right back where we started from

by tinkatonics

Summary:

Fit grits his teeth. "Before you say anything, I'm not gonna kiss Pac to try and break out of this time loop."

There's a moment of petulant silence as Tubbo frowns at him and Fit glares back with a finely honed I'm-not-mad-I'm-just-disappointed face. Finally, Tubbo sullenly drops his gaze.

"I wasn't going to suggest that anyways. I was just spitballing some ideas."

"You've brought it up literally every loop I've told you about my predicament. Excuse me if I'm a bit testy."

-

or:
Fit is stuck in a time loop and he's slowly losing his mind. Tubbo is skeptical, but willing to help for the most part—that is, during the loops where he actually believes Fit. Meanwhile, Pac keeps having the Best Day Ever, and literally no one except him is happy about this.

Chapter 1: it's only just begun

Summary:

In which Fit wakes up, Tubbo shares a secret, and Pac has a private moment of weakness.

The first time it happens, Fit assumes it’s just a shitty case of deja-vu.

 

It starts as a subtle nagging feeling that something's off—the kind of feeling that barely tickles at the edge of his subconscious, hovering just out of reach. For the second day in a row, Fit wakes up to a buzzing on his wrist. It jolts him into consciousness before he can even process the sensation, forming a strange cocktail of adrenaline and grogginess that fades as soon as he realizes what caused it.

 

This isn't an unusual occurrence by itself. The island’s full of some pretty chatty folks. Hell, he's greeted with a message immediately upon waking up more often than not. As he stares up at the ceiling, though, ignoring the cheerful hum of his communicator, he can't muster much more than tired resignation.

 

There's no time for idle chatting today. At least not for Fit, the island’s one and only janitor.

 

As per usual, he can never catch a fucking break.

 

Thanks to the capybara-led festivities yesterday, the pool at spawn was utterly demolished. Last he checked, it was flooding into the crater that used to be the hedges! And since no one else is lining up to fix it, Fit’s the lucky bastard who gets to patch it up all by himself!! It's practically written in the laws of the universe: if there's a mess on the island, FitMC will eventually be forced to clean it up. There's absolutely zero reason why today will be any different.

 

He stays limp for a few minutes longer, savoring the sensation of cool sheets on his skin. After giving himself a couple precious moments of self pity, however, Fit swings himself out of bed to reluctantly face the day.

 

The pool's not gonna fix itself, after all.

 

His eyes sting as he squints through the artificial light in his bedroom. Not for the first time, he seriously considers switching out the lamps. It’s yet another thing he can add to his ever-growing maintenance list; say what you'd like about his job, but at least he never runs out of things to do. While clambering up the stairs, he entertains himself by imagining what a full renovation of his shitty bedroom might look like.

 

When he reaches into his hotbar for his warpstone, however, his hand pauses mid-movement.

 

...The configuration is ever so slightly different. It’s nothing big—just an item or two shuffled around—but it’s enough that a feeling of wrongness fully registers in the back of his mind. He could've rearranged his inventory before falling asleep and forgotten about it, but... well. He's a creature of habit who's blessed with a damn good memory. It's not often that he surprises himself with something as mundane like this, especially if it could fuck him over as badly as a disorganized hotbar.

 

He leans against the cave entrance, brow furrowed in confusion and eyes still smarting from those godforsaken lamps. Then he finally takes the time to check his communicator.

 

<pactw> OLLAAAAAA FITNELSON

 

What the fuck is going on, Fit asks himself.

 

Under his breath, he mutters, “Fitnelso—what?”

 

As soon as the words escape his mouth, however, he’s bowled over by that same itchy feeling that's been creeping up on him ever since he woke up. He's definitely said that before. Those exact words in response to the exact same nickname. Sure, Pac repeating things can be explained away by the drug that's flooding his system, but for him to be repeating things too…?

 

Out of morbid curiosity, he types what he remembers writing yesterday.

 

<Fit> o/
<TheWillyRex> o/
<Fit> Pac, where are you?

 

It doesn’t take long for him to receive a response.

 

<pactw> IN THE MOST HAPPIER PLACE

 

With those five words, the situation goes from being mildly annoying to being genuinely fucking baffling.

 

There’s no mistaking it. It’s the same exact wording as yesterday. Once might have been a coincidence, but Fit hasn’t survived for this long without being a jumpy motherfucker. Something about this feels off. It rubs him the wrong way that Willy hasn’t commented on the repetition, either; they might not interact much, but surely this warrants at least a question mark in the chat! In fact, when he takes a second to think on it, Willy’s response seems familiar too, even if it’s not as obvious as Pac’s all-caps messages.

 

His gaze slides over to the day counter in the corner of his communicator. Even if there’s a server-wide event created specifically to gaslight him, he thinks desperately, the numbers won’t lie.

 

Instead, he’s met with a blinking “Day 174”.

 

The exact same number as yesterday.

 

“What the fuck is going on," Fit repeats emphatically.

 

For a brief, beautiful moment, he entertains the idea of just going back to his room and falling asleep. It’s really fucking tempting. More tempting than it ought to be. He deserves a break after the sheer amount of bullshit he’s had to deal with lately, and as long as he doesn't involve himself in whatever nonsense is going on, it’s technically none of his damn business. Unfortunately, a louder (and suspiciously Cellbit-sounding) voice in his head insists that he investigate, and the survivalist part of his brain begrudgingly agrees. There’s no point in wasting energy if there’s nothing wrong, but you can’t exactly make that call unless you have enough evidence to support it.

 

That being said, Fit reminds himself as he makes his way towards spawn, it’s possible that his brain is playing tricks on him! A few inexplicable moments and a weird message might not mean anything. Hell, now that he thinks about it, he could've even misremembered the current day number. He’ll fix the pool, talk some sense into Pac, and then everything will be back to normal. Yeah. Surely that's all it'll take.

 

As the day continues, however, that nagging feeling keeps building up until it's impossible to ignore.

 

If it was just a sense of familiarity, he might’ve been able to dismiss it. But deja-vu shouldn’t give you knowledge that you wouldn’t logically have. It shouldn’t tell you where someone’s gonna be before they’re there, or let you know where they are when their location is turned off. And it definitely shouldn’t predict events that don’t make sense, such as Pac sprinting away as soon as they lock eyes at the Favela. No one else is bothered by these anomalies, though, which is what's keeping Fit unsure whether anything’s actually wrong. Whenever he tries to hint towards things repeating, he’s met with nothing but blank stares. At one point, Fit even tracks down and interrogates Willy, only to learn that he's politely concerned about Pac’s manic energy. Not about the fact that he sent the same exact words yesterday.

 

While riding the turtle boat back from Chume Labs after yet another frustrating conversation with Pac, he finally asks Tubbo point-blank if they’ve had this conversation before. Tubbo’s face screws up in confusion, and he asks him why on earth they would've discussed Pac’s descent into madness before today.

 

This is admittedly a valid point. Fit lets the subject drop. If not even the ever-paranoid Tubbo is jumping at the hint of a conspiracy, then the only possible conclusion is that no one else is experiencing this.

 

As annoying as the deja-vu is, though, it’s the moments when things aren’t familiar that test Fit’s patience the most. Whenever he does anything wildly different from his prior memories, the itch immediately recedes... only to resurge as soon as an event outside of his control occurs. Sometimes he’ll derail a conversation entirely and it won't bother him for a few hours. Other events feel fucking predestined as far as his stupid deja-vu is concerned. He doesn’t even know if he’s making a big deal out of nothing, 'cause some of those weirdly inevitable moments are as mundane as a fucking pool breaking! And it’s not like anyone else is worried about it—he’s aware that he’s looking for patterns! That's probably why they keep leaping out at him!! Knowing that doesn’t stop his paranoia from cataloging every single abnormality, though.

 

By the time he finally drags himself to bed, his brain feels like it’s been through a spin cycle full of bowling balls. The shitty artificial lighting is still burning his retinas too, sending jolts of stinging pain through his skull.

 

As soon as I wake up tomorrow, Fit decides, I'm bumping the bedroom remodeling right to the top of my list. If the Federation wants the goddamn pool fixed that badly, they can fix it themselves.

 

The last thing he remembers through the haze of exhaustion that washes over him is one distinct thought:

 

At least this nightmare of a day is finally over.

 

--

 

After waking up to Day 174 for the third time, Fit has developed a hypothesis. Either he’s the second coming of some prophet cursed with an awful method of receiving premonitions, or somebody’s fucking with him.

 

(He tables the first idea for now. If that’s something that can actually happen to a person, his worldview's gonna be in fucking shambles. Even ignoring the philosophical implications of a fixed future, there’s enough shit going on without throwing fucking prophetic visions into the mix. Fit really doesn't need that sort of energy in his life fight now.)

 

He doesn't let himself linger in bed this time; there's a perfectly good river by his house if he needs to think through this problem. His decision’s not at all influenced by how claustrophobic and small his room is, but getting out is a welcome bonus. After running up the steps, he takes deep shuddering breaths of the cool morning air and revels in how it feels rushing into his lungs. Then his eyes catch on the glittering water a moment later, and the relief leaves his body just as quickly as it came, replaced with a warm crawling shame.

 

Right. Yes. He came out here to think, not to gulp down air like an idiot.

 

With a self-conscious cough into his fist, he starts making his way towards the river. It's easy to forget sometimes that they're constantly being surveilled on this island. During moments like this, however, it's practically impossible to stop thinking about it. All he can do is pray that the Federation has better things to do than watch him make a fool out of himself.

 

...On a related note, though, his theory about somebody fucking with him isn't that big of a stretch. And he isn't even being paranoid this time! There’s a lot of powerful people from his past who have it out for him, and it’s not impossible for them to have tracked him down somehow. Sure, he hasn’t ever seen anything like this happen before, but it's also been half a year since he last stepped foot in the wasteland. Scarcity breeds innovation, and he's learned through personal experience that spite is just as good of a motivator. If anyone could devise a way to get past the Federation’s firewalls and trap him in a repeating day, it'd be them.

 

Of course, that isn't even mentioning the Federation itself. He hasn’t really given them any reason to have a problem with him yet—as far as they’re concerned, he’s a model employee—but they’re one of the few entities with the means to trap him in this kind of situation. Which bumps them up significantly on the suspects list, potentially even higher than his old servermates. Hell, this could be some sort of sick prank pulled by the capybaras, if he’s really committed to pointing fingers.

 

The point is, thinking up a list of people who could trap him in a time loop is depressingly easy. That's not the problem.

 

The main problem, Fit admits sullenly as he tosses rocks into the river, is that he’s got no evidence that the loops are happening in the first place.

 

It’s not a surprising issue, since resetting the day is an obnoxiously convenient method of erasing one’s tracks. But it does make it very difficult to create a plan that doesn’t make him sound like a total nutjob. Without any concrete proof, his sensible worries about being trapped in a timeloop by powerful individual(s) who want to torture him seem like the ravings of a conspiracy theorist. And without having a sensible-sounding plan, he has zero chance of anyone taking him seriously.

 

Not that Fit needs allies to get the job done, of course. But… things might run more smoothly if there’s more than one perspective involved. It would be nice to have someone to keep him from tunnel visioning, at the very least. His first instinct may be to solve this alone, but this place is different—there are people who he can rely on here.

 

(It's only been a few days, but it already feels strange to create a plan without his baby boy by his side. It's not—it's not necessarily a band-aid, he reasons, it’s really not. But having another person beside him right now would make things feel more normal.)

 

His communicator buzzes cheerfully from where he's placed it in the sand, but Fit ignores it. He really doesn’t think he can handle seeing this twisted funhouse version of Pac for three days in a row. It’s the coward’s way out, but he's never claimed to be a good person; he can apologize once he has broken out of this day and Pac is more... present. For now, all he can do is focus on escaping.

 

By the time the sun has reached its zenith and he's run out of pebbles, Fit's made a decision. He’ll focus on getting some sort of evidence today and save the escape for tomorrow, assuming that he wakes up to Day 174 again. It means that he’ll have to repeat this day an extra time, but it’ll be worth it if he has an easy way to get allies. Probably.

 

Next comes the hard part: figuring out how he's meant to convince them. Since physical items don’t seem to carry over, the proof has to be something intangible. A piece of information that Fit wouldn’t normally know—a secret. The only issue with that is that he needs to learn a compelling secret without having a good reason to get it in the first place. It can’t be something mundane either; it's gotta be convincing enough to sway another version of them. He could try predicting things and using that as proof instead, but since the events from his memories have been inconsistent at best… no. A secret’s the best chance he’s got.

 

As he stands before a skeptical Tubbo several hours later, he has the overwhelming urge to punch himself for not fleshing out that part of the plan.

 

Fit shifts restlessly, checking the clock on his communicator. His original strategy was to talk to him about this at the end of the day so that they had time to build up trust, but he had forgotten how petty Tubbo gets when denied information. Over the course of their conversation, the moon has fully risen above the horizon, bathing them in silvery spools of moonlight, and he still hasn’t gotten a good answer.

 

“So explain to me again,” Tubbo drawls, “why exactly you want a secret?”

 

Fit sighs. It’s a heavy sigh, burdened with the weight of a thousand suns. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, my friend.”

 

And for this plan to work, he internally adds, it’s really important that you don’t think I’m crazy.

 

Tubbo’s mouth has that stubborn twist to it that always precedes a frustrating conversation. It's had that twist since Fit first brought the subject up, and if he knows Tubbo at all, it’s not leaving anytime soon.

 

“Oh, so it’s just completely beyond my comprehension, is it? Just like the details of your Federation job?”

 

Fit closes his eyes and takes a moment to remind himself that Tubbo’s one of the best options that he has if he’s trying to uncover something. Not to mention, he’s pretty much the only good option that's awake today. It takes a few mental repetitions before he finds the strength to open his eyes again.

 

“...Please don’t be difficult. I promise I’ll tell you everything tomorrow, okay? For now I just need you to trust me on this one. It doesn’t even have to be a very interesting secret. Just something I would have no way of knowing beforehand.”

 

Tubbo looks him dead in the eyes. “My secret is this: I have an ongoing list of who I can trust, and your ass isn’t on it.”

 

“That’s the shittiest secret ever. Also, fucking rude.”

 

“Maybe you should stop being so suspicious then,” Tubbo retorts, “and tell me where Cucurucho’s office is. Have you thought about that?”

 

“Just give me something to work with, alright?” At this point, he's one step away from begging on his knees and letting any remaining bit of his dignity slip down the drain. He really doesn’t want to give Tubbo the location in case time continues linearly from now on, but he’s getting close to his limit. “Literally give me anything.”

 

Tubbo stands his ground for a minute or two, jaw set and body tense, before finally relaxing his posture and rolling his eyes. “Fine. The only man I fully trust on this island is Philza Minecraft. Is that good enough for you?”

 

It’ll have to be good enough, Fit decides, because I’m not doing this shit anymore.

 

“Great. Thank you, Tubbo, I mean it,” he says, voice dripping with false sincerity. With his left hand, he pulls out a warpstone from his hotbar. “I promise I’ll explain things to you first thing tomorrow, okay? Alright, cool. Take it easy—”

 

His last words are cut off as he dissipates into a cloud of particles. Tubbo waits for the last sparks to fade, and then whisper-shouts into the night air, “I fucking knew he was a rat!”

 

--

 

The fourth time, Fit wakes up to a buzzing on his wrist, a half-baked plan, and a dream.

 

Having learned his lesson from last time, he makes sure to intercept Tubbo as soon as he wakes up. The sky is a hazy blue when he lands on Tubbo's platform, the floorboards shifting underneath his weight. As he looks at Tubbo’s bleary eyes and deadpan stare, though, Fit has the sneaking suspicion that this strategy has its own set of flaws.

 

"You're— wait, hold up. Let me get this straight. You, FitMC of 2b2t, are stuck in a time loop?” Tubbo squints at him. There's something resembling concern in his eyes, but not exactly in the way that Fit wants. “Are you sure this isn’t a Federation thing? Like, maybe you've been brainwashed or some shit?"

 

“I haven’t been brainwashed,” Fit says, with the confidence of a man who doesn’t really want to consider that possibility, “I’ve just been repeating the same day a few times in a row.”

 

“Riiiiiiight,” Tubbo replies, stretching out the word until it encompasses several syllables. His foot taps erratically, something restless in his demeanor. The concern still hasn’t faded from his eyes.

 

“Listen. I can prove it.” Fit steps towards Tubbo, pouring every ounce of trustworthiness that he can into his voice. “You told me that you’ve made a list of people you fully trust, and Philza’s the only man on it. That’s not something I would know unless I talked with you in another loop, right?”

 

Said in the daylight, it sounds a lot dumber. Judging by Tubbo’s raised eyebrow, he agrees.

