Chapter Text
“Now close your eyes.”
The world was dark, but remaining behind was sounds. Sounds so clear they almost came alive to color in the ink black.
In the background, there was a grandfather clock, and it ticked with every second past.
He could feel the fabric of his clothes. Some parts made his skin itch, rough like sandpaper over old wounds that have yet to heal. Whether the wounds were physical or not, both hurt the same.
There were hair stands on the back of his neck, brushing lightly as another person slowly combed through his hair with slow movements.
Fur that stuck into his clothes pushed in through the front of the fabric and stabbed into his skin underneath.
Cat hair, probably, cut through his shirt like a needle, and left prick points on contact. Still, he did not move, and let the feeling fester.
Footsteps, soft light, and slight whooshes of pushed air. Two people.
There was a crackle and pop of a living fireplace.
“No peaking!” Scar’s words mused him, and Mumbo could try and imagine his face.
The brown hair, and a most definite smirk, and kind eyes behind the siren ones, ones that unfortunately was the reason Mumbo was in such a circumstance.
He always struggled with saying no to the boasting smile of his friend’s face.
Mumbo thought of Scar's face, his smile, and what he last wore. He didn't think of his scars or the cane tapping on the ground around where he sat on a stool.
There was a clink, and almost a scrape of an object being left on a table behind him, Mumbo would be able to tell if he wasn't distracted by movements.
He thought very quickly of whose hand was now interlacing with his hair.
Mumbo listened for who, but it was silent before-
“Ow!” Mumbo hissed out, arms raising to find the perpetrator or very least scare them away.
”Oh shush, it was hardly even a tap!” Grian had a smug voice, and the avian kept pulling at Mumbo’s hair, shaping it before tying it with bands.
”Hardly a tap? Hardly a tap?! Grian, if I wasn't in my prime that would leave bald spots!” He heard Scar laughing to his side, left probably, and Grian equally giggling behind him.
Despite the mock anger, Mumbo smiled with them, and brought his hands to the side of his stool, bracing himself for any other movements.
“Prime or not, my point stands, a tap at best, now turn your head man!” With a small tug, Mumbo let his head be moved into whatever position the avian behind him required.
Mumbo sighed before muttering out, just loud enough for all to hear, “I’ll remember that tap next time your wings need to be preened.” It was an empty threat, as Mumbo always responded fast when Grian needed help with it.
He doesn't even ask anymore, Grian just sends a message to Mumbo knowing the fool would always run fast to do so. It's nice, being useful, and needed in a friend's life.
But Grian was quick witted, and gave Mumbo a slight nudge before he responded with an equally empty threat.
”Oi, if you even try to do that, you’ll never touch these feathers again!” Mumbo could hear the smile in his voice. He grinned back at the man behind him.
And just as he went to speak, Grian’s hands stopped and Mumbo heard him step away behind him. Admiring the work he could imagine.
”Scar! Look, it's finished! It looks just- perfect on you Mumbo!”
Only then did Mumbo really focus on the feeling of his hair. It felt stiff, pulled back in an odd way, then held together by a band like the ones Scar uses. At the end of his hair, he could feel it lay loose, a small ponytail is what he imagines it as.
There were footsteps and a cane tapping before a gasp.
”Ohhhh! Mumbs! Its awesome on you! Everyone is going to be so jealous! Can't wait for Gem to see you!” Mumbo started to open his eyes before almost flinching at the reminder in his mind.
No looking.
His smile faded just for a moment before carefully asking the duo.
”Can i open my eyes yet”
Almost simultaneously both spoke.
”No!” Then, Scar walked to him, and put a hand on Mumbo’s shoulder.
”Soon Mumbo, soon, but first! You need to get changed! Up up up!”
And with that, he was pulled along, guided by Scar as they walked to a new spot in Grian’s house. After tripping twice and nearly falling each time, Grian also started to guild Mumbo.
