When they arrive the weather is, and he hates to say this, pants. The wind greets them first, a sharp, cold thing that Mumbo knows will turn his face numb after a long walk. He zips his jacket up even higher as his luggage rattles behind him, as if the extra few centimetres of fabric will help him much against the wind. It doesn't. The start of most holidays, he thinks, goes something like this; expecting it to be perfect the whole way would be naive at best.
This trip was sorely needed. Mumbo loves the Hermitcraft server to bits, it’s the home he’s always had, but he’s still catching up on feeling like his usual self again after the end of the last season. There’s only so much high-energy newness he can take in this state. He was pushing it after a month or so in, not allowing himself to have a moment to breathe, consolidate or process, letting his brain stew to mush in the background; it was starting to show, his usual coping mechanisms gone down the drain. It really was fun to see everyone, though, and he’s excited to come back after a few days of proper rest and relaxation. Grian was the one to drag him out, actually, making the holiday and its destination mostly a surprise. He’s not even sure if Grian himself knows much about the place, other than it being very remote.
Said man catches up beside him as they leave the ferry. The ride to the island was fine, considering the trip was nearly two hours and his only sources of entertainment were a sleeping Grian and going out to the deck, watching sea-spray get flung the height of the ship. Grian's hair has already turned into a mess just walking out here, Mumbo doesn't want to know what his own looks like. He subconsciously runs a hand through it.
"It's freezing, but isn't this place gorgeous?" Grian asks and Mumbo can't help but agree, the view from the pier is lovely—ocean waves from miles away roll until they hit the shoreline, breaking into gentle pale foam on the rocks and masses of kelp. The monotony of it is always so satisfying to him, the way he can see its motions before it crashes and retreats back into itself, starting the cycle anew. Mumbo often watches them for hours whenever he's based on the shore for the season, though it’s something he’s been avoiding recently.
When there were good days, days where his then-partner wasn't staying over and he didn't feel like crumpled metal the morning after they left, Mumbo would bike to the beach about an hour away, sit on the stone brick walls in his pyjamas and watch the tide come in until he felt like a person again. On worse days he'd stare at it, wondering what it would be like to truly disappear into it, dark and opaque and nebulous. He'd reckoned he would get dissolved with the rock salt, or get carried away to somewhere nobody has ever gone before—or he'd just become the sea and have never existed at all. Right now though, he just looks at them to appreciate their beauty, nothing more.
(When they found out about those visits and why he went, they told him he did it because he missed them, and that they would come round more often if they could. Mumbo had agreed then, but he knows now that it was his body recovering from the exhaustion and stress that they would cause.)
He doesn't remember if he told Grian about any of that, it doesn’t tend to turn up in conversation, but coming here is one hilarious coincidence if he hadn't. The sea here is translucent and shows little patches of cyan, even with the sky so grey. He can tell he's going to love it here immediately despite all the cold.
As if on cue, Grian shivers and pulls his raincoat closer to him. It's a lovely red, similar in colour to the jumpers he tends to wear, made out of thin waterproof material and half a size too large. The wind sneaks in from the gaps where it doesn't fit him properly and it puffs him up like a weird balloon. Mumbo watches him with pity. Droplets of rain gather and fall in tiny rivulets onto Grian’s trousers.
"So we went up north, and you didn't expect this weather? You could have gotten a thicker jacket."
"Yeah, yeah," Grian says. His teeth are gritted as he shivers again and he looks only a little miserable. "I literally don't own another jacket, you know that. And anyway, I didn't layer up enough because travelling while dressed that warm sucks! I have no idea how you survived the trip here, you should be a puddle by now."
"I have three layers on—shirt, jumper, jacket. Three layers is nothing!"
“That’s my really chunky jumper though, that thing is the equivalent of getting shoved into a bread oven," he complains.
Mumbo tuts. "Honestly. As soon as we get to the hostel I'm making you put something else underneath, or I think I might watch you freeze to death and turn into a Grian ice lolly, or Han Solo."
The hostel is just down the pier, a charming little place with bunk beds in the bedroom and a kitchen-slash-dining-room that might be better than the one in his own flat. The man who runs the place tells them that it'll be just the two of them for a while; it's too early for most vacationers, what with the wind and the rain and less sun.
He can see why this place was so highly recommended—this is his idea of luxury. There's a good chance his perception of niceties has been warped, though, by early-server bases without a plumbing system as well as living in a busy city server. He'd move to somewhere like this, if he had the money and could stay there more than a month or two a year. Alas.
Grian immediately gravitates towards the sofa placed in front of the TV and throws himself into the corner of it, sighing like the walk wasn't only five minutes.
“Mumbs, don't look at me like that! At least I took off my jacket. Come sit with me before we unpack, it’s warm."
And he can't say no to such a happy looking face, can he?
After a frankly ridiculous amount of time cuddling and basking in the warmth, they drag themselves to the nearby corner store (Mumbo has a battle with the tote bag Grian brought to stop it from escaping with the wind) to grab something for dinner after unpacking, and they're happy to find fresh vegetables in one of the fridges and eggs sent from a household down the street. It's a blessing. Mumbo enjoys a nice meal in just as much as he does going out for food and Grian is a fantastic cook when he follows a recipe, even if he sounds like he'll combust from the stress of it. He won't, Mumbo knows that now. Grian's told him that he enjoys it, so Mumbo has gotten used to the loud complaining after a few years.
The weather hasn't let up since they arrived, but when they get back Mumbo wants to go on a walk. He wants to explore the area a little more, feel the fresh salted air and enjoy the scenery. Grian borders on falling asleep in his bed, and as much as the two of them enjoy a hike together, tomorrow would probably be better for that, so Mumbo heads out alone with the keys in his pocket.