 

"...you do realize that's not particularly compelling evidence, right? According to you, I should believe you because a different version of me said that he doesn't trust you. Like, you see the issue here, right?"

 

Dread slowly fills Fit's stomach as he realizes that Tubbo's adopting the same voice he used in previous loops while talking down Pac. It's placating and approachable, laying down his logic so clearly that it's hard to find fault in it. The worst part is that he isn't even wrong. Fit was so caught up in his desire to finally leave after being stonewalled for an hour that he didn’t take the time to wheedle something better out of him.

 

"I didn’t say that,” he protests anyway, because he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try to make the best of a shitty situation. “I said that Phil’s the only person you trust completely. That’s gotta mean somethin', right?”

 

"That's 'cause Phil’s the perfect man. Don't need a time loop to tell you that."

 

(Again, Tubbo's not wrong. If Phil was awake today, he'd be the first person Fit would go to.)

 

“...Alright, uh, maybe that wasn’t the best example. But I have other kinds of future knowledge too! When you’re working on your base, for example, something’s gonna set off an explosion—”

 

"—Honestly, I'm starting to think that this hypothetical other me had a point," Tubbo interrupts. His tone is lighthearted, but the wary glances that he keeps shooting towards Fit are very much not. “You’re acting mega sus right now.”

 

Fit stops mid-sentence. All his instincts gained from years of reporting on terrorists are screaming at him to back off if he wants to keep any goodwill from Tubbo, and he's inclined to trust them. So instead of continuing to argue his point like he wants to, Fit presses his lips together and gives Tubbo a curt nod. “Okay, that’s fair. I’ll drop it.”

 

“Okay,” Tubbo echoes. “Sooooo... do you have any other business here, or…?”

 

Truthfully, he’d really like to convince Tubbo to help him make a new plan, but it’s pretty clear that’s not the answer the other man’s looking for. Instead, Fit starts explaining the Pac situation and directing him towards Forever’s base to see the fake "Richas", his mind whirring all the while as he deliberates on what to do next. It’s not until the two of them have said their goodbyes that anything resembling a course of action formulates in his brain. Unfortunately, a key part of that plan involves crawling back to Tubbo for help.

 

As he stands in the entrance of Tubbo’s factory, hands fiddling with the straps of his backpack, he feels distinctly like a shitty ex-boyfriend trying to win his girlfriend back.

 

"Hey, Tubbo. Hi again. This request is gonna sound real stupid, but I need you to just trust me for a moment."

 

The pause that follows those words is a little too long not to be intentional. Tubbo busies himself with organizing his chests, not even turning around to acknowledge him. If it wasn’t for the fact that his head instinctively swiveled a little as he spoke up, Fit would’ve doubted that the mechanic had heard him at all. He tries not to feel too offended by the slight as he waits.

 

Finally, Tubbo looks up at him with a guarded expression and closes the chest lid in front of him with a loud thunk. The hollow sound reverberates through the room.

 

"...Sure, king.” His eyes dart up to meet Fit’s before flicking to the side again. “What’s up?”

 

The friendly title hangs in the air between them. Fit isn’t quite sure if it’s an olive branch or something said out of habit, but either way, he takes it in stride: no need to point it out and make things even more awkward if it’s the latter.

 

As nonchalantly as he can, he leans forward and assumes his most reasonable tone. "I'm gonna do some pokin' around at Chume Labs, and I can't risk Pac noticing me. We don’t fully know what the Federation has done to him, right? There might be some sort of evidence left behind or even notes about the antidote, you feel me?"

 

He waits for Tubbo to nod, which he does hesitantly.

 

“Your job is simple: I want you to distract him. You don’t have to believe me when I say I’m stuck in a time loop. But based on what I've witnessed… all you gotta do is mention City Skylines around him. That’s it."

 

Tubbo immediately abandons his task upon hearing this, eyes blown wide and attention fixed solely on Fit. If he had a tail, it would be furiously wagging. "Oh my god, City Skylines? Holy shit— wait, pause. Do you play City Skylines? Does Pac play City Skylines? That's so based. This changes everything. Holy shit."

 

Fit takes a moment to thank every god out there that Tubbo’s interests are this predictable. He'd unironically prefer cleaning up a hundred blown-up pools over sitting through another hour of convincing him.

 

"Yeah, yeah, I've already been through this whole spiel." He reaches his arm into his backpack, rummaging around for an invisibility potion. With his other hand, he types out a message telling Pac to drop by Tubbo’s factory. "Just bring it up casually and keep him talking. Don't let him notice I'm gone, okay?" After spending a few more minutes organizing everything, he gives his hotbar a quick once-over.

 

Invisibility potions, check. Warpstone, check. Paraglider, check. Trident, check.

 

It shouldn't be too difficult of a job. He has been to Chume Labs plenty of times. Sure, he doesn't usually go there without Pac or Mike's permission, but that shouldn't change too much. He just needs to be careful to leave no trace behind. He's good at that. You have to be, when you spend most of your life in a place where announcing your presence means a sword in your back. Those who are light-footed and quiet stay alive another day, and people like Fit either learn quickly or end up a cooling corpse.

 

Fit clutches his warpstone so hard his knuckles turn white—tight enough that there’s no chance of him dropping it. The edges of the gem bite into his palm. It’s an oddly grounding feeling. While the stakes may be different now, the cold adrenaline that rushes through his veins is an old friend.

 

As his vision fills with violet sparks, he distantly hears Tubbo announce, "This will be the easiest assignment you've ever given me, I swear to god. You should’ve led with this. Fuck, man, City Skylines—"

 

A heartbeat later, he’s back at the Chume Labs entrance.

 

His eyes flit around immediately upon materializing, catching on every flash of white, but he appears to be alone. Good. He doesn't let himself relax, though, not until his location is turned off and a potion is poured between his lips. Once he's fully invisible, he ignores the turtle boat in favor of shooting through the water with his trident. Less noise that way. Less of a chance he’ll be discovered.

 

Upon reaching the entrance, he cautiously makes his way into the lab, keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. Last time he was here, he only gave his surroundings a cursory glance, far more focused on trying to convince Pac not to take the pills. He was too distracted by his emotions; too distracted by Tubbo’s worried voice and Pac’s far-too-wide grin when they found him.

 

There are no distractions this time. It’s eerily quiet; no matter how lightly he walks, there’s a faint echo with every step. The dangling lanterns cast strange shadows on the walls, cold white stone glinting in his peripheral vision and making his heart jump. It’s not the right shade of white, but Fit’s nerves are too frayed at this point to care. He’s not sure why he’s so nervous, considering that things will probably reset even if he’s caught, but something about the situation has his heart racing. It feels like the entire building is holding its breath with him.

 

He can’t help but keep his head on a swivel as he creeps through the halls. The machines around him gleam in the lantern light, looming above him like hulking beasts. Their metal shine is far too reminiscent of a polished sword. Against his better judgment, he walks a little faster, already regretting the way that it makes his footsteps echo louder.

 

After searching every floor of the lab and finding nothing, all that’s left is the warehouse. He hesitates at the warp plate, a conflicted feeling twisting in his chest. It feels wrong to break into it, especially since it clearly means a lot to Pac... but it’s probably his best shot of finding anything. He’ll make sure to be respectful and only pry as much as he needs to. Pac will forgive him. Hopefully.

 

Steeling his resolve, he steps on the runes and appears on the island with a whoosh of air. The wildflowers by his feet sway wildly with the movement, disrupting the serenity of the scene.

 

He's halfway to the building when he hears the distinct sound of a waystone warbling.

 

Before he even fully registers it, Fit’s already ducking behind a tree and regulating his breathing so it’s measured and silent. He's been in these kinds of situations before: he knows how to avoid getting caught. In one smooth, practiced movement, he carefully guides the cork off an invisibility potion so the gas is released without a sound.

 

By the time that the last of the purple sparks have dissipated, Fit is almost undetectable. Not that he seems to need that security, considering how distracted the man emerging from the cloud of particles looks. Pac's dark eyes dart around fearfully, but it’s clear that he’s not actually processing the world around him. Fit catches his gaze for a split second, and it’s glazed over with raw, oppressive panic.

 

As soon as Pac's feet touch the ground, he's already bolting towards the chairs like there’s something hunting him. His elbows press tightly to his side and he hunches over, forcing his body to be as small as possible. Even when he sits down, his breathing is still shallow and abnormally fast. Against his will, Fit’s reminded of the trembling of a rabbit: Pac looks disturbingly like prey. The realization makes his heart clench uncomfortably.

 

Pac’s voice is unsteady as he starts reading from a book clutched tightly in his hands. Fit doesn’t understand enough Portuguese to know what he’s saying, but the anguish in his voice is unmistakable. The words spill out of him like they’ll drown him if he lets them stay in his mouth. He snaps it shut when he’s done, hands briefly lingering on the cover, and then shoves it back into his inventory. Even after his hands are empty, however, he keeps talking to thin air. There's something pleading in his tone.

 

It doesn’t take long until Pac pulls out his briefcase. His hands are visibly trembling with the effort of staying still as he puts in a string of numbers. He fumbles with the lock for a moment, fingers slipping on the metal surface, before finally pulling out a familiar white bottle.

 

The label grins at Fit as he creeps closer to try to read the code. If he can figure out the combination, he can… he can do something. He can somehow help Pac. He doesn't know how yet, but he'll find a way. It's a plan, or at least the beginning of one. Anything is better than just standing there uselessly as Pac falls apart before him.

 

Pac still hasn’t stopped talking, voice lowered until it’s almost a whisper. Fit's translator only manages to pick up one sentence due to how often it’s repeated: Eu prometo que é a última vez. Fit drags his gaze away for a moment to read the translation blinking on his communicator.

 

“I promise this will be the last time.”

 

He looks back up just in time to see Pac drop a pill in his mouth, head tilting back as he catches it on his tongue.

 

The transformation is almost instantaneous.

 

Pac lurches back as a full-body tremor runs through him, and then his cheeks stretch into a painfully bright smile. He whoops loudly in celebration and jumps up, repeating something about the Favela over and over again. Without warning, he turns on his heel and sprints back to the warehouse, almost tripping over himself in his haste. Fit has to press himself against a tree to avoid colliding with him.

 

...Something sour and sharp rolls in the pit of Fit’s stomach as he stares at the back of Pac’s white hoodie. This isn't the first time that Pac has taken a pill in front of him, but last time… it wasn't anything like this.

 

The naked vulnerability in Pac’s eyes just now felt far too personal, especially since Fit was never here to witness it during the first loop. He has seen glimpses of that expression in the past, but that's only because Pac let him see it as a deliberate act of trust. This… this is an invasion of privacy, watching as someone falls apart in a place where they should feel safe. There's something that feels uncomfortably voyeuristic about his translator picking up his empty promise too; it was clearly nothing that Pac wanted him to hear.

 

He should forget that he ever saw it. God knows he’d want Pac to do the same if their roles were reversed. But even after he warps away to sit in his bedroom, the miserable fear in Pac's eyes sticks with him like a splinter: no matter how tightly he screws his eyes shut and tries to forget, he can't stop seeing it. 

 

Fit's doing his best to stay calm and collected, he really is. But there's a cold anger building in his chest, like layers of a pearl forming around something sharp and foreign. Anger at himself for being useless as Pac suffers, anger at the pills, anger at the fucking Federation for everything it has taken away from them. It’s not a new feeling—it's been firmly lodged in there ever since the Federation first kidnapped his friends. But Pac's misery is a lit match that sets it ablaze, sharpening it until it's pressing against his ribcage.

 

He should stick with his earlier plans and be patient. He knows that. But then again, he muses as his eyes catch on the codebreakers in his inventory, there’s no point in taking baby steps anymore, is there?

 

He’s not giving up on his escape plan. He’s just temporarily delaying it. Shifting his focus to something he has more control over. Releasing some tension before he does something stupid and permanent.

 

The loops are an opportunity to finally find things out, after all. Who knows, he might even find something while he's investigating. Something about the pills and their antidote, or even the loops themselves if the Federation really is behind it.

 

And if he happens to find any information about player data while poking around there… well.

 

It’s not like he’ll stay captured for very long, will he?

Notes:

how are we doing fitpac nation (pained smile)

personally i have decided that the current canon isn't real and it cannot hurt me. LET'S GOOOOO FITPAC TIMELOOP FIC WOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (EAGLE SCREECHING SFX)!!!! fitpac has been driving me insane + i adored the happy pills arc + and i have a huge soft spot for time loops, so this fic is filling a very specific niche for me! hopefully you guys enjoy reading it as much as i've enjoyed writing it :")

i've already written a big chunk of this bad boy (including most of ch 2 and pretty much the entirety of ch 3) to avoid losing inspiration partway through, but i want to create a solid buffer! so expect the next update in a week :P

(shoutout tumblr user @qfitmc for all the little lore details they generously provided btw... ur a real one <3)

please feel free to leave a comment on your thoughts, theories, what you liked, pretty much anything! :] i will frame every single one of them and put them on my fridge for safekeeping <3 see you next saturday!

Chapter 2: if you get hurt (if you get hurt)

Summary:

In which Fit does some snooping around and has a series of terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days.

Notes:

..........I CUT IT CLOSE BUT I STILL TECHNICALLY FINISHED THIS ON SATURDAY IN MY TIME ZONE. submitted it a little later bc i had to read through it for mistakes, but oh well - hopefully its beefiness makes up for that. i edited it a few days later lol so if things moved around a bit / if a few sections were reworded that's why! next week shouldn't be as bad since ch3's already fully written ;P

(TW for graphic descriptions of being burned alive: if you want to avoid that, skip the section that starts with "When he finally manages to fall asleep, he’s expecting to wake up the next morning to a message from Pac like normal." promise you're not missing out since the next section summarizes the most important bit, so take care of yourself!)

also peep the updated tags: it gets a little dark in this chapter. just remember that there's a happy ending at the end of it all <3 a chapter summary will also be included in the end notes if u need it!

Before Fit does anything too drastic, he starts things off simple. Sure, there’s theoretically no more consequences to worry about, but that doesn’t mean that he has to rush into things. He’s a methodical person, always has been. The first step should always be to gather information.

 

Let it never be said that I’m not diplomatic, Fit thinks as he stands before Cucurucho with a fixed smile. The corners of his lips twitch as he stares into its coal-black eyes, but he's careful to keep his expression friendly. If he’s going to take the time to ask his friends if they’ve noticed things repeating, it may be worth it to question the Federation too. Even if he wants nothing more than to wrap his hands around the bear’s neck, there might be something to gain from asking it directly what's going on.

 

Just like every other person he has asked, Cucurucho’s answer gives him very little to work with. Unlike their answers, though, there is something; it’s hidden behind vague words and corporate talk, but Fit notices that it never explicitly denies the day looping. It’s not enough to make him immediately assign blame, but as he continues prodding, the lack of denial grows more and more obvious.

 

Fit’s final comment is barely audible as the bear lumbers away, his voice a low rumble.

 

“So it's gonna be like that, is it?”

 

Despite his words, he’s not disappointed. Something victorious and ugly sharpens its teeth within him, crowing loudly at the opportunity. It would’ve been too easy without a fight.

 

An hour of preparation later, the Federation offices stretch before him, all sprawling white walls and perfect tile floors. If pressed, he would say that it's the logical next step after being denied answers. But he’d be lying if a small thrill didn’t rush through him at the thought of finally making some tangible progress.

 

It’s more suspicious for him to be invisible than to walk around pretending like he belongs there, Fit reasons, so he keeps his identification badge in his hotbar. Two other slots are dedicated to cleaning supplies so that he has an easy excuse if he gets caught. The rest of his hotbar is less easily explained away, however—especially the codebreakers, which are nestled neatly between his newly-sharpened scythe and an invisibility potion.

 

At first he doesn't find anything interesting, just cold marble hallways and the occasional piece of furniture. As he passes by Cucurucho’s office on his second pass around the main area, however, he catches the faint whiff of something coppery. He had been giving it a wide berth to avoid any further run-ins with the white bear, but the possibility of that smell being blood… it’s enough to make him want to ignore those instincts.

 

He’s not sure what he’s expecting as he ducks inside—some sort of hyper-minimalist lab, maybe—but it’s a weirdly normal room. Blue bookshelves line the back walls, teal shutters cover the windows, and a tidy desk is tucked into the right corner. There’s even a few photos hanging on the wall: one an unsmiling picture of Cellbit, while the other depicts a beaming Forever. If it wasn’t for the context, the space could be considered downright cozy. There are two monitors on the desk too, although they’re unfortunately locked when he tries turning them on. (He files them away for later; it might be worth dedicating some time to them in a future loop.)

 

After scanning the rest of the room, his eyes are finally drawn to the main attraction: an iron door embedded in the opposite wall. It’s completely unremarkable at first glance, blank and nondescript, but the coppery scent grows stronger when he steps closer. He squints at the printed sign above it.

