Chapter Text
It is time for another Boatem meeting. Not necessarily because anyone has anything interesting or important to say, no, not at all. They’ve just been preoccupied with their own builds and their own grinds and were missing each other, and, apparently, missing messing with each other, turns out.
And thus they gather around the Boatem Hole, waiting for Grian to tell them what to do, all eagerly bouncing up and saying hi and grinning and waving at each other.
“Alright, folks. Everybody has a bunch of spare building blocks in their inventory?”
There’s an affirmative, if a bit confused and apprehensive answer.
Scar rummages through his own inventory, looking for spare blocks. He finds copious amounts of dirt. That’ll do. “So what’s the plan, G?”
“Okay, listen up,” Grian says, and the grin is painfully audible in his voice, Scar doesn’t even have to look at him. His gaze is instead drawn to the hole in front of them, the artistically stacked mess of boats and then the gaping, black maw leading to the hungry bottomless void. He’s a bit nervous around it, if he was honest. The last meetings didn’t go particularly well in there. But he has to admit, they’re always fun. He lifts his head, meeting Grian’s gaze, and smiles with a mix of trepidation and excitement.
“Listenin’,” he chimes in dutifully.
“Okay,” Grian says again, grin widening and eyes sparkling as he catches Scar’s gaze. They’re next to each other, neighbours in more ways than one. Together with Impulse and Mumbo, they’re forming a square. Pearl is nowhere to be seen today. “So, we tower up.”
Without further explanation, Grian starts placing blocks underneath himself, getting higher and higher. Scar scrambles to catch up, as do the others. The nervousness under his skin rises with each placed block—he doesn’t have the best relationship with heights. But this is a Boatem meeting, and there’s usually only one way those go, so he lets out a small, anxious giggle. He’ll play along. It’s fine.
Once they’re in decent height ( deadly height, Scar absently realises), Grian stops. They all stop at around the same height. Scar squints his eyes, then adds two more blocks, to match up. He grins cheekily and places one more.
“So the meeti— Hey, Scar!” Grian says, offended, and hurries to place one more block himself to match up.
Scar places another block, giggling.
It’s like the Build Battle all over.
“No, Scar, no,” Grian places two more blocks. “Stay put. Listen. You’ll get to go up, don’t worry.” He snorts, on an idea or a scheme only he’s privy to.
“Okay okay okay,” Scar is still holding dirt blocks, but he stalls for a moment. He’ll hear him out. Maybe he’ll tower up more sneakily? He’s chuckling to himself, imagining the race to the build height. The ugly pillars they’ll leave behind. The sounds of rockets at the end of it all.
They all quiet down and let Grian explain the idea of this meeting: whoever is speaking gets to tower up higher. This means they’ll know who contributed most to the meeting.
All in all, it sounds like a tame idea. A little challenge, a tiny dare, but all in all, considering their previous meetings, tame . That is, until Scar can’t help himself and starts rambling, mindlessly occasionally placing a block under himself. Oblivious to Grian uhhuh-ing and aha-ing and also towering up, except diagonally towards him . Scar is too busy, wrapped up in his own mind, animatedly proposing a marketing scheme of an army of mobs with named weapons—the death messages would be the carriers of advertisement.
“That’s the most ridiculous idea ever,” Grian remarks critically from somewhere way too close.
Scar startles and almost slips. He’s crouching on his tower, looking sideways, for the first time noticing Grian’s diagonal tower. He’s quick to take it in and then he straightens and plasters on a charming, friendly smile. “Hey Grian,” he says brightly. “Whatcha doing over there?”
Grian lifts his head briefly, letting their eyes meet. He’s calculating how many more blocks he needs, and what’s the best angle to reach Scar at. He has that prank glow around him, that air of mischief, even as he nonchalantly shrugs and continues placing blocks as soon as he speaks. “Nothing much.”
Scar slumps his shoulders with a small, good-natured sigh. “Were you feeling lonely?”
Grian grins madly. “Actually, I thought you might be.”
“Oh!” Scar smiles brightly and claps his hands. “That’s so thoughtful of you!”
“I’m not sure that’s what it is,” Mumbo remarks with a chuckle from somewhere further below and obligingly places a block or two under his feet.
