

⚠️ limited life session 2 spoilers

It used to be easy— letting time slip by with a pickaxe in hand, hidden in the cave’s lowlight until his redstone-stained fingers ached and his thoughts weren’t so loud. Mind-numbing simplicity: hoist, dig, repeat. Such peace is hard to come by in these sorts of games; Etho’s been in plenty of them to know that fact well enough. But the caves are always a good place to breathe, to let the torchlight wash his thoughts away and keep his idle hands occupied. 

That is, until this game. The ruthless kind. A clock ticks away on Etho’s wrist, wrapped around the skin like a shackle far heavier than his soulbond had been. This is a death sentence, a promise of what waits for him at the end of the line. No matter what he does. Every second counts. 

There’s no space left for mindless hours wasting away in caves, hoarding supplies he might not survive long enough to even need. There’s no room for excess, for just-in-case. Instead, there’s the frantic scraping together of whatever he needs that minute, that day. Because nothing else is promised. 

Seconds might not matter much now. But when his timer inevitably fades to red— when he watches the final minutes slip away from him like sand in the choke of an hourglass— they’ll matter then, won't they? When it comes to a choice: kill or die (both equally promised, only leaving him to wonder when). Etho knows the choice he will make. 

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s killed to stay alive. 

So Etho saves seconds where he can. When he mines, he works efficiently. Systematically. He can nearly forget the seconds ticking away on his wrist when he counts the pieces of coal, measures the raw iron in his hands, and retraces cobble paths. The shortest routes for the most precious resources. Low risk, high reward. He knows the game; he can play it well. 

By the time his bags are full and his pickaxe is nearly worn through, he hears it.  A voice beneath his feet, buried deep in the stone. Quiet enough that Etho thinks he might have imagined it. He knows he should turn away from it. Gathering whatever else he can and returning to the surface to work on his farms takes priority— he’s got a team counting on him, after all— but he can’t. Not just yet. Not when he recognizes the voice. Etho glances at the skin of his inner wrist. The green numbers glare back at him. A silent taunt. 

20:44:05

It seems like a long time, doesn’t it? But long enough to indulge himself? Etho’s never been particularly skilled in the way of discipline. He rolls his sleeve down to cover the timer. As if he can ignore the ticking. 

The stone gives away under his pickaxe. He digs straight down (a risky choice but the fastest one), and finds himself within closer earshot. The mutterings continue, frantic and familiar in a way that infects Etho’s heart like homesickness. It smells of campfire and tastes like melted snow on his tongue. It feels like the end of the world, a valley cutting him in two like a false promise. Worn pickaxe clutched between weary hands, Etho digs further down. 

“Talking to yourself, Bdubs?” he teases, hoping his voice carries through the several feet of stone. 

A few more blocks down. “Wha— Hello?!”

Etho chuckles, despite himself. He forgets how easy, despite everything, small joys like this are to find in these games. All he needed was to know where to look for them. It shouldn’t have surprised him that he could find them hidden in Bdubs’ chaos. 

His descent feels more desperate now. Almost like it’s been four years instead of four hours. Like Etho’s a wilted flower crookedly twisting its stem and leaves to find the barest glimpse of sunlight. He needs to close the gap, to hear Bdubs clearly without any obstructions.

“Are you having a chill moment just now? All alone?” Etho taunts. It’s a practiced dance, one it seems neither of them has forgotten the steps to. An old game. I’m not the boogeyman, I’m just convincing people I am. Etho tugs suspicion right, Bdubs feigns and attacks left. 

Time hasn’t dulled the fun of this. Not nearly.

Only a single layer of stone separates them now. A playful spark lights Etho’s fingertips as he breaks through the final sheet of stone. He long thought it dead and buried, lost somewhere in the ashes of their snow castle. But Bdubs has a knack for not staying dead and an even larger penchant for resurrecting ghosts of pasts that Etho’d rather forget. 

“Yes, yes I am,” Bdubs calls back. Etho doesn’t have to see him to know he’s smiling. Etho can hear it clear as day; maybe he’s just as glad to hear Etho’s voice.

A mess of pebbles and dust trickles from the ceiling as Etho breaks through the last of the stone. This vantage provides a fantastic view of the top of Bdubs’ head as he whips it back and forth, searching for the source of Etho’s voice in the small hole he somehow dug himself into. Etho grins behind the mask and leans into the gap. 

“I need an easy boogeyman kill,” Etho says, hooking the edge of his pickaxe over the lip of the stone. “Come up here real quick!”

Bdubs flinches as the dust rains over his head, across his shoulders. He cranes his neck back, and for a fantastic second their eyes meet. A wicked grin spreads across Bdubs’ face, his perpetually bruised eye squinting. “You need an easy boogey kill?” He parrots back at him.

“It doesn’t get any easier than you,” Etho says. They both know it’s a lie. After all, Etho hadn’t been able to do it once. Every man Etho had killed under the guiding hand of the curse had been for Bdubs. Bartering for another life, another chance. More time. 

A reluctant sentinel, Etho’s not sure if he could hurt Bdubs even if he wanted to. The clock ticks away around his wrist.

“Oh really?” Bdubs swipes his hair back, shaking out the rubble and dust. From a sheath at his hip, he pulls free a weapon of his own, a freshly-crafted diamond sword. And Bdubs, its wielder, eager to break it in. “And now I’ve armed myself!”

Another step of their dance. Etho pushes, Bdubs pushes back harder. Promises of exile only to draw a line down the middle. Weapons drawn with crossed fingers hidden behind unyielding backs. It’s easy— too easy— to step back into the beat of it. Like they never even stopped.

“You find anything yet?”

“Oh yes. Diamonds!” Bdubs brandishes his blade in an arc of pride. The torchlight shimmers in the fresh glint of the blade, the sharp edge impossibly bright. 

“Y’know, I cleared out this whole ravine by myself,” Etho says. “I’m a hero.”

It’s a test. Another harsh push waiting for the equal and opposite pull on the other end of a soulmate link with no connection. He waits for Bdubs to gloat, to one-up him, to erupt in an outburst that would waste away the seconds. Because if he has to lose time, he thinks he’d like to lose it like this: at Bdubs’ mercy.  It’s something familiar. Like coming home to a place they thought they said goodbye to permanently. 

But Bdubs doesn’t give it to him. Part of Etho expected this too; maybe he didn’t deserve it. Instead, Bdubs offers only a tense silence as he replaces his sword with a pickaxe and starts digging himself free. He carves out a staircase; Etho steps back and lets him. 

A step below, Bdubs pauses. His pickaxe hangs lazily at his side, but his grip is anything but casual, his knuckles white around the worn wood. Etho stands over him, waiting and measuring his disappointment and trying to divide it into parts that are easier to swallow. 

Etho knows he’s made a mistake when Bdubs’ silence stretches far too long, when his face turns up and anger bleeds into his eyes, and the beating of the seconds slipping past returns, worse than the hammering of Etho’s heart. 

It’s impossible to ignore everything. A new game doesn’t heal old wounds. It only scars them over. And neither of them is strong enough to admit they’re still aching. 

“I heard what you guys said about me,” Bdubs finally says, and the admission is quiet. Too quiet, for a man like Bdubs. Even in the short space between them, Etho looking down on him from the top of a narrow cobblestone staircase, Bdubs sounds miles away.

It’s like standing on either side of that valley: Etho on top of the hill, Bdubs with his ankles in the water. Too much to say and too little time to say it.

“Oh, no.” His heart sinks. “... Did you?” Bdubs nods once. “I heard.”

“I… I feel bad,” Etho admits, fingers tapping an uncertain beat on his pickaxe. These are precious seconds and Etho’s wasting them this way: grasping at straws, so desperately afraid to say goodbye to something he already lost. There’s no sand left to slip through his fingers. Yet here he is, grappling.

Bdubs scoffs, using his pickaxe as leverage to climb the stairs. “Everybody— Everybody on the server is talking about it. Bdubs is the dead weight.” 

He closes the gap one step at a time, slow but uncalculated. As if he’s staggering forward with no real place to go, only to seek out the first available target. 

Etho turns away, digging the tip of his pick into a vein of coal to his left. Anything to turn his gaze from Bdubs, to numb the guilt starting to burn in his belly. Collect resources, divert attention. Bury it. It can’t hurt him that way. “Maybe so—” “Wow! Wow! I see how it is!” Bdubs exclaims, hurt dripping from his voice. It’s funny how Etho much prefers the venom that used to soak his words. Even when it was directed at him. Anything is better than this. 

He steps away, abandoning the coal in a heap. His back strikes the stone wall behind him.  There are far more dangerous things behind him than Bdubs. Creepers, skeletons, anything ready to sink its teeth into Etho’s unsuspecting back and cut his time even shorter. Bdubs can’t hurt him— he won’t. Not when their timers are green. 

Etho tries not to think that’s the only reason keeping Bdubs’ sword from finding a home in his chest. 

But that’s how they’ve always been, isn’t it? Push and pull. Just as Bdubs’ played his role, baring his teeth and ready to snap, so had Etho. Measuring his seconds as if they were precious currency. Measuring Bdubs’ worth in how much time he occupies, what he can provide, and his level of risk. Every move and every relationship a calculated move. Not just in this game either. 

He wouldn’t give Bdubs a life— couldn’t. Not without stipulations. Kill another red name, he asked of him. Too large a price, one they both had paid for, and one Etho still hasn’t quite managed to pay off in full. He wants it to be about Bdubs. About this dance they’ve crafted, the distance they keep putting between themselves only for their own incapability of staying away to bring them back at each other’s feet again. Like sinners rushing to confessional booths. 

He wishes it could be different. He wishes they could be different people, in a different place— that this is just a cave and two people occupying it without the ghosts of what-ifs clinging to their backs.

But they aren’t. 

Even with Etho’s back to the empty cave behind them, Bdubs’ anger draining and his usual bravado filling him up in its place, Etho knows the outcome will be the same in the end. Because it isn’t about Bdubs. It’s about survival. Etho’s not so deluded to think he’ll have a change of heart in this game. Not when their time is so sparse. Precious. 

And at the end of the day, Etho will always choose survival.

Bdubs is the first to leave the ravine. Etho, cloaked in its silent darkness, pulls up his sleeve again and glimpses at the time he has left.

20:40:32

Was Bdubs worth four minutes?

[zabo-writes]

Bad Boys Fae Bakery Part 1

Tango was feeling tired and sluggish and overall terrible. He was far due for some caffeine. After all, it was only 10 AM. He’d been up all night doing redstone, and he couldn’t very well stop when he was on a roll! This seemed like a good time to check out that cafe Etho was always going on about…

What was it he had said again? “It’s a pretty good cafe, but watch out for those baristas! There’s something going on with them, if you know what I mean.”

Tango nodded solemnly at the cheeky vision of Etho that appeared in his brain.

The “Bad Boys Bakery and Cafe” was quite a sight. The sign appeared to be hand-painted. In a rush. By a blindfolded second grader. Respectfully. The inside was warm and inviting, decorated with some nice lanterns. It seemed nice ish. Tango wasn’t really a decorations type of guy. There was an Etho seated in the corner, Tango gave him a wave.