 

“...Treatment room?” Fit mutters under his breath, testing the words out in his mouth.

 

There’s something creepy about how clinical it sounds in comparison to its surroundings. Creepy... but also very interesting. Maybe even interesting enough to risk going further down this rabbit hole, even though it's objectively a terrible idea to trap himself in Cucurucho's office.

 

When he presses the button next to it, the door opens to reveal a dark hallway that ends in a staircase going deep into the earth. He takes a few cautious steps inside and peers down. The proportions are strange: it’s just wide enough for Fit to walk down with his shoulders brushing the walls, but the ceiling looms high above him. Not quite claustrophobic in the traditional sense, but still far too cramped for his liking.

 

...Fuck it. Fit grimaces and squares his shoulders. In for a penny, in for a pound.

 

It’s completely silent other than the rasping of fabric and the quiet clicking of boots on marble as he descends into the maw of the building. There’s not enough room to turn around, so Fit keeps one hand hovering near his warpstone and another resting on his potato gun. His back feels uncomfortably vulnerable as he walks. The coppery smell is only getting more pungent the further down he goes, too.

 

This is such a shitty idea, he thinks. But it’s far too late to turn back now; the ideal time to do that would have been two closed doors ago.

 

At the bottom, he sees a password protected door. As soon as he notices it, Fit’s already pulling out a codebreaker and pressing it against the panel. The first attempt results in an error message, but after the second try, he hears a resounding click. The device fizzles out in his hand after using its last charge, but he doesn’t spare it a second glance as the door swings open with a mechanical whirr.

 

In front of him is… some sort of sick imitation of an operating room, maybe.

 

It could be mistaken as a real operating room if you just focused on the medical equipment and the bed in the middle, but there’s too many details that aren’t quite right. For one, it’s freezing, and if there’s supposed to be any overhead lighting, it’s turned off at the moment. Instead, the only source of light is a neon cross on the wall that bathes the room in an eerie crimson glow. It's nowhere close to being sanitary either: the heady smell of blood in here is thick enough that it clings to the roof of his mouth.

 

He takes his first step in, letting the door fall shut behind him. It’s risky, cutting off his main escape route like that, but he’d rather have a few extra seconds to warp away if someone decides to head down and find him. Considering that the door leads to Cucurucho’s office of all places, too… yeah, no. He’s better off leaving it closed.

 

Cautiously, he takes another step forward. Parts of the tile floor are tacky with a viscous fluid that clings to the soles of his boots, and as he walks closer to the bed, he can see dark smears on the sheets. Even though the lighting tints everything a deep red, it’s unmistakably blood.

 

That’s one mystery solved, then. Even if it comes with its own set of questions.

 

There’s a strange pressure in the air that he doesn’t like. A static electricity buzzing at his fingertips that’s deeply at odds with the unnatural stillness around him. It feels like a room frozen in time, quiet except for the humming of the neon cross and the sticky squelch of blood that follows his every step. 

 

…Something’s wrong.

 

His hand drifts towards the scythe in his hotbar. There’s no one else in the room, but he feels disturbingly watched.

 

The feeling lingers as he prowls through the room, but he forces it to the back of his mind. He has already incriminated himself enough by being here—he might as well investigate as much as he can before they decide to reveal themselves. There's no point in wasting his time by turning back now.

 

Next to the bed, there’s an IV drip that still has a little bit of liquid left inside. Fit thumbs the end of the tube and a drop falls on his finger, leaving a sticky residue that prickles briefly on contact. When he lifts it up to his nose to smell it, it’s sickly sweet... melon, maybe? ...No. He dismisses the thought as soon as he takes a second whiff. He's familiar with how healing potions should smell and feel, and this thick chemical stickiness just isn't right.

 

After a moment’s hesitation, he taps his finger to the tip of his tongue, and it instantly goes numb before everything is slowly overtaken by a warm tingling feeling. The sensation only lasts a minute or so before it fades away, but it’s uncomfortably potent for being such a small dose.

 

He gives the IV drip another wary look. The pouch is almost fully drained. There’s still traces of liquid at the top of the bag, and a bloody needle rests on the table beside it. Fit can't help but shudder in disgust as he imagines that unnatural warmth rushing through his entire body. Judging from the blood splatters on the bed, he doesn’t think it was the cleanest jab, either. Not that the person receiving it probably cared once it fully kicked in, but it’s still a disturbing mental image.

 

He sweeps his gaze across the room again, half-guided by instinct and half-guided by the persistent feeling of being watched. This time, his eyes catch on a mounted camera. It was shrouded by darkness before, but the red glow of the cross gleams on the glass lens just right at this angle.

 

As if on cue, he hears a shuffling noise behind him.

 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”, a familiar mechanical voice drones.

 

He almost sends a scythe through its fucking skull, but manages to catch himself just in time.

 

“I was told to clean up in here?” Fit instead responds in a smooth baritone, injecting just enough confusion to make it believable. “Some worker gave me the code and told me to get to work, so I was just checkin' it out beforehand.” As he speaks, he slowly turns around to face the bear, making sure to keep the motion predictable and nonthreatening.

 

Deescalate. Keep your hands visible and your tone level.

 

Cucurucho’s standing against the wall, its perfectly white fur stained an unsettling red. Fit had kept an eye on the door ever since he first set foot into the room, so it must have teleported behind him while he was distracted by the IV. Sure, he should have expected it given that the room is inside of Cucurucho’s office, but the sight still fills him with a cold, pooling sense of dread.

 

The bear writes something in a book and hands it over. Its claws scratch at Fit’s palm as he accepts it.

 

‘You aren't supposed to be here. Who brought you here?’

 

Fit winces in response. The motion is only partially exaggerated. “Ah, my bad, boss. Didn’t catch their name, if I’m gonna be honest— should’ve probably asked. That being said, can I clean this room anyways? I'm already down here, y'know. Brought my cleaning supplies and everything.” He lowers his voice, a conspiratorial tone coloring it. “And it's filthy too, a total health violation.”

 

Cucurucho regards him for a moment, and then looks around the admittedly disgusting room and gives him a small nod. It backs towards the door, giving him space to work, although it doesn’t leave.

 

Not surprising, considering that what he said was total horseshit. But a bit disappointing nonetheless.

 

“So what happened here?” Fit asks conversationally as he mops down the floor by the bed. Dark bloodied water sloshes in the bucket that’s dangling from his other hand. The task is made infinitely more difficult by the red lighting, but he isn't complaining about how it forces him to linger. “Looks like it was kind of a bloodbath.”

 

“CLASSIFIED.”

 

He shrugs loosely, having expected the non-answer. “Eh, worth a shot.”

 

“HA HA HA.”

 

Fit chuckles back. It’s a relaxed and easy sound that rumbles in the back of his throat. Dismissing the mop to his inventory, he grabs a rag and starts wiping the operating table down while humming under his breath.

 

Deescalate.

 

He carefully doesn’t think about what could have caused the room to get this messy. Doesn’t let himself connect any dots, keeping his expression serene and his movements smooth. There’s something tickling at the back of his mind, some sort of conversation with Pac about injections from the very first loop, but that’s not his problem right now. Right now, he’s just good ol’ reliable Fit, doing his janitorial work like he’s supposed to.

 

Keep your hands visible and your tone level.

 

Before he knows it, the room’s about as clean as he can get it. It’s not quite sparkling, but at least it’s not sticky anymore. Fit wrings his rag out one last time, and then turns to smile at Cucurucho.

 

“I'll be leaving now, if that's alright with you. I've got plans, people who’re expecting me. We can discuss payment afterwards.”

 

“HA HA HA.”

 

Fit turns around, assuming that its laughter is close enough to a dismissal that he can leave without any worries. A moment later, a ringing pain blooms at the back of his skull, followed by the distinctive clang of a frying pan hitting skin and bone.

 

Something cold trickles down his neck. Fit barely has enough time to think, fucking typical, of course this had to happen right after I finished cleaning the floors, before he collapses to the floor.

 

When he wakes up the next morning, his head is throbbing like a motherfucker and every ray of light is a hot nail being shoved into the crevices of his brain. A low groan escapes his lips. Head injuries are always the fucking worst, especially when they’re not quite bad enough to force a respawn.

 

Still Day 174 too—seems like getting badly injured isn’t enough to get him out of his situation either. Not that he really expected it to, but it would’ve been nice if he at least got something out of it.

 

…Right. Time to stop bitching about it and assess the damage.

 

He touches the side of his head, expecting his fingers to come back sticky with blood, but there’s nothing there. Not even a dent or the faint pink film of a regeneration potion applied to his injury.

 

…Injuries aren’t transferred over, then.

 

The realization washes over him, leaving a strange kind of glee. Pain does transfer over between loops, as evidenced by the way that he still feels like he’s going to vomit, but he can handle that. That’s totally doable. When he tips back a healing potion, even that remnant of the last loop disappears.

 

It’s ironic considering his circumstances, but he might have even more freedom than he originally thought.

 

--

 

The second time Cucurucho catches Fit in a section of the Federation building where he shouldn’t be, it just stares at him with its blank, doll-like eyes. It doesn’t even reach for a book, its body dangerously still.

 

He had managed to fly under the radar for a while after the first confrontation, slowly mapping out the labyrinthine hallways that stretched below the island. But as the loops continued, he got… well. Not exactly complacent, but definitely less cautious. The deeper he explored, the more uniform and empty each space became, and while it was eerie at first, he could only encounter so many half-finished break rooms before the worst of his anxiety wore off.

 

It took a full week of exploration until he finally found something interesting deep in the bowels of the building—a room filled with floor-to-ceiling monitors. Lured in by the possibility of finding valuable data, Fit got greedy. Spent far too much time in there, long enough that his invisibility wore off.

 

By the time he caught a glimpse of white fur in the corner of his eye, it was already too late to chug another potion.

 

Conceptually, the idea of a lanky bear with a stitched-on smile feels like it should be something out of a bad horror film: the kind of monster that’s unsettling at first, but becomes almost comedic once it starts to move. It might be exceptionally powerful and in possession of a gun, but it has also paid Fit in hugs and blown bubbles at him. While Fit’s wary of it because of what it represents, it’s sometimes hard to take the bear itself seriously.

 

Standing in front of Curucucho right now, it doesn’t feel as silly anymore. Fit feels his hair stand on end as some deep, instinctual part of him acknowledges the presence of a predator.

 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” it asks mechanically after a moment of silence. As it speaks, it tilts its head a little—a childish gesture that feels deeply dissonant when paired with its dead eyes.

 

Despite the fact that every voice in his brain is screaming at him to run, Fit forces levity into his voice. His expression relaxes too, becoming something open and easy. “Hey, boss! Just, uh, just checking to make sure everything’s clean and up to standard!”

 

Cucurucho just keeps staring at him, head still tilted in that creepy fucking facsimile of innocent curiosity.

 

“Everything’s looking good, it’s looking good,” Fit continues in a breezy voice, hand inching towards his warpstone. Cucurucho’s eyes shift to track the motion. “I got lost and wandered in here after noticing that things were looking a bit dusty, so, uh, I thought I’d just quickly take care of it. I take my janitor duties very seriously, after all.”

 

His fingers finally brush the warpstone and he braces himself, expecting to be enveloped in violet sparks. Instead, it only briefly tingles, signifying that it's still on cooldown. 

 

A stone starts to form in his gut, slow and poisonous.

 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING,” Cucurucho repeats.

 

The voice is closer now. Loud enough that Fit can hear the faint buzzing noise that accompanies it.

 

"Just doing my job," Fit says, voice steady in a way that he doesn't feel. 

 

It looks at him like he's a carcass that needs to be removed.

 

Fit takes an involuntary step backwards. Cucurucho steps with him, claws gleaming in the artificial light. Against his will, his heart starts to race and his hands grow clammy.

 

He can’t sweet talk his way out of this one, not when Cucurucho’s eyeing him like this. Eyeing him like he’s prey.

 

There’s a beat of taut silence, and then Fit spins on his heel and starts sprinting as fast as he fucking can. Even if the physical injuries won’t last between loops, he’s not about to figure out what it feels like when your brain’s convinced you’ve been cut in two. He hears the revving of a chainsaw behind him, the sound echoing off the walls, but that only pushes him to run faster.

 

He tears his way through a seemingly endless series of dark hallways, slamming doors shut behind him. His heart’s beating hard enough that he feels like he’s going to throw up. There’s the steady pounding sound of footsteps behind him, but he can’t let himself focus on that. Every part of him is screaming that he’s going to die if he turns around to check, so he keeps his gaze forward and concentrates on running as fast as he can.

 

He turns left. A series of doors sprawl before him, and he picks one at random.

 

Dead end.

 

Fuck.

 

Cucurucho advances towards him with a chainsaw in its hand, its smile widening as it blocks the exit, and Fit readies his scythe in response. If he’s going to die, he’ll at least make sure it isn’t easy.

 

And then, against all odds, a miracle occurs.

 

The warpstone sends a jolt of electricity through his spine. He’s replaced with a flurry of violet particles just as the roaring blade slices where he used to be, cutting a deep score into the wall behind him.

 

When he rematerializes in front of the mine, he's still shaking with adrenaline. His body is on autopilot as he sprints to Ramón’s elevator shaft; it’s safe there, probably the safest place he can think of. Despite knowing this, however, it takes a long time before his hands are steady enough to set up a makeshift camp at the bottom.

 

I was careless that time, but it won't happen again, he vows to himself that night as he sharpens his scythe. The motion is repetitive and soothing, punctuated by the soft ringing shink of metal as his whetstone scrapes against the blade.

 

It’s not gonna matter come morning. The scythe will be reset just like everything else, so maintaining it this late in the night is useless. But there’s something comforting about the process, about the familiar heft in his hand, balanced skillfully in his palm as he tilts it with every swipe. It's the only thing that reliably quiets his nerves when he gets like this. Even if it won't help him tomorrow, it's easy to pretend for a moment that it will.

 

Tomorrow, he'll come back fully prepared. It’s not a coincidence that he was caught right before he could investigate that room filled with monitors. There’s something they don’t want him to find over there—maybe even the key to escaping this day.

Staring at the machinery above him, Fit finally lets himself revel in his progress. He’s so close to victory he can almost taste it. Maybe it’s pathetic, but his heart won’t stop thrumming with the closest thing he’s felt to happiness ever since this whole mess started.

 

--

 

When he finally manages to fall asleep, he’s expecting to wake up the next morning to a message from Pac like normal.

 

Instead, Fit is ripped back into consciousness by searing, blinding agony.

 

He can’t see anything. Can’t warp away. Can’t even move. All his pain receptors scream whenever he shifts, sending jarring bolts of lightning through his brain. He tries to open his eyes to assess the threat, an instinct burned into his brain after years of barely surviving, but every twitch feels like his skin is being torn off inch by agonizing inch.

 

Everything reeks of burning flesh. The smell is nauseatingly distinct—it’s one of those smells that’s impossible to forget, especially when it’s as cloyingly present as it is now. Rancid and fatty, so thick that he can almost taste it on his tongue. Distantly, Fit hears the sound of a dying animal moaning in pain. The sound reverberates through his skull until it’s a ringing chorus.

 

He can feel his skin bubbling. He can hear something bubbling over the incessant keening in the background. It’s lava, he thinks hazily, it’s lava, and he’s in it and he needs to get out to get the fuck out—

 

Even though it sends waves of blinding nausea skittering through his body, he finally forces himself to move, grasping desperately for something to pull him out of this hell. His hand hits something strangely cool and smooth; as he brushes his fingers across it, he feels the familiar glassy texture of obsidian. He reaches for his pickaxe, but meets nothing but empty air.

 

Someone cleared his inventory.

 

His movements become more frantic at this, fingers scrabbling along the obsidian wall for any imperfections or weaknesses, but they’re met with blank uniformity. He blindly scratches at it, and succeeds at nothing except worsening the way that his muscles feel like they’re being torn apart. Everything is pure agony, spinning nausea and putrid skin and magma seeping into every pore, and a pained whine escapes his lips, but when he opens his mouth it only burns hotter, and—

 

—just when the pain is at its worst, it dissipates, like smoke curling into some terrible sky, taking what little is left of his consciousness with it. Fit feels himself fade with it, a deep fog settling into his body.

 

When he respawns, nerves shuddering to a start, he’s immediately drowned in the same excruciating pain. He catches a brilliant flash of orange before his brain shuts down again to focus on nothing but the sensations wracking his body.

 

He’s stuck in a death loop, Fit realizes with horrified resignation during a brief moment of lucidity. These motherfuckers bed trapped him.