Grian just nods to Scar’s words distractedly with a small hum. Places another block, moves closer. “So, the marketing scheme?” He prompts, to divert Scar’s attention back to the meeting. “You know, the one where we kill our customers?”
Scar laughs under his breath and turns towards the centre of the group, pulling out his businessman voice. “Technically, we won’t kill them. The weapons will carry names of our competitors with maaaaybe a little shop at boatem instead message tucked in. Advertising that they kill their customers and we don’t,” he explains.
“But it’s us killing them!” Mumbo sputters, trying to find logic in it.
“What they don’t know, won’t hurt them,” Scar says simply.
“But it does hurt them, doesn’t it,” Impulse remarks flatly, amusement slipping into his voice.
Scar shrugs. “Hey. False advertising is still advertising.”
“Mumbo, you agree with me, right?” Grian turns to his moustached buddy. Scar jumps a little at how unexpectedly close his voice is to him now. “As a CEO? That this idea is stupid?”
Without a hitch, Mumbo nods: “It is. It absolutely is.”
Scar spins around towards Grian. “Well, I don’t see you bringing anything onto the table, mister—”
He doesn’t get to finish.
He feels two hands press against his chest and push .
Grian is laughing with glee
And Scar falls .
*
Scar falls, and it isn’t what it’s supposed to be.
See, different servers have different settings, what with the pain and death and respawns and all that. Some are permadeath. Some are not, but are still less forgiving, discouraging recklessness and dying with painful respawns, hurt and consequences. But Hermitcraft is not one of those servers. Hermitcraft is mild and friendly and peaceful. It’s a server where friends push each other off the cliff, where pranks might end up with deaths, where mishaps happen and people can shrug them off. Respawns are met with disorientation—which is absolutely reasonable with being somewhere else completely after the adrenaline spike—and at most mild headache or nausea. The worst part is losing the gear. They’re simply not a big deal .
When Scar hits the ground this time, it is a big deal.
He can feel it.
Oh, void, he can feel all of it .
He lands badly, right at the edge of the Boatem hole—his ribs slam against the edge, crack and crush and collapse instantly, his arm caught in a painful angle underneath them. He can feel the moment it all shatters. The way his breath pushes out of his lungs and then they are pierced with bone, so he can never breathe again. The way his spine cracks, the way his head follows and slams against the ground, the way his limp, breathless body bounces and falls off the edge into the hole, falling towards the void—
He takes a shuddering breath, fingers dug into the comforting bedsheets.
He can still feel it , is the thing.
Not the disorientation.
Well, that too.
But not just.
He feels like his lungs are still pierced. Like there is a big, blooming bruise on the side of his ribs. Like there are cracked bones and stolen breath and blood in his throat and if he keeps his eyes closed, he can see the moment of impact, over and over again .
He snaps his eyes open and sits up, clawing at his chest and struggling for breaths.
What’s happening to him?
Dizziness overtakes him, his vision swims. One hand clutched to his chest, the other buried in his bedsheets, he tries to steady himself.
He fell.
He fell many times before, it’s not a big deal, he’s fine, he’s okay, this
This shouldn’t be happening heisnotokay thisisnotokay—
Breathe, he tells himself, closing his eyes again.
And there it is again : the way his body crashed on that edge, the way his ribcage collapsed into his body, the sharp, impossible pain—
He shudders a breath, opens his eyes again and jumps out of bed.
They’ll be expecting him to return. He needs to go back. His gaze is drawn to the window, to the ugly, single-block-wide pillars going up to the skies. The three figures still up there, the one block standing empty— his spot . From here, it seems like they’re either laughing or bickering or, knowing them, probably both at the same time.
He’s usually quick to come back.
His items are on the ground, scattered and probably about to disappear.
None of the other three is collecting them.
It makes sense: Scar lives close enough, the respawns are easy and quick, he should be back any second —
He is rooted to the spot.
His fingertips are tracing his ribs, absentmindedly making sure they’re not caved in. His chest rises and falls. He’s breathing. He’s breathing, he’s okay, he’s alright, everything’s fine.