“Welcome to the Bad Boys Bakery! We’re the Bad Boys, and we make a mean cup of coffee, or whatever you fancy!”

The barista at the counter had fluffy blonde hair and big brown puppy dog eyes. He wore a black leather jacket and dark sunglasses — that was certainly a choice, but Tango thought he pulled it off pretty well. He was pretty cute. Maybe that’s what Etho had been talking about, the thing going on with the baristas. Too charming for their own good.

“Hey there! I’d like whatever has the most caffeine, please and thank you.”

The barista— “Jimmy” according to his name tag— laughed and pulled out a cup and a sharpie. “Okay, okay! I’m picking up what you’re putting down. How’s an iced coffee?”

Tango pretended to think for a second, “Hmmm, I suppose! You’re the expert.”

Jimmy gave him a shy smile. Now, maybe it was the 18 hour fugue state talking, but Tango was starting to think this guy was into him.

“You got it, boss! And can I get your name?”

Already on a name basis? Total score! Or not. Maybe that’s just how coffee shops worked. “The name’s Tango!” He paused, winked, and continued, “of the ‘Tek’ variety.”

The barista looked far too ecstatic for someone taking a name for a coffee order. “TangoTek? Is your name TangoTek?!”

Tango laughed. Maybe his sleep-deprived charms were more effective than he’d thought. “You got it, buddy!”

“Oh my god. Yes! Okay! Thank you. Thank you so much, you have no idea. Uh, your coffee will be right out.” The barista practically ran into the back of the cafe shouting, “JOEL, GRIAN!! You aren’t going to believe this, but it WORKED!”

Tango shook his head fondly, and walked over to sit across from Etho.

“Did you see that, dude? That barista was totally into me.”

Etho peeked an eye out from between his fingers— his face had been buried in his hands for some reason. “I dunno Tango, but I think you’ve definitely made his day.” Etho responded, holding back breathy laughter.

“What? What do you mean? Why are you laughing at me, huh?!”

Etho smiled his stupid smug grin that he did when he knows something you don’t. Jerk. “Oh nothing, nothing! You’ve just given me some… interesting data for a theory I’m testing.”

Tango groaned, “Ugh, fine, fine, spare me! ! I can barely understand your wack job social experiments when my brain isn’t spaghetti.”

After a few minutes, Jimmy called his name at the counter.

“There you go! Uh, just a sec though, I have a bit of a request for you Mr. Tan-go-tek, is that okay?” Jimmy seemed nervous. No clue why, though. Also, Tango liked the way he said his name. Made him feel like he’d do anything in the world for this guy he just met.

“For you? Anything. What’s up?”

Jimmy looked at him intently, “when you come back some time, do you think you bring some wheat seeds? I know it’s a bit of weird ask, but it would help me out enormously.”

Tango grinned reassuringly. Wheat seeds. That was easy! He could do that next time he stopped by, no problem. “You got it! A stack of wheat seeds, coming right up.”

He tried to wave at Etho as he left, but Etho was currently shaking from a fit of uncontrollable laughter. What a weirdo. Tango picked up some wheat seeds on the way home.

[gammagoop]

Random Acts of Kindness

Small Limited Life fic I wrote for fun ^_^

Featuring Grian and Etho, with other members mentioned (do not tag as ship)

Warnings: emetophobia, lots of anxiety, and talks of death

Words: 1,574

fic is under the cut ⬇️

“Do you want to enact the sword?”

Etho stood, above him, higher than him, in the dirt and ruins of wooden structures. They were almost unrecognizable, as if decades had rotted away the wood and weather had trampled the crops. Joel had tilled this same sweat-soaked soil just a few weeks prior.

Grian’s face lit up at this, seeming to react with real emotion for the first time since Joel had gone out. He dropped his own weapon onto the ground, not bothering to consider the danger of doing so in the tidal wave of emotion.

“YES! Yes! I want to enact the sword!” He clapped his hands together.

His world hit him like a train, like a surprise thunderstorm, his mind reeling as he grasped desperately onto this new semblance of an ally. Etho was close enough to his state. He still had Impulse, but Impulse wasn’t here.

“Oh my god!” His breath ran out of him in a huff, and he felt dizzy all of a sudden, heart pounding blood in his ears.

Etho laughed how he always did, jumping down heavily onto the dirt below and tucking his weapon— the titular sword— away as well. A sign of peace, of agreement.

Grian couldn’t help himself, he reached out and grabbed Etho’s hands, pulled them near his chest and squeezed them. Felt Etho’s blood running in his veins under his fingernails, how warm another body could be.

Etho squeezed back as if he didn’t know what to do. His eyes squinted a bit like an awkward smile.

“I— I—“ Grian was suddenly aware of a tremor through his body, making him feel nauseous. He stepped back shakily, panting, blood loud, releasing his ally’s hands.

“Oh, Etho, I— Don’t feel so good—“

He bent and lurched and vomited into the mud.

“Oh,” Etho said, surprised, unsure, “Are you okay? You’re not sick, are you? You can rest if…”

Grian lifted his head “No— I—“ He heaved a bit. “I’m fine. It… happens,”

“Anxiety?”

“Yeah, that would be it wouldn’t it,”

Etho’s eyes softened, and he fumbled through his inventory for a minute. He pulled out a flask of water, and outstretched an arm to offer it to Grian.

“Drink this, I filled it up with clean water around 30 minutes ago,”

Grian already had water, he thought, but took it anyway. He stumbled over to the end of the bridge, where the wood was, and sat down among the upturned roots of potatoes, legs feeling too tired to hold him anymore. He drank about a third of the flask in two large swigs, just to get the acrid taste out. Etho sat down next to him, more smoothly, and put a hand on his back.

“Don’t go too fast,” He warned.

Grian panted heavily. “Right, yeah, don’t wanna barf again,”

“Mhm…”

They sat like that for a minute. It was nighttime, the sky cloudy enough to obscure the moon.

Grian caught himself expecting to hear the footsteps of Skizz on Skynet below, or the shouting from the clockers, or an explosion somewhere, or Jimmy and Joel running back to the mansion with their hair sticking out and damp from sweat, a bit bloodied, Jimmy stumbling a bit, and looking for Grian.

But it was quieter than it ever had been, trees rustling in waves against the wind.

“…Do you miss your teammates?”

Etho asked, as if it wasn’t obvious. Grian laughed dryly.

“What gave you that idea?”

A pause.

“I think we all do,” Etho responded, unhelpfully.

“You still have Impulse,” Grian pointed out, “Pearl still has BigB and BigB has Pearl. Scott and Martyn are probably going to make it to the very end together— and the Clockers can all be a happy family together in the sky,”

He looked up, as if to see them there. They might be watching, he supposed. He wouldn’t put it past them— out of everyone left on the server, they probably wanted to look down on Grian and Etho the most. He wondered if Jimmy and Joel were watching too. He wondered if they were even still floating around this world, or if they’d long since moved on. It made him feel dizzy again so he tried not to wonder too much.

“Yeah…”

The air was stiff between them. Grian pulled his knees in to sit criss-cross. Etho seemed to be listening to the sounds of the night, the shuffling of the living things below. It was always hard for Grian to tell what Etho was thinking, and he figured that must be the case for everyone. Maybe that’s why Scar was afraid of him.

Grian wasn’t afraid of Etho, not really. He wasn’t any more afraid of Etho than he was of Tango or Martyn or anyone else on the server. But he did feel squirmy around him, like he wasn’t meant to be there. He felt like he had to prove himself to even stand in proximity to Etho— but Etho didn’t seem to want that. There was nuance in the way the other man tapped his pinkie finger against his knee. Maybe he wasn’t coming up with some mastermind scheme to reinvent the and-gate — maybe he was just trying to think of what to say.

Joel had been paired with Etho in the time prior to this one. Random chance, of course, but they’d seem to hit it off quite well. Joel was just better with people than Grian was— he was more casual, if he made a mistake he brushed it off and kept rolling forward. Maybe there was something to the whole positive self-talk thing.

Confidence. Grian recalled it now, Jimmy telling him about the encounter he and Joel had had with Skizz. The affirmations, Grian remembered his own well.

Skizz had hit the nail on the head with each one of them, probably the whole server if he had to guess. Joel was confident, and Jimmy was quick, and Grian was a leader, and Grian was alone. And Grian was alone. And his Jimmy and Joel were dead. Grian was alone.

Grian let out a sudden sob, and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses.

“You haven’t really been alone before,” Etho murmured.

For all his generic comments before, Grian felt like Etho had looked right into his soul for that one.

“Guess I haven’t” Grian mumbled back.

Etho didn’t say anything for a bit as Grian cried, tears puffing up his eyes and cheeks, not really caring anymore about trying to quiet himself.

“I— I just,” his voice trembled, “I don’t know what to do with myself,”

He was snotty and red-faced now. He removed his glasses, “Can you hold these?” He handed them to Etho, who obliged, and pressed his palms to his wet eyes.

He sniffed, and coughed a bit.

“Etho, honestly I don’t know what I would have done if you didn’t remind me of this. I could’ve gone out— I would’ve gone out,”

“I don’t know, you’re pretty good at surviving,”

“No, like—“ Grian squeezed his hands into fists, feeling his fingernails dig little crescent divots into his raw and worn palms. He glanced down, and then away from Etho.

“I would have gone out on purpose,”

Etho was silent for a moment.

“Oh,”

Then,

“Can I ask why?”

Grian opened his mouth, but his brain didn’t produce any words for him to say. He made a small noise in the back of his throat, and coughed.

“I don’t know…”

He said, feeling small.

“I just… I was thinking, that whole time with Pearl and BigB, like… I felt like I didn’t really… belong? Anymore? That there wasn’t anyone out there for me, anyone to go home to, like all my relationships had become temporary. Like… I don’t know. Like there wasn’t really… a point…,”

He grimaced, shifting uncomfortably.

“It sounds really bad when I put it like that,”

Etho was quiet. God, he was always so quiet. Grian almost wanted to scream to drown out the silence. He swallowed thickly, hands fidgeting and pulling tufts of weeds from the dirt, digging his fingers into the soil.

“But you didn’t,” Etho finally spoke.

“No, I didn’t get to,”

Etho hummed, idly cleaning Grian’s glasses with the hem of his shirt. Grian hadn’t realized how dirty they’d gotten, dusty and smattered with grime.

“I guess… maybe it proves something, yeah? If you had, you wouldn’t be here now. I would have never, uh, reminded you. Proves there’s… there’s always gonna be more, out there for you to find…. to…. be with,”

“This, too, shall pass,” Grian murmured like a recollection.

“Uh, yeah,” Etho said.

He raised his hand and hesitated, before gingerly patting Grian on the shoulder.

Grian looked up at him, met his eyes. He leaned into the touch, and then into a hug. His wet cheeks stained Etho’s jacket, but new tears didn’t fall.

They parted, and Grian grunted, shaking himself out. Etho gave him his glasses back, and he smiled back at him in thanks.