The direction he picks at random leads him down another small road with old, quiet houses, sweet daffodils blooming in the swaths of green, and the sea just beyond it once again. It seems the island is small enough that the view of water is near inescapable. He likes that. He also doesn't really like that, because the ocean is equally as comforting to him as it is a reminder of what he's been healing from. It gets hard for him to see his progress, often stuck in the feeling that he'll be like this forever with the very easy and near-pleasant hopelessness blindfolding him. Things are better now though, seriously; he might have been left picking up more pieces than he thought there were, annoying and painstaking, but he's getting there. He has to be.
The waves are far, now. He's behind a stone brick wall near the shore, a barricade for erosion, probably, and the drop from there to the rocks is barely a few metres, tide going out and showing how shallow it really is. He automatically starts to calculate the damage. The height isn't anything that would kill him if he fell in, he reckons. It would be nice to be enveloped by the water here, the near iciness of it enticing to some quiet but practised part of him, like the shock of it before sending him under the waves would—
Breathe in, one two three hold, breathe out, snap out of it. He wouldn't do that, he knows this. There are people he loves very much, very very much, and he wants to stay here. He is worth that. He's worth staying here, loving and being loved, to fight back against what he was taught.
So instead he looks up to see seagulls above him, and though he's not one for birdwatching, they're captivating in how they take the wind, wings outstretched and gliding slow enough to look almost motionless. Grian will be itching to join in tomorrow; Mumbo saw the way his wings started twitching when they were outside.
The cold breeze has gotten vaguely intolerable at this point. It bites at his ears and scratches his jaw, leaving his face numb and pink, its version of politely telling him to leave and that he's outstayed his welcome on an evening like this. His hair's gotten damp, too. Oh well. His hands were kept safe in his pockets, mostly, and he's wrapped up enough that he’d be surprised if he gets a cold. He turns around, keeping note of the beautiful cliffs in the distance and the long beach that sits underneath it. He usually wouldn't be very keen on the idea of visiting it, but something about a holiday already makes him want to try again.
The walk back thanks him with the late-hour sun turning the island gold and pink. Mumbo can't help but look out again when the light is like this. Even though he's lived through countless sunsets and sunrises, each one is breathtaking enough that he swears to remember the view forever. This time it might be the one he actually remembers for the rest of his life, though; he stands there until he suddenly realises the sky has turned navy blue.
The bedroom door clicking and swinging open is enough to wake Grian up. From adding up the time in his head, he must have been asleep for at least an hour? Not a bad nap by any means. He's glad he doesn't feel server-hop lag as badly, even though he doesn’t travel very often.
Grian rolls over, shading his eyes from the non-existent light with his forearm and squints at him. "Oh, hey Mumbs,” he says, voice scratchy, “You look cold. Went out?"
"Yep, just walked around a bit—I think there's a beach nearby you'd like? It's not really beach weather, I know it's barely spring, but it seems like a nice spot. This place is gorgeous.”
"A nice spot to sit and relax in, yeah. Maybe tomorrow, if it’s sunnier out. Devs, that's the nicest I think I've ever slept by the way. There's no way they didn't put something in these sheets," Grian jokes. He hoists himself up to sitting and holds the duvet to his nose, like he can smell something that isn't just faint laundry detergent. He mutters into the fabric, "Not even lavender... Magic, I swear to Mojang."
He and Grian manage to haul themselves out of their bedroom to make some pasta that they’d bought earlier, simple enough and gratefully made with the jarred sauce provided in the fridge and the vegetables they bought. It's strange seeing it pitch black outside by 7pm, since most of the time he doesn't get to witness the lengthening and shortening of the days.
Grian comments on it too, back sitting on the sofa for the rest of the evening, how he knew about this place because it’s a hit with astronomers and photographers—small enough to have barely any light pollution. It means the sky is even more gorgeous than it is on the Hermitcraft server, before lighting everything up becomes a priority. He has plans to hopefully see an aurora one night. Mumbo points out that there aren't any hostile mobs here, a blessing for going out late but probably a nightmare in terms of farms. At least there's no reason to be waking up in the middle of the night. Sleep comes quickly when he mentions this fact, the two of them still adjusting to the time difference that world hopping likes to bring. It's an early bedtime for the both of them, and Mumbo will see him again in the morning.
❦
Mumbo stands on a headland. He won't turn around, but he knows that behind him is a drop large enough to kill him twice over, and that a very similar one is ahead of him, too. The waves are still audible somehow, loud and roaring as if they were right under him. They won't cushion his fall. He needs to talk.
"Right, so, I was thinking," he starts, "Since Iskall's staying over ours, I thought me and them would go out and get, you know, some food for us all? We—it's actually a bit of a tradition. We walk and chat and stuff. Only if that works with you, because I wouldn't if... Yeah."
He's rambling as the wind knocks into him and rain pelts his face. It's going horribly. Hanging out with any of the hermits became a dangerous game of 'How much is too much' without his partner around, and after a while any visits to the server for longer than what it would take for quick fixes or emergencies would lead to some kind of argument, so in the brief time he could be on Hermitcraft, he had asked Iskall for help with the situation, terrified of losing anybody. They’d agreed to come visit with a wink and a gentle hand on his shoulder, to talk through ideas and what to do. The plan to go out was suggested as casually as possible when Iskall came round, the two of them very aware of his partner’s eyes on the other side of the wall. It’s something he feels near constantly these days. He still feels it now, eyes containing rage and envy and maybe nothing at all.