He spins around, his eyes meeting the feline eyes of Jellie. “That was weird, huh?” His voice cracks. No , he chastises himself. Pull yourself together. He needs to go back to the meeting. Everyone’s waiting for him—
Are they, though? They’re so quick to always throw him off things and sacrifice him and—
But they know he’ll be right back. Holding no grudges. Laughing like he does.
They couldn’t have known , he thinks darkly, pressing his fingertips against his ribs. They couldn’t have known it’ll hurt this much this time.
He lets out a shaky breath, goes to descend the ladder.
*
The moment he touches the grass, he’s met with Grian.
Instinctively, he flinches a little. The avian frowns at him.
“You didn’t come back.”
“Oh.” Scar blinks and reboots to quickly compose himself into a smile. “I was just about to.”
“Well, the meeting’s over,” Grian says, pouting a bit, and starts throwing items at Scar. “These are yours.”
“Oh!” Scar brightens up. “Thank you!” He was actually worried about his items disappearing and him having to replace everything again.
“That’s… fine,” Grian says slowly, watching him.
“I was so worried they might’ve despawned.” Scar collects everything, then lifts his head to meet Grian’s gaze. “So what did I miss? What did you decide at the meeting? I bet everyone actually decided to go with my brilliant idea, once you guys thought it through, right?” he asks with a big, hopeful grin.
Grian shakes his head, then pauses. “We decided nothing.”
“Oh.”
“We’ll have to have another meeting,” Grian grins then, and Scar finds that he feels a bit better—he wasn’t even aware that Grian’s careful behaviour was putting him on edge.
“Okay! Just warn me next time before you push me to my death,” he laughs a little. It’s supposed to come out normal and natural and light-hearted. But it doesn’t. It’s tense, it’s stupidly tense, and he hates it. His brain is swirling, he’s trying to catch any kind of semblance of thought to grab and distract with. Something to divert conversation to safer topics. But he can’t. He feels his own fingers pressed against his side—it still aches a bit—without being aware of placing them there.
“Scar.”
“Hm?” he lifts his eyebrows innocently and forcefully drops his arm from his chest.
Grian is frowning again, and he hates that expression on him.
“Noo, Grian, why are you looking at me like that,” he laughs a bit nervously.
It doesn’t work.
“Scar,” Grian repeats steadily. “Are you okay?”
“What?” Scar stumbles over one simple word, and takes a step back, startled and caught off-guard. How did Grian notice so fast? Nobody was supposed to notice! Everything was okay, anyway, Scar tells himself. “I am ab-solutely fantastic! Fresh as new! The meeting was fun! Thanks for the items! I’ll see you around okaybye!” He doesn’t wait for a reaction, just scrambles away . Anywhere, just awayawayaway.
Grian stays standing there dumbfounded, looking at his retreating back.
There’s a dark unease curling in Grian’s chest, but he can’t decipher it just yet.
*
“Scar’s acting weird,” Grian complains the second he sits down in the RV’s doorway. Mumbo startles in the tiny kitchen and looks over his shoulder.
“Oh, Grian!”
Grian grins over his shoulder at him. “Hi. So. Scar?”
Mumbo tilts his head, considering. “He was acting a bit odd,” he admits. “I mean, he usually comes right back, doesn’t he?”
“E xactly! ” Grian points a finger at him. “That’s so unlike him.”
“Do you think he…” Mumbo grasps for words, gesturing wildly instead. “I don’t know, got tired of it? Of, you know, us, pushing him off things and all?”
“What?” Grian lifts his eyebrows at the man. He can’t even begin to comprehend what Mumbo is suggesting. “Nooo. Not in the middle of the meeting?” There’s a pause, then he adds, defensively: “It was his first death in this meeting! And if he minded, he would’ve said something !”
“Er, well, I suppose you’re right,” Mumbo relented. It made more sense than the alternative. He began fiddling with the kettle, preparing them a drink.
“Mumbooooo,” Grian slouches back, sprawling himself on the floor, his legs sticking out of the RV and his wings in a messy fluff of feathers spread around the limited empty space, all the way to press against Mumbo’s legs. “It wasn’t my fault! He even had his elytra on and everything!”
Mumbo chuckles under his breath. “He did, didn’t he.”