They each stood, Etho smooth and Grian shaky.

He thought about Joel lightheartedly teasing him for being sappy, he thought about Jimmy asking him if he was okay. He thought about Etho, standing beside him, gloved palms hoisting Grian up from his cliff, and onto solid ground again.

“Thank you,” He said, “You really didn’t have to do that,”

Etho laughed, “What else was I going to do?”

[enderwoah]

i miss our little talks

summary:

Last Life was insane. What was that group? Two Listeners, a Watcher, a vampire, and A Normal Guy, which might actually be rarer than all of those things combined at this point. The Southlands were som'ming else, man. Really inclusive group, that was. The gold stahandahard for factions in the Life series, I'd wager. Oh, gods, not again.

or: the listeners have a very normal, free-flowing conversation. title from little talks by of monsters and men.

(ao3 link)

(2,684 words)

Jimmy crosses his arms and leans back on the cool stone wall, staring Grian down through the rushing water as Martyn flicks the sweat from his brow and vanishes his pickaxe back into his inventory. He glances at Jimmy, quirks up an eyebrow, and asks, "Why're you still here, mate?"

"Making sure you don't try anything," Jimmy says simply, not a lie and not a full truth. "Joel needs to sleep and I promised him I'd stay here and make sure you don't try and steal him again."

"Ah, right," Martyn says, nodding as if he believes Jimmy—which he doesn't. Jimmy can hear it in his voice, despite him not having actually said anything. He glances over at Grian's slouched figure in his little hole in the wall, distorted through the stream used to get back to the surface, and juts a thumb back towards him. "D'ya think he can hear us?"

"Yes," comes the short, unwavering reply. "Absolutely, unwaveringly, yes."

Martyn leans towards the stream and waves. "Hey, G. Sorry about the view. And sorry about the pufferfish, I didn't mean it at all." Jimmy huffs out a half-laugh and Martyn glares at him. "It was self-defence. Joel killed me for moving you around and is green now." He pauses. "Wait, do you think he can see, too?"

Jimmy snorts. "If we think he can hear us, why would he of all people not be able to see us?"

"Fair point," Martyn admits within a laugh. "Guess that was a bit unnecessary."

"I'm sure he appreciates the apology," Jimmy says lightly, sliding down to sit on the floor of the little cavern. Martyn mirrors him, although with significantly less grace, haphazardly dropping himself onto the ground in a way that can only be painful and makes Jimmy wince.

The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable—or, at the very least, as uncomfortable as it would be with anyone else—mostly because it isn't really silence. The running water, the rising and falling of Jimmy and Martyn's chests in tandem, their beating hearts syncing up to one another as they Hear things they shouldn't necessarily be able to hear, but are now much louder due to the not-silence. Martyn's face immediately contorts into something mildly pained, fins flicking, and they make eye contact that only seems to sound like an invitation.

Martyn?

Martyn flinches despite himself, and Jimmy wraps his arms around his knees, pulling himself further away to seem less threatening. Martyn laughs humourlessly, out loud, and wrings his hands and cracks his knuckles against the floor, the sharp pops and snaps making the physical air ripple around them, sound waves lapping at Jimmy's arms like someone threw stones into a pond.

I will never get used to that. Sorry. Don't apologise. It's not your fault. Yeah, well.

The not-silence returns, and Jimmy muses upon the fact that he forgot how much he preferred this method of speaking. It isn’t necessarily reading minds, though it could be—people talk in their minds all the time, of course, but since it isn’t telegraphed, they’re closer to whispers than true dialogue, which means you can easily tune it out. And, as expected, when Listening to a non-Listener, they can’t really speak back, so it doesn't make well for conversation. He remembers vividly the day Martyn and Jimmy stepped into their Nature, and how giddy they were when they spoke and Listened to each other without really speaking—and immediately, he remembers Martyn's panic when he realised that he couldn't actually stop.

How has it been treating you? How has what? You know. I do. It's no better, really. The usual. The usual?

Martyn sighs and rolls his eyes.

Tango is losing it because he built their tower off-centre, Scar is apologising to Cleo for accidentally killing her still, Bigb and Pearl are Watching, like, Watching with a capital 'W,' and Bigb is guilty as all hell because Cleo told Pearl that he would betray her at the first chance he got and he's not done that for a game and a half, Joel is on the border of a panic attack, poor guy— Martyn. —Etho's trying to write a note to Bdubs, it's his seventh draft and he's starting to get frustrated because he wants to talk to the guy so bad but just can't get the words out, Bdubs himself is taking apart his clock and putting it back together to calm himself down now that the session is over and no-one else will be dying— Martyn. —and what else—I can get the really juicy nonsense if you'd like, I mean, Skizz is basically on the verge of tears in the TIES base 'cause he keeps dying, Impulse is panicking and trying to help because the other two are busy, and Joel's fully tipped over into that panic attack now, but he can't let anyone see it because Joel isn't meant to have those— Martyn!

Martyn winces and lets his shoulders sag, putting his face into his hands, disrupting the stray strands of golden blond hair that fall in front of his face.

Sorry. I didn't want to hear any of that. I said I'm sorry. ...it's fine. Oh, Tim— Martyn. I'm serious. ... ...

Martyn's fins twitch and Jimmy's wings slowly fluff up, defensive and mildly upset at the invasion of privacy that's been forced upon his ears, but he understands that the idea of a filter might slip away when you're constantly hearing people's thoughts and secrets passed around the server through whispers like a disease. He understands, so he smooths out his feathers and does the mental equivalent of clearing his throat, which is more of a concept than a sound that can be described.

So you really just...Hear that? All the time? When it's quiet. I'm sorry. You already knew about it. Doesn't mean I can't be sorry, man. We got these abilities at the same time, and you haven't seemed to improve even since... Since Evo. Yeah. ... Well, I don't feel too bad about it. It's not like Grian is faring any better. Judging by the...

They both turn to Grian at the same time. Martyn laughs, and Jimmy misses whether it was out loud or not.

It's weird. I feel like Grian and I are two different sides of the same coin. Or, I guess, the same side on two different coins. We're really similar, is what I'm trying to say. How so? We just have similar experiences every season. Pledging our undying loyalty to someone in 3rd Life. Killing someone we love because of the rules in Last Life. Hating our soulbond in Double Life. Neither of us has a good handle on our Natures. But he knows how to play it all off and...adapt, I guess. I just end up dying. ...huh. I guess I never noticed. It's fair. I pledge my undying loyalty to a lot of people. Ha-ha. Is Scott your pick this season? Yeah. Not to steal your man or anything, but the Mean Gills are really where it's at.

Jimmy winces, and Martyn's eyes blow wide and immediately fill with regret.

Touchy subject, sorry, mate. It's fine. It was three seasons ago. Three seasons, gods. It feels like just yesterday that I was slitting the throat of my best friend. Dying to a terrible lava game. Running away from Joel's dogs. Gods, those stupid dogs! I'd almost forgotten about them. You should get a wolf for Joel. I think he needs an emotional support animal. And before you ask, that's just my assumption, he hasn't even thought about it. That's not a bad idea. But, like, it's Joel. ...yeah? He could either love it or immediately kill it. You know him. I mean, fair. You could just ask him. Or, you know. No.

Martyn exaggeratedly groans in his mind, rolling his head back and bonking it against the stone wall.

What is your issue with Listening? I mean, it's sort of our job, isn't it? We're just Watchers that get into the nitty-gritty of things, we're technically supposed to be abusing these powers to hell and back. Yeah, and I don't want to. Why? Just don't. Come on, Jimmy. Let me pick your brain. Isn't that what you've been doing this whole time? What? No. ...I just don't like looking into people's heads. Number one, it's rude and invasive to do it on purpose, and number two, I'd rather not come across anything...unsavoury? ...oh, ew, mate, we're in the middle of a death game— Not like that! Shut up! I'm kidding. What do you mean? I mean, like, looking into someone's head and seeing that they're speaking ill about me or...I mean, they do that out loud anyways, but I'd rather hold onto that sliver of hope that they're just joking. If they're saying it in their head, then... Oh. Mate— Don't. I don't need the lecture from anyone else, I know what you're going to say and it's not going to help. You know I'm just taking the piss. Yeah. Jimmy. I know. Do you? ...

The not-silence returns, and Jimmy distinctly looks at the ground. Martyn sighs loudly and pushes himself off of the ground, crossing the room slowly, as if Jimmy is a bird that he doesn't want to frighten away.

I know, Martyn, you don't have to—

Martyn ignores him and sits directly next to him, their shoulders touching. Jimmy distantly remembers such positions from Last Life, when the two of them (three of them, really, though Grian isn't participating in the discussion for obvious reasons) were part of the same group. The Southlands were nothing short of intimate on most days, up until betrayal tore up the ground underneath them like an explosion woven under their feet, so finding his place against Martyn isn't difficult at all.

Martyn waves his hand, summoning something from his inventory, and Jimmy finds himself flinching away when he sees it—a small diamond dagger that he's holding out in Jimmy's direction. He looks from the weapon, which is being held by its blade, condensation already forming around his perpetually damp fingertips, to Martyn's yellow eyes.

...? It's for you, moron.

Jimmy doesn't bother keeping the expression of surprise off of his face.

What, really? Yeah. Need to prove that we're still friends somehow.

Jimmy hesitantly takes the dagger, pressing his lips into a thin line.

You realise that I know people can be friends with someone they look down upon. I don't think everyone hates me or anything, but I know people think things about me. And my curse. And, y'know. Listener. Or, at least, Bigb and Pearl do. That's something I haven't been able to block out. Yeah, me too. And they're real sons o' beaches about it, too, to put it nicely. It's not like we asked to be like this. And there's no reason for them to play into that 'cosmic enemy' nonsense, either. Yeah! Grian and I are teamed, and we shouldn't even be interacting with each other, really. Last Life was insane. What was that group? Two Listeners, a Watcher, a vampire, and A Normal Guy, which might actually be rarer than all of those things combined at this point. The Southlands were som'ming else, man. Really inclusive group, that was. The gold stahandahard for factions in the Life series, I'd wager. Oh, gods, not again. That bit lasted for so long. It was impressive how it never got old. It absolutely did, but we were all too sleep-deprived and paranoid to care. I think that's the foundation of any good group. What, sleep deprivation and bad puns? Yeah. You'd be surprised how the Bad Boys have basically followed the same formula. Reusing our trade secrets, huh? Sharing 'em with Joel? We're just bad like that. Every time the three of you say things like that, I throw up in my mouth a little. Hey—! Who do you think we got it from? You're, like, the king of bad recurring bits. Yeah, yeah. You've got me there.

They slip back into that comfortable not-silence, simply resting against the wall and each other until Martyn suddenly jolts and pushes himself off the ground.

"Right, sorry," he says out loud, and Jimmy fully flinches away at the sudden spoken word—it's far too loud and crashes over him like a tidal wave, immediately making him dizzy as he rubs his temples and stops Listening. "Sorry about that. Should've warned you."

"'S fine, mate," Jimmy says through gritted teeth, eyes still twisted shut as his wings spread slightly behind him and stretch as he sits up. "You alright?"