”Clumsy as ever Mumbo, it still baffles me that you know how to dance for Gem’s party.” Grian and his ever cheeky remarks.
”Well you try having to keep your eyes closed while you hit tables!”
”Hey! It was only once!” Scar spoke up, cheerfully.
“That once was enough to make me paranoid that Grian has more tables in here than I assumed!”
”You do have a lot of furniture, Gri, I can barely get around normally, let alone with Mumbs here!” He said that as he pushed Mumbo to and fro, avoiding chairs, and all sorts of wood work.
”Well, I usually fly around here rather than walk. And Bdubs has been doing wood carvings again! I can't just leave them in a chest monster!” As he finished speaking he let out a little yelp and Mumbo assumed he stubbed his toe.
“Your hoarding is getting almost as bad as Mumbo!”
”What?! I'm not that bad!” Mumbo’s voice went up in indignation. His vault was the stuff of legends but you could still walk in it. Mostly.
“It's not baddd Mumbo, it's just…Hey! We’re here! Anyway, changing topics, here we go!” And suddenly Mumbo jerked back as Scar pulled his hand backwards. But as he did, Scar placed a hand on Mumbo’s back, balancing him with small support.
“You can open them now Mumbo!” Grian’s voice was filled with excitement, and behind him, Mumbo could hear the heavy flaps of his wings, lifting the hybrid off the ground.
Slowly, Mumbo opened his eyes.
There were two people in front of him. And two behind. One held a soft hand on his back even still, and the other was flying.
So were the ones in front.
A mirror.
Mumbo resisted the urge to scrunch his face in frustration. In anger. But as soon as the feeling came, he shooed it off, and focused on his friends next to him.
He smiled, and his mustache curved with his face, and he let his eyes try and soften. He wouldn't know how successful it was, the mirror refused to tell.
To others, he was there, and Xisuma made sure of that. However, no code was able to give him the sight. Mumbo could only imagine what he looks like now. Maybe he looks as he did before.
He doubts it.
He probably looks tired, as he doesn't sleep often. Maybe his skin is paler, he feels sickly every day. Fatigue gets to him, and so maybe he looks frail.
Mumbo still adorned the suit from the morning, but he didn't know all that Grian did to his hair. He can't see it.
He couldn't see himself, but he looked past that, and into the faces and eyes of his friends.
Grian had on a dark sleeveless turtleneck, showing his shoulders and an emerald necklace. Over it, was a red and gold dress cover shawl that hung off his left shoulder and curved down to meet at his waist.
The designs were elegant, with a light red base color and golden thread embroidered into it with flowers and twisting designs. The dress cover ran down and flowed, but stopped halfway to his knee, and then there were simple black pants underneath.
The colors of the shawl were a bit under saturated, more focused on the bright gold.
But the difference made his wings pop out, and made them not a part of Grian but a part of his look, his outfit. He was comfortable, and the design allowed him to still fly. Grian looked beautiful.
Next to him, with a hand out, was Scar. He wore a dark brown pair of slacks and a blackish inky shirt. However, his outfit matched closely with Grian, for he had on a red waistcoat with small thin strips of a darker color he had on perfectly fit his torso.
The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled halfway up, and he had on a green emerald tie. His hair was parted slightly and he had a dark red fedora on, with a green feather on it, probably one of Grian’s many. He was stunning.
Both of them were, and they held themselves with confidence. They knew just how marvelous they looked. Mumbo could see some if not most of what he wore, but he wouldn't know the full extent.
From what he could see was a black dress shirt that was almost completely covered by a tweed black waistcoat. It was a good fabric, and his pants were plaid pants. The main colors on it were black, but the intersecting lines were made of red, dark hues of it running across in patterns.
It hung loose on his legs, and his shoes were formal oxford boots, black matching the pants he wore. It was mildly comfortable, but it felt a bit stiff. The shoes were a bit too new for liking.