 

If he was anyone else observing this situation, he’d find it funny in a kind of fucked up way. Of course it’d happen to him of all people. He probably deserves it after everything he did on his old server, like some kind of karmic punishment. As the one experiencing it, though, he just curls up as tightly as he can and clenches his jaw hard enough that he can distract himself with a novel kind of pain.

 

A tooth cracks, and Fit semi-hysterically thinks to himself, ha, at least the janitorial position comes with free dental.

 

After that, he doesn’t think about anything for a while.

 

--

 

The next loop, Fit doesn’t open his eyes right away.

 

Being afraid of opening his eyes is ridiculous, but right now, that's exactly what he's feeling. Despite the fact that he logically knows he’s not in that toxic shithole anymore, he keeps his body limp and lifeless. If he plays dead long enough, part of him repeats mindlessly, they’ll get bored and leave him alone.

 

His nerves are blissfully dead at first—a side effect of respawning so many times in quick succession. Even as sensation creeps back into his limbs and they start to burn, however, Fit remains perfectly still. Bright flashes of pain burst behind his eyelids, but the only outward sign is the beading of sweat on his forehead.

 

Hours pass. Breathing is hard, and doing it quietly is harder.

 

In the end, he forces himself to open his eyes anyway.

 

He stares at the ceiling until the lights burn spots into his retinas. A sea of white concrete swims around him. He’s not sure if he’s sick of it after being greeted by the same view every single morning, or if the relief of not seeing lava outweighs it.

 

If he’s being honest, he doesn’t know if he even has the energy to feel one way or the other right now. The adrenaline has left his system, leaving him drained and heavy.

 

Fit allows himself another moment of inaction, and then he gets up slowly. As he pushes himself upright, his muscles scream with pain and bright sparks dance behind his eyes. He forces it to the back of his mind, long used to ignoring his body; instead, he focuses on scanning the room for danger. His gaze lingers on the blue doors as he mentally logs the escape route.

 

Something unfamiliar catches his attention in his peripheral vision only seconds later. Next to his bed, there’s a chest that was decidedly not there before.

 

It seems innocuous at first—Fit mines carefully around it and finds no redstone or visible traps. When he lifts the lid, however, he finds two items inside. A bucket of lava, and several shards of obsidian arranged in a crude smile.

 

The message is almost elegant in its simplicity. Insulting, but impossible to misunderstand, like leaving a hammer at the scene of a broken bedroom window. Given the timing of it all, the smile is almost an unnecessary signature: the fucking bear's practically gloating over how easy it was.

 

It’s technically the best lead Fit has gotten in ages. Despite this, he can’t bring himself to feel particularly excited about it. Just tired.

 

...A sigh builds up in his throat. He wants to go back to sleep so fucking badly. Exhaustion clings to him like a sticky film, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that feels like it’ll never truly go away. At the same time, however, the thought of going to sleep in his bed after being spawn trapped makes him feel genuinely nauseous.

 

He’s grown soft, he decides with a derisive twist of his mouth, if a little death loop is enough to rattle him this much.

 

It wasn’t even a particularly creative trap. While he couldn’t get his bearings enough to check for certain, he’s pretty sure it was just an obsidian box filled with lava. That shit was almost a rite of passage on his previous server—hell, he's trapped other people in the same way and laughed about it. His old allies would never let him live it down if they could see him in this moment of weakness. For his pride’s sake, Fit's glad that he left them all behind.

 

When it comes down to it, though, it's not the pain that's getting to him. Getting bed trapped hurts like a motherfucker, but he can handle a lot of punishment before he cracks. No, more than anything, Fit just feels defeated. It’s difficult to muster the motivation to keep investigating when he knows that they can rip everything away from him as easily as executing a few commands. 

 

The danger can't be avoided by moving his base. Even if he manages to set his spawn somewhere without the Federation knowing, he’ll wake up to the same white walls and artificial lighting as soon as the loop resets. He can’t even level the playing field with a hack client, since they’re suppressing that too. At best, he can keep infiltrating again and again until they get annoyed at him, but… then what? More spawn traps that grow more and more elaborate as he finds new ways to escape them? Fuck no, it's just not worth it.

 

Fit slumps against the concrete wall, limbs finally giving up in the face of this revelation.

 

It’s okay. He just needs to pivot back to escaping. He got over-excited and thought that he had a bigger advantage than he really did, but he can adapt to this new information. It’s not the end of the world, and his cover’s not blown. If he gives Cucurucho enough time to forget, Fit can probably claim that there was nothing more than desperation fueling his actions. As far as it knows, this was a lapse in judgment, not a calculated decision.

 

Experimentation might not come to him as naturally as infiltration does, but he has spent enough time around Pac and Mike to understand the basics of experimental design. Who knows, there might be a mundane solution that he somehow missed. All that he needs to do is shift his focus, and things will start going right again.

 

--

 

At first he returns to his original plan and dedicates several loops to convincing Tubbo. Not every time is as disastrous as his first two tries, and the human interaction is surprisingly wonderful after spending over a week ignoring his communicator, but it’s not enough to get him anywhere useful. So he pivots again.

 

He focuses on other residents. Talks with Pac and tries to prod him towards quitting the pills, up until it becomes too painful to pretend like everything is normal, and watches him from a distance for several loops afterwards. Searches for Phil or Cellbit in the hopes that they can help him out, and fails just as many times. At one point, he even reaches out to his contractor in desperation. The message is never delivered.

 

Then he explores new parts of the island, combing over every corner for something new. The change in scenery helps at first, but it doesn’t take long before even that becomes routine. Nothing ever seems to change from the original loop, no matter how far away it is—not unless he’s the one changing it.

 

One loop, he tries not going to sleep at all. He makes it as far as the first sliver of sun rising above the horizon before a torrent of dizziness overtakes him, far too intense to be natural. He barely manages to avoid a concussion as he crumples to the floor, and then wakes up the next morning feeling even more tired than usual.

 

--

 

Not long after that, he tries the opposite approach. It isn't exactly a voluntary experiment.

 

Like clockwork, Fit wakes up one loop to a buzzing on his wrist. Without moving anything but his arm, he turns off his communicator and lets his eyes fall shut again.

 

Everything feels exhausting, like he's drowning in tar. He’s familiar with the feeling. Familiar enough that it doesn’t alarm him when his non-prosthetic arm goes limp without him consciously deciding to do so, leaden and impossibly heavy. It has been a while since the last time it was this bad, but it makes sense that this part of his past would come back to bite him in the ass too.

 

His body likes to fail him in a lot of little ways, from aching bones to phantom sensations in his missing arm, but this is one of the more frustrating methods that it has developed over the years. Unlike other forms of pain, it’s a full immobilization. The kind that would usually force him to hole up far away from spawn and wait it out, relying on adrenaline to keep his body moving when he needed it to.

 

There’s no drive to keep his body moving on this island. No safe zone that’s tens of thousands of blocks away, giving him a concrete goal to work towards. He’s a sitting duck in this room, especially since he hasn’t yet taken the time to move his spawn to somewhere secure, but he can’t really think of a good reason to care anymore.

 

If the Federation wants to kick him when he’s down, it won’t accomplish anything other than wasting both of their time. It’s not like he’s much of a threat whenever he gets like this—especially without the risk of death to kick his survival instincts into gear. He’s not gonna be dragging his useless body through the hallways to find a piece of evidence that might not even exist. Without them needing to lift a finger, he has already neutralized himself more efficiently than their threats could have ever done.

 

He could get up. But it's easier just to sink into it. Let his body decompose into the mattress, limbs going numb and veins circulating blood at a sluggish pace.

 

As the hours drip slowly away like gore leaking from a wound, a cruel voice in his brain wonders if anyone noticed his absence during the death loop. People had surely realized what was happening after the first few respawns, assuming that his death messages still showed up in the chat... but then again, he doesn’t remember ever being dragged out of it.

 

Hopefully no one went looking for him. The act of trapping his home after he took so many precautions to keep his spawn hidden was violating enough on its own without a fucking audience watching it happen. He’s not sure if he would want anyone to see him like that, even if it meant a reprieve from the pain.

 

Ideally they saw the messages, shrugged, and then went about their day like normal.

 

If he repeats that to himself enough times, Fit thinks tiredly, maybe he’ll even start believing it.

 

Fuck the island. Fuck the Federation. And fuck the people in it too, for making him start to think of them as anything more than just temporary allies. That’s the kind of thinking that gets you killed. It’s the kind of thinking that gives you false hope and makes you expect things from others, only for those expectations to shatter once reality ensues. It was stupid for him to have put any faith in them at all.

 

Another flood of fatigue washes over him, pressing him deep beneath the waves. He can almost feel his lungs filling with inky water as he lies uselessly in bed.

 

He’s not giving up. He’s just conserving energy. Once this wave passes, he’ll pull some sort of fucking miracle out of his ass and everything will be fixed. Until then, all he can do is wait it out.

 

With that, Fit slumps deeper into his mattress and lets the darkness overtake him.

 

--

 

After the first time he sleeps through a loop, the second time comes easier. Then the third, and then the fourth. Before he knows it, it has become a habit to turn off his location and close his eyes as soon as he wakes up.

 

It’s the coward’s way out, just like so many other actions that he’s found himself taking recently, but he has already made his peace with being a coward long ago. Traits like cowardice and bravery don’t mean anything, not when being brave often gets you killed. He won’t pretend like this is some kind of noble survival method. For fuck’s sake, he’s a depressed bald man who’s rotting away in a shitty room—there’s nothing noble about that. But the sentiment makes him feel a little better about how many loops he’s wasting on this bullshit.

 

During one of these wasteful loops, however, things are unexpectedly disrupted. For the first time in a while, Fit is tugged back into consciousness by a steady, unbroken vibration on his wrist.

 

At first he lets himself feel a jolt of hope. The sensation is something different, after all, even if it’s still a variation on the same event that has woken him up every day for the past four weeks. The feeling shrivels up as soon as he sees the day counter, which still stubbornly says “Day 174”, but there’s still something remaining. A sense of curiosity that he hasn’t been able to muster for a while now, giving him just enough energy to sit up straight.

 

When he checks the time, the display indicates that it’s late in the evening. Either he woke up before the loop could properly end, or he somehow slept in far later than he should have. Regardless, it’s a break in the routine, and Fit’s suddenly starving for more. It’s not just a variation, it’s a variation that he had no part in creating.

 

After fumbling for his glasses, he squints at the wall of text before him. It takes a moment before the letters swim into coherency.

 

Tubbo whispers to you: FIT
Tubbo whispers to you: where are you
Tubbo whispers to you: pac's acting weird
Tubbo whispers to you: fit?
Tubbo whispers to you: ??????
Tubbo whispers to you: are you alright
Tubbo whispers to you: you're freaking me out man

 

…Right. From Tubbo’s perspective, Fit kind of dropped off the face of the planet. He didn’t even warn Tubbo about Pac’s situation in time; the other man was fully thrown in at the deep end. The stab of guilt that follows that realization is enough to motivate him to respond.

 

You whisper to Tubbo: Sorry I was asleep

 

Before he can even put his arm down, his communicator’s buzzing again.

 

Tubbo whispers to you: FINALLY
Tubbo whispers to you: you were asleep for a whole day??????

 

Fit briefly imagines explaining the situation to Tubbo. A few different responses come to mind, none of them good.

 

“Yeah, time loop related depression hits like a fucking truck, sorry about that!”. Or maybe “I was actually asleep for a whole week, but thanks for noticing!”. If he’s feeling particularly mean, he could bring up Tubbo’s suspicion and try to make him feel guilty or something. It would be kinda funny to drop something cryptic and see how Tubbo reacts to it.

 

…but no, all of those are too messy. They invite questions, and Fit has already demonstrated that he’s not good enough at talking to answer any of them. A vision of Tubbo’s raised eyebrow flashes through his mind, and he can’t help but wince at the thought of having to repeat that all over again. Shutting off his communicator won’t be enough to keep Tubbo at bay if he feels like there’s a secret being kept from him.

 

In the end, he settles on something that’s close enough to the truth.

 

You whisper to Tubbo: I was really fucking tired
You whisper to Tubbo: I promise I'll tell you everything tomorrow okay?

 

He feels his communicator buzz again, but turns it off for good this time, letting a drawn-out groan escape his lips.

 

He'll try one more time, he decides. Tubbo gets one more chance tomorrow, and then he can go back to waiting out this slump until his body cooperates with him again.

 

It doesn't take long until he drifts back into blissful oblivion.

Notes:

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Fit does some snooping into the Federation offices and finds the Treatment Room, only to be interrupted mid-investigation by Cucurucho. He convinces it to let him clean up, but he's knocked out immediately afterwards. He then spends the following loops delving deeper into the halls, up until he's confronted by Cucurucho while exploring somewhere he really shouldn't be! The next morning, he wakes up to a death loop inside an obsidian box, implying that the Federation also remembers the loops. Now that he has lost his main advantage and realizes how easily he can be spawn trapped given his circumstances, Fit grows more and more discouraged, which culminates in a depressive episode where he sleeps through several loops. In the middle of one of those loops, Fit wakes up to a series of messages from Tubbo and decides to give talking to him another shot.

yet again another massive shoutout to tumblr user @qfitmc for the fit spawnpoint knowledge!!!! i was SWEATING at first as it dawned on me that i had written the entire bed trap section without knowing if he would actually respawn there ":) also appreciated the chance to show off a secret that ive been insanely impatient to reveal lol thank u legend

also !!!!!!!!!!!! thank you all SO MUCH for the wonderful reception!!!!! i was super anxious about posting this fic (it's been cooking for a WHILE now), but you have all been so incredibly kind <333 it seriously means more than i can put into words and it's been so motivating :')

please feel free to leave a comment on your thoughts, theories, what you liked, pretty much anything! :] i will tuck each and every one of them into bed and give them a little kiss on the forehead <3 see you next saturday!

Chapter 3: no one could take your place

Summary:

In which Fit reaches out and Tubbo is under no circumstances allowed to cook.

When Fit wakes up the next morning, he's already exhausted and his head won't stop pounding. He's really fucking tempted to sleep through another loop, and that desire only strengthens when he peeks at the chat out of habit and sees Pac's grinning icon.

 

Being awake objectively sucks, now that he's had plenty of time to familiarize himself with not needing to feel anything. It hurts to be conscious, the kind of bitter cold ache that gnaws at his ribcage and closes up his throat. Every time he's reminded of this nightmare he's trapped in, it becomes a little harder not to go back to decomposing in his room.

 

Despite this, however, he hauls his ass out of bed and makes his way over to Tubbo's base. A promise is a promise, even if half the parties involved don't remember it.

 

At least the air feels nice on his skin as he glides down from the wall. Almost nice enough to make the inevitable rejection he’s going to face worth it. It’s a crisp autumn morning with a robin’s egg blue sky, and the mild sunshine settles pleasantly on his back. Fit ignores the snide voice in his head reminding him that he’ll have infinite opportunities to enjoy this morning, and instead snaps his glider shut so that it’s drowned out by the rushing wind in his ears. He plummets for a few seconds before easing his landing with the glider again. It’s just enough of a rush that he can blame the pounding of his heart on the fall instead of the conversation that awaits him.

 

Tubbo nods at him in greeting as Fit lands next to him, although the movement is noticeably less energetic than it should be. There are dark bags under his eyes, making him look weirdly older, and his hair is greasy and unkempt. After not seeing him for over a week, the difference from his usual self is even more staggering.

 

"Hey, king. What’s up?”

 

Fit takes a deep breath.

 

Centers himself.

 

Runs through the explanation he rehearsed on his way over here, cobbled together through countless loops where he almost convinced Tubbo to help him out.

 

And then exhales.

 

“I’m stuck in a time loop,” he begins, “and I need your help.”

 

There's a moment of stunned silence, and then an explosion of sound as Tubbo starts bombarding him with questions.

 

Fit feels his headache worsen, but he loudly continues talking to avoid losing momentum. “Before you ask! No, I’m not crazy or brainwashed. Yes, I’m sure. Yes, I’ve already investigated if it’s the Federation, and while they seem to know the loops are happening, they really don’t like me pokin’ around. No, I don’t know if it’s the codes’ fault, and I don’t even know how I’d figure that out.”

 

He pauses for breath. His heart twinges painfully as a bright smile flashes through his mind, strained and unnaturally wide, but he keeps his voice steady. “And no, we can’t get Pac to help. 'Cause he’s currently high as a fuckin’ kite and straight up delusional.”

 

Tubbo splutters, his face rapidly flickering through emotions as he processes the onslaught of information. Finally, he gets out, “Wait, what’s wrong with Pac—” 

 

Fit wordlessly shoves his communicator at Tubbo, gesturing at Pac’s earlier messages without even looking at them. Tubbo’s face screws up as he quietly reads them out loud, occasionally interrupting himself with a whispered, “what the fuuuuck”.