"The Clockers are coming over to use G as a fortune teller," Martyn replies, his tone playfully dry. "And as much as I love you, man, I can't be caught cuddling with the homies when we're not on the same team. You understand."

Jimmy, still not opening his eyes (because it's just more comfortable that way; just for a moment longer), raises an eyebrow at Martyn. "Right..." he says, trailing off to indicate his obvious disbelief.

"I'm serious!" Martyn protests. "They'll never let me live it down, and then they'll tell Scott and he'll make some stupid bit over me cheating on him that spirals into him actually severing our alliance because you know how Scott is."

Jimmy's heart aches despite himself, but he forces out a laugh just to not make it awkward. He hears Martyn hiss in a break and he cracks an eye open just to look at him. He has the deepest grimace that he has ever seen upon a man's face, obviously played up for laughs but still with a twinge of realness within it. "Jimmy, you know what we both are, yeah? That was the fakest laugh I have ever Heard, ever. Christ Almighty."

"Ha ha," Jimmy says, deadpan. He squints up at Martyn and shoos him with one hand. "Get outta here, fish boy."

Martyn snorts and turns to the water stream, muttering, "Fish boy...you are just too much. I'll see you around, Jim."

"Seeya."

Martyn cracks his knuckles, preparing to swim up the stream before he pauses momentarily. He turns back to Jimmy, opening his mouth as if he's going to say something, but clamps it shut at the last second.

His voice comes through very faintly, as Jimmy already stopped Listening, but he can still hear it clear as day.

Good luck with the game. Rootin' for you all the way, brother.

Martyn grins and leaves the cavern.

Jimmy rests there for a moment, taking a deep breath in and letting out an exhale cut short by the constant tightness in his chest. He pushes himself off the ground and makes his way towards the stream, already hearing the loud voices of Scar and Bdubs above ground, only being broken up by an almost-silence that he presumes is Cleo's voice just at too far of a distance for him to hear.

Before swimming up the stream, though, he meets Grian's open eyes through the rippling distortion between them. He can see the yellow residue glowing against the water and reflecting back at him, but he can't bring himself to care enough to shake it away.

"You heard none of that, yeah?" he says, because he knows Grian can hear that and he knows Grian heard none of that; he's just driving the point home. Despite the fact that neither of them put any sort of weight in their cosmic rivalry, neither of them find anything wrong with harbouring a playful one, either. So, yes, he knows Grian didn't hear it, but he enjoys being a bastard whenever he has the rare opportunity.

He smirks. Grian's eyes are glassy and unfocused, so maybe he's imagining it, but he'd like to think he sees the smallest twinge of annoyance in the man's face. He waves the diamond dagger in front of his face, relishing in the idea that Grian will, for once, have zero context on why it happened. "Didn't think so."

[art-emis99]

turning tides (bringing us together)

Chapter 10

Summary:

Scott has a bad day, then another, then another, then another...

[scribbling-dragon]

don't turn out the lights (kiss yourself goodnight)

summary:

“Hi,” Martyn continues to grin, even as it turns awkward and even guiltier. “I'm coming over. Can I come over?” Martyn pauses on the bridge then, as though just realising his presence might be unwanted after ditching him all morning. “I don't know if I should let you,” he says. It’s not an answer either way.

(ao3 link)

(7,119 words)

[hi! talking in bold so this catches your eyes ooOOooo anyway! this is the FINAL PART of this series! it's done! this is the end! meaning, everyone dies in this fic. there's your warning! there's gonna be death, injury, blood, etc. all the fun stuff! so just keep that in mind when you read it. also! it'd be really nice if you could reblog this because it took me a long time and i put a buncha effort into it! comments in the tags are even cuter- they let me know you liked it! i write for fun but i post because i want other people to also enjoy what i make, letting me know that you did quite literally makes my day.

anyway! hope u enjoy! <33]

The Isles is almost eerily quiet.

It is expected. The losses they had experienced only a day prior are enough to stun even the loudest of people into silence. It seems their world is only mirroring their mourning, not even birds singing to greet the dawn. Instead, it leaves everyone to prepare for their day, silence permeating the air around them. Even the sun appears muted, watery, as it tiredly heaves itself over the edge of the water, already beginning to chase away the deep purples of night.

He doubts any of them will be around to see another miserable sunrise such as this one.

Scott runs a cloth over the dull edge of his sword, wiping the dried blood away as best as he can manage with only a scrap of damp fabric. It’s already stained red, beyond any kind of repair. The dried blood remains stubborn, clinging to his blade as the last few echoes of others’ lives.

It flakes away as he scrapes against it with a single, sharp nail. The dried blood of friend and foe alike clumps together as it gathers beneath his nail, forcing him to stop his task and pick it out once he can no longer stand the feeling of it. He flicks it to the ground beneath him, hoping the flecks of red will become lost amongst the yellowing grass he sits upon. He still finds his eyes picking it out, like berries nestled amongst the dry stalks of grass that are determined to catch his eyes whenever he glances over.

He pauses at the sound of creaking floorboards above him, a few grains of sand pattering down onto his head. He cocks his head to the side and listens a little more intently as more creaking follows. Martyn had still been sleeping when he got up, curled comfortably in their shared bed. Scott had been tempted to stay and enjoy the peace a little longer, but his own mind was restless.

He hadn’t wanted to disturb the last few peaceful moments Martyn would probably get before this is all over, rising and attending to small tasks that didn’t really need to be done; tasks that were there to busy the hands rather than be productive. He doesn’t have that sort of time to waste, still target number one, certainly, his clock ticking down from higher numbers than everyone else, but his time is as limited as the rest of them.

His sword had been cleaned and sharpened. The blade, previously coated in dried blood so thick you could barely see its shimmer now gleams in the rapidly strengthening sunlight.

The purple hue of the skyline has been almost completely wiped away, leaving a pink sky in its wake. The light of it dyes the ocean a deep red, churning against the edges of their island as though it can hardly wait to devour it all once they're gone.

He continues to listen as footsteps echo overhead, uninterested in continuing to prepare for murdering his friends, waiting for Martyn to poke his head through the doorway and begin chattering away. He’s always more talkative in the morning, as though he has to make up for not speaking all night.

He looks over at the sound of a quiet splash, sitting up and sword forgotten as he stands a moment later. He pokes his head out of their storage room, watching as Martyn swims away from their island and towards the mainland. He dips beneath the waves a few times, swimming quickly.

Scott lingers in the doorway, watching as Martyn emerges onto the sandy shoreline, not even bothering to rid himself of the water he’d collected on his trip over as he usually would. Instead, he looks around, searching for…something. Scott isn’t certain what it is that he’s searching for – they hadn’t even had a conversation yet that morning to go over what should be done, who to avoid, who to target – and apparently not find it as he trudges into the treeline, quickly disappearing into the murky darkness that seems to cling to any dark oak forest, still soaking wet from his short swim.

Scott withdraws into their storage room, confused and more than a little hurt. His mind races a mile a minute, barely giving him a moment to process anything before he’s thinking of another potential explanation. Did they have a conversation last night that indicated Martyn was going to do something like this? Did Martyn assume he had already left and gone searching for him?

Only, Martyn had swum over there like a man possessed, like he would die if he didn’t reach the shoreline as quickly as he did. And yet – and yet – the moment he reached his destination he had looked around, as though uncertain of where to go.

Scott likes to think that he can read Martyn quite well, after the multiple times they’ve gone through these games together, and also the time they’ve spent together on this very island. He likes to think he can read Martyn well. And the way Martyn had looked around, on that shoreline, had not been with the intent of finding something lost, it had been done with the confusion of someone that had walked into a room and forgotten what they were going to do.

But, there’s no point in catching up with him yet. No reason to dive after him and catch up; see if he can shake any answers loose from the man. Not when he still has arrows to make and a bow to restring.

They can talk later. It’s fine. It’ll be fine.

=== === ===

“Now, I'm not a professional,” he tells Cleo, hopping down a few more blocks and squeezing into the gap he’d left for himself. There’s no redstone involved in this, only the tiny guide in the back of his head that’s jumping between steps as he attempts to remember how to do this, struggling to reconcile the new information he had with the idea that he’d already gotten it right.

He’d done it wrong last time, his hands still stinging from the hot blast that had gotten him before he managed to shove his shield in front of himself, letting that take the brunt of the explosion rather than absorbing it with his face.

“Never said you were,” he feels a shadow fall over him as Cleo leans down to peer at what he’s doing. “Reckon you're gonna blow the both of us up again?”

“I wouldn’t stand so close,” he chuckles, feeling rather than seeing as Cleo steps back. He slowly, carefully, places another bundle of TNT into the minecart, feeling the thing rattle with the weight of how much TNT he’s shoved into it. The sculk clings to his hands as he sets it down onto the block, gripping onto him as he attempts to pull away, unwilling to release him.

He continues pulling his hands back until the sculk accepts its loss, releasing his fingers and withdrawing back to the dirt block he’d provided for it. He watches as it curls itself into the dirt block, then simply engulfs it. He has no better words to describe the way it simply spreads over the block, too fast for him to even track with his eyes, until the entire patch is made of sculk.

He withdraws even more carefully, slowly easing himself out of the hole. He’s aware of the way the dirt clings around his shoulders. One wrong move could set off the trap he’s just spent the better part of ten minutes setting up, and he’d probably be blown to bits alongside it.

Cleo waits until he’s completely free of the hole before continuing to speak. “Where’s your other half today? Didn’t think you came as a single package anymore.”

“Very funny,” he forces a laugh as he turns to glare at them. “I don't know,” he answers. Not at all bitterly. “He ran off this morning before I could even get a chance to speak with him, went off to do…something.”

He sees Cleo frown, eyebrows creasing together. “And you haven’t tried to find him?”

“He needs something, then he’ll find me.” He dismisses Cleo’s worries easily – he’s been dismissing his own all morning, ignoring them in order to actually get anything done. Dismissing Cleo’s probing questions and slightly worried glances is far easier. “He’s been acting all funny recently anyway. If he’s gone off to sort himself out, then that’s fine.”

“Wait, Scott,” Cleo moves around him, pressing their hands down onto the small tunnel entrance and blocking him from poking around in there a little more. He leans back on his heels, knees digging into the ground as he glares up at her. “That’s not at all like Martyn. He sticks around other people as best as he can, even if it means bouncing between several groups. You're telling me he’s disappeared and you're not even worried?”

“Of course I'm worried, Cleo.” He huffs out a breath, resisting for only a moment before he raises his hands to his face, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. It relieves a little of his stress, and also means he doesn’t have to look them in the eye anymore. “But there’s nothing I can do about it, so I just have to wait and sit tight and hope he shows up.”

“You said he was acting weird,” Cleo asks, after the silence has hung between them for a moment. “Weird…how?”

“I don't know,” he sighs, dropping his hands. Cleo stares at him. “Ugh, I guess, like, spacing out? He was acting really weird after, uh, yesterday and the whole,” he waves a hand, “canary business. But I thought that was just the shock of all that, and then all the stuff after that. I didn’t even speak to him this morning, but there was this weird air around him. It was really fucking strange, Cleo, and I don't even know what it means!”