His partner says something that gets lost to the storm gales. Maybe the plan is working? He doesn't think it is. It's all worthless and he is too, honestly, he shouldn't have tried. What's the point of him trying like that? It's getting darker out here and Mumbo feels like he's grabbed onto a live wire and yanked it, every part of him molten with regret. He should've just kept going, they're so happy when he does. His partner still isn't looking at him, their face turned towards the drop opposite him. The feeling of being watched doesn't leave. His hands shake.
"Please? It's—the plan—I—Please."
His partner takes a step off the cliff edge , but it's Mumbo who feels the sensation of falling.
The storm clouds cast his bedroom into darkness, and as he lays there he feels that vertigo in his lungs, that mist in his head, the wind in his nerves. He's landed here, it seems like, luckily or not so, because his partner—his ex—his partner is there, sitting on the mattress, looking out the window and oh void he cannot be here. Something bad happens and he knows that, but he's not supposed to know that, is he? (He can never trust his gut, which he knows is what leads him to being hurt, but at what point do his gut instincts turn biased? When could he ever trust himself?) Thunder makes its voice heard across the distant sky. He's supposed to follow along even though he doesn't want it, he knows this, he’s been taught this, but quashing his instincts only works for a minute before he starts to panic again.
He doesn't want to be here, he needs to leave and he needs to leave right now. Away, away, away, the voice in his head begs. Ripples form around his hand as he reaches down from his bed to the floor with his eyes closed, pretending it's a Saturday where he can get out of his own stupid house and touch the water as the tide comes in. He tries to keep closing his eyes, but every part of his body is telling him to look up instead. And when he does, it's only Grian sitting on his mattress. Not his ex, just a man with pale brown wings spread like an angel and a concerned downturn to his mouth as he says something he doesn't quite hear—sitting there is his beloved, beloved man with eyes wide, reaching for his hand as Mumbo tips and falls endlessly into deep saltwater currents.
❦
The sun is what wakes him up the next morning, earlier than he expected to. The brightness reminds him of falling, somehow. They both forgot to close the curtains before they went to bed—it was so dark, then, that the thought of needing to shut them hadn't even occurred. He focuses on the way the light floods the space and bounces across the walls as his heart goes frantic, his body remembering his dream and his mind clinging onto the false-memories of all the terror and nothing else. He tells himself to look at the wooden beams, the off-white of the walls, the suitcases on the floor, that he's safe here. He counts to ten, tries to keep his hands from shaking like they tend to do on mornings like these, takes more slow breaths and wakes up properly.
Grian is across the room, knees up and sitting on his bed, awake. There are no double beds in the hostel, so they got two bunk beds in the room instead. The issue is that neither of them want to be climbing up ladder rungs in order to sleep and Mumbo thinks the two of them sharing a single-size bed would end up in murder, considering Mumbo's height and Grian's wings, so they resigned to sleep separately. Maybe he woke up like this because they're in separate beds. No need to think about other reasons. Grian frowns lightly and searches for something in his face for long enough that he really must look shaken.
"Morning. It's early, so you can head back to bed for another hour if you want," Grian offers cautiously. With how oddly coherent he is for this time of day, it seems pretty likely that he's already been up for a while. It's strange, seeing him like this in the mornings. Mumbo hopes he's not too tired.
"It's fine—Have you been awake long?"
"Not really, an hour or so, I think? The early night and the naps helped.”
"That's good. At least, I think that's good?" There's a nod in reply. "Good, great even." He tries to sit up to stretch and bumps his head on the bunk above him. "Ow, ugh, Gods Jens and Agnes, I'm too tall for this thing. I don't need any more sleep, so... maybe we could have breakfast soon? We have eggs, that would do the trick."
Eggs for breakfast almost feels too normal of a routine when they're so far from home. Grian complains about playing hide and seek with the non-stick pans for too long, Mumbo sneaks in enough butter to make most people cry, and the eggs get overdone. Grian keeps glancing at him, too, like he does every morning when Mumbo’s had a nightmare. He finds it sweet still. He gives him a kiss on the temple, his hands shaking, as a quiet thank you and love you, and Grian smiles and lays his head on his shoulder while the bread toasts as a quiet forever and always, I love you too.
It turns out that the tourist centre here has free cycle hire, which is delightful news for them both but especially for Mumbo. It's been months since he's had a chance to ride one after he started staying on Hermitcraft regularly again. He misses the feeling of it more than anything else. They ask for two, these new-fangled electric ones which make Grian whistle upon seeing them, deciding that even though the weather is as bitterly miserable as it was yesterday, it would be nice to know they could have them at any time. Maybe another time they'd go to that beach he saw on his walk, he thinks, or go further into the island and see what there is to do at the other villages.
As they mutter and discuss this to each other, the lovely old woman who gave them the bikes tells them they have kayaks with wetsuits as well. Grian gives a small but telling look to Mumbo, who returns it just as hastily. Kayaking is not the move at the start of spring, and he shudders thinking about falling into something so cold. It would be something to consider if they ever come back here in summer.
"I have a feeling it'll be too cold for that, but thank you for letting us know," Grian says, doing his best to be polite.
"Always worth a shot asking," she says, waving it off with a nonchalant flick of her tail. "If it's too cold for much else, there's a small building round here with some local history, books and files and antiques and all that. Free admission too, if you gentlemen are interested." Mumbo sees Grian light up in real time as his wings raise slightly and he leans forwards, enamoured. In his head, there's a cartoon-Grian that makes a klaxon noise and heart eyes.
"That sounds great, thank you ever so much," Mumbo chimes in. From the way the man next to him is almost vibrating trying to stay still, he's made the understatement of the century.