 

“Yeah,” Fit lets out a humorless laugh, ”my thoughts exactly.”

 

As Tubbo finishes reading and starts handing the communicator back, he pauses mid-movement. “Hold on, Fitnelson…?" he trails off, raising his eyebrows suggestively. Fit already doesn't like where this is going. "Didn’t know you guys had little nicknames for each other now. That’s cute.”

 

Inexplicably, Fit's face warms a little. In a superhuman act of will and strength, he wrests down the urge to lunge at Tubbo. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hey now." He clears his throat unnecessarily. "That’s… uh, that's not what’s important here.“

 

Pac's face flashes in his mind, lingering on the affectionate way that his tongue curls around Fit's name. He clears his throat again to dismiss it. Fuck, his throat is dry.

 

“What's important,” he continues after a beat, “is that Pac has totally lost it. He’s taking the same damn pills that Forever had before, and they're making him fuckin’ delusional. As much as I’d like to ask him for help, it wouldn’t do anything. I haven’t had any luck snapping him out of it in any of the previous loops either—in fact, neither of us have.”

 

(Fit mentally amends his statement: there's technically one successful method to snap Pac out of it. But mentioning City Skylines is a sure-fire way to derail this conversation, and he can’t afford that right now.)

 

Swallowing roughly, he locks eyes with Tubbo. His next words are tinged with a desperation that surprises even himself: “Basically, it’s down to the two of us. I need you to take this seriously, and I need you to trust me on this.”

 

The conversation stalls as Tubbo digests his words. It's not quiet: the constant whirring of machines around them means that it's never truly quiet at Tubbo's base, but it's about as close as it can get. Fit takes the opportunity to lean against a nearby chest and subtly catch his breath. Finally, Tubbo glances back up at him, a vaguely overwhelmed look in his eyes.

 

“And just to be clear, this is all happening in a time loop? Like, you’ve already experienced this day a billion times.”

 

28 times, Fit mentally corrects. 29 if you include the original day, but who’s counting. Outwardly, he nods jerkily.

 

After a beat, Tubbo responds, "That’s rough, buddy.”

 

Fit snorts. Understatement of the fucking century. “Yeah, no kidding.”

 

Another long pause follows, long enough that Fit starts half-heartedly planning how to approach Tubbo in the next loop. And then Tubbo nods sharply. “...Alright, fuck it. Let's assume that you haven't fucking lost it and this really is a time loop that no one else can remember."

 

He puts on a serious expression as he speaks, arms spread wide in a gesture of trust. As Fit looks closer, though, he can see that his brow is already furrowed a little. There's a hesitancy to Tubbo’s words, as much as he's clearly trying to suppress it.

 

It's not that Fit's surprised by Tubbo's immediate skepticism. Logically, there's no reason for Tubbo to believe him; he'd be skeptical if someone dumped all of this on him too. Despite knowing this, however, the bitter taste of bile builds up in the back of his throat. He presses his lips tight in an attempt to suppress it.

 

Baby steps. He still has time to convince him. The fact that Tubbo's even pretending to believe him is… well, it's something.

 

Tubbo suddenly claps his hands together, interrupting Fit's thoughts. "So! Let’s start from the beginning.” He leans forward with an expectant face, rocking on his heels. Although he’s clearly humoring Fit, the curiosity gleaming in his eyes is genuine. ”What have you already tried?"

 

Tubbo's question doesn’t quite hang in the air. It’s too sharp for that. Too pointed. Even if he didn’t mean it in any particular way, it still stings like glass shards in a raw wound.

 

Despite his best efforts to appear composed and unaffected, Fit visibly stiffens. It's a full-body movement, not just a flex of his jaw like usual, skittering through his joints like a live wire. More than that, it's an unacceptable show of weakness. He hates himself a little for broadcasting it, and hates himself even more when he remembers he has an audience watching him do it.

 

He tries to reel back his reaction, but the fracture in his composure only worsens with every moment he spends thinking about it, filling his lungs with sticky dread until he’s suffocating in it. Little by little, the weight of all of his previous loops settles onto his back like a lead blanket. The pressure gradually seeps into his shoulders and throat, sinking its fingers deep into the base of his skull. Against his will, his shoulders curl forward a little, caving in his chest until it's cold and tight.

 

Fit restrains himself from checking if there’s anything physically wrong with him. He knows that if he presses a hand against his heart, it’ll be warm and thrumming as usual, and it’ll make it even more obvious that something’s going on. But at this moment, ribs crowding in and chest unbearably freezing, he finds that he can’t breathe.

 

He’s tried everything he could. He’s tried everything, and he still hasn’t gotten close to escaping. Honestly, Fit’s starting to feel stupid for thinking that this situation was something that could be escaped from in the first place.

 

He jerks his head to dislodge that train of thought before it has the chance to poison his brain. (Before it makes him useless again, something nasty in him whispers, but he squashes it down with a ruthlessness that’s more instinctual than anything.) It doesn’t quite work, because of course it fucking doesn’t. It never does when his brain is like this. God, it’s so fucking inconvenient that he’d get like this now of all times, he spends one week alone and suddenly forgets how to act like a normal human being—

 

He goes to shake his head harder, an ugly and intentionally jarring motion, before remembering that he’s not alone. Instead, his fists, half-hidden at his sides, clench until they’re cramping in protest.

 

Stop. Focus on the present. 

 

You’re not going to get Ramón back by dwelling on this.

 

The pressure in his chest slowly deflates at this reminder, filling his starved lungs with cool air.

 

You need to chill the fuck out and focus on getting Tubbo as an ally.

 

His hands loosen, revealing crescent-shaped indents. It stings, but the pain grounds him. Reminds him that he’s still here, that he’s still breathing.

 

He can suppress the fear of being trapped in this day forever for a while longer. He has bottled up worse things in the past for greater periods of time, and he came out the other end fine. Not thinking about his problems comes naturally to him at this point—in fact, he works best under pressure.

 

He’s fine. It’ll be fine. He knows how to stop this feeling.

 

“Fit?” Tubbo's worried voice pierces through the fog, reminding him that he's been silent for far too long. He's hovering an arm's distance away (when did he get that close?), a hesitant hand stretched toward him. “Are you alright?”

 

"I'm alright, I'm alright," Fit echoes distantly.

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

 

…He can stop the feeling of panic, at the very least. Unfortunately, the strength of his budding migraine seems to be directly correlated with how much Tubbo talks, and no amount of reasoning is enough to fully suppress it. Fit grimaces a little as he rubs his temples. As much as he’d like to, he can’t just will the pain away without walking away like an asshole.

 

It’s not entirely Tubbo’s fault. After all, he’s not responsible for what his other loop selves did. Even if talking with Tubbo nowadays feels like walking through a minefield, this specific variation of Tubbo hasn't done anything. This Tubbo hasn’t outright dismissed him yet, this Tubbo still trusts him.

 

Besides, it’s not like he has any better options. Phil and Cellbit are nowhere to be found, Pac barely has a grip on reality, and his sweet baby boy Ramón is still missing. And it's not that he's a bad option, either. As much as Tubbo likes to tease, he’s still a brilliant theorist and a reliable friend. When it comes down to it, Fit trusts Tubbo a lot more than he’d like to admit. A shitty headache is an acceptable sacrifice.

 

(A quiet voice adds that anything is an acceptable sacrifice as long as he doesn't have to be alone anymore.)

 

Dismissing the last of his thoughts (especially that last one, because jesus fucking christ that’s depressing), Fit instead focuses on answering Tubbo’s original question. He doesn’t have time for this introspective bullshit—not when this is the closest that he’s ever come to actually getting anywhere.

 

"To be honest, Tubbo, it feels like I've tried everything." He tips his head back into the chest behind him with a dull thunk. The motion sends nauseating reverberations down his spine. "I've asked Cucurucho about it directly. Looked around the Federation HQ until they spawn trapped my ass. Talked to everyone awake. Traveled pretty much everywhere on the map. Nothing."

 

Tubbo pauses, focusing on Fit’s listless expression. “And you’ve done this pretty much all by yourself, right?”

 

Fit nods, his jaw twitching. He feels oddly dissected by Tubbo’s steady gaze; the sensation sends prickles down his neck. “For the most part, yeah.”

 

"...I promised I’d treat this seriously, and I’m not about to break that promise,” Tubbo vows, raising a hand in a mock pledge above his heart before letting it drop. “However, and hear me out on this one… have you considered that this might just be a skill issue on your end?"

 

The desire to lunge at Tubbo returns so quickly that Fit almost feels dizzy with it, leaving him weirdly clear headed.

 

Metal fingers curl into a fist before he forcibly straightens them again, finger by finger. His eyes catch on the trident in his hotbar, and despite his best efforts, he can't stop imagining its weight in his hands. Instead of indulging this urge, however, he exhales and begins organizing his inventory. Hoping against all odds that Tubbo will catch the hint and save himself from any further violent impulses.

 

Unfortunately, Tubbo is a master at ignoring hints when he wants to.

 

“No, listen. I bet I'd get out of it first loop, easy. I reckon I wouldn't even know it was a time loop to begin with.” Tubbo’s grin slowly widens as Fit’s expression grows more murderous. There’s a shuffling noise and then a loud pop, and Tubbo narrowly dodges a steaming baked potato shot directly at his throat. "No—no, hear me out! Hear me out! Let me cook!"

 

Fit reloads his potato gun—a smooth, practiced motion that makes Tubbo visibly cringe away. "If you keep cooking, I guarantee this will be the loop where I kill you with a fuckin’ rock. I won't even feel bad about it."

 

Despite his words and the stern tone of his voice, however, there’s a reluctant smile tugging on his lips.

 

He doesn’t let it fully surface—it’s too honest of a response to Tubbo’s shit-eating grin. He's not about to encourage this kind of behavior, especially since he knows that Tubbo's going to latch onto that weakness and make it even harder to be mad at him. But it’s impossible to fully suppress it no matter how hard he tries.

 

As he points his steaming gun at a still-snickering Tubbo, he can almost pretend that it’s a typical Morning Crew hangout. If he squints a little until the edges blur, he can even imagine Phil laughing behind him until his face turns red and Pac egging them on by his side. There’s something familiar about all of this, as annoying as it might be; something comforting about this moment of levity. It’s a breath of fresh air. The kind of gasping breath you take after surfacing from a deep dive.

 

Fit finds himself clinging onto that comfort with a ferocity that surprises himself.

 

He has spent way too many loops not interacting with anyone if this of all things is enough to make his chest feel lighter. There’s a big difference between joking about your separation anxiety and realizing how fucking depressed you get when no one’s around, but this is ridiculous. Tubbo’s teasing shouldn’t be enough to make him feel like he’s not drowning anymore.

 

"You're just mad ‘cause I've already escaped it,” Tubbo mutters loudly, eyes still fixed on the barrel of the gun. His body tenses in anticipation as he sees Fit’s finger inch towards the trigger. “I've already escaped it and meanwhile you're stuck here watching your boyfriend go insane over and over again. You're fuckin’ fuming, mate."

 

He yelps as he leaps out of the way a little too late, and his sleeve is set on fire by yet another flying potato. "Kidding! I’m kidding. Calm down, king. We'll get you out of this, I promise. Just stop fucking shooting me!”

 

As Tubbo runs to a nearby chest and dunks his arm in a bucket of water, Fit takes a moment to breathe in deeply and focus in on his objective. This is further than he gets most loops, he reminds himself. Baby steps. All he has to do now is keep Tubbo focused and maintain his trust.

 

He takes another deep breath in.

 

It comes a lot easier than he's expecting it to.

 

...In hindsight, becoming a hermit really didn’t do him any favors. Humans are social creatures for a reason, and he's no exception: after just one good conversation, his head feels clearer than it has for weeks. As he sinks his teeth into a golden apple, the aching begins to retreat too, shuffling back to the base of his skull until it's barely a ghost. If he ignores the day counter, it feels like a normal afternoon—the first normal day he's had in almost a month.

 

Based on the little victorious curl of Tubbo's lips when he thinks Fit's not looking, the diversion was intentional. Something warm and fond settles in his chest as he watches Tubbo subtly fist pump the air.

 

Not for the first time, Fit quietly thinks that the kid's a lot more emotionally intelligent than he gives him credit for.

 

--

 

By the time Tubbo returns, shirt still singed and damp, his expression has smoothed out into something more serious and attentive. There’s a familiar spark of curiosity gleaming in his eyes—a sign of interest that's good news for Tubbo's level of engagement, but historically bad news for Fit's patience. In the interest of staying optimistic about this run, however, Fit decides to take it as a personal win.

 

“Seriously, though, you should fill me in on what you’ve learned." Tubbo leans forward with his full body, an expectant look on his face. "You haven't tried having me help out directly yet, have you? Maybe I can bring a new perspective or something."

 

All of a sudden, Fit remembers why his headache started in the first place. He feels a long, tired sigh build up in the back of his throat as he slumps against the wooden chest behind him. It takes all of his strength not to vocalize it.

 

This fucking guy.

 

Baby steps, Fit repeats in his head over and over again, baby steps. All you have to do is keep him focused and maintain his trust.

 

"No, see, that's the problem,” he explains, choosing his words with what he personally believes is the patience of a fucking saint. “The one time you came close to cooperating with me, it happened too damn late into the loop. And then you gave me a shitty secret to convince other versions of you, but me having that information made you suspicious. Either I didn't have evidence or it didn't matter because you didn't trust me, so I eventually gave up. You feel me?"

 

"Yeah, I feel you." Tubbo nods sagely, looking distinctly like he doesn’t feel him. "But if my other loop self gave you that info, it's probably pretty reliable. Maybe you just need to bring it up in a less suspicious way?"

 

…This fucking guy.

 

"Are you seriously blaming me for your trust issues?" Fit asks. He can’t quite suppress the incredulous note in his voice. When he searches Tubbo's eyes for the same spark of mischief from before, he comes up blank. Either Tubbo has suddenly gotten a lot better at hiding his little jokes, or he's actually being genuine. “Your secret was basically just you saying that you didn’t trust me. It is not my fault you gave me nothing to work with.”

 

"No, no, no," Tubbo adopts a soothing voice—a move that only makes his words sound more insincere. Fit gives him a flat look in response. "I'm not blaming you for any of this. Just trying to figure out what the issue is. C'mon, lay it on me. What has the strat been? What's the current time loop meta?"

 

Everything is quiet except for the droning of machines in the background as Fit takes a moment to think about his answer. The amount of time that it’s taking isn't a good sign, all things considered, but it isn't particularly surprising either.

 

He was good about keeping track of loops at first, he really was. It was comforting to slip back into the familiar role of a historian, as unorthodox as the situation might be, and Fit has always been blessed with a good memory. At some point, though, days began blurring into each other. Details were lost. Insights faded into mundanities, which eventually faded into obscurity. His original tactics are nothing more than instincts and gut feelings anymore: if he's being completely honest with himself, he hasn't had a concrete strategy for a while. 

 

"...Uh, depends on the day," Fit finally says. "Usually I get up, try to remember what I haven't checked out yet, investigate as much as I can, and then go back to sleep.” Or he just does the last one, but that’s none of Tubbo’s business. “Sometimes I talk to someone to try and get information?" He lets out a huff of air. "To be honest, Tubbo, it all kinda blends together at this point."

 

"God, that's depressing. Okay, new approach. Let's come up with some theories so that you have an actual plan, and then you can practice convincing me that you're stuck in a time loop, yeah?" Tubbo punctuates his sentence with a tilt of his head. "Sound good?"

 

Fit just stares at him in response.

 

There's a horrible feeling of hope flaring up deep within his chest. It's horrible because it's frail, and brilliant, and an amalgamation of all the kinds of things that makes something hurt more when it's ripped away. Objectively, it's not even worth it to try and keep it alive. It's doomed to flicker out at some point anyways, like a candle in a windstorm that's only shielded by a pair of cupped hands.

 

...Fuck, he really shouldn't feed into it. It'd be easier to let it get snuffed out naturally and focus on protecting himself instead. He should just go back to sleep until whoever’s doing this to him gets bored—go back to playing dead. But as he looks into Tubbo's determined eyes, for some godforsaken reason he wants to give it another shot. He allows himself to feed the flames, and privately thinks that this might be one of the cruelest things he has ever done to himself.

 

“...Alright. Sounds good,” Fit replies after a pause that feels like it stretches on far too long. “This place is a little too open for that kind of conversation, though.”

 

Tubbo bobs his head in agreement, already pulling out his warpstone. “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to work on Ramón’s elevator shaft for a while now! See you there?”

 

Fit nods sharply in return, and they both disappear in a swirl of purple particicles. A moment later, they materialize in front of Ramón’s house. As they near the hidden entrance to the elevator shaft, he finally asks something that’s been bugging him ever since Tubbo returned.