“Yeah, alright, alright,” Cleo hesitates for a moment, before patting him on the shoulder. “I think that’s just how he gets at this point. I think he was like this last time? I’d have to repeat myself several times for literally anything to get through to him.”

“I keep forgetting you were partnered with him last time,” he huffs out a laugh. “So he just gets like this every time? Why doesn’t anyone say anything?” He pauses. “Have you said anything?”

“To Martyn? No.” Cleo glances over at a shout from the Clock Tower, then back at him. “To anyone else? …Also no. I didn’t think it was my place to pry or ask around, and I guess that’s the common sentiment. Maybe he’s done it every single time. Maybe he only started doing it last time. Who knows? Maybe he's just gone insane.”

“Pretty sure that’s Joel you're thinking of,” he jokes, and then regrets when it opens up a pit in his stomach.

“Maybe go find him,” Cleo says. They both ignore the slightly heavier air around both of them, the mention of Joel souring their moods rather quickly.

“Yeah,” he brushes the dirt from his hands. “Yeah, I will.” He stands, eyeing the inconspicuous path ahead of them. “Thanks, Cleo.”

“No problem. Hope you find him.”

So do I, Scott doesn’t say. Hope you're still kicking around when I’ve found him, he keeps to himself too. He knows the Clockers aren’t doing well for time, all of their clocks far lower than his own, even after donating some of his time to Scar earlier.

He can feel Cleo watching him. Maybe they're giving him some of their own well wishes.

=== === ===

Going onto Skynet is never his favourite thing. But he’s been poking around on the ground for long enough that he’s rather certain Martyn isn’t hanging around there. Unless he’s dug himself into a hole underground as it currently hiding there until his clock runs out, he’s not on ground-level.

Meaning, into the skies he goes. The ladder is wonky and the rungs are thin enough that they threaten to snap under every step he takes upwards.

He can feel his hands growing sweaty the higher he ascends, nervousness making him glance down and come to terms with just how high he was in the air. With nothing to support him but a quickly and shoddily built ladder to nowhere.

He hauls himself up onto the main chunk of Skynet, grateful for the ground beneath his feet; solid despite being a thousand feet in the air. A drop from here would definitely kill him. A real risk, he realises, when an arrow thunks into the ground at his feet.

He glances over in the direction where it came from, dropping into a crouch. He’s not certain whether that shot was a mistake or a warning. It could have been fully intended to send him stumbling backwards and over the edge. But another arrow doesn’t follow, leaving him staring across the gap between their bridges, the group of three staring back at him.

…Three?

He can just barely see Etho crouched behind the makeshift wall he’s thrown up, the very tips of fuzzy white ears peeking over the edge of the dirt barricade, and Tango beside him is distinctive with his hair aflame. Meaning, no, his eyes are not deceiving him; Martyn really is crouched over with the other two, watching as they shoot at him.

He straightens up, almost planting his hands on his hips and yelling across the gap then and there. For Martyn to just ditch him earlier, and then for Scott to find him with people that have been relentlessly hunting him? Unacceptable. He only holds his tongue because shouting across such a wide gap is embarrassing, and not at all conducive to a proper conversation.

He stares across the gap a little longer, before holding a hand up in the universal gesture for wait.

He then takes a very brave step away from the main landing pad at the top of the ladder, the bridge narrowing even further and leaving him running quickly across the thin branches of Skynet. He keeps his shield held loosely at his side, and can only pray that Etho and Tango – or, gods forbid, Martyn – decide to get in an easy kill and shoot him.

He gets onto the same bridge as them before they start shooting at him, close enough for Scott to start talking to Martyn, even if it means he has to yell to be heard.

“Etho!” He jerks to the side as an arrow skims past his face, close enough that he can hear it whistle as it passes him. “No need!”

He hears Etho chuckling easily enough, even hunkered down behind his own makeshift shelter, only daring to peek over the edge once a moment has passed and his heart no longer threatens to leap from his chest. Martyn, Etho and Tango all peek back at him, lined up near perfectly. Scott might be tempted to take a photo if he wasn’t so irritated.

Another arrow shoots past his face and he scowls, pulling his own bow out and firing right back at them. He sees Tango jump in place and duck down as the arrow goes right over his head, far too high to actually hit anyone.

Several arrows embed themselves in the front of his small defence within a few minutes, making it easy to reach over and collect them up, adding them to his own quiver. “I've got arrows for days!” he calls over to them, grinning and urging them to continue shooting at him.

He notches another arrow, back pressed against his barricade before popping back up again, aiming and ready to fire.

Martyn visibly startles when he reappears, halfway across the bridge connecting them. He almost falls, Scott thinks, teetering dangerously on the edge as he readjusts his balance, shield held cautiously but not protectively in front of himself.

“Martyn,” he warns, not releasing his arrow but not dropping the bow either. He keeps it carefully trained on Martyn’s face, even as Etho and Tango continue to watch the two of them curiously. Martyn glances upwards from where he’d been watching his feet, smiling guiltily. Good.

“Hi,” Martyn continues to grin, even as it turns awkward and even guiltier. “I'm coming over. Can I come over?” Martyn pauses on the bridge then, as though just realising his presence might be unwanted after ditching him all morning.

“I don't know if I should let you,” he says. It’s not an answer either way. Something that Martyn seems to realise too, as he doesn’t keep moving forward, remaining rooted in place on the stupidly thin bridges that TIES built on a whim and everyone else decided to use. “Why are you with them?” He jerks his bow towards Etho and Tango, taking it off Martyn for a single second.

A single second which is, apparently, long enough for Martyn to run across the rest of the space and drop down beside him, both of them huddled far too close behind this too-small barricade. His knee knocks against Martyn’s, their legs pressing together when he lets them. He’s twisted awkwardly to continue aiming the bow at Etho and Tango, reluctant to take his eye off of them even if Martyn demands his attention with pleading eyes.

“Because I've not seen you yet today,” Martyn’s hand is warm on his arm. Near burning at the point of contact as he pulls at him, urging him to lower his bow. He holds the string of his bow tense for only a moment longer before heaving a great sigh and loosening it gradually, allowing the arrow to fall free from where it had been notched and into his open palm. Martyn continues, seeing him giving in, “I woke up and there was no-one here. There, wherever,” Martyn shrugs. “And then I just…” he trails off, eyes sliding to the side.

The hand on his arm slackens a little, turning from a comforting grip to a weight on his arm. The point of contact no longer burns, his skin warming up and adjusting to the sudden heat of another person.

“And then you just…?” Scott prompts, frowning when Martyn doesn’t give him a response. He’s still watching something off to the side, but when Scott turns to look where he is, there’s nothing there. No person trying to kill them or mysterious floating entity that would cause the kind of look Martyn currently has in his eyes.

“Hey,” he waves a hand in front of Martyn’s face, frowning when that continues to get no response from him. He rests his hand on Martyn’s cheek, growing even more concerned when that fails to get a reaction from him, sliding his thumb along Martyn’s cheekbone. His hand slips lower to cradle Martyn’s face, bringing his other hand to pat him on the cheek, like trying to wake someone up.

Martyn blinks, eyes refocusing, and then jolts. Scott holds onto him, keeping him in place as he regains his bearings from…whatever the hell just happened.

“When’d you get so close?” Martyn asks, clearly going for joking and missing it by miles. He lands somewhere around confused and worried instead, which only concerns Scott more.

Scott pauses for a moment, considering his next step. “Aw,” he tilts his head to the side, thumb still brushing against Martyn’s cheek affectionately. “Don't tell me you got so caught up in seeing me that you forgot to pay attention?”

Martyn laughs, leaning in a little closer, close enough that their noses are just shy of touching. His eyes are completely focused now, not drifting over Scott’s shoulder to look at something only Martyn can see. It eases something in his chest, something he hadn’t realised was so tight until it loosened all of a sudden.

“Well, it really is quite easy to get lost in your eyes. The depths of them are like an unexplored ocean-”

He shoves Martyn away from him with a laugh. “Don't you start with that,” he warns, mock angry as he wags his finger at Martyn. “That’s a terrible pick-up line, and one that doesn’t even work right now! My eyes are as red as they can be, so don't be silly.”

“Then your eyes are like the ocean in the morning,” Martyn counters. “Did you not see how red it was this morning? Like the sunrise itself had spilled into the waters.”

“How romantic of you.” He doesn’t mention how this morning was the only time the waters were dyed such a colour by the rising sun. Martyn wouldn’t know that, as a late riser, but Scott has watched those waters shimmer beneath the sunrise every morning since they were dumped here.

“Get a room!” Etho very bravely yells over at them, still hiding behind his barricade. “We wanna get past you!”

“Run on past then!” Scott yells back. “What’s there to be scared of!”

“What we might see!” Tango contribute, popping up beside his teammate. “I don't know what you two’re doing behind that!”

Scott scoffs in disgust at the idea. Not only is the entire place made of dirt, but they're also miles in the sky. Not exactly something he’d jump at the idea of.

“Go the other way then!” he yells, getting to his feet. He pulls his shield up just in case, but no arrows come his way. He offers Martyn his hand as he watches half of TIES (two-thirds, his brain supplies helpfully. Two-thirds.) deliberate over their next course of action.

“Cowards!” Martyn yells as Etho begins retreating.

Scott laughs at the offended noise Tango makes, loud enough for them both to hear it. Laughing is easier than thinking about what just happened. Easier than turning Cleo’s words over and over in his mind.

Easier to take Martyn’s hand and lead him away as though none of that happened at all.

=== === ===

He can see Etho watching him as he climbs, ears twisted backwards and crossbow held at the ready. He’s just as pleased to be up here as Etho is. All roads lead to Skynet, apparently, meaning he’s back on the hellish thing, praying that nothing breaks.

“We’re just here to talk,” he assures, crouching on the lip of cobblestone just above the ladder, reaching a hand down slowly for Martyn to take. He feels it slot into his hand easily, burning hot against freezing cold.

“Promise?” Etho keeps his crossbow held tightly in his hands. Not that Scott blames them. This is the time for temporary alliances, certainly, but he doubts anyone is above faking a temporary alliance to get closer to someone just to kill them.

“Promise.”

Martyn settles onto the ledge beside him, though Martyn sits down, legs swinging off the edge as he watches Martyn. Scott remains crouched, one hand flat against the cobbles, hunched over like some kind of gargoyle.

He probably looks like one, too. Fish-like spines and fins make it rather hard to hide the changes he’s undergone since going red. The scales layering over his skin and remaining thick until his elbows make it even more so. He can only be glad that he still has his legs, or that It didn’t decide to give him some kind of tail to weigh him down further.

“Okay,” Etho takes a step closer, and, in an incredible show of good faith, tucks his crossbow away so none of them have any weapons. “Let’s talk, then.”

Scott grins, more than a little satisfied with himself. It’s always risky reaching out for another alliance this late in the game, but taking the risk is better than leaving the ending unknown. This is a way for them to have a better shot at winning.