Even without any directions, the area is sparse enough that they find the place with ease. Each building they pass is charming in such a humble way: A closed B&B, a porthouse, a home with an old-style roof and a chicken coop beside it (aren’t they glad for those eggs!), a bank on a two hour lunch break.
"Right, this is the place—oh, it really is small! She really meant that," he says upon entering the building. Small, absolutely, but not lacking in things to read or see. The room is divided into sections, walls covered with all sorts of items and maps and paintings, or with shelves of atlases and files about relatively mundane historic events the area has lived through. Two seats are set around a coffee table in front of a large floor to ceiling window, and there's even a kettle with sachets of instant hot drinks. The little information placards are made with care despite the school craft paper and comic sans font. Mumbo spots one other thing of interest.
"I think there's an air raid siren over there."
"No way!" One of Grian's wings twitches so hard it almost knocks a guestbook over. He rushes to it and starts cranking the handle, the resulting noise loud enough to make Mumbo cover his ears and cringe. His teeth are seriously buzzing, and he's the one working with pistons and observers every other day.
It only lasts a few seconds but Grian is cackling, overjoyed and clapping his hands. "Oh my goodness, okay, that's it for me. I promise I'm done with that, genuinely, I've lost enough of my hearing already."
"You just can't resist a good contraption, can you? Devs, my poor, poor ears. I'm glad there's no one else nearby, they might have died. Anyone in a ten mile radius, even."
He gives a light scoff. "Uh huh. Ten metres, maybe. There has to have been worse people visiting this place than me. Like, the hermits would be way worse and you know it." He turns a slow circle, arms spread, taking in every detail around him. "Mumbo, check this out. How can they have so many things for such a small town? There's no way they actually have this much."
"Didn't you spend a whole day in the Hermitcraft museums when they opened? You were there for hours and barely got through it all. People can make a lot to look back on when they want to."
"That's—we're all utterly deranged and take up ten times the space with a tenth of the population, that's as different as it gets," he argues. Any conversation after that gets cut short when Grian spots a file on the life of a prolific victorian sailor. He also grabs an edition of something Mumbo can't make out, other than it looking dense with pages and decently weathered. Mumbo goes to carefully make some tea.
They spend at least an hour there, Mumbo sitting and taking in the view with his warm paper cup of tea, listening to Grian explain why history is so important, there have been generations of everyday lives shown here and there'll be even more, look at this bit here, let me read it for you, and hearing gentle clacking of antiques being picked up and put back down as he takes small breaks from flicking through the pages. Mumbo is relaxed enough that he starts to drift off. Not fully asleep, but his body rests as the words Grian reads aloud float to somewhere distant and soothing.
When he comes back to, the world outside has turned a darker grey and rain makes its complaints against the window in a cascade. Seems like a storm's on its way. His spine tenses at this information, mental alarm bells ringing to send him back and remind him of exactly why he hates this. Grian is sitting where he was before, chair rotated to accommodate for his wings and his legs dangling over one of the arm rests. The table has been cleared of the files and Mumbo’s drink.
"My tea," he mumbles, not feeling too sad over the loss of it, distracted by other things. He tries not to grip his armrest too tightly. "Mm. Oh well."
"It was basically empty and it would've been cold by now. Plus, I saw the face you were making at it."
"Yeah, it wasn't the best tea I've had in my life." He gives a slightly strained laugh. "If you were done you could've woken me up, you know, I don't mind."
Grian gently mimics his tone. "I also don't mind sitting here for five minutes and letting you sleep, you know. You needed to rest. We… should probably head back before this weather gets any worse, though. It started hammering down all of a sudden. How are you feeling?"
"Not the greatest, to be honest! But walking back to the hostel should be fine. I'm just —it should not be storming at this time of year. This wasn't even predicted on the forecast, for Coders' sake, I hate when this happens, spring weather can be so stupid sometimes! I'm glad we didn't go out because that would have been even worse—"
"Mumbo, hey. We're alright and we'll be fine walking back, it's only ten minutes. We've got this. We're safe."
He stares at the table and takes a moment to breathe. "We've got this," he repeats, "We're safe. It's fine."
Grian offers his hand with a gentle smile, Mumbo takes it, and just before they walk outside the last thing he sees is familiar scrawled handwriting in the guestbook. He fondly hopes it's legible to anyone else who checks it. He's shielded from the rain by Grian's wings even though he has his jacket on and the gesture is so sweet that for a moment Mumbo, somehow, doesn't feel so bad.
The walk back is, as Grian said it would be, fine. They get back to the hostel in one piece, though the nausea isn't being very kind to him, the heart in his chest is beating slightly too fast and the fog in his brain is like a thick blanket—he knows he can't go to their bedroom right now. Mumbo would feel bad if he got the sofa wet, so he takes off his jacket and sits on a dining room chair instead, gripping the table and breathing a little too hard. He pointedly does not look out the windows. Everything is fine, logically, nothing will happen, but all he feels is tension and dread.
Grian sits sideways in the chair next to him, takes his hand again, and blocks the view of the approaching storm by subtly spreading his wings. It's, what, the tenth kind thing he's done for him today? Mumbo really could never thank him enough. Grian does so much for him, all the time, and right now that fact sounds like some sort of death.
"Sorry. It's stupid for me to be like this, it's not like it's the thunder being loud or anything, it's just that—when my ex—when I—it was storming and that was their excuse to me. 'It's storming, you shouldn't be outside, what if something happened to you,' you know? To keep me there with them. So it's not the actual weather, it's just everything else. Goodness, it’s so funny," he says, tears forming as he looks at Grian, "I remember thinking I'd be alright with the consequences of going out anyway. And—I sure got those consequences from them! Goodness." At the last word, Mumbo starts crying in earnest.