 

"Why'd you believe me this time?"

 

"Hm?"

 

"This isn't the first time you've agreed to hear me out, but it's the first time you've gotten invested. Why?"

 

Tubbo stops just outside the bamboo patch. "Can I be honest with you?” He turns his face away, but Fit catches his grimace just in time. “You gotta promise not to get mad, but you just looked so... I dunno, you just looked so fucking sad. I don't think I've ever seen you look like that. It freaked me out."

 

Fit just hums in response, hot shame curdling at the pit of his stomach. This island really has made him soft, then. He had foolishly hoped that it was some part of his argument that convinced Tubbo, but to hear that Tubbo listened because he felt pity for him… the thought stings. 

 

As if he can hear Fit’s internal thoughts, Tubbo elaborates, “It’s not a bad thing, alright? I just thought, well, if Fit’s looking this outwardly shitty about it, something’s got to be wrong. You looked really tired. Way more tired than you did yesterday.”

 

There’s too much to unpack in Tubbo’s response, especially if he wants to keep his pride intact. Instead, Fit latches onto the least dangerous part of that statement. “Word of advice: don’t tell other people they look tired. It’s way more polite to say that they seem tired—”

 

“Yeah, yeah, old man. Geez, getting stuck in a time loop really aged you a few more decades, huh?”

 

“Hey now. You can’t joke about that. I’m traumatized, remember?” He takes care to stress the word in a sarcastic voice. If he doesn’t take it seriously, his tone implies, neither should Tubbo. Or at least that’s what he hopes his tone implies: if Tubbo takes his words at face value for some reason, he can kiss any chance of being taken seriously goodbye.

 

Luckily, Tubbo just snorts in response. “Alright, man, alright. Whatever you say.” Then he pauses, a complicated expression on his face as he turns back to face Fit. “Seriously, though, is this a cry for h—”

 

Fit deliberately steps on the patch of ground that disguises the entrance before it can get any more personal. With a whoosh of air, he lands in the elevator shaft, leaving him alone for a few precious seconds.

 

He takes that time to smooth over his expression and let his emotions go blank.

 

Right. Enough chitchatting—it’s time to get to work.

Notes:

IM STILL NOT OVER FIT'S 11/27 STREAM okay back to fic related things but it needed to be said. shoutout gay people fr❤️

ch 3 three fun facts corner:
FUN FACT 1: indirectly this entire fic but also specifically that one fit and tubbo interaction was inspired by https://www.tumblr.com/freyalise/728835556515184641/if-i-was-trapped-in-the-time-loop-i-would-do-the
FUN FACT 2: as a result, the fic was almost called "this is the loop where i kill you with a rock" before i realized that it was way too long of a title <3 the name is still preserved in the google doc + its associated playlist though!
FUN FACT 3: one of the main theme songs of this chapter + part of the next is "this hyper world" by lemon demon

next chapter's gonna be a little less linear btw, so if anyone is interested in reading over it sometime before it's posted nd letting me know if any parts get too confusing, that'd be much appreciated! :] otherwise We'll Just Fucking Ball and u guys will have to tell me if it's totally incomprehensible so i can edit it in post lol<3 also edited the past 2 chapters, so hopefully that fixes any weird flow issues :> (chances are i'll have to edit this chapter too haha)

please feel free to leave a comment on your thoughts, theories, what you liked, pretty much anything! :] i will add each and every one of u who comments to my will (real) (not lying) <3 see you next saturday (hopefully???? bro we'll see how bad school gets since it's getting close to finals season. if u don't see me next saturday don't fret, i'll likely post it the saturday after that :"D) !!

[12/23 EDIT: the chapter is done + edited, just gonna double check w the ppl who offered to beta read for clarity!! hope u guys are excited <3 i may have fallen behind my original schedule but we're back on schedule now!!]

Chapter 4: do you remember that day (that sunny day)

Summary:

In which Tubbo weaponizes being a pest, Fit develops a worrying theory, and Forever acts a little stranger than usual.

Notes:

OOPS i fell off my self-inflicted schedule but im giving myself a free pass bc it was written mid-finals! <3 originally this chapter nd the next were put together, but inflicting a 12k word chapter on u all mayhaps wasnt the move. so instead u guys get this one today nd i've got ch 5 on reserve!! hope u all enjoy the meal heart emoji

(posting a day early bc im scared of fit's lore tomorrow lmfao)

[EDIT: while i'm not editing him out of this chapter, in no way do i condone cc!forever's actions. fortunately, i hadnt planned to include him in any scenes beyond this one, so i dont have to shift my plans for this fic! he wont be featuring in any future works of mine either.]

“Okay, so fill me in on the details,” Tubbo huffs as he clambers up one of the many colorful pipes webbing through the elevator shaft. “What have you learned? Surely there’s something useful.”

 

Fit feels another dizzying wave of deja-vu overtake him as the other man perches on a large machine, legs dangling down and body leaning dangerously close to the edge. After spending so many loops unconscious, it’s almost comforting to feel its familiar presence again. Almost being the operative word. It's still obnoxious—at this point he needs a reminder that he’s trapped in this day about as much as he needs a bullet through his fucking skull.

 

“Yeah, I've learned a thing or two,” he says, finding his own machine to lean against. If he’s going to have to share what’s essentially a time loop cringe compilation, he’ll be damned if he isn’t comfortable while doing so.

 

The first loops flow out of him easily. He describes the arduous task of convincing Tubbo to share a secret, pausing every now and then to shoot him an accusatory glare. When the other man laughs so hard at his misery that he nearly falls down, it's second nature for Fit to point his potato gun at him until he shuts up. The threat alone is enough to make Tubbo stifle his giggles. Which is lucky for Fit, because in this state, he doesn’t think he’d be able to handle the possibility of accidentally breaking something Ramón made. Even knowing it would reset by the end of the day, he’d never forgive himself.

 

(He makes sure to edge away from anything too fragile just to be safe.)

 

Once Tubbo has finally calmed down, Fit shifts to detailing his investigations into the Federation offices. That’s where the juicy stuff is, so he actually takes the time to describe the rooms. Tubbo doesn’t seem to appreciate it, though, judging by the revulsion in his face when the treatment room comes up.

 

“That’s fuckin’ creepy, man.”

 

“You’re telling me,” Fit scoffs, “I’m the guy who had to clean it.” Cucurucho did him a solid by knocking him out, honestly. The only thing that’s worse than squelching around in blood-soaked boots is cleaning blood-soaked boots. That thought ignites a different spark of irritation, though: “You wanna know the worst part? I didn't even get paid! It just brained me with a fuckin’ frying pan and called it a day! Talk about terrible workplace culture."

 

"Wouldn't your inventory get reset anyways, though?" Tubbo points out. Unnecessarily.

 

"...It's the principle of it all, y'know?”

 

Tubbo just hums noncommittally in response, gesturing for Fit to continue. He briefly considers the merits of describing exactly how much blood there was on the floor, but ultimately decides against it: there are more important things to talk about. Tubbo seems to agree, judging by the rapt look in his eyes when Fit mentions the monitor room. He noticeably deflates once Fit adds that he couldn't find anything about the eggs, but there’s still something contemplative in the way he taps his fingers on the metal. In comparison, the description of Cucurucho chasing him is barebones. It’s not like Tubbo needs to know anything other than the fact that he got caught. Fit pissing himself as he's chased by a bear with a chainsaw has nothing to do with whatever escape plan Tubbo might cook up; not if Fit has anything to say about it.

 

Finally, the time comes to describe his last few weeks of loops. “After I got caught, I woke up to a death loop and then minded my own business for a while. And… yeah, I'd say that's about it.” He squares his shoulders and hopes against all odds that Tubbo won't read too much into what he doesn't say.

 

Unfortunately, Tubbo has a habit of being too perceptive for his own good. Either that, or Fit is truly losing his touch.

 

“Surely there's more than that.”

 

There isn’t much point in keeping it secret if Tubbo’s gonna needle him for it. That doesn't mean that Fit has to like it, though.

 

“Fine. The Federation fuckin’ murked my ass for a day straight. They even left a smile made out of obsidian for me to find the next day. I wasn’t too keen on it repeating, so I stayed in my room for a while,” Fit spits out. “Happy?”

 

There’s an uncomfortable silence for a minute or so, and then Tubbo cautiously speaks up again. "Okay, so I do have a few theories in mind after hearing all that.”

 

Fit feels boneless with relief at the nonchalant response, mentally bumping him up a few spots on his favorite friend list. But then Tubbo continues, "That being said, I obviously don't have super solid evidence to support any of them…”

 

He pauses theatrically, drumming his fingers on the metal below him.

 

Fit's pretty sure he knows how this sentence is going to end. Things aren't looking good for Tubbo's recent friendship promotion.

 

“...which is where you come in!”

 

Fit sighs, vexed at having been proven right. It might be the most logical response to the situation, but he isn't exactly thrilled to be a lab rat again. “Really? You’re gonna make me go through all that shit again?”

 

“Oh, c’moooon. You were the one who asked me for help, remember?” Tubbo drawls. “Don’t get pissy about it now. I bet Pac wouldn’t do me like this.”

 

The sentence hangs in the air between them, somber in a way it clearly wasn't intended to be. Pac’s absence is a heavy thing. Even though Fit should really be used to it by now, it's like a phantom wound; his body knows there should be another person here, and calling attention to it just makes the ache deeper.

 

Finally, Tubbo breaks the silence. Glumly, he mutters, “...Man, I really wish Pac wasn’t crazy right now. I miss him.”

 

“Me too, Tubbo. Me too.”

 

Tubbo nods solemnly, and then suddenly snickers under his breath. Out of long-neglected instinct, Fit braces himself.

 

“Maybe you can cure him with the power of true love? True love’s kiss, even?”

 

Yeah, he should've probably expected that one. Fit bristles anyways. The motion’s mostly theatrical; he’s a bit rusty after weeks of isolation, but he’s slowly falling back into the patterns of their usual banter. Tubbo seems to recognize that too, because he visibly brightens up when Fit scoffs at him.

 

“The power of true—first off, Pac’s drugged, not under some sort of witch’s curse. Don’t be ridiculous.”

 

“I dunno, maybe the Federation’s branching out? Dipping their toes in a little bit of cursing? We can’t completely rule it out, now, can we?”

 

Fit thinks they can, actually. With no small amount of exasperation in his voice, he reminds him, “You promised to take this seriously, remember? Get your head in the game, man.”

 

Tubbo sobers up, and Fit feels an irrational wave of regret wash over him as the casual mood dissipates. It’s too late to take it back now, though. And no matter how nice the break was, he can’t stop thinking about how much time he has left before night falls; there's no guarantee that next loop's Tubbo is going to be as helpful.

 

"Yeah, yeah, alright. In all seriousness, though, we should look into the Federation more.” Tubbo blinks down at him, a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

 

Fit was really hoping he'd be in a better headspace before the Federation was inevitably mentioned. In the time it takes him to fully process what Tubbo’s saying, pushing through the fog that’s choking his brain, Tubbo’s already barreling towards another tangent.

 

“While we’re there, we might even find out where the eggs have gone? Two birds, one stone, right? It might not be connected, but,” and Tubbo pauses, something sly in his voice, “if we're there anyways, we might as well look around. You get what I'm saying?”

 

Okaaaay. Time to shut this down before he gets over-excited.

 

“Sorry, but that’s not happening,” he interrupts firmly. “And who’s we? If Cucurucho got pissed after seeing me explore alone, it’s gonna get twice as pissed if I’m leading a fuckin’ field trip in there. It's not a ‘we’ situation if I'm the one who's gonna get punished.”

 

Tubbo frowns. “Okay, but think of it this way. Who else could possibly be behind this?”

 

Unfortunately, he has a point. That doesn’t mean Fit wants to go back there and get spawn trapped, though. Fuck that.

 

“...could be one of my old servermates,” he offers instead. His argument sounds weak even to his own ears, but he doubles down out of spite after seeing Tubbo’s dubious expression. “I’ve seen some pretty crazy shit out there. And I can easily think of a few people who’d find my suffering hilarious.”

 

“You said the Federation literally left a message after killing you. Can't think of a more direct calling card than that.”

 

Tubbo’s got him there.

 

“Fine. The Federation probably has something to do with this, I’ll give you that one. That still doesn’t mean that I’m gonna go back to investigating, though. And it definitely doesn't mean you're coming with me.”

 

Tubbo blinks incredulously. “Why?”

 

Fit sighs. “I’ve tried investigating and didn’t find anything useful. Believe me, anywhere we can get to before the loop resets has been scouted.”

 

“Maybe it’ll be different with me there. We can cover more ground and shit.”

 

Fit rubs his temples. Maybe it’s the time loop speaking, but he’s growing sick of having to repeat himself over and over again. “You're not listening, Tubbo, it’s pointless. There’s nothing new we can find. Especially with less than a day’s worth of prep. Not only that, but it’s gonna fuckin’ hurt: if I take one wrong step in there, Cucurucho's gonna curb-stomp my ass.”

 

“Aren’t you kind of in a perfect spot to ignore that, though? No offense, but if I was in a time loop, I would do anything to save the eggs.” There’s a challenging glint in Tubbo’s eyes as he maintains eye contact. “Even if it meant I got hurt, it’d be worth it if I could bring them back.”

 

It's not the first time Tubbo has indirectly accused him of not caring enough about the eggs, but using it right now is a low blow. In true 2b2t fashion, Fit goes lower.

 

“Have you ever been spawn trapped?” he asks bitterly. Phantom sensations prickle on his skin, but he leans into his irritation to smother them. “Imagine burning to death in lava over and over again, and the pain sticks with you even after you stop dying. Now imagine someone could do this to you as many times as they want, and there's nothing you can do about it. Got it?”

 

An uncomfortable grimace takes over Tubbo’s face as Fit talks. It’s viscerally satisfying in a way it probably shouldn’t be.

 

“Pop quiz—” Fit continues, spreading his arms wide like some sort of fucked-up gameshow host, “would you do something that pisses them off until they torture you every day for the rest of your life? Or would you mind your own goddamn business?” A derisive laugh escapes his lips. ”I know what I'd fuckin’ pick. And as the one who's gonna be facing the consequences of this, I don't think you have much of a say! So try to tell me again that it’s not that bad because it’s temporary. I dare you.”

 

Tubbo’s hunched in on himself at this point, shoulders drawn tight. “Alright, alright, point taken,” he admits in a small voice.

 

It's technically a victory, but Fit doesn't feel particularly victorious. Now that he's gotten the urge to bite back out of his system, he just feels like a dick. After a moment, though, Tubbo seems to regain some of his earlier confidence, because he pipes up again.

 

“...I mean, it’s at least worth trying it out one more time? We don't have to go so deep that they want to fire you, just close enough that they come to tell us off. You don't even have to be the one talking—I can do that part. I'm good at getting answers out of them.”

 

A long, charged minute passes. And then Fit mutters, “You’re not gonna give up until we do this, are you?”

 

Tubbo shakes his head, and Fit’s resounding sigh is as much of a yes as he’s willing to give in response. The other man seems to register the lack of an argument as an enthusiastic agreement, though, because he cheers, “Awesome, let's go right now!”

 

Fit takes a quick inventory of his current state. Every muscle in his body is still leaden and aching, and as the effect of his earlier golden apple wears off, a headache has started clawing its way back into his skull. At the end of it, he concludes that no, he can't really do anything more taxing than going back to sleep right now, and he says as much to Tubbo.

 

“Alright, alright, no worries, no worries.” To his credit, Tubbo seems only a little disappointed at first glance, although the violent jiggling of his leg betrays him. “We can just do it next loop, I'm sure another version of me will do just as good of a job. No biggie, no biggie.”

 

“Yeaaah… no offense, but I'm not…” Fit sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I’m not exactly chomping at the bit to go through another round of trying to convince you. You feel me?”

 

For some reason, Tubbo perks up at this.

 

"No, no, see, that’s the easy part! Don't even try to convince me you're in a loop, just give me enough info to guide my questions. There's a very simple way for you to get me to help. You just gotta agree to—"

 

--

 

"—let me tag along with you?! Are you being fucking for real right now?" Tubbo whisper-shouts, bouncing in place. The movement shakes the wooden planks below them until Fit has to forcibly press a hand down on his shoulder to keep him still. "You're actually going to bring me with you to Cucurucho’s office?!”

 

“Keep it down,” Fit hisses, whipping his head around for a flash of white fur. Luckily, it seems like the humming of Tubbo's countless machines is enough to mask their conversation.  “Don’t— don’t get too excited! I can still change my mind, you know that, right?”

 

(He can’t. But he knows Tubbo, and if Tubbo knows how desperate Fit is, he’ll stretch that permission as far as he can. Best to frame it like he’s doing Tubbo a solid so that he behaves.)