“The biggest hour- time, thingy, is the Nosy Neighbours,” he starts. “Pearl and Grian have the most time right now.”

“And they're a pretty strong team,” Etho glances over in the direction of the Neighbours’ tower, expression considering. “There’s three of them in it.”

Martyn hums something that vaguely sounds like agreement, but when Scott looks over at him, he’s staring off into space again, not at all registering the space around them. Scott shuffles a little closer to him, pressing his hip into his side in the hopes that the contact can bring him back from wherever his mind has wandered off to. Contact has helped, in the previous moments where he’s been like this.

“And we’re two sets of two,” Scott says. He feels momentarily guilty for pointing it out when Etho looks saddened by the reminder that Tango is gone now, too.

“Well,” Etho rocks back on his heels. “I can’t find Impulse at the moment- not a clue where he’s wandered off to.”

Maybe Etho’s words summon him, because Scott watches a blur plummet down onto the Mansion, disappearing under the water for a moment before resurfacing. Even from their distance, he’s able to make out the distinctive yellow ‘i’ on his shirt.

“Grian fell from Skynet,” Martyn says, blinking back to reality.

“Uh, no,” he gives Martyn a confused look from the corner of his eye. “That’s Impulse.”

“I- what?” Martyn glances over at the Mansion, “Oh! Yeah, yeah, that’s Impulse. Yeah.”

Etho gives them a funny look, eyes squinting as he studies Martyn.

“We can summon him over here,” Scott says, distracting Etho before he can ask too many questions. He’d been hanging out with Martyn earlier, could have seen his spacy-ness. Could identify it as something to be used later. Something that Scott would prefer him not to do. “Tell him we have Etho.”

“Like some kind of hostage situation?”

“Ooh, yeah,” Martyn nods along with Etho’s suggestion. “Let’s take him hostage.”

“Or we can just go down and meet him?” Etho suggests. He doesn’t look excited at the hostage idea, go figure. “I don't want to make him climb all the way back up for nothing.

“I don't really want to climb all the way back down there,” he complains, but its for nought as Etho clambers up to where they're sitting, leading the (very slow) charge down to the base of the ladder. His arms feel shaky by the time he reaches the bottom, from both exertion and exhaustion. He feels like he hasn’t slept properly in weeks.

Scott taps out the message on his comm, feet firmly planted into the nice sandy ground below him. It’s a comfort, to be back on truly solid ground again, even with the TIES’ wonky tower casting a slightly uneven shadow over them all.

<Smajor1995> come to us

He follows behind Martyn and Etho absently as he continues to type, hopping over the small blast craters easily and circling around the larger ones just as easily. He has to pause for a moment to bat away a zombie, sword slashing straight through its chest and sending it dissolving into a pile of dust.

<Smajor1995> we have etho

He knows its an ominous message to leave it on, especially when the two of them have been separated for who knows how long. Etho chuckles a little at it, but doesn’t send a message to reassure his teammate. A sense of urgency makes for swift feet, and they want to deal with the Neighbours as quickly as possible, he supposes. Better to do it now than when their timers are about to run out.

“What do you mean you have Etho?!” Scott spins on the spot to greet Impulse.

“As a friend!” he calls back. “We have Etho as a friend!” A skeleton shoots him as he speaks, managing to actually hit him when he’s sluggish on putting his shield up. It’s enough to make him realise how surrounded by mobs they’ve gotten, closed in on all sides, each of them beating back at least two mobs at a time.

“Let’s go!” he calls out, looking around for a place for them to actually go. He only manages to spot the little cave entrance by chance, remembering the little nook beyond that they can hunker down in for the night. Martyn catches up with him quickly when he realises where Scott’s heading. “Told you framing it like we had Etho as a hostage would work.”

“Yeah, wasn’t you he tried to run through with his sword.” Martyn mutters.

“He didn’t try to run you through with his sword,” he rebukes softly, speaking quieter as they enter the cave, aware that their voices will echo over to the following pair.

“He was thinking it,” Martyn says darkly. “I could sense it; hear it in the air.”

Scott doesn’t even get to ask what the hell that means, because Impulse is suddenly slamming the door shut and saying something about “not letting the zombies in too!”

The plan is laughably easy to make, once they get over their bickering and the small taunts they throw at each other. It’s hard not to point out Impulse’s attempts to blow him up earlier, something that Impulse receives with good grace and lets go as water under the bridge.

It’s only worrying how often Martyn spaces out, only ever chiming back in with something that nearly has Scott questioning how he knows Grian is currently away from the base, or that Pearl is up on Skynet, nevermind that all of them are underground and have been for the better part of twenty minutes, formulating the plan they're going to use to try and eliminate their biggest threat. How Martyn knows this is a mystery, but not anything that anyone is questioning, for some reason?

It doesn’t stop Scott from inching a little closer, until they're close enough to touch. So Scott can make sure he’s still real, still there. Not yet gone and seeing things that only the dead are meant to see.

It’s unnerving, how Martyn’s eyes go far away when he thinks about something, considers a question that he realistically shouldn’t have the answer to.

It’s terrifying when he tilts his head to the side, as though angling himself to listen to something more intently.

=== === ===

Oh this is new, he thinks, when he enters the tower that he knows BigB is in, and there’s no-one there. He holds his sword steady, laughing a little as he looks around.

He’s not invisible, no small swirls of smoke giving away his position as he moves. There’s absolutely no indication of where BigB is, other than the faint impression that there’s a person right in front of him.

“Oh, you're invisible,” he says aloud, mostly to himself.

“Am I?” BigB’s voice comes from a little to the left, and he swings for it, sword sweeping in a wide arc as he hopes it catches on flesh. It jerks to a stop as it embeds itself in…some part of BigB. He stares hard at that spot in front of him, but his eyes refuse to focus, sliding away whenever he tries to look for longer than a second.

“You are,” he confirms, ignoring BigB’s small grunt of pain as he yanks his sword back towards himself, holding it up defensively. This entire fight just got a lot harder if BigB isn’t the one doing this. It can only be one other doing this, sabotage against him. Something to make him fall a little easier. He loses track of where BigB is, the empty tower around them making his footsteps echo and hard to track. “I'm sure this fight will be easy enough, though.”

“No it won’t!”

Gotcha.

He swings around, spinning on the heel of his foot to make it quicker, flipping his sword at the last moment and slamming the blunt edge of his blade into BigB’s side, winding him rather than slicing him in half.

He swings his sword up to block at the shing of a blade being unsheathed, feeling the invisible weapon press down against his hands, heavy and forcing him to bend beneath it. He bends his knees, sinking a little lower. BigB laughs, excited at this upper hand he’s gained.

Scott holds it a little longer, ignoring the way his arms begin to shake from the strain. Only when he’s certain BigB is pressing most of his weight down against him does he slip away, dropping his sword and darting out of range as fast as he can.

‘As fast as he can’ is apparently not fast enough, feeling the cool metal of a blade dig into his back before he manages to slip completely away, hissing through clenched teeth at the burning sensation that quickly spreads over his back.

“Hah!” BigB cheers at this small victory, even as Scott turns back to face him. The wavering outline of something vaguely resembling a person is all he has to go off of. It’s like the wavering air above stone on a hot day. “Still confident?”

“Of course,” he scoffs. He ignores the way he has to readjust his grip on his sword, hand sweaty as he backs up another step. Whatever invisibility gift this is, it’s not fair. He has a rather good idea of who is doing this, and he cusses them out silently in his mind. Maybe They’ll be able to hear his swearing. “You think I’ll go down that easily?”

He can feel the blood soaking through his shirt rather quickly. For a surface wound, it’s bleeding a lot, and really quite painful.

He still swings when BigB comes at him again, the sound of feet on the cobbles his only indicator. Swinging in such a wide arc wrenches something in his shoulder, and he swears he can feel the flesh tearing further, strained apart like the threads of a garment, stretched beyond breaking point.

In the end, BigB catches him unawares. A rather easy feat, considering he can’t see the other man.

He gasps at the feeling of a blade piercing his flesh, stumbles back – tries to stumble backwards, finds himself stuck on whatever weapon he’s just been impaled with. The weapon he can’t see, but his mind still registers the pain pain pain of a slow death. Still registers the blood blossoming around the puncture.

He can see his insides, vaguely and through a distorted lens. It warps, as though he should be seeing something other than the tearing of his blood vessels and his parted flesh. He can see organs you're not meant to see, curled around himself in the way that he is, can see the puncturing of these probably vital organs which is not a good sign for his continued survival. His flesh is darker than he thought it would be, and bleeds for far longer than he expects.

He lasts far longer than he expected, shallow breaths wheezing out of him as he crumples to the ground.

“Woah, hey,” hands he can’t see lay over his arms, the faint feeling of pressure against his skin the only thing his mind registers. He can see his skin indent where hands press against his forearms, idents that can only be created by hands holding onto him. Hands that he cannot, for some reason, see. “It’ll be over in a sec, I’m sure.”

Scott tilts his head back and allows himself a small groan. He’s bleeding out slowly and sluggishly, he thinks he can afford a singular moment of pain amongst this shitshow.

He almost reaches the point of asking BigB to just slit his throat when the room spins dizzying circles around him, and words are coming from an unseen mouth, unseen hands brushing up and down his arms in what is probably meant to be a reassuring gesture, but is actually just unnerving.

He chokes on the blood in his mouth, and wakes with it still coating his teeth.

=== === ===

“Do you want to get BigB again?” Martyn asks, turning to him with a gleam in his eyes.

Scott hasn’t decided whether he likes this new Martyn yet or not. The Martyn of earlier, with his listless expression and drifting thoughts was not fun to deal with nor exciting to observe, but the Martyn of the here and now, the Martyn with an anticipatory gleam in his eye and a pep in his step at the thought of killing someone else is also not reassuring.

“Not really,” he replies, as casually as he can. “I got my time back from him.”

“And you don't want more?”

“Uh, not really, no.” He and Martyn are alone right now, Impulse and Etho splitting off from their little group momentarily. He doubts they’ll join back together again, everyone’s clocks hanging far too low to trust someone you only made a temporary alliance with.

(For just a moment, Scott wishes they’d come back. Come and act as a buffer between him and the ally that he no longer recognises. The gleam in his eye is dangerous, it warns. A herald of what is to come. He considers, briefly, slipping away into the night and disappearing until his clock runs out of time. Until that last grain of sand in his hourglass slips through and buries him completely. He’s not sure he wants to see what will happen if it’s just him and Martyn. When it’s just him and Martyn.)

“Alright,” Martyn drags the word out, as though he doesn’t believe him. Maybe he doesn’t, with the red-blindness that seems to descend onto everyone at this point, looming over their shoulders like a particularly grim reminder. He can almost hear the clocks ticking down, beat by beat, moment by moment. “If you say so.”

“I do,” he says. “I do say so.”

Martyn considers him for another moment longer. Watches him with those red eyes that seem to hold nothing but calculations behind them. A measure of how long it would take to overpower someone, how long it would take to bleed them dry of their blood and their time. How many arrows to divert someone from their chosen path. How many swings of the sword before their time can be claimed, like the spoils after a hunt.

