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Living with Rek feels, at times, like an absolutely Herculean task, or maybe even some sort of curse placed upon SB by God himself.
SB glares at the small honey farm, positioned so awkwardly in the middle of their base, right in the way of any expansion SB could hope to enact. It’s pitiful, really. Hopelessly inefficient, even after he fixed it for Rek, and useless to boot because what do they need honey for? Blocks for a redstone machine? It’s not like Rek would be building one.
Maybe that’s rude. Rek does things like that sometimes, he supposes; random, outlandish undertakings outside of his skillset, that is, just to see what’ll come of it. Just to see if he can. Rek’s the type to just try; this honey farm is a testament to that, all rudimentary and broken. But Rek has always liked a challenge. SB has never seen much point to all that— would much rather stick to what he knows, what he’s good at— but he can respect it. He just wishes it would be less in his way, which, in his opinion, is perfectly fair.
Not that he’ll tell Rek. Not much point to that, is there? It’s not that bad. They’ll use the honey eventually, and he stuck that little tree pit behind it, so the space isn’t entirely wasted. Sure, if the honey farm wasn’t there, he could’ve put something bigger and better and a million times more useful in this giant offshoot of their base, but hey, what happens happens. Not a big deal. It’s pretty much on him for disappearing for a couple of weeks anyway.
Also, the honey farm is so noisy. The constant ticking of the dispenser drives him up the wall, and it’s right in the middle of the walkway. If it was just in the back of the room, the wood and stone could at least have a fighting chance of dulling the sound into something bearable, but no, no. It has to be right here, in his face, in the way, every time he walks back to the turtle farm. Could turn it off, he reckons, but then what’s even the point of having it in the first place? Might as well just get rid of it at that rate, and that wouldn’t make Rek very happy, now would it?
Rek happens to catch SB like that, shooting daggers at the honey farm. His arms are packed with sandstone and logs, clearly set for a decorating mission, but he stops in place when he sees SB and smiles. “SB! Welcome home!”
The dispenser clicks away. SB’s lips twitch up. “Rek,” he says, a touch brighter than he exactly feels. “Wasn’t sure if you were here or not.”
Pleasantly, Rek hums, hoisting his armful higher up against his chest; it keeps slipping out of his hold, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it much at all. “Oh, I just got here. I was trading with the villagers.”
SB wonders if he tore up the entrance and left it a mess again. He’ll have to see next time he heads over. For now, he glances down at the blocks in Rek’s hands. “Getting straight to it, aren’t ya? No time to waste.”
Rek laughs, soft and small. His gaze flicks over the base, dancing around the walls adorned in all his nice, pretty blocks. “You’re one to talk.”
Is he? He doesn’t really think so, but Rek’s a nice guy, so it’s probably a compliment. He shoots back easily, “You know me.”
There’s still a smile on Rek’s face as he turns away— toward the turtle farm— and starts carving out the back wall. All his decor blocks make a messy pile at his feet as he works in dutiful silence, save for the occasional humming of the same part of some upbeat pop song. It’s hard to hear over the dreadful click, click, click, click digging at his skull, but that’s neither here nor there he figures.
And for a moment, SB watches him. Rek has never called himself a builder, wouldn't dream of it really, so it shouldn't surprise SB that this doesn't exactly come naturally to him.
It does surprise him, though, and he reckons that's why he keeps watching. Rek sets up a few pillars of logs, and then cycles back to frown up at them and chew at his cheek. He shifts around, angling his face out of SB’s view, but SB can tell from his muffled murmuring that he's covering his mouth while he thinks. He must not like it, because he hums definitively and surges forward, axe in hand to tear it right back down. The failure doesn't deter him at all, because not a split second after he's jumping back up to try again, this time with different spacing.
Strange. What a guy, SB thinks to himself. “Having fun, then?” He says without strictly thinking about it. Nice, that.
“Hm? Oh yeah,” Rek replies with little more than a glance over his shoulder. “I’ve been like, dying to do something back here, it's just so empty. I was waiting until the farms were ready, though.”
SB frowns and glances over at the turtles, shuffling away in their precarious sandbox. He kept Rek waiting on that, didn't he? If only he'd built it sooner. Quite the teammate he is, in the end.
He hasn't properly apologized for that, and he doesn't take this opportunity to. Instead, he laughs, flippant as he can, “Yeah, it was an undertaking, tearing up me old one.”