“Mumbo, hear me out, okay? Mumbo.” Grian squeezes his hand. “What happened to you? Any of it? That was awful and something no one should go through. I don't think it's stupid to be triggered by this at all–I have my own things and you don’t think like that. That’s not kind to me, and you're a kind human being who cares about me. So be kind to yourself, too. You don’t deserve what happened, you hear me? Point being, you’re a brilliant, fantastic man, one who I love very much, and I won’t be hearing any of the contrary.”
After a few minutes, Mumbo quiets down, sobs reduced to sniffs and small gasps of air. "Yeah, you're right. It matters. I'm being—yeah. Sorry."
"There's absolutely nothing you need to apologise for." He gently taps Mumbo's forehead with his other hand and smiles. "No 'sorry's when I'm around, remember?"
"Then—then I'm not sorry whatsoever, actually. Not a single shred of remorse in me, never has been," he tries to joke. Grian laughs with his head thrown back, one hand on the table to brace himself as he leans the chair onto two legs, and his other hand still gently intertwined with Mumbo's. He grins back and it, just a little bit, is like winning despite the odds.
The evening goes slowly. Mumbo's heart rate slows down when music gets put on to mask the rain and distant thunder. The brain fog starts to lift when the two of them find a jigsaw puzzle hidden in a drawer under the TV, hopefully without any pieces missing. Mumbo sorts them into edge and colour and subject, Grian does his best to slot them into place, and the menial task is soothing.
After a while they hunt down some tinned soup from the back of one of the cupboards and take turns adding ingredients into it, a game which ends as soon as Mumbo almost drops an entire bottle of cumin in there and Grian earnestly considers the pros and cons of adding Summer Fruits flavoured squash into their pot of potato and leek. (It's a three year old tin of Heinz, it's not like it can get any worse!) Thankfully, their dinner narrowly avoids that fate and they eat in peace, the food not great but still enjoyable. Mumbo doesn’t want to go to their room, so they watch classic light TV about selling heirlooms and going on road-trips while they hold each other, and it’s just enough to lovingly pull him close to sleep once again.
"I still liked today," Mumbo hears himself babble, halfway to unconsciousness but needing to inform Grian of what’s on his mind. "Wanted to make sure you knew. The history was really nice and I'm really happy I'm on this holiday with you, Gri. Chuffed! There's a lot of bad stuff with me but the bad stuff isn't—I had a good day anyway. Yeah. I love you."
He's too tired to actually hear what Grian says, only the feeling of lips on his forehead and a hand in his hair until he's fully out.
❦
This time in his dreams, Mumbo is lying on the sand at the beach. It's the one on his city home server, from the grittiness underneath his clothes and the dramatic stacks of rock in his peripheral vision. He can't tell whether he loves this place or hates it. It isn't cold but he's soaked to the bone, a deep not-quite chill settling in his diaphragm and a heaviness that binds him in a way that might keep him lying down here forever.
Some unknown amount of time passes, minutes or hours, and the waves brush against his side. He turns to look at them and sees glistening reflections from the sun as the clouds part and turn the water a brilliant blue, the light blinding him like he's been shut in somewhere dark for years and only now has been let back out into the real world, into real sunlight instead of a bright grey sky.
Mumbo huffs as he stares back up at the sky, so plain and bright that he may as well have been looking at nothing. "You're not supposed to be here. I can't see you, but I know you're there. You're not particularly sneaky, if I'm gonna be honest—you've got those eyes." He doesn’t know why he’s talking to them but he’s started now, and he’s had the thoughts sitting and fermenting in his head for so long that they’re practically bursting to be said aloud.
Mumbo waves a hand in their vague direction. “I can't go to this beach anymore. I’ve been here too many times just to cope with everything. To cope with you, in fact! It's sad. I quite liked this beach, and what's worse is that I don't go to any beaches anymore, actually. That's the really sad part. That was my family's whole thing, beach trips.”
He grasps at the silence for a response that won’t come. He’s rambling, he’s aware, but he doesn’t want to stop. The tide has started to come further in, gnawing at him and dampening the edges of his suit again.
“I reckon you, sort of, kind of... destroyed me? It feels like it, at least. I'm in shreds. You were able to destroy me, and somehow I used to care so much about you. It actually got to the point where I couldn't afford to care about myself. And when I have bad days, and I have a lot of bad days, it still feels like I would care that much, which might be more true than I want it to be. I don't know. Devs above. I don’t know what that means—I never know anything.
"I'm sorry though. I am sorry. I'm sorry I loved you and I'm sorry I was never going to be who you wanted me to be. To be honest, I felt like I wasn't even close to it. Just—leave me alone, would you? Please. How many times do I need to say sorry for you to leave me alone?” The waves come in even further, threatening to wash over him entirely now. He finds that at the moment, he doesn’t care. He turns to face his partner, but he can’t tell if all he can see is sand or if his eyes can only see the afterimages of the sky.
"You love me, don't you?" they ask.
And Mumbo exhaustedly answers, "Enough that it kills me," which is somehow a lie and the truth at the same time.
“You just need to do a bit more for me, hun, then it’ll be over. You love me, right? Just a bit more, Mumbo.”
The water takes him as they continue to talk, a full embrace from the ocean. He doesn’t hear the rest of it.
❦
His eyes snap open and for some reason he wakes up in the bunk bed, implying Grian carried him here, which is mystifying and equally disorientating. The clock above the door ticks pointedly as he glances at it, faint light from a gap in the curtain reflecting off the hard plastic front and into his eyes. He runs a hand down his face.