Scott hates it. Hates this. Hates what his friends become. Hates what it is – who it is – that makes them do it.

Martyn shrugs and turns away. His walk is casual, deceptively so. He moves quickly, off to kill whoever it is that he’s set his mind on. Possibly the Nosy Neighbours, eyes set on them as a target, like a dog with a bone, relentlessly gnawing on it as though that will force it to produce something more.

Ah, yes. That’s what it is.

Martyn watches him as though his heart no longer beats, as though he is nothing more than a chunk of flesh to be devoured for the benefit, what he might gain from it.

Scott walks in the opposite direction to Martyn and hopes, rather selfishly, that they don’t have to cross paths again.

=== === ===

All paths lead back to the clock. All lead back to the timer ticking down, hanging heavy over their heads and around their necks; a slowly tightening noose.

Perhaps it is fitting, then, with his clock at a negligible amount that they arrive at the Clock Tower. Built at the centre of their little world. Everything revolves around the clock, and the Clockers have made sure they cannot forget that.

The face of it peers down at them, despite Scott not being able to see it from where he stands now. He can feel it. Can feel the ticking of the hands, the shifting and grinding of the gears that allow it to turn. Will allow it to turn long after each of them is dead.

Martyn and Impulse watch each other warily, watch him warily. He watches them back, far less wary than either of them.

He can see how this plays out, can see the end already in the tight grip of a hand upon a sword. Can see the way such a hand refuses to release the last weapon he holds, refuses to give up his one advantage here. Can see how the hand hesitates when moving to unstrap his armour, to unbuckle the plates and let them fall loosely to the ground.

Scott undoes the strap in one unceremonious movement, only grimacing slightly at the clatter as it hits the ground, rolling uselessly around his feet.

Martyn watches him, suspicion misting his eyes. His hand continues to falter, resting over his heart and over his chestplate. One that has still to be removed. Impulse’s armour lays on the ground, too, scattered around in pieces as though he’d simply tossed it aside carelessly in his eagerness to get it off.

Scott tilts his head to the side, almost imperceptibly, watches the way Martyn tracks the tiny movement. The way Impulse does not.

There is a question in his eyes, one that he is not sure Martyn can read anymore. The Martyn of yesterday would have been able to. The Martyn that still cared to scrub his hands free of blood, the one that cared enough to clean beneath his nails, so not even the slightest speck of blood would continue to stain his hands.

The Martyn of today is not the one he has spent time getting to know better. He is not the one that could read a question in the tilt of his eyebrows or the squint of his eyes. He is not the one that would be able to read the question in his eyes right now, swimming just below the surface. Maybe Martyn reaches for that understanding he once had, but the explanation slips away easily, a fish disappearing beneath the surface once more.

So maybe he doesn’t read the implicit permission. The silent question that doesn’t need an answer. Because Martyn might not be able to read his eyes, might not be able to read anything from him at this point, but Scott can still read him. Can still see the plan in his eyes, the way it whirrs in his brain as he smooths out the crinkles and finalises it.

Still, despite Martyn’s plan being finalised, set in stone and ready to be carried out regardless of what anyone says, Scott gives him a small nod that he might not catch. A granting of permission. A better you than anyone else. Martyn might not understand it. May have lost the ability to read him entirely.

He still ends up with a sword through the heart, pulled out slowly, longingly. Blood coats the inside of his mouth, and when he coughs, feels it spilling over, it feels like a parting kiss.

[amm-amethyst]

A Curse Fulfilled

Characters - Jimmy Solidarity, Grian, Joel Smallishbeans

Relationships - Jimmy Solidarity & Grian & Joel Smallishbeans

Description -

Jimmy's final death in Limited Life, but he survived a little longer than in canon, and the other Bad Boys reacted a little less comedically.

Whumptober Day 1

Prompt: "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/50458771

[tunastime]

Let’s Talk About Feelings

(1316 words)

The first thing that Etho finds out is that day and night pass too quickly.

Etho has never been a man running out of time. To his left, currently sharpening the back edge of his diamond axe, is a man who has. Right now, for Etho, the passage of time is not only a visual sensation, it’s a physical one. He feels it in the way his body tires, the way he moves, the way everything takes less time than he’s expecting. Even sitting here, the dull da-dump of his heart is enough to mark the seconds of his life passing. He drinks from his canteen. He swallows. He loops his pickaxe over his head, the weight settling on his back, and stands. Tango’s eyes flick up to him. He doesn’t look as tired as Etho feels.

There is no downtime. There is only time wasted.

“Ready, T?” Etho asks. Tango smiles, a mouth full of sharp teeth, and nods.

“Sure, E,” he says, standing with a sway. “Let’s do it.”

It’s a quick trip down into the mine from the top of the base. The two part system works surprisingly well—there’s a modest looking home on top, ugly, as per usual, and the real stuff happens below. Wheat, sugarcane, two cows, at long last, and the mineshaft down to pools of lava and dark, cool tunnels. Tango follows beside Etho down the two-wide staircase, humming to himself.

“I can’t believe it took us that long to get two cows,” Tango grumbles, glancing back up the staircase. Etho huffs, trying to laugh, but finds that his tiredness just sort of pushes the air from his lungs, rather than do anything important. “Our ranchin’ skills have plummeted, man.”

Etho hums, shaking his head. He can feel a soft heat radiating out from Tango’s shoulder every time it brushes his.

“That’s too bad,” he starts. “Thought we had a rancher on our hands.”

Tango laughs, though it peters into something a little hollow.

“Mm, I wish. Wasn’t me, though. ‘M notorious for gettin’ things killed, you know that.”

Etho knows Tango well enough to place the validity of his sentence. Not even just here, either. Wardens to cows, mob farms to personal, accidental deaths. Etho laughs, finally warbling out a complete one, until Tango knocks into his shoulder. He shoves back. They rebound back and forth for several steps, until Etho nearly loses his footing and Tango clamps a hand around his wrist. He doesn’t let go, though, and Etho drags him along. They stand together at the landing for a moment, a handful of tunnels branching off from the sides. Etho glances down one, tilting his head in the direction of the torchlight. Tango nods. There’s a cave further down that opens up into a ravine, one Etho knows more diamonds have to be in. He can feel it, like an itch under his skin.

Tango’s sentence says something he doesn’t voice out loud, though. Etho tugs on his arm. Tango makes a questioning noise. 

“You doin’ alright? Not seein’ him?”

Tango furrows his eyebrows. His features are obscured, half by lack of light, and half as the torchlight warps when they step into the next room, and the cave walls open up. Tango waves the torch around, passing it off to Etho.

“Yeah,” Tango starts. “‘S fine. Hate that Joel’s rubbin’ off on him, but…glad he has someone.”

“Mm,” Etho agrees. “Last time I checked it was Joel and Grian.”

Tango squawks. 

“Ugh! I just—oh, no…”

Etho frowns a little as they stand in the center of the room.

“What d’you mean, “oh no”?”

“You threatened to kill Joel! I can’t not back you on that.”

“You’re gonna stick yourself in another messy situation, T,” Etho says. He climbs down the lip of another crevasse, sliding part of the way. He offers his hand to Tango, who worms down, bumping into him.

“‘M gonna try not to,” Tango grumbles. Etho can see his tail flicking back and forth. “‘S long as you don’t do somethin’ stupid.”

“Hey, no promises, man.” Etho doffs his pickaxe, placing the torch in the center of the room. Here, it lights up the space, stretching outward with a yellow halo. The places it can’t reach go grey with dark. He turns a slow circle as Tango tracks the ceiling. Nothing yet.

“Speakin’ of people,” Tango starts. Etho feels his limbs go cold, a static electricity pooling in the pit of his stomach. 

“Mm…” he starts, but Tango beats him to the punch.

“You talked to him any more?”

Etho shakes his head.

“No, no, I haven’t. There’s not really a point, I think.”

“I mean, you two were partners…” Tango continues. Etho shakes his head.

“We shouldn’t be partners in things like these, it always goes south.”

Tango shrugs. 

“Suppose so…” he agrees. Something about his tone suggests that he doesn’t really agree, but he’s giving Etho the chance to explain if he wants to, and the space to stay quiet if it’s more than he’d be willing to share. Etho worries the inside of his cheek. Then, he takes a swing with his pickaxe and breaks into the rockface.

Between the clunk of the pickaxe and the shnk of his armor as he swings, he hears Tango start in the opposite direction, tossing a question over his shoulder.

“You don’t miss him?”

Etho’s stomach folds over itself. Part of him begs to turn and ask his friend what he could possibly mean by that, what it could imply, but the words seem sad. They seem expectant on something. On Etho, maybe, to refute the claim, to prove to Tango that he does, to give Tango the peace of mind, maybe. Maybe Tango’s scared, Etho thinks, of the possibility that Bdubs comes back with vengeance, rather than anything else. Were they not all indirectly both advocates and victims of Bdubs’ death? He realizes, after a moment, that he’s been leaning on his pickaxe, staring at a chunk of iron in the ground. He drops to his knees after a moment, prying the block up.

“Etho?” Tango asks.

Oh. Etho hadn’t said anything, had he?

“No,” Etho says. “Let’s keep digging.”

He thinks he hears Tango sigh. It doesn’t sound frustrated. It just sounds tired.

“Sure thing, E,” Tango says. Etho swings his pickaxe into the rock and watches it crumble at his feet. He isn’t thinking about a night in the middle of nowhere around a soup pot. A night in a fort half built cradling cups in his hands. A life forked over by the man behind him that wasn’t Etho’s to negotiate. A night outside of a base that isn’t is, calling Bdubs’ name like he was forbidden to step inside. A clock in Bdubs’ hands he never made. A happy marriage Etho wasn’t part of.

Part of him thought going home would fix it. It didn’t. He still never saw him. They were better, they weren’t leaving, but there was still a distance. And it doesn’t matter—clearly, it doesn’t, because otherwise Etho would be lamenting about a man who can’t love him in a dangerous place because he has to keep every feeling for himself just in case they get used against him. He can’t even be mad. It’s a trait Bdubs picked up from him.

He isn’t thinking about that, though. He’s thinking about a fireplace in a basement. And he’s thinking about dinner and tea in a half-built base in the jungle. And he’s thinking about a color palette getting commented on. And he’s thinking about anything but the idea that he might just have to kill him this time. He doesn’t have much of a choice, does he?

“I think I found diamond,” Etho says. His voice echoes until Tango hums.

“None for me, yet.”

Etho keeps digging.

There’s no room to talk about feelings.