He wondered where his green was, the emerald that both Grian and Scar shared. He didn't know. He didn't even know what it looked like all together, he can only see parts when he looks down to himself.
Nor did he know what they did with his hair, or the slight makeup they put on him.
He didn't have that same confidence. But as he stared between his friends, he tried.
Pushing through it all, the doubts and lack of confidence within it, Mumbo smiled.
”I love it.”
oOo
Mumbo looked at the table before him.
A banquet truly would undersell how much was in front of him.
The table alone fit nearly every hermit on the server, spots empty for those who could not make it. Every spot not taken up by your own plate was filled with platters of food and drinks of all kinds.
There were steaks, lambchops, grilled pork, and many whole roasted chickens. There were salads, fruit bowls, stews, soups, and even mashed potatoes. There are two turkeys, one on each end of the table, and corn, and peas and green beans.
Wels must have spent a lot of money to buy all the off world food. Most of the plates were able to be made in the server using the provided food sources, but some here, like peach cobblers and sourdough bread and jam, had to be brought from the world hub, and that was no small task.
A fitting feast, and everyone dressed the part equally. Radiant dresses from all the hermits, suits and special made outfits prepared for this moment alone.
Wels infamously loves to throw parties with themes, most matching his castles with royal themes, and now there is a dark moody theme.
He had said reds, blacks, and browns. The hermits did not disappoint. Xisuma had worn a void black three piece suit, with his helmet painted to match. Doc traded his lab coat with a black tweed overcoat with its edges brimmed with fur.
Gem wore a large red dress and a waistcoat over the torso, her hair braided and intertwined with a black ribbon, tied at the end in a bow.
And Wels had adorned his own armor, but had a brilliant red sash over the chestplate, and a red cape that flowed behind him with every step.
Grian, Scar and himself had all gotten compliments, but Mumbo struggled to resist instantly folding in on himself with every kind word.
He was blush red by the time they all sat down.
After eating, Wels had planned a huge ball-like dance, a small party in the eyes of the hermits, but scaled out inside his base castle, it was massive.
Mumbo was pretty skilled at dancing, two steps or four, and despite the heavy disbelief of that, he loved to do so when opportunity rises. Dancing like that always brought good memories.
He just had to get past this.
Food.
Mumbo does not eat.
He is not allowed to do so, and refuses to change it.
Maybe it's been years, centuries since that rule was forced on him, but even today ages later he holds it true.
He can't eat. Can hardly drink, only really sip tea, though he always feels a bit of guilt in doing so.
Mumbo can look at the food all he want, crave it, touch it just a bit.
He can hold that fork and pick at the plate before him. Find the most tempting peice of food.
He hasn't eaten in a long time. Does he even remember the taste of it? What did steak taste like again?
It smelled like herbs, like butter, and like a charred sear. It smelled like small bits of metallic blood. Mumbo closed his mouth with a snap. His teeth ached at the feeling, but he almost ate it.
He stared at the fork in his hand, where it hover halfway to his face.
Mumbo has not eaten in a long time.
He drops the fork, and lets the food lay wasted on his plate. It was a sad enough sight, with only a few pieces of meat, all kinds, chicken and pork. It has the smallest serving of potatoes and gravy. And a single bite’s worth of pie.
It smelled… Stunk, it writhed in his mind, and made his nose crinkle.
No longer did it smell of warmth and love, care placed in every bit. No, it smelled like rotten and molded food.
He pushed his plate slowly to the center of the table, and finally looked up.
Mumbo’s eyes lock onto Skizz’s own.
He watched as the human looked between Mumbo’s plate and him.
And slowly a frown formed on the man's face.
”You know Mumbo, it's rude to waste food like that.” His voice was steady, but you could hear the slight disappointment in it.
Mumbo sputtered out a weak answer. “I-im no longer…I lost my appetite.”
Skizz looked like he believed it, but only for a second.
A second too little.
”At least try, Wels put a lot of effort into it and you look pale, need some meat on those bones of yours.” His voice changed into a more concerned parent, just enough to make Mumbo feel guilty.