The kettle whistles and there is the sound of opening cupboards and clinking mugs.
Restless, Grian jumps back up into sitting position, shifts himself to sit sideways in the doorway, one leg tucked underneath him, the other one still hanging out. “We didn’t even get to do the sacrificial ritual I had planned!” he complained.
“Oh if you planned on sacrificing us to the Boatem Hole, I’m glad that plan was botched.”
Grian giggled a bit, then shook his head. “Not necessarily us , just, things. Like, valuable possessions?” he explains.
“And Scar.”
“And Scar,” he nods solemnly before bursting into more giggles. Mumbo snickers along with him. It’s not mean, it’s good-natured, familiar, a mix of mischief and comfort and friendship.
“Okay, look, listen, here’s an idea.”
Grian straightens up, at attention. “Give me.”
“Maybe—and this is just a suggestion, okay? Like, don’t think about it too hard, but, here’s, see, maybe next time don’t sacrifice Scar before you get to do the thing you want to do first?”
“I— What?” Grian is momentarily stumped by the suggestion. Is Mumbo scolding him, or is he reading too much into it? Isn’t Mumbo supposed to be on his side? He narrows his eyes at him. “I didn’t sacrifice him. You saw it! He missed the Hole!”
“Not the point, mate.” Mumbo pushes a steaming mug of tea into Grian’s hands, crouches down next to him. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, was it worth it?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Grian replies without missing a beat, his frown quickly dissipating into a grin again. “Killing Scar over the stupidest reasons is always worth it.”
“... Yeah, that’s true,” Mumbo agrees with a little laugh.
That’s enough for Grian, good enough sign that Mumbo is on his side with this. Satisfied, he jumps out of the RV, sets the mug on the ground in the doorway where he just sat, and crouches down on the grass. He starts digging. “Things wouldn’t be right without a little death from our beloved Scar.”
“Indeed. It would feel like an apocalypse, or something,” Mumbo jokes along.
Grian pulls out a sapling from his inventory and starts shoving it into the little hole he’s made, directly in front of the RV’s entrance.
“Grian.”
“Hm?”
“What are you doing.”
“Oh, just live-love-planting,” he replies nonchalantly. “You like this kind of stuff, right?”
Mumbo deeply sighs. “Not there .”
“Oh, hey!” Grian bends down and looks under the RV. He has that look on him, that says he is planning things that will be very, very inconvenient to his friend. “Do you think if I dug out a hole under your RV, and then put in some light source and a sapling… Would the tree grow and take your RV away?” His voice is laced with laughter and he is made of trouble.
Mumbo laughs along, albeit somewhat nervously. “What an idea.”
“What an idea!” Grian looks over at him, beaming in agreement.
Mumbo presses his lips together. There was a serious possibility that Grian might actually go along with his crazy plan. “Please, don’t.”
Grian’s wings flap lightly, spread out and restless like the rest of him, ready to cause havoc.
“I love this RV!” Mumbo cries, trying to escape his fate.
“Mumbo, you do realise that by saying that, I now want to do it even more, right?” Grian teases with a wide grin.
Mumbo sighs, shaking his head, at a loss. He doesn’t know how to stop Grian when he gets like this. “You know what, Grian?” His voice is flatter than usual, a bit defeated and tired. “You’re a menace.”
For a moment, there is silence.
With a sense of unease, Mumbo watches Grian’s wings pull back, tension running through them. He wonders if the thing that flashes in his friend’s eyes is hurt, or something else entirely. Suddenly, he can’t read him at all, despite the years of knowing each other.
But then something breaks and the moment is gone and Grian’s eyes are glinting and he’s smiling cheekily. “But you love me anyway.”
That’s it. Mumbo slips down from the RV, feet connecting with the ground next to Grian, and he grabs his wrist. He pulls him safely away from his beloved vehicle, placating him with his words: “Yes, Grian. Of course. How could I not?”
Grian’s grin grows only for a split second, before it vanishes entirely as Mumbo places a block of obsidian next to him.
With a panicked, high-pitched, giggly squeal, he vaults away. His wings flap and he takes off, away from that wretched thing and the now-bobbing bright-pink end crystal. They’re both laughing stupidly.
Everything’s fine.