Rek fully turns then, axe still clutched in his hand. He cradles it to his chest, almost affronted, or maybe just startled. “You didn't need to do that. I was putting it off so bad.”
What, the signs weren't Rek telling him to get to work? Does Rek just leave signs around for himself, then? SB is really in for a unique time living with him.
“Ah, farms are my specialty.” SB waves him off. “Was the least I could do.”
“You've done a frick ton,” Rek says, so earnest that SB forgets to find it a little funny that he said frick, and forgets to breathe for a solid few seconds too. “You don't think that?”
The honey farm ticks its agonizing taunt. “Of course, of course,” SB answers, and it sounds off-kilter even to his own ears. If Rek asks, he's going to tell him he's got a headache. Not far off, if that idiotic dispenser has much say in it.
But Rek doesn't ask. His brows dip even lower than when he'd been scowling at his log wall. “You were so sick that I saw you once in two weeks, and I don't think you even realized I was there. Seriously, it wasn't a problem,” Rek insists, flashes him a smile— something private, something comforting— and spins back around to face his masterpiece in progress.
SB blinks a few times at the back of Rek's neck. All he can really do for at least a minute is watch the way Rek's shoulders move, up and down and up and down as he sets to laying sandstone. It's true, SB does not in fact remember seeing Rek around. Or much at all, if he's honest. He was pretty ill.
“Well, I could put together one of these scute farms on my death bed,” SB jokes. “You're never too unwell for some ethically dubious farming.”
Rek's shoulders bounce with the bright melody of his laughter, and the fingers of it swiftly undo the knot pulled taut beneath his sternum. For the first time since SB saw it, he doesn't hear the honey farm at all.
Right. Living with Rek is just about the easiest thing he's ever done, too.
Except for the part where Rek is the biggest thief he's ever met, and incapable of admitting it, to boot.
It's just that he swears this second barrel behind the stone bricks had something in it. He can't quite put his finger on what, but well, he's got plenty of valuables to store so he can't imagine why it'd be left empty.
The only real conclusion he can come to is that Rek swiped something from it. By itself, this doesn't bother him; he told Rek where the barrels are, showed him exactly which blocks to break to get to them. He even remembers saying take anything you need. And it's not that he was lying when he said that, it's just… he figured Rek would tell him, right? Just as a courtesy. It's the polite thing to do, isn't it?
He's trying to get this across when Rek looks up from the little book in his hands— Overcoming Overconfidence: Getting Out of Your Own Way, the cover reads— and frowns a little. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
Goodness. Really? “I don't care if you use my things,” SB says. “I’d just like to know.”
Rek's voice is perfectly measured. “Okay, well, I haven't,” he responds, like a liar. “But if I do, I'll definitely let you know.”
“I mean, y’did, though,” SB replies. “But that's all right, we can start fresh next time, on the same page and that.”
For several moments too long, Rek stares at him, unblinking. His smile pulls his lips so wide that his cheeks twitch violently. “If you wanna have separate storage, we can. It doesn't bother me.”
No, SB doesn’t want that. He never said that, did he? “Not much point to living together then, is there?”
Rek wrenches his head back down to the book in his lap, thumbing methodically at the corner of a page he is definitely not reading. “Yes? Like, a million points, SB. I mean, convenience, protection, security-” he pauses his ramble abruptly, the tiny pinch in his face softening into something open and hesitant. His lips seize a little around one more quiet word: “Companionship?”
SB’s a bit of an idiot, isn't he? Unsurprising news, especially to himself. Probably 85% of his time is spent righting some wrong, he thinks. What's that all about? He'll have to accept that, though, because he hates the way Rek's throat caught on that word like a thorn. He can be a bit of a knob, but he doesn't want to do that to Rek. The guy's too nice. He's a clear sky on a beautiful summer day, and here's SB, clawing his way in like the void of a storm cloud he is.
Don't mess it up, SB, he thinks to himself, a touch desperate, not this, of all things.
“Alright,” he starts, cautious, tentative. “I am… a very paranoid individual. That's on me.”
“Lifesteal does that,” Rek agrees easily. “But we're teammates.”
And oh, that gets SB all defensive again, sends it roaring up inside him because really? Rekrap wants to lecture him on trust issues?