 

“This isn’t for free, either.” He shoots Tubbo a stern look, trying to convey as much gravity in the action as he can. “I gotta ask Cucurucho a few questions about something important that's been bothering me, so I could really use some reliable backup.”

 

Tubbo preens at the indirect compliment. He also moves closer, voice lowering conspiratorially as they huddle together. ”Well then, you’ve come to the perfect guy: I’m great at getting information out of them! I can do that. What’s been bothering you, king?”

 

“So the thing is, I'm stuck in a time loop.”

 

He keeps his tone casual and light. Partially because the novelty has truly worn off by now, and partially because he thinks it'll be funny to see how the other man reacts to it. Tubbo doesn’t disappoint. He first nods as if that makes perfect sense, and then does a perfect double take as the words sink in. Fit privately mourns the lack of a camera that can preserve photos across loops.

 

“Wait, what?"

 

--

 

“...so just hit me with that,” Tubbo finishes, “and I guarantee I’ll go along with it even if I think you’re crazy.”

 

“Alright,” Fit eventually allows, leaning back against a dusty engine as he processes the plan, “that might work, yeah. What sort of questions were you thinking?”

 

"I mean, think about it. No offense, but why would you specifically be the only one aware of the loops?” Tubbo points out with a tilt of his head, swinging his legs as he talks. Fit should probably feel offended by the dry delivery, but he agrees. There's nothing that makes him stand out. Nothing that the Federation should know about, anyways.

 

“The way I see it,” Tubbo continues, “this is either a punishment or an experiment. If it’s a punishment, then the obvious answer is that you’re the one being punished, but why would that be the case? You were, like, besties with them before all this.”

 

At this, Fit shifts and carefully does not think about any secret missions he may or may not have. Fortunately, Tubbo’s on a roll now; he keeps rambling without pausing to look at Fit’s expression. “So if it’s not a punishment, my next thought is that they’re running some sort of experiment with you as a control or a subject, or something like that. This is something that we’d need to talk to Cucurucho about,” he shrugs loosely, “but that’s the best theory I got right now.“

 

Fit nods slowly as he processes what Tubbo's saying. He's not too familiar with designing experiments, but he thinks he gets the gist. There’s one problem, though; “...how exactly am I supposed to get you to start talkin’ about this stuff? I can parrot back what you're telling me, but that doesn't mean I can explain it.”

 

“I mean, it's still me. Surely I'll jump to at least some of the same conclusions.”

 

Fit exhales. It's more of a plan than he had half an hour ago, but he's still not fully convinced he'll get anything good out of it. “Sure, but we can't exactly keep coming back for new answers. Remember, it's also aware of the loops. We can probably only do this once before it starts seriously questioning—”

 

--

 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

 

It took the two of them less time than usual to get caught by Cucurucho this go-around. In fact, Fit’s pretty certain it’s a personal best. They barely managed to set foot in the gleaming building before the bear was making a beeline towards them, a visible threat behind its stitched smile. Instead of engaging, however, Fit just steps back and lets Tubbo work his magic. If Tubbo's volunteering to poke the proverbial (and literal) bear, he's not about to get in the way.

 

“So I hear that you’ve trapped my friend here in a time loop. Ringing any bells?”

 

Fit winces a little at how directly it's stated, but smooths his expression into something more confident before the other two can notice. Let him cook, he reminds himself, I promised to let him cook. Maybe this is part of his strategy.

 

Curucucho stops in its tracks, tilting its head to the side. “HA HA HA.”

 

It looks… thrown off. No, perhaps wary is a better word. Like it knows that there’s a punchline somewhere, but it hasn’t quite figured out if the joke is being told yet. Tubbo doesn’t cut a particularly intimidating figure at first glance, especially not when standing next to Fit, but there’s something undoubtedly dangerous in the way that he narrows his eyes at the non-answer.

 

“Always with the laughter, man. It’s just a simple yes or no question! Is there a time loop going on, yes or no?”

 

It's still staring at Fit, doll-like eyes fixed somewhere on his forehead. “...YES,” it finally drones, but the answer's not directed towards Tubbo. Not physically, at least. Tubbo’s eyebrows jump regardless, and Fit feels a surge of vindication as the other man visibly reassesses the situation. It’s chased by an even greater wave of relief that he hasn't gone crazy yet. While he was pretty damn certain this wasn’t an elaborate fever dream, getting confirmation from a second person is weirdly nice to hear.

 

Cucurucho's still staring at him, evaluating his reaction. Fit doesn’t even try to pretend like the reveal is surprising, and in return, Curucucho's stitched grin widens further. It's an equal exchange of information, all things considered. Cucurucho receives proof that Fit knows what's going on, and Fit confirms the first piece of concrete evidence he's had in a while now.

 

“Alright, interesting.” Tubbo cuts in, properly engaged now that he's going off more than just Fit's word. “So did you guys cause this time loop to happen?”

 

“CLASSIFIED.”

 

“Classified, huh? So is that a yes? Or is it more complicated than that?”

 

Cucurucho shifts to stare at him, its smile icing over.

 

“Is this some sort of punishment? Is it a code thing? Is it related to the eggs being missing?” Tubbo pushes, pausing after each sentence as he waits for a reply. He’s met with nothing but stony silence, but doesn’t let that dissuade him as he keeps rattling off possible ideas.

 

Finally, he lands on, “Is it something related to the pills?”

 

For a moment, Fit thinks that Cucurucho’s going to stay silent again. But after a few agonizing seconds pass, it eventually responds with “...CLASSIFIED.”

 

Fit blinks in poorly-hidden shock.

 

…Huh. That’s… unexpected.

 

Tubbo’s expression shifts, focused and sharp like a shark who’s smelled blood in the water. “Ah, classified? So it does have something to do with the pills. Interesting, interesting. How exactly, though?”

 

There’s almost something funny about the way Cucurucho turns towards Fit. Its stiff face isn’t built to show any emotions besides a smile, but it somehow clearly conveys a sense of annoyance. Fit just beams in return, pouring every bit of schadenfreude that he can into his grin. Cucurucho's hopefully not petty enough to retaliate in a future loop for something Fit didn't even say, but even if it does decide to punish him for this, the satisfaction from this memory will help Fit endure it. Getting clowned on by Tubbo is a humbling experience that he wouldn't wish upon anyone except this stupid fucking bear. 

 

Finally, it turns back to Tubbo. There’s something infinitely weary in its posture.

 

“I HOPE YOU ENJOY THE ISLAND.”

 

Once again, its face doesn’t physically change in any way. The voice doesn’t change either: Cucurucho only has a limited amount of voicelines, and they’re all delivered in the same droning voice. But as it ushers them out of the offices and back into the cool morning air (Tubbo still rattling off questions as they walk), its obvious frustration is a balm on Fit's soul. It disappears a few seconds later. Miraculously, Fit isn’t even reprimanded for the obvious security breach.

 

Because he knows that Tubbo won't remember it for long enough to make him regret it, he murmurs in an awed voice, “Tubbo, you're a miracle worker. I don't know how you do it.”

 

“Oh my god, I want that in writing!” Tubbo crows. “FitMC of 2b2t thinks I'm a miracle worker. Imagine that.”

 

Fit just grins back, adrenaline and much-needed dopamine flooding his system. Shit, if progress keeps going this smoothly, he’ll carve those words into the goddamn wall!

 

"Let’s get the fuck out of here, and then we can talk about getting that on paper, alright?”

 

--

 

"...Anyways, let's start by just asking Cucurucho some questions," Tubbo finally concludes. His legs still as he jumps down to land beside Fit, wobbling before the other man steadies him. "Once you have something useful, you can try convincing me again and we'll go from there!” 

 

Fit nods and turns to leave, but he’s stopped by a careful hand on his arm.

 

“Hey man, real talk. I know I’ve been joking around a lot, but… are you okay? I saw you tensing up and shit earlier.”

 

“Yeah, I’m all good. Just—” Fit gestures to himself with an amused smile, ”just my body being dumb and overreacting. Things firing when they shouldn't be. Don't worry about it.”

 

He's not even lying. All things considered, he feels alright at the moment—tired, sure, but not in the same way he felt when waking up this morning. It’s the fatigue of muscles that remember atrophying in a bed for a week, not the kind of bone-deep rot that he’s gotten used to. The difference might not mean that much to most people, but it's a big step up from what he's been experiencing as of late.

 

Tubbo doesn’t look quite convinced by his words, though, which is... yeah, pretty fair. He probably would’ve answered the same way even if he was feeling like shit.

 

“...If you say so." The other man watches him closely for a moment longer, eyebrows furrowed. Then he blurts out, “Listen, if it turns out that someone's fucking with you, just point me at them, alright? I’ll drive a fuckin’ drill into the side of the Federation building if that’s what it takes.”

 

“I mean, you’re always down to do that,” Fit jokes, propping himself up against the wall. “I appreciate the sentiment, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t think you really need an excuse.”

 

“Well yeah, but this time it’d be because they hurt you.” Tubbo punches his arm as he brushes past him, heading up the elevator shaft. “Morning crew’s gotta stick together, right?”

 

“Right,” Fit agrees. There's an undeniable warmth behind his words, and he finds that he doesn't have the heart to suppress it. “Morning crew's gotta stick together.”

 

--

 

The next morning, Tubbo gives him a bleary-eyed nod as Fit's glider snaps shut.

 

"Hey, king. What’s up?”

 

He feels like a shitty actor running through his lines when he replies, “I’m stuck in a time loop, and I need your help.”

 

A brief visit to the fake “Richas” and an explanation later, Tubbo's pacing the floor of the elevator shaft again.

 

“So it’s a pill-related thing, is it?”

 

“Probably?” Fit hedges, voice uncertain. Now that he’s explaining it, the evidence feels a little less monumental than it did before. “I mean, it didn't say anything outright, but that's what Cucurucho reacted to. And that's more than I can say about any of the other random shit you threw at it.”

 

“Hm. Maybe it’s… uh, maybe it's some sort of experiment that only works in a time loop? Like, they’re testing to see if you can break the pill’s effects, or something.”

 

Parroting Tubbo's words from an earlier loop, Fit asks, “Yeah, but why would they pick me to remember everything?”

 

That’s the part that’s really getting to him. The Federation’s sinister enough that he can easily imagine them doing some sort of time loop experiment, but he’s nowhere near the best option out of all the people on the island. If Tubbo’s right about what they’re testing, it would make even less sense. He’s too nosy to be a good constant, and not a talented enough scientist to create a rudimentary cure—hell, he's never even seen the pills for longer than a brief glance. There's nothing there. Not unless they’re testing to see if any random guy could stop the pills from working, but even then there’s people who are arguably better candidates than him.

 

“Fuck if I know,” Tubbo shrugs, dashing Fit's hopes that this would have an easy explanation. “It could be a good thing to focus on, though, since there’s two non-Cucurucho options for you to talk to—Pac and Forever. Still think you should try talking to Cucurucho again, but, y'know. Your call.”

 

Neither option is good. One is a deeply wrong version of a close friend, and the other pointed a gun at him the last time they spoke. His hesitancy to visit the former is something that he especially doesn't want to get into right now, though, so it's an easy choice.

 

“I’ll start with Forever,” Fit replies, a little too quickly. Tubbo narrows his eyes, but ultimately doesn't call him out on it.

 

“Chop chop,” he instead says, “there’s only so many hours left in the day!”

 

Luckily, Forever’s still visible on the map, so he doesn’t have to waste any time chasing him down. He greets Fit with a sunny smile when he materializes in Forever's base, waving enthusiastically. It’s a discomforting kind of cheerfulness—forced in a way that feels only partially chemical.

 

The cheerfulness is made even less comforting by the neat rows of TNT that he’s placing around the courtyard.

 

“Hi, Fit!!”

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what the hell's going on here?” Fit fumbles for his shield, keeping it firmly placed between his body and the worrying sea of red and white before him.

 

“Nothing’s going on, my friend!” Forever just grins back at him, a fever-bright gleam in his eyes. “This is the best day on the island, nothing can be wrong!”

 

“Easy, Forever, easy,” Fit backs up as much as he can without making it too obvious he’s getting nervous. “Let’s just take a step back and think this through, alright?”

 

“What are you talking about? I am doing great,” Forever stresses the word, swaying side to side. There's a strange rhythm to his movements, almost like he's moving along to a song Fit can't hear. “There’s nothing wrong, things cannot go wrong… no, but..." he mumbles, his smile fading for a moment as he tries to regain his train of thought.

 

Fit seizes the opportunity to take a few more steps back and assess the situation.

 

Alright. The main threats here are the metric shit-ton of TNT and Forever, who's unpredictable enough that he might light it.

 

Actually—why the hell is there this much TNT here in the first place…?

 

It was lost in the initial adrenaline rush, but as he sweeps a wary gaze over the stacks of TNT, a revelation hits him like a hammer. He doesn’t remember this happening. The exact details of the first day are fuzzy in his mind, but he’s pretty damn certain Forever didn’t try to blow his base sky-high. A jolt of electricity zips through Fit as he realizes the implications of that, leading him to briefly lower his shield.

 

“...Hold on, have you noticed things repeating lately?”

 

“Huh? What are you talking about?” Forever laughs in response, smashing his hopes to pieces in the process. It’s hard to read his expression when it’s frozen in a constant grin, but the confusion in his voice sounds surprisingly sincere.

 

Something about this strikes Fit as very strange.

 

He would've remembered hearing an explosion of this size. And even if he didn't hear it himself, someone else would've surely brought it up. Forever's acting off-script from the original day, he’s sure of it.

 

But why doesn't he seem to be aware of it?

 

Maybe he’s lying about not knowing that things are looping, although Fit's gut is telling him that's not the case. The bafflement in his voice was too real to be rehearsed; either Forever's telling the truth, or he's a brilliant actor. Alternatively, he could have broken out of whatever's making the day repeat, and somehow… forgot everything afterwards. That theory falls apart as soon as he starts poking holes in it, but he's struggling to find any other reason why Forever would deviate from the usual day all of a sudden.

 

Fit didn’t even interact with him until now, so there’s no reason why…

 

…Oh.

 

Now that he thinks about it, there’s a far more mundane explanation.

 

He's not the only one who can change things. Cucurucho’s another entity that’s aware of the loops, and it’s entirely plausible that it could have talked to Forever today. Presidential business and whatnot—the details aren’t that important, considering that Forever all but confirmed that he knows nothing about the loops, but maybe it triggered something during a conversation that wasn’t triggered before.

 

The wind is pulled out of Fit’s sails almost immediately. Sure, there could be some sort of conspiracy going on, but he’s more inclined to trust Occam’s razor over his own baseless speculations.

 

Looking at Forever now, TNT still in hand and draped flag billowing in the breeze, Fit finds that he doesn’t have much more to say.

 

It feels shitty to see his friend in this kind of state, especially since there’s some part of him that’s clearly still there behind the chemical sheen of his smile. But it’s obvious that if Forever knows anything about the loops, he’s either too compromised or too good of a liar to share it with him.

 

“Do you remember what I told you yesterday?” Forever asks suddenly. His voice wavers almost imperceptibly as he speaks, throat bobbing as he swallows roughly. Fit has to take a moment to wrack his brain—it’s been about a month on his end—but he eventually nods.

 

“You told me you tried to stop Pac from taking the medicine.” And then you pointed a gun at me. “Yeah, I remember that.”

 

“I talked to him earlier today, and he’s so much more happier now!” His expression twists into an even brighter smile, but despite the straining of his cheeks, the shadows on his face shape it into more of a grimace. “Hopefully he’s gonna stop feeling so sad all the time, right? And Fit, you could be happy if I ask Cucurucho to help you too, you know!”

 

Forever's unwavering grin shatters a split second after he finishes his sentence. He pops a white pill into his mouth a moment later, but it's not fast enough to completely mask the furious grief that suddenly hollows out his eyes. The brief glitch sticks with Fit as he backs out of the base, waving off the offer of medication as politely as he can muster. It sticks with him like blood in his boots, distracting and unpleasant and almost impossible to get rid of.

 

…Maybe he’s been thinking about this the wrong way.

 

Fit’s been assuming all this time that him remembering the loops was an intended effect, but… what if that’s not the case? It’s possible that the inconsistent and disconnected clues aren’t the work of a mastermind trying to cover their tracks, but instead a series of mistakes executed by faulty code. A glitch in an otherwise perfect uniform world. It's with a cold wash of uneasiness that he realizes he could have been looping for ages before he gained awareness. Hell, who’s to say that he’s even been aware every day since the second loop? It’s not like he’d know if there were gaps in between each time he woke up; there’s no one who could possibly verify it besides Cucurucho, who's probably part of the reason why he's in this mess at all.