He doesn’t love them anymore, he doesn’t know why his subconscious tells him otherwise. He doesn't. He knows this and he's happy with that fact, even if his dreams don't agree. He’s only hyperventilating slightly, more wanting to scream into his pillow than anything. The problem is that would wake Grian up when the man was clearly tired last night, so he just sits on the side of the bed with his head in his hands, done with it all, until his dream and the feelings around it wash away into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
“… Mumbo,” Grian says, patting at his head gently. “Mumbo, have you been sleeping like this? Surely that’s doing numbers on your back. I know yours is in much better shape than mine, but still. Are you awake yet?”
“Hmuhwh?”
“Oh, not yet. Don’t worry about it for now, then. Are you alright?” Grian is crouched down in front of him, arm outstretched to reach, and sure enough Mumbo had fallen asleep with his forehead on his knees, folded up like soggy cardboard. His whole body hurts.
“I have made… many decisions before in my life,” he murmurs, barely processing the conversation, “And this was a pretty bad one. Definitely top ten. Ugh. Ow.”
“Morning, Mumbo! I am begging you to tell me you haven’t been in this position the whole night—”
“I don’t even think I’m this flexible when I’m awake, Mojang help me.” He struggles his way to sitting as normally as he can with the bunk bed above him, one stiff vertebrae at a time. “Oh and uh, right, I’m fine. I woke up about seven-ish, according to the clock, and fell back asleep like this. So this should only be a curse for this morning."
“Okay, not awful!" Grian leans forwards to rest his arms on Mumbo's knees, now that they're unoccupied. Mercifully, he avoids asking him why he's in this position in the first place. He's mostly forgotten the dream, at least. "How're you feeling?”
“Would you be surprised if I said ow? Because ow. I'm going to need so much bribery to get me out of bed.”
Grian giggles, always amused whenever he's dramatic and nonsensical. “Well, hopefully your prediction on the curse is right, because we have a beach to get to today! Forecast says it's sunny out. Is breakfast a good enough bribe for you?”
Mumbo grunts.
The weather today is perfect, a minor celestial blessing considering their plans and how it had been the past few days. Mumbo is very happy to say hello to the sun and friendlier temperatures. He’s a little less ready to say hello to the beach, but it really is a lovely place to visit, according to the shopkeepers' anecdotes, and he has to admit that he misses it a little. He, for once, wants to be reminded of why he does, instead of what he ended up associating it with.
Grian persuades him to check out the café next door to get their breakfast—he'd been talking to the hostel owner the other day and found out that he, rather impressively, runs both businesses with his wife year-round. The establishment is decently sized, enough to house what would probably be half the village at once, and the classic English breakfast in front of him is hearty and satisfying. (Go on, Grian tells him earlier with a grin, It's our big day today! We need all that energy. Mumbo's aware that he says that mostly to pinch his hash browns but orders it anyway. In return, when they start to leave, he stares at the display case of sweet treats with enough obvious longing that Grian gets him one, lightheartedly grumbling about karma.)
As Mumbo stands on the road with the bicycle at his side, he suddenly realises he's nervous. Not even about their destination—it hasn't been that long since he last rode a bike in the grand scheme of things, and he knows he'll be fine once he gets on it but the possibilities wriggle their way through. Grian must be even more nervous than he is.
"Just to check, you're okay on a bike, yeah?"
Grian doesn't look at him as he replies, intently staring at his bike seat like it would eventually pick him up and parade him along. "Uh, yeah? I'd have told you earlier if I wasn't, Mumbo—I had one in highschool for a while. I'm just not... I know she said the seat wasn't too tall but it really does feel like it is."
Mumbo spends five minutes explaining how to get on a bike with a taller seat, which Grian eventually manages to do after some cursing. As soon as he does, though, he's shooting off down the road with his wings folded behind to avoid catching the wind; Mumbo has to hop on his own bike and chase him down to not lose sight of him.
"And we know where we're going?" he shouts to him when he catches up, the two of them riding parallel to the sea. They've double checked the map that's currently tucked into his backpack, but he wants to make sure.
Grian briefly turns his head to look at him, winks and turns to look back at the road. "But we don't know where we've been!" he sings. "And we know what we're knowing, but we can't say what we've seen!"
"Road To Nowhere, sure," he says to himself, though he can't help but smile at the performance as it continues on. He’s not worried—Grian always knows what he's doing when it matters.
If it's not the ocean greeting them at their left, it's fields and fields of green elsewhere, peppered with livestock, or a lake that shimmers in the sun, or bright, towering clouds in front of him, or scatterings of houses and barns that look shoulder-to-shoulder from a distance with how relatively level the island is. There's enough to marvel at that Mumbo accidentally veers off every few minutes with how little he's looking at the road in front of him.
He feels the pedals and gears going underneath him, his muscles working, the air rushing past his ears, all a reminder that he can still do this and do it well. The slight soreness he'll feel tomorrow is worth it, he knows. For now he enjoys the moment for what it is, takes every stray piece of gravel under his wheels with a smile and listens to everything around him devotedly like he can keep it in his memory forever.
Grian laughs and whoops as they go down a gentle hill, the sound faint from the wind greedily snatching it up in the small distance between them. His wings give a flap in celebration, propelling him forwards before they fan out to slow him down again. The joy from him is almost tangible, like Mumbo could condense it all into a drop on his tongue, something honey-floral and heady. It reminds him of when they were first together again on Hermitcraft, the way Mumbo would chase that simple joy from Grian like nothing else, him laughing and cheering in spite of what he was going through.
He wonders if the feelings are the same the other way around, now their positions have swapped. They must be, with how much Grian does for him. He's grateful.