“Like you trust me, or Clown or Minute,” he shoots before he can stop himself.
It's like watching the Earth take on its first brutal frost of the winter. The color seeps from Rek's body, from his head to his toes, and leaves in its place something pallid. His eyes are frigid, like a couple of lakes frozen over, all unforgiving and dangerous. Rek has never once scared SB, not until here, not until now.
SB finds himself afraid. He's afraid that he's about to face the wrong end of a blade blessedly unfamiliar to him, and more afraid he'll lose the one person who has always felt like home in the process. Why does he have to open his mouth? Can't he keep it shut once or twice, here and there?
“I'm here,” Rek says, sharp and steady, like he's already driving the sword. SB swears he can feel it. “Am I not?”
This is as close as it gets for me. Take it and shut up, is what SB garners from that. Message received, realized, and venerated. He'll sign it, frame it, hang it on his wall, and pray to it every night. He doesn't care, as long as it pushes out the cold front that's consumed the space between them. It's daunting how desperate he feels. He's always been a lonesome guy— likes it better that way, really— but Rek nestled right in and SB would rather Rek stayed, he thinks. They work well together. It's a miracle, honestly.
“You are here,” he admits, and somehow… laughs. Good going, SB. He wonders how it reads to Rek, because he doesn't even know how it reads to himself. “And I appreciate that, you know. Greatly.”
Ever so slightly, Rek's eyebrows raise. “Uh-huh.” And then, quieter, “I didn't take anything from the barrels. I definitely have taken some of your stuff, though.”
“My gunpowder?” SB offers, because he already knew that, frankly.
“Yeah,” Rek answers, more sheepish than before. With his legs folded up to his chest, he looks a lot less intimidating. “If you'd accused me of that… well…” He laughs a little, nervous.
Okay, yeah. SB sees where he went wrong. Maybe. A little. His words are a lot more careful this time. “It's not the sharing that I mind. I just don't like not knowing where my things are.”
“That makes sense, yeah,” Rek agrees with a little nod as he props his chin in his hand. “I’ll just tell you if I move something. Does that work?”
SB breathes a little sigh of relief, because finally, they’ve landed on the same page. He has no clue how he managed whatever just happened, but it’s over, so he’ll go with it. He sees where Rek’s coming from, Rek sees where he’s coming from, and everything is great.
“Perfect,” he affirms.
The last of the ice thaws with the smile that blooms on Rek’s face. “Awesome.”
And with that, they slip back into something easy. Rek returns to his book, though SB knows him too well; it’s a sure sign he’s too bored for his own good. He’ll jump into something more hands-on soon. If SB organizes their chests slower in anticipation for Rek joining in, well, there’s no one else around to know. When he’s right, and the both of them keep bumping into one another as they turn a one-person job into two, he even keeps his satiated feeling to himself.
Their operation doesn’t run perfectly, of course. Sometimes, SB places down a new chest on the wall that, in his head, will be great for their overflow of stone blocks, only to turn around a few minutes later and find it half-filled with Rek’s redstone. Other times, he’ll refill a half-empty dirt chest only to turn around to find Rek with a shulker full of dirt, getting ready to ship it off to a different chest across the room. Point is, they mess it up to the point of terrible inefficiency. They’re not perfect, are they? They step on each other’s toes and get everything wrong a little bit.
But it’s good. Every time SB stumbles, there’s a second set of hands there to lift him up. If he has too much to carry on his own, Rek’s shoulders are perfect for the burden. Rek fills his gaps, covers his back. They move in tandem, a constant and soft push and pull like a current underlying them. He still isn’t used to it— another person here, with him always, staving off the loneliness that’s become some vital organ for him— but it’s getting better. Familiar. Because no matter how many missteps SB makes, he doesn’t stray from the truth: he and Rek are a good team.
By the end of the job, their chests are organized in such a way that, when Clown comes over tomorrow, he’ll chew them out for how nonsensical it is. SB finds that he doesn’t mind it so much. All the imperfections are alright, because they were born from two sets of hands, made with love and laughter and a million other vibrant things that Rek represents.
It makes sense to them, despite everything. This makes sense, SB goes as far as to think, and lets the sound of it echo, in enduring tune with the click, click, click of Rek’s honey farm. The gunpowder chest is half empty, and he thinks the two of them might just tackle that next.
Together.