 

The lack of control makes his body feel tight and claustrophobic again. It scares him. It scares him a lot, far more than he’s expecting.

 

He carries that thought with him like a wound as he hastily taps the waystone to escape. The TNT in his peripheral vision is doing something to Fit’s brain; he can’t think straight around it. Every flash of red and white feels impossibly amplified and bright, pulling at his attention until it frays at the seams. In contrast, Ramón's elevator shaft is a breath of fresh air. It’s safe there, filled with reminders of his baby boy and hidden from the Federation’s ever-watching eyes—safe enough that his heart rate slows to something more manageable.

 

He shoots Tubbo a message telling him that he’s done, and then takes a moment to settle his nerves. As he waits, the smell of redstone and machine oil curls around him like a gentle ghost, warm and achingly familiar.

Notes:

before i say anything else: ENORMOUS shoutout to the lovely people (mitos, s1renidae, and seraph) who offered to betaread this chapter!!!! u guys are so amazing and helped make this chapter flow so much nicer <3 (special mention goes to s1renidae for helping me shave off almost 1k words of rambling tangents LMAO ur a hero....) also shoutout to tumblr user disfrutalakia for discussing forever lore w me! :D

things are starting to look up for fit - he's still kinda going thru it, but having tubbo around is helping him a lot more than he thinks! time loops are less scary when uve got a buddy system, nd tubbo in particular balances out fit rather nicely: tubbo has plenty of theories and a killer instinct for finding secrets (plus he keeps fit from getting too angsty on his own), while fit keeps tubbo focused and grounded. friend chip

speaking of time loops, a few more clues + theories have been placed on the table :3c i wanna know what ur theories are soooo bad (partially so i can get a gauge on how well im hinting at the true answer, partially out of sheer curiosity)! there's one secret in particular that ive been juggling and im so so curious to see if anyone's caught it yet since i've hinted at it a few times now, but i never know how obvious i actually am >:3c

ALSO THANK U FOR 400 KUDOS WHAT THE HELL im still in shock. im forever grateful for u guys, u make writing this fic even more of a blast <3333

please feel free to leave a comment on your thoughts, theories, what you liked, pretty much anything! i will wrap each comment up ever-so-lovingly and place a little bow on top. see you next saturday (but fr this time) - those fitpac tags should actually be coming into full swing soon! ;D

Chapter 5: i just can't stay away

Summary:

In which Fit is far more sincere than he'd prefer to be, Tubbo offers advice with varying degrees of quality, and Pac reacts in some very interesting ways.

Notes:

THE 1/4 STREAM MADE ME LOSE MY SHIT GUYS... FITPAC NATION WE KEEP FUCKING WINNING <333 IM SO SAD THAT I WONT BE AVAILABLE TO SEE THE TUESDAY DATE LIVE THO :(

getting back to the fic itself, i had such a blast reading ur theories from last chapter!! some of u got really close to figuring it out, nd even the ones that weren't right made me go "MAN i wish i had thought of that" :D this one goes out to all u guys who were theorizing abt pac's role in all this... i hope u enjoy this very pac-heavy chapter ;P

(TW for a brief mention of suicide: it's not described in much detail and it's presented in a mostly comedic way [plus it's not permanent bc of respawning mechanics], but if you want to avoid it, skip the part that starts with "After Fit rejects yet another theory that was disproven in an earlier loop..." and jump to the sentence "'Well, that’s it for me!' Tubbo claps his hands together, an unhinged cheerfulness in his voice." <3 the section's not important to the plot, so take care of yourself!)

By the time Tubbo drops down to meet him again, Fit has composed himself enough that he can share his findings and theories without stumbling over his words. Unfortunately, Tubbo doesn’t seem to have any more insights than he does. As the other man puts it, it’s pretty goddamn difficult to find evidence for something that’s known for being unpredictable and untestable.

 

“Let’s just shift towards Pac for now, okay?” Tubbo proposes instead, leaning against a nearby engine. “If Forever keeps acting weird or you see any more glitches, we’ll get back to that. But we should really focus on the actual scientist here. Right?”

 

An ugly ball of dread starts to fester in Fit’s chest as the other man speaks. It burns sharp and acidic. “...Right,” he mutters when it’s clear that Tubbo’s waiting for a response, but his hesitation doesn’t go unnoticed.

 

“Okay. What’s going on between you and Pac?” Tubbo asks bluntly. “Is something wrong?”

 

“No, no, nothing’s wrong,” he stalls, gaze firmly fixed on the wall before him. The subtle patterns in the deepslate are suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “I’m just… a little nervous about how this will go.”

 

“Why? What’s up?” A small frown pulls on Tubbo's lips. “Is it, like, super hard to get him to stop talking about the pills or something?”

 

“...Nah. I mean, we’ve managed to distract him before. Mentioning Walter Bob broke him out of it sometimes, even if it also made him pretty upset. City Skylines worked pretty consistently too. Pac said the game had the same effects as the pills anyways.”

 

“Based,” Tubbo mutters under his breath, but then he unfortunately refocuses. “So what’s the problem? Should be easier than talking with Forever, right?”

 

Fit sighs. “Yeah, probably, it’s just…”

 

There’s no good way to put it, but he selfishly wants to keep the Pac in his head as the Pac from before all this. As much as he hates to admit it, there’s a very real possibility that he’ll be stuck in this day forever. If he spends too much time around this drugged version of Pac, it’ll crowd out all the memories of the real him until nothing remains.

 

(Even now, he's starting to forget exactly how Pac's smiles look when they're not forced.)

 

“...it's just hard,” he finishes lamely. The word doesn't do the feeling justice, but it's the best he can muster.

 

“Wait, Pac’s still your friend, right?” There’s something apprehensive in Tubbo’s voice all of a sudden. “You didn’t, like, find out some sort of fucked up thing he did and start hating him, did you?”

 

“Yeah, no, we’re still friends. It’s just… he’s been like this for a month on my end. And…” Fit trails off, trying to find the right words. There’s a mass of nebulous emotions solidifying in the pit of his throat the longer he thinks about it, but it’s impossible to untangle enough to identify. Eventually, he settles on, “I dunno, it just feels really shitty to see him like that.”

 

Tubbo’s expression softens. “Yeah, I think I get that.” He gently nudges Fit’s boot with his shoe. “But that’s all the more reason to try and get out of here, right? I really do think we might get somewhere with this.”

 

Fit can’t speak all of a sudden. Not without that nebulous mass tearing through his throat and baring its guts to the world, which is a horrifying thought. So he just nods at Tubbo, and Tubbo enthusiastically nods back.

 

“Alright! So going off what you said, it sounds like we’ve got two options. Either we make him super upset so he can’t think about the pills, or we make him happy enough that he doesn’t need the pills—” Tubbo stops, clearly contemplating what just came out of his mouth. “...But we should probably stick to the second one. Not a great look if we’re making the poor man even more depressed.”

 

“Not cool, Tubbo,” Fit reprimands mockingly, more than happy to shift the conversation to safer territory. “Not cool. Mental health’s a very serious topic. Honestly, it's kinda fucked of you to even suggest that.” Placing a heavy arm on Tubbo’s shoulder, he pours every bit of sincerity he can into his next words. ”Seek help.”

 

Tubbo shoves Fit’s arm off of him with one hand, sniggering under his breath. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say. But listen, I really think I’m onto something! If he’s taking the drugs to feel happy, he’ll be more likely to stop if we give him something that replaces it, right?”

 

It makes sense. Kind of. But the more that Tubbo talks, the more Fit feels like they’re veering off-course from their original goal.

 

“I mean, I’m not gonna argue against cheering him up or getting him off the drugs, but how’s that relevant? Not to say that Pac’s happiness is unimportant, of course,” Fit amends, “but my main priority is getting out of here. You feel me?”

 

“True, but Cucurucho basically said the loops were related to the happy pills, right? So once he’s distracted, you can talk to him about his research or something! You said he was figuring out how they work, so he might have some info if he’s off them for long enough to think straight.”

 

“That’s not a solid plan, though. I need something a little more solid than ‘somehow make him happy enough to overcome an addiction’.”

 

Like a gunshot, Tubbo offers, “You could always try kissing him.”

 

“ What— no, that’s such a dumb idea,” Fit splutters. His traitorous face heats up at the comment. “You're a—man, you're a real comedian tonight, huh! Funny guy.”

 

Tubbo shrugs innocently, his face the very picture of angelic grace. “Listen, I’m just the idea man! I feel like it’s a pretty plausible way to get him too flustered to think about the pills, at the very least.”

 

“That’s—there’s got to be something else. Literally anything else.”

 

“Alright. Um. Other things that make Pac really happy that's not the drugs or you kissing him.” Tubbo pauses for a while, and then taps his lip thoughtfully. “You know, this is a long shot, but what about—”

 

--

 

"—Lovejoy?" Tubbo tries, watching Pac's reaction as they stand in the streets of the Favela. "Remember Lovejoy? I bet Wilbur would rather meet you when you're not... acting interestingly!"

 

There's a lengthy pause as Pac processes Tubbo's words. Against his better judgment, Fit's heart starts hammering in his throat.

 

Sure, he'd be kind of fucking pissed if this was all it took after spending all these loops talking with him and worrying about him. But he wants out of this hell more than he cares about what Pac's priorities apparently are. If mentioning Wilbur is what gets Pac to accept this reality and stop taking the pills for some reason? Great. He'll take it.

 

(Somewhere in his brain, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Tubbo chastises him for being jealous. He swats it away. This is a normal level of concern about your drugged Good Friend's parasocial relationships.)

 

After a moment that drags on far too long in Fit's opinion, Pac's eyes honest-to-god sparkle. His grin somehow grows even wider too, stretching the skin on his cheeks painfully taut. "Oh my god, Lovejoy! If Wilbur came right now it would be an even better day, you're so right Tubbo!" He hums “Call Me What You Like” under his breath and goes back to building, completely ignoring the second half of Tubbo's statement.

 

Tubbo shoots a tight-lipped smile at Pac’s back and mutters, "Can't say I didn't try. I guess we can knock that one off the list."

 

Despite the sinking feeling in Fit’s chest at yet another failure, it's chased by a wave of relief that he immediately tries not to think too hard about.

 

(The Tubbo voice in his head grows louder at this realization. He amuses himself by imagining it being crushed by increasingly large rocks.)

 

--

 

“So we're doing this to get you out of a time loop, right?” There’s a teasing note in Tubbo’s voice during the next loop that immediately sets off alarm bells. “Have you tried—”

 

Fit grits his teeth. "Before you say anything, I'm not gonna kiss Pac to try and break out of this time loop."

 

"Okay, but maybe—"

 

"This isn't the loop where I try it. End. Of. Story."

 

"Well—" Tubbo starts, before being immediately interrupted again.

 

"In fact, there are NO loops where I try that out! ‘Cause we’re Good Friends—" he stresses the words, ignoring the way Tubbo rolls his eyes, "—and nothing more. And it wouldn't work anyways, ‘cause this ain't some fuckin’ chick flick.” His eyes narrow. "Are we clear, Tubbo?"

 

There's a moment of petulant silence as Tubbo frowns at him and Fit glares back with a finely honed I'm-not-mad-I'm-just-disappointed face. Finally, Tubbo sullenly drops his gaze.

 

"I wasn't going to suggest that anyways. I was just spitballing some ideas."

 

"You've brought it up literally every loop I've told you about my predicament. Excuse me if I'm a bit testy."

 

--

 

“Alright, but being so for real right now,” Tubbo asks during another loop, “why not give it a shot? It sounds like we’ve tried just about everything else.”

 

Fit pauses from where he’s idly tightening a loose screw in his arm. He’s gotten very good at tuning out Tubbo’s suggestions by now, but he feels the need to defend himself after hearing the exasperation in his voice. “I’m not gonna manipulate Pac’s feelings like that just so I can get some info. That’s just not right.”

 

Tubbo squints at him, unimpressed. “...How exactly is it manipulating him if you’re just telling him how you feel?”

 

“It just is, Tubbo.” Fit works his jaw. His next words are said through gritted teeth. “And I don’t feel any particular way towards him, so I don’t know what you could possibly mean by that.”

 

“Well, now you’re just being stubborn,” Tubbo huffs as he slumps further into the elevator shaft wall. A few seconds later, he points an accusatory finger at him. “Hold on, aren't you technically manipulating me by using speedrun strats to get me to trust you? Why aren’t you having a moral crisis about that?”

 

“That’s different! And besides, you gave me that information, so you should be blaming yourself, not me!”

 

“No, no, I get it,” Tubbo says with a mournful sigh. “You hate me. You actually hate me.” He collapses the rest of the way to the ground, slumping to his side in a loose fetal position. “I guess I'll just die here and leave you to figure this out on your own.”

 

Fit nudges him with his foot, and when that causes Tubbo to loll even more dramatically, kicks him in the side. Tubbo makes a pained noise, muttering something about “kicking a man when he's down, how could you”.

 

“There’s a big difference between convincing someone to help and kissing them, dumbass.”

 

“Even now you don't deny that you hate me,” Tubbo mumbles into the floor dejectedly. “I see how it is. Calling me a dumbass and shit.”

 

“I don't hate you, you're just saying dumbass things. C'mon, man,” he tries after Tubbo stays lifeless on the ground, “look, I'm just trying to get out of here. I'll listen to your suggestions, just not… that one.”

 

“Fiiiiine, no kissing.” Tubbo finally hauls himself up to a sitting position, wiping the dirt off his pants. “But you should still tell him how you feel. As a friend, at least. Like—” he elaborates, “like spend some time hanging out with Pac! Make sure he knows you're there for him and you care and shit, and maybe he’ll listen to you if you tell him to stop. Seriously, when was the last time you had a normal conversation with him?”

 

Fit takes a moment to think about it. Saying that he cares about Pac out loud isn't all that different from all the times he’s complimented him in the past. He must know on some level that Fit thinks very highly of him by now, even if it's usually expressed in subtler ways, and it's not a strategy he’s tried yet, either. While he has hung out with Pac and nudged him towards stopping the pills, he’s never said the words outright.

 

Despite knowing this, however, his stomach won't stop tying itself up in boiling knots.

 

He’s spent so long avoiding any one-on-one interactions with Pac that it’s triggering all the wrong instincts. His brain keeps shifting into de-escalation mode instead of seeing it as a simple conversation, like he’s walking into a hostage situation where Pac’s both the victim and the person holding the gun. And he hates himself a little for it, because Tubbo has already caught onto his hesitation and the furrow of his brow suggests that the explanation he has concocted in his brain is not looking good.

 

He should probably tell Tubbo some abridged version of his hangups with this. The kid has seen him in worse states and didn't make a big deal out of it, and it’d be worth the momentary shame if it meant that Fit would stop looking like the shittiest friend ever.

 

What stumbles out of his mouth instead is, “So what, you think everything’s gonna be magically fixed if I tell him—”

 

--

 

“I care about you. You know that, right?”

 

Pac's breath hitches before he goes on another tangent about how everyone should be taking the pills, but Fit notices it's a bit more forced than before.

 

“I mean it,” he pushes, trying to fit every bit of raw sincerity he can into his lowered voice. The words feel clunky and awkward in his mouth; they border on being too real, and his brain keeps screaming at him to soften it with a joke. “You’re one of the people I care about most on the island.”

 

“Wow, uh… thank you, Fit!” Pac laughs. There’s something strange in the way that he examines Fit for a moment after thanking him. His smile seems genuine, if a little bit embarrassed, but there's something else lurking in his gaze—an emotion that’s close to confusion, but not quite right. “That’s… that’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

 

The conversation stalls. After a few more awkward minutes pass, Fit bites the bullet.

 

“Yknow, I really miss hanging out with you like we did before.”

 

Judging from the way that Pac’s hands shake a bit as he places down the next fence post, he’s getting close to dangerous territory. He’s not sure why, seeing as it’s not too different from anything he’s said in the past, but Pac’s acting weird right now, avoiding eye contact and fidgeting in place, and he’s not gonna learn anything if they both stay silent.

 

“Remember the cure? You originally started taking these pills because you wanted to learn how to stop them. This… this isn't you, Pac. I miss the you from before this happened. It hurts to see you like this.”

 

That gets Pac to stop working on his house and finally look at him, at least. He's still smiling, but it looks mechanical and tired.

 

“The cure is just going to make me miserable again.” There’s an odd certainty in his voice, tinged with something else that Fit can’t identify. It's not a tone that he remembers Pac ever using before. “I don’t want to live like that anymore, you know? This medicine is better for me! I am better now,” Pac adds, widening his smile as if to prove his point, “see, look at me, smiling again!”

 

Fit remembers the warm numbness from the IV liquid many loops ago, and imagines it seeping into every divot of his spine until it’