Soon enough, they pull over to a narrower, gravel-filled path that descends downwards—not worryingly sharp, but enough that the two of them stop biking (ungracefully for Grian, who almost tumbles over along with his bicycle into the grass) and walk down it instead. They leave the bikes resting against the fence gate once it plateaus. It should be fine, they were never given locks and it's hard to imagine someone stealing something that's free to rent. They make their way through the grass as the dirt underneath it gets drier and sandier, until…
Mumbo looks up and the beach calls out to him in each wave that crashes at the shore, saying Hello again, we've missed you.
The sand shifts between pale yellow and silver in the light as he steps onto it, feeling the way it crunches into the soles of his trainers and how it radiates a gentle heat in reply. The sky's familiar blue is interrupted every so often with clouds that are soft and rich, like they've been brushed on with thin layers of oil and painted to frame a composition he can't quite see.
And the ocean.
The ocean has meant many things to Mumbo, throughout his life. It was always there, even if it wasn't the same one—this grand, vast thing he can never truly understand the scale of. It's been a comfort, a harsh reminder, a place to let everything out, a one-sided conversation. A great neutral beast, he remembers hearing somewhere, far at the back of his memory. It's fitting. He could never be sick of seeing this view.
Grian comes up beside him and hugs his arm. His voice is low as he says, "The locals' dearly beloved Saint Dinnerbone's Bay, you are a beaut! Wow. Lovely morning to you."
That briefly shakes him out of his reverie with a snort. "What, are you so impressed that you're flirting with it?"
"With looks like that? Absolutely. You seem about as enamoured as I am, though."
"I guess I am, it's just—it's so blue here," Mumbo breathes. "How did I—I'd forgotten. Why I love the beach. You're right, it is a beaut."
The urge to start running into the sea is overwhelming—he's seven years old again, stepping out of his parents' campervan and taking off as his mother yells at him to at least change first, darling, you'll get those clothes wet and then we'll all be miserable after! His parents didn't quite manage to teach him that particular lesson. He holds that memory tenderly, the pure excitement little-him had rekindling something in him now.
He fumbles for his backpack and reaches for their picnic blanket, haphazardly laying it down on the sand. Grian lets go of him and Mumbo immediately tugs his shoes and socks off, throws his jacket and the bag into the pile, and makes his way into the water. He still has his shorts and a shirt on but he doesn't care much if he can dry it all later.
"Oh Agnes, it's cold!" It shocks him even at ankle height, enough to bring him out of his nostalgia and back to what he was doing, wading further down to where the water reaches over his knees and laughing at the sensation. The chill isn't pleasant, but he's used to this. All it takes is some getting used to.
Grian is still where he left him when he turns around, pulling his shirt off over his wings, more a fight with himself than anything coordinated, and in a few seconds he's half naked on the sand and waving at him with a big, goofy smile. Mumbo waves back. There's a distant wingbeat with a fine layer of sand spraying as Grian takes off into the air. He's in his element, soaring and doing his little tricks, so effortless and practised that it's hard to remember that he first started flying a few years ago. Mumbo is seriously proud of him.
Before he knows it, a blur whizzes past and Grian dive bombs into the ocean behind him and absolutely drenches him in cold water. Grian surfaces and cracks up and Mumbo is too close to corpsing to really act angry.
"Oi! Those wings are an unfair advantage!"
"Skill issue, frankly." Grian holds an L to his forehead, tongue poking out. It's funny when that smug look on his face gets washed off as Mumbo splashes him.
"Ohhh, Mumbo," Grian warns. "You're in for it now!"
Their dramatised water fight turns into a full on brawl further from the coast, neither of them going easy on the other. Mumbo's clothes are soaked through, salt is in his eyes and he's freezing as he smiles. Grian isn't any drier, but he sways and wobbles from laughing, creases forming around his eyes. They're both laughing more than they have in some time, he thinks. This joy, this laughter, this moment crystallised and captured, is something glimmering and precious and it is truly all that Mumbo has ever wanted. The feeling of wanting this comes back again with such force; f*ck everything that has happened to him that keeps trying to make him forget so often. This is what he wants.
Mumbo takes a deep breath in and dives underneath as Grian moves to tackle him. He blinks a few times under the water to see the ocean floor and the light that reflects onto it until he locates his target beside the seaweed. He gets a hold of Grian's legs and pulls himself up just in time to hear him shriek and start laughing all over again, leaning onto Mumbo and turning his reddened face away.
"Have I won, then?" Mumbo teases, putting a hand round his waist. Salt water drips down his face and the back of his neck, which doesn’t give him the most triumphant image. “I reckon I've won, and you're the big loser today, Grian. Pay up, buttercup."
"I can't believe it, what an utter shambles," he whines. He turns to look up at Mumbo, chuckling. It's a lovely sight, as wonderful as the shore, or the fields, or anything else here, really, despite how he's seen it so many times before.
Mumbo kisses him there, standing ribs deep in the sea that surrounds the most beautiful little island on a world most people will have never heard of, shivering and wet under early spring sun, but they're happy and all Mumbo can think is that he loves him, loves him, loves him.
Fortunately for them, the midday sun is warm and drying off and lying down is rather nice. Grian is the worst off from their watery escapade—his wings aren't made for prolonged underwater exposure and it's his burden to bear when they take ten minutes of towelling to stop actively dripping. Mumbo's mother was right, too, because his clothes will take a while to dry and there's nowhere to hang them that isn't sandy. He doesn't regret it, though.
The fact he's only in his boxers currently leaves him a bit self-conscious. He's never been that good at sitting in his own skin, especially in public, made worse by what happened to him back then. It's a beach so it's not that strange, he reasons, and the only other person here is a lovely woman taking her dogs on a walk. They find out as they get to pet the darlings that she runs the local pub. She lets them know that it’s serving fish and chips in the evening, to which Grian calls her a heaven-sent messenger with full sincerity. She waves after the conversation dies down and turns to walk further up the bay.