[canarydarity]

at another place in time, II

(Or, I wrote that one small limited life session 1 ficlet from Tango's pov and went "what if I just write a whole series of vignettes from Tangos pov as the season comes out, one for each session," and now have to do that by law. so. welcome to session 2's chosen tango reminiscing vignette)

[part I]

____________________________________________

He stood on the outskirts and watched everyone gather around, and Tango thought, well this is different; maybe it was the rule changes—their timers all counted down, but 19 hours was still more promising than not. It felt wrong to quantify their lives this way, hard to connect that number to the idea of the amount of time he had left to live; right now, it felt arbitrary. Tango was sure that would change as the numbers got lower. Their actions were still dictated by color, but yellow could now attack green and—

Yeah, that was probably it. The first free-to-fight was beginning to act, and this bloodthirsty crew wanted to watch it happen. That didn’t mean Tango wasn’t a little thrown off by the sight of everyone gathered around, a crude ring marked out on the ground. They all cursed the games when they ended, took time to recover from the violence they witnessed—but they forgot that it was violence they cheered for whilst they were playing; or, maybe they didn’t, and that was the problem; the part they struggled to absolve. 

Maybe it was why they all signed up again and again. 

He tuned out Bdubs explaining his rules, focused instead on searching who had shown up. He wasn’t looking for anyone in particular, he just thought he should take the opportunity to get a closer look at the teams that had formed while he had the chance. 

Tango had somehow ended up directly across the ring from the rest of TIES, Etho finishing up flattening out a somewhat-decent circular border, Impulse standing behind Skizz, acting every bit in his corner, patting him on the back and giving all the encouragement a good coach would. 

Scar was whispering to Cleo who had a hand to her forehead as if she were warding off a headache; Martyn and Scott looked properly judgemental and above all that was going on—surely they were too dignified for a fight so unrefined. He couldn’t see Pearl or Bigb, but last he’d heard they’d been taking their role as nosy neighbors far too seriously—if they were here, he was sure they were out of sight, giggling and whispering back and forth. 

He wasn’t looking for anyone in particular, but that just left—

“We’re all standing so close?”

He couldn't help the speed at which he turned his head, he really couldn’t. Tango logically knew Jimmy’s landing on this side of the circle was due to the direction of Bad Boy Mansion, but he’d take what he could get. Joel was further away, picking fights where he could and riling up Bdubs from behind and Martyn from the side. Tango hadn’t spotted Grian yet. Speaking of taking chances…

“Well, if anyone gets too close we’ll just punch ‘em.” He held his breath, but it didn’t take longer than a second for Jimmy to turn his head in Tango’s direction. He was already smiling by the time they made eye contact; Jimmy had a lotta smiles—this was the kind that predated his laugh. Tango decided to take that as a challenge. 

“Yeah, we’ll punch ‘em back in!” Jimmy said. “Just like in the movies.”

Tango nodded, “that’s right!”

“Keep fighting!” Jimmy added in a false voice he probably thought was gruff.

“Get in there and die!” Tango threw back; cruelty that was funny because it wasn’t real, the joke being that this was unlike their true temperament—settings-and-death-game be damned. 

Jimmy got it, he tilted his head back and—what success, because there it was—he laughed. Tango smiled wider and stared maybe just a little; he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the sound. 

Such as with all things bright and lovely, there was a moment where that feeling—that light and feathered thing—threatened to break out of the cage in Tango’s chest, and he had to look down to wrestle it back under control. When looked back up, across the circle Etho’s eyes were heavy on his. He calmly slid his gaze to Jimmy and then back to Tango. 

Tango cleared his throat. Yup, that did the trick. He shuffled his feet, leaned his weight more to the right, and the distance it put between himself and that laugh was quantifiable in a way Tango felt much more than the numbers in his peripheral. 

Grain had shown up anyway, and the bad boys gravitated towards each other with an ease Tango reminded himself he wasn’t jealous of. He tried to tune back into the event, but the excitement had kind of dulled. 

“BDUBS! It’s you and me brother,” Skizz said, axe leveled in Bdubs’ direction. In a blink, Tango saw a different Skizz standing before him, weaponless and bare, my brothers left me to die. He didn’t dwell. Like he said, it was in a blink—one second there, the next gone; literally—he had the timer to prove it. 

“Yeah right It’s you and me, you want revenge? Here I am, on a silver platter!” Bdubs held his arms out wide, sword in one hand and shield in the other—the cockiest come at me that he could offer. He never knew when to quit, did he? Tango hoped Skizz put him on his ass. 

If not yet a harsh reminder of the time that he has left, the timer served the annoying purpose of counting the kind of seconds that ticked by in boredom. Every painstaking block in a build, every step he took on a long journey, every taunt Bdubs and Skizz sent back and forth that couldn’t be called anything but stalling; all of it cataloged and kept track of—it was the worst reminder that time doesn’t fly in the world (yet).

Tango was sure he’d change his mind about that later, but for now, he suppressed a groan and snuck another glance to the left. 

Grian was offering weak cheers and ripping a loaf of bread to shreds then tossing the pieces around like confetti—or rice at a wedding. The area surrounding their little group was littered with crumbs and chunks of the stuff, and Tango watched as it attracted a chicken, pecking at the ground near Jimmy's feet. When it ran out of readily available food, it started picking at his shoelaces, and Jimmy tried shooing it away with little success; every step back he took, the chicken followed. Tango laughed under his breath as he watched Jimmy wave his hands at the bird again and then look around frantically hoping no one had noticed. 

The crowd suddenly shouted in unison, calls of disappointment and boos radiating all over; the group mentality was also new—Tango knew that wouldn’t last either; once the fight ended, so would their new-found camaraderie. He turned back, but he’d missed whatever it was that had caused the outburst. 

In the quick moment of silence that had followed, Scott said, “Skizz, did you eat an apple?” 

Skizz was the only yellow name amongst them—the only one licensed to kill—and yet, Scott's question charged the crowd and made them every bit the audience above the colosseum, a thumbs down all that was needed to determine his friend's fate.  

Skizz gulped, “maybe…”

The booing began again in earnest, and Tango had never before been so glad for the rules that Grian set. 

“That’s nearly a cheat there!” Jimmy called out. He was an easy target, which Tango knew meant he was always fine-tuned to the things that might warrant being teased—cheating was one of them. A chance to put attention on someone else was always welcome. 

Skizz spun in the bad boy's direction, “how is that a cheat?” Grian raised an eyebrow at the display, but he said nothing; he only liked to play admin when he chose to, not when others thought he should—especially if it was solely for their own benefit. “There’s no rule about not eating golden apples!” 

Tango saw Jimmy’s eyes alight with it at the same time as he felt his own; accidentally or not, they made eye contact. Skizz was technically right, there were no rules about not eating golden apples—at least, not anymore. But he hadn’t been in double life. 

Tango remembered when there were. He remembered waking up in the middle of the night to a knock on their door, answering Jimmy’s worried Tango… by telling him to stay where he was. There’d been no one there, but there had been a golden apple sitting on their porch—someone's idea of some kind of joke that neither of them had found funny. 

He’d been so mad…it wasn’t until halfway through shoving his feet into his boots that he’d heard Jimmy call his name for what he was later told was the third time. 

What are you gonna walk around in the dark ‘til you find who put that there?

He had been willing to if that’s what it took. Somewhere deep down logically he’d known—just like Jimmy did—that he wasn’t going to find whoever had left it, but it wasn’t really about that. He thinks he gets it, now, that it’d been about proving something. 

Maybe if he’d done it then Jimmy wouldn’t have flushed and looked away today. 

Tango was vaguely aware that the rest of the group had moved on around him, that he and Jimmy were really the only ones who’d hesitated at the mention of the apple at all. 

He should’ve gone out anyway, walked around until the sun started coming up—hell, he should’ve started knocking on doors; at least that way, he wouldn’t have had to lay back down and have the conversation he hadn’t stopped thinking about since. 

He’d known there was something coming, and he’d waited Jimmy out patiently to hear the slow drawl of;

If it weren’t against the rules, would you…

It is against the rules, Tango had replied. The wrong answer, he thinks now. But he hadn’t known why they’d been having such a conversation; it was against the rules. Tango would tell Jimmy he was sure as many times as he needed, but he wasn’t going to allow for the kind of negative feedback loop that Jimmy used to punish himself.

But if it weren’t—

No. He hadn’t needed to see Jimmy’s eyes to know that he didn’t believe him. 

He wished he could tell Jimmy that believe it or not his answer still hasn’t changed. 

“Fights over.”

“Hmm?” Tango turned toward Etho—now apparently standing in front of him—but he didn’t quite make it all the way. The scene had changed around them; sometime in his musings, people had started clearing out. The once rowdy crowd had begun to disperse, blood spilled and attention span exhausted. 

“Fights over,” Etho repeated. 

Tango blinked. “Who won?”

But his friend just let out a small huff and started in the direction of home. Tango looked down and kicked a pebble with the toe of his boot. He spared only a glance to the left where the bad boys were heading back towards their own base, donning leather jackets that must be sweltering in the day's heat. He couldn’t hear them, but he could tell Joel was arguing with Jimmy over something from here, watched as Joel reached around and smacked Jimmy on the back of the head, Grian moseying along beside them not caring to intervene. He sighed. 

Tango turned after Etho.

[aceofthefandoms]

Hey @otselotus I'm your gifter this year for @mcytblrholidayexchange! I hope you enjoy!!

Characters: Jimmy and Grian Summanry:After a long day during Limited Life, Grian sits on the Bread Bridge to rest, however, when someone notices he's gona they decide to go check on him.

[birrdies]

sever (limited life ficlet // 403 words)

Skizz’s knees strike the stone and for a moment— Etho thinks he hears thunder. 

Etho turns the axe over in his hands. In a flash it isn’t an axe anymore but a shield, the red and blue paint half-hazard and smeared, as if put on in a rush. The weight of it is endowed with duty. Etho wouldn’t know the difference. It’s not the first time the lines have started to blur. 

The only tangible difference is this: this weapon will not protect anyone. Rather, it will sever the tie that binds. 

Because who else is there to keep them together but Skizz? 

He doesn’t want to do this, but since when are these games about getting what he wants? Or about people getting what they deserve? Because of all of them, Skizz doesn’t deserve this. On his knees upon catacombs of his own making. Sky-Net now is nothing but a brutal reminder of what they’d failed to do, what had been used against them, a team’s skeleton of deepslate and cobblestone branching like a ribcage across the sky. 

Skizz does him a great mercy by turning his back. He won’t have to look Skizz in the eye. Skizz won’t have to know how sorry he is; how much he wished things had turned out differently. How much Etho doesn’t deserve the meager half-hour this will give him. 

The weight of it all deadens Etho’s arms. It’s difficult to heave the axe over his shoulder, but he does it dutifully. He swears to himself, in a quiet breath, that he won’t let it go to waste. But even to his own ears it sounds more of a pathetic plea. A whispered, please don’t let this be for nothing. 

He says his piece. Skizz is a teammate beloved and never to be forgotten. But he wishes he could’ve been worse. He wishes, in this moment, for Skizz to have all of his rough-edges and chipped shoulders as everyone else. To hold a grudge like he meant it, to go down swinging. 

He thinks he saw that in Skizz once, when Etho was on the opposite end of his sharp-tongue as their first attempts at a team dissolved from between his fingers. When he held Skizz’s bloodied shield instead of his axe. It feels different this time. 

In one, heavy swing he brings the axe down. And this time, the clap of thunder is unmistakable.