He should have never even put food on his plate.
For a moment he considered leaving for the bathroom, or turning to talk with Grian and Scar to his left. He sat at the end of the table, and nobody was at his right.
He didn't know where the bathroom was. And Skizz wouldn't let go even if he did leave and return later.
Mumbo just wanted to get to the dance. Not have to do this. Xisuma would know, everyone, all the hermits know. Mumbo doesn't eat much, and none have ever seen the man truly eat.
Only smiles when handed food, but preaches how he ate beforehand or is trying to diet. Any excuse. Anything to just not eat.
The hermits know.
Skizz is new this season. He didn't know yet.
”Im really not hungry skizz, please, I can let someone else take it. It won't be put to waste.” His voice was low, and he stared into the table rather than look up and feel worse seeing the eyes of another.
He started to count. Tap his foot under the table til it is cramped, or snap his hands like Doc does. Counted the breaths of the person next to him, Grian, and copied them.
He blinked.
“Just a bite Mumbo, you’ll feel better.” Mumbo looked up slowly, and looked to Skizz and his arm he held out.
In his hand was a fork, Mumbo’s own, and that very same piece of steak that smelled like rot and bile.
If Mumbo could turn paler, he was now.
But, Skizz, he would be upset maybe. Maybe he’ll ask why rather than offer solutions.
If he asks why, Mumbo couldn't answer him. Maybe he knows already.
Does Skizz know? Is that why he tests him?
If he doesn't eat it, then Skizz will know.
Mumbo held a hand out, shaky, and his breaths quickened. Slowly, he grabbed the fork.
He’ll know.
Mumbo just has to take one bite.
He blinked once more, counting up to 7 seconds before doing it again.
The fork raised up to his lips, and he opened his mouth slow.
A drop of juice ran off the steak and fell into his opened mouth, and Mumbo felt his stomach heave. His mouth turned up at the corners and his eyes felt dizzy.
But he bit down. Fangs that are hidden inside his mouth punctured the meat and it tasted like rancid trash.
He pulled the fork away, and feigned a gulp. The meat remained on his tongue, but he felt bile rise up his throat slowly.
Skizz spoke again, and Mumbo barely heard it over his own heart beating in his chest. He couldn't breathe.
One.
“See? You’ll feel better soon Mambo, garenttee!” And with that, he turned, and started to talk to his neighbor.
Three. No longer did Mumbo feel eyes upon him.
He let the fork clatter on his plate as he stood up and walked away.
Mumbo counted the seconds he had left.
Five.
He stepped towards the exit, slowly so as to not draw eyes.
Seven.
He walked behind Xisuma’s back, and was glad the admin did not hear his steps. But across from them was Cleo and they saw Mumbo. But their look of concern did not last as she stopped Joe at her side from taking their last piece of pie.
Nine.
As he passed the last end of the table, he could feel it. That long known feeling of choking. He tried not to cough, to breathe and beyond anything tried not to swallow the food in his mouth.
He stumbled over a bit, tripping on his foot, but desperately corrected himself before taking the last few steps til the exit.
Eight.
A flash of color caught Mumbo’s eye.
Doc saw him. He was talking with Etho, but then his red robotic eye snapped to Mumbo.
He kept walking, hoping he would write it off as nothing.
Five. He reached the archway and turned into the courtyard in Wels castle.
Two. Mumbo fell to his knees, and they landed on wet muddy ground. He was far enough now.
He hunched over and started to heave.
oOo
Doc watched as Mumbo walked slowly away from the table. From dinner. His feet were quiet with a practiced step, made in effort to make the least amount of noise.
Truly he would not have known the kid was up and leaving had Mumbo not tripped for only a second before catching himself.
He watched as the young human walked out of the hall and left the party. Walking into a storm outside, rain pouring loud enough it echoed in the hall they ate in.
Doc pushed his chair out, and pulled his communicator out. He sent a message quickly to Xisuma, telling them that he’s going to check on Mumbo who just left.
Then, he pushed up, and followed the humans steps.
oOo
He couldn't breathe.
Tears filled his eyes and ran down his nose, dropping onto the ground under him.
Rain drenched him, soaking his clothes and sending chills deep into his bones.
Mumbo couldn't breathe. Every inhale tasted like rotten flesh and so he did not breathe. He can feel it still, the slime of the raw meat on his tongue, and the feeling of gaging on air.
His arms held him up and his legs were too weak. They shook, but he kept dry heaving, trying to get rid of the food.
Mumbo tried to count, his breaths or even his blinks but he only took sharp inhales when he started to suffocate, and his eyes were blinking rapidly from sobs and rainwater.
He couldn't. There was nothing.
He can't stop, the feeling is there. Shame in breaking a rule, and the need to remove any taste from his mouth. He can still taste it.
There wasn't anything to puke anymore. Just dry air from an empty stomach.
Mumbo sobbed into the ground, he cried to the air, and trembled in the rain.
Then, there was a sound.
Not the sound of pounding rain, but the sound of footsteps.
A hand landed on his back and he flinched, folding into himself, but the hand was soft, and light.
It rubbed slow circles into his back.
He counted each time it made a loop.
One. He stopped coughing, keeping his mouth open wide to not renew that taste on his palette.
Three. Mumbo breathed in a shaky gasp, and another quickly after.
Five. He leaned back into his legs, and hugged his arms close to his chest. He kneeled for a moment before hands grabbed his shoulders, and pulled him into a hug.
The hand kept going, looping again and again, keeping an even pace each time.
Nine.
Mumbo closed his eyes and forfeit his effort to keep rain from his eyes. He let his head fall into the neck of the person holding him.
Twelve. He let his arms go, and wrapped the around the person, feeling his fingers fist into the coat holding him.
Fourteen.
He could hear them now.
”It's ok Mumbo, just keep breathing, follow me.” Doc’s voice was calm and steady. Strong, and it held Mumbo away from any more panic. Mumbo needed his strength right now.
And he followed. Waiting till the ram under him breathed in, he followed the pattern. Each breath hurt, but Mumbo tried.
In.
”I have you now man, Doc is here.”
Out.
”It will be ok.”
In.
Mumbo paused, and tried to open his eyes. The feeling of pouring rain finally left him, and his face no longer drowned in water.
He looked up slowly, and saw an umbrella covering the two. Holding it, and crouched close, was Xisuma. Equally drenched.
He dug his head into Doc’s shoulder. He can't look at anyone right now. There was a pure fear of being seen. It made his chest hammer, and made his breaths quicken at the thought.
They’ll know.
It's too late-
“Hey, how about we head home? I can put out those candles you like.” Xisuma’s voice was kind but not demeaning. Mumbo felt acknowledged, not pitied.
Doc joined the admin, speaking up quietly knowing how close Mumbo’s ears were to his face.
“A blanket and maybe a fire to rid the cold. You are shaking Mumbo, and some warmth could fix that.”
Mumbo no longer felt the bubble of anxiety that made him shake, but the chill of a cold making him shiver. He calmed a bit more. He could feel Doc shivering with him too, and his own tremblings didn't feel so unnecessary now. It didn't feel like overreacting if Doc was the same.
His throat felt torn, but slowly from where he hid his face in Doc’s shoulder, he started to speak.
”..ok.”
A hand grabbed his, and he felt Doc start to stand. He followed his actions, on tense and cramped legs, he rose taller than Doc, but Doc didn't let go, nor stop running circles in his back.
Not even when Xisuma teleported the three far from the castle.
oOo
They left after most of a new day. Doc left first, having to go home and tend to his own tasks. And probably scar Skizz for life in a stern talking to.
If the chat message he sent out when he left had anything to go by, the newly joined hermit has learned a fast lesson.
Xiusma was hesitant to leave, but Mumbo all but pushed them out, insisting he only needed a day or two to recover from the chill that seemed to remain.
The admin gave up, and promised to message check-ins.
For a moment, Mumbo basked in the feeling. Finally alone.
Then, the feeling came back. Guilt.
Fatuige returned fast, and he stumbled around his home before deciding on sleep.
He went to bed. Maybe he just needed rest.
oOo
The average time between blinking is 5 seconds.
Most animals blink. Only most because some are born without eyelids, and can't blink from that.
Mumbo likes to assume they would if it was possible.
blinking is as natural as breathing, inhaling, exhaling. Overlooked motor skills that are normal requirements of life.
The dead do not blink. Not where they lay, as simple sad cadavers.
Cleo doesn't blink. They stare, and stare, sleep with their eyes closed of course but only so they don't have to stare into the ceiling for hours. He’s never asked if they sleep. They don't breathe either, just hum, and talk, and sing without needing any air to do so.
But everyone else does, even if it's a weird way to do so, but not weird to their own species.
Grian as a bird hybrid blinks more so sideways if you watch close enough.
Mumbo hasn't really seen Tango blink.
Or Jevin, or Cub.
They don't have to of course, as hybrids they have no need. But they do sometimes, mostly for comedic effect but sometimes when you're surrounded by those who do, it's easy to learn.
As Mumbo stares into the ceiling of his room and he counts each blink. It's a habit he never dropped. To count every blink. Every breath. Everything.
He needs to get up anyway, plans with people and ideas to work on! Exciting and wonderful everyday to have that. Something. He doesn't move.
Xisuma got rid of the chains, Mumbo knew that, he watched it happen. But today, and days like, it feels as if they still bind him.
Mumbo does not like this new day.
He tries to say it's not from the party. He knows it is.
Excuses vary. Maybe he's tired, but he is always tired. It comes with never sleeping.
Mumbo’s hair was still held in elaborate pieces. He tried to not ruin the work Grian had done.
He tried to sleep after, not caring to change from his clothes besides the shoes. In the end, he never fell asleep, just laying there pretending to be calm enough that his thoughts would quiet long enough for any rest.
Mumbo tried to get up, sit up, even shift in his bed. He couldn't muster the energy. He just lay there.
In the day’s span, mumbo heard birds from his base, chips and crickets. Heard rivers flowing and fish jumping. He had nothing better to do than expand the world using his ears without ever even so much as twitching in his bed where he rotted.
It has been hours. Days. heard rockets and elytras taking off. Heard clicking of messages on communicators, and heard footsteps get close but never close enough before they turned and left.
His room got stuffy, like the air was heavy, it made Mumbo sweat under his blankets and pillows that protected him from the blinding sun that showed another day passed.
Then he moved. His clothes stuck to him as he shifted only slightly enough to feel the uncomfortable heat press against his cold skin.
Mumbo was cold, always is and has been. But this now was a sickly cold, where you can still sweat and burn and itch from it. No matter what however, you can never get warm.
His stoumah hurt, ached, tore himself inside out. He's starving, famished, ravenous.
Mumbo cried, and tried not to remember the feeling of food so very close. To remember the feeling of a broken rule.
He deserved this. He dared.
This was just karma.
oOo
Today was not a good day.
He stares into the ceiling. There's blacks and greys, browns and reds he’s certain but today, now, he can't see the color. He can't see the hours of effort into it. He can't see the happy thoughts and a sense of pride he felt when he made it.
it was just blocks. things. and there was nothing to see. not even to think.
all the days worth were words. they dont mean anything, mumbo cant think of anything that means something. there is no feeling inside of that. and it's dark and cold and barren, with no love, nothing.
it's not as if he wasn't busy, there was so much to be done. so so dearly. Many big things, more small, and everything in between the two, he has plans for the day. well, yesterday now. He missed meetings. What a terrible thing to do to someone who may have been waiting, expecting.
all because he was.. sad? no, that doesnt feel right for the moment.
Mumbo knows the feeling of sadness more often than wanted for his life, but today wasn't that, no, today was just the pity of existence. Blank.
Empty.
He has no reason to be sad. No pressure, no time limit, no hunt. He has family and friends and people with him now.
He has everything. It's rude to be sad. Ungrateful for all sacrifices for him. What a mean thing to do.
That makes him squirm almost, the idea that he’s being ungrateful to people. To Grian and Scar who always make time for him even when they are busy enough. For tango his undying trust. For Doc and his care to someone like Mumbo.
To Xisuma, who truly saved him. found him. lied for him.
it makes his throat burn, chest tighten. makes his skin crawl and drains the little warmth left in him, replaced with chills wracking his body.
It's late now, the window is dark. It's cold. Freezing.
Mumbo becomes aware of just how cold he is, he sat up out of bed because it felt too tight in the blankets.
he could feel them now. on his legs, across his lap, over his hands. Feeling every fiber, strand. He can feel his own hair he pulled out the other day poking into his arms from where it's tangled into the fabric of his bed.
it made his arms itch. It made them crawl, desperate to escape and be free but he couldn't move for the life of him.
It hurts. mumbo can move, only a bit, like a machine. Like a forgotten, abandoned tool trying to do its job one very last time.
he reaches with his hand and scratches lightly on his arm. on his wrist. just so very light. His fingers are ice. numbing to touch.
so he presses a bit more. and more. til he can feel the burning feeling of the itch melting away from his skin. but, its, its not leaving, its morphing and changing and spreading. The more he thinks the more mumbo can feel everything, every inch of skin just writhing.
He scratches his arms, and shoulders, and when his shirt blocks his back he tears it off to be forgotten.
reaching around his back he scrapes claw marks into his shoulder blades and neck, red lines bleeding in the grooves under each mark.
It's not good enough, it's still there, and it runs away from where his hand is every time he moves to find it, to sate it, to be rid and free.
his arms are stinging, like a wound. It is a wound. It's too dark to see anything besides the moon however.
mumbo keeps clawing away, his neck, his chest. Lines and rows of lines, red and flared up against pale skin, making hatches into his body showing more and more desperation to just make it all stop.
It's in his hair now.
Again.
At first it's just scratching, scraping, but then it twists again. it feels better to just rip it out than to itch it all away.
There is more hair now. all in his blankets. It's red, and it's raw. He can't feel it yet.
Its shock still, the feeling isn't done, the burn, and it's enough to replace the agony of the next day awaiting.
still numb, still cold, and still blank.
it's still there. that ache, that festering winding buildup in every part of his flesh, of his bones.
he wants to feel it, to earn it, to writhe in the choice of it all but he just can't yet. It's just a sting right now, just swelled up skin that outlines every mark. Nothing beyond the first feel of a new wound but after? It's just cold and numb.
its numb
It's cold.
its…its…
Gone.
For a few moments before he hit the bed with a limp body, Mumbo prayed to just be able to sleep for once. Without feeling like he's dying again.
oOo
The morning was just as intense the next day, but an alarm blared into his soul and forced him from his bed.
Mumbo covered his ears as he walked outside slowly, forgoing shoes and decency and stomped to the alarm that screeched from his mailbox. Opening it blessed him with sweet silence, and he took out the shulker box, placing it on the ground and crouching down to look inside.
Mumbo grabbed at the letter in the mainbox before him. His eyes felt raw from crying but he read slowly, focusing on each letter.
’To Mumbo!
It didn't feel right to have a dance without you, so Scar and I decided to meet at his place for a little get together, and opportunity to do the dance again!
Honestly, you have to fully teach me this time! Promise not to stand on your feet again!
Send me back whenever you're free!
Signed, Grian’
Attached to the same parcel was a cooked potato.