She didn't seem to find him weird, which helps to cement the idea in his mind that yes, he is allowed to exist in public spaces, actually—a win for common sense. They watch the dogs as they dart in loops around their owner, turning into faint smudges on the horizon.
“So, you thinking about fish and chips for dinner then?”
“We’re on holiday on a tiny island, of course we’re getting fish and chips!” Grian lays on the sand, stomach-down with his forearms cushioning his face. His wings stretch themselves out, taking as much warm sun as possible.
Mumbo joins him. The sun is pleasing on his now damp skin, warming him through in the same way a good cup of tea does, the way lazily waking up on a good morning feels. Once the first few good memories come his way it becomes so much easier to remember everything else in his life, he notices. He remembers arms around his shoulders, hermit family gatherings, dancing, the certainty that people around him will always help.
“Did I ever tell you?” he asks.
“Tell me what?”
“What happened when I was gone.” Mumbo turns his head towards him and absentmindedly plays with the end of one of Grian’s feathers. “I mean, you know generally what happened, I meant like—okay, you know how I really like the beach?”
“Yeah.” Grian’s voice lowers as they talk. “You loved it as a kid, you love it on the server, too. It’s why I picked this place, you know?”
“Aw, that’s really sweet.” He takes a second to roll and place a kiss on Grian’s forehead, which Grian huffs a laugh at before Mumbo returns to lying on his back. “Do you get that thing, where you really like something but you end up associating it with other things instead? Like, during exams as a kid, I’d listen to music from games I loved while I was revising. And when they were done and dusted, I would be so sick of the music that I couldn’t play the games anymore.”
“Oh I get that, a hundred percent. I had that with Animal Crossing, actually. But—what’s this about?”
“I think that’s what happened.” He pokes at the sand with a finger, feeling it stick to him as it goes to his knuckles. Mumbo has always been a fidgeter when he talks. He knows his ex hated it, but he’s made his peace with that. “With the beach. I’d go out when I could, when I was actually alone, and I’d just… Watch the tide until I felt better. Is escapism the right word for it? Like, everything was fine when I was there, nothing else mattered but that tide. I was sick of it for a while, still sort of am. It’s all I can think of when I see it, sometimes. I still love it though, don't worry.”
“Mumbs… I never knew. I’m so sorry—“
“No, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you! Seriously, I was so bad at reaching out to people back then, hah.”
“I would never blame you for that,” Grian says, horrified. “You were in a situation that your ex designed to stop you from talking to people, Mumbo, you weren’t being ‘bad at’ anything. Iskall used to tell me all the time about what they saw when they visited you, they were so worried about you. You didn’t want to be around us because you were scared of hurting us.”
“Yeah, I was. I was so scared, I didn’t want to—to hurt you like I thought I was hurting them.”
He takes in what he said, hand wandering to Grian’s upper arm as he thinks. Part of him thinks that what happened was almost like dying, in a way he never really managed to come back from. The clouds above him have moved and shifted from full and layered to thin and wispy since he last looked, like the paint’s partially been wiped away, leaving streaks of what was there before. That same part of him realises that this is him living again.
“You’ve always understood, when I’ve told you stuff. You—you do so much for me, it’s ridiculous. Before you start, yes I know you do it because you care about me and that you want to, I know. I’m just—it’s so easy to be grateful for what you do these days, so it’s something I’m not taking for granted.” He helped Mumbo open up again, laugh again, remember good things again. “You basically grabbed me by my shirt collar and made me see clearly when I was really, really lost. Goodness, that’s so cheesy. You’ve got me being cheesy now, Grian, look what you’ve done!”
“Oh come here, you spoon.” Grian sits up and holds his arms out, which Mumbo accepts readily. He cards a hand through Mumbo's hair. “I love you, you’re brilliant and amazing and also not someone who has to do this on your own. You did the same for me before, of course I’d do it for you. I’d do it over and over forever, you know that. You’re worth that, I—and every hermit, not just me—will care about you like you care about us. Whatever we can, we’ll do.”
“Thank you,” he says, the words so full of meaning that it feels like it can’t get out from where it’s stored in his soul, no matter how many times he says it. “Thank you, thank you. Oh Mojang, I love you so much. I always have.”
In the next few hours, the two of them will talk there until they’re dried off and lightly sunburnt, and then for longer still. The tide will chase them away, and they will leave and laugh on their long bike back to the hostel. They will grab fish and chips from the pub in the evening and say hello to the regulars there and it will be good food, even when Grian accidentally drowns his chips in vinegar. Grian will put the TV on again and Mumbo will notice that the sky is clear enough for stargazing, and they will go out, forgetting their jackets, walking to the outskirts of the houses where the lights fade into pure countryside, and look up again in awe. When he sees the cosmos unfiltered like this, he will learn that beautiful things will always be there, out of sight until he looks for them. The two of them will tear up at the view, and point out the constellations that they remember until they become too cold.
Mumbo will still struggle, inevitably, he will go through more hardships and more tears and more shaking hands, and he will go back to forgetting this and believing that the bad times never end; when they get back, chilled but content and making hot chocolate before bed, he will realise again that he will be okay. Tonight he will have a nightmare and wake Grian up far too early, but before any of this Mumbo will go to bed, close his eyes and see his interpretation of all the stars. He will see minuscule lights that lovingly arranged themselves billions of years ago, to be seen as they are now from where he stands, and as he drifts off he will imagine that each one is a message, telling him that he is loved so much more than he knows, and he will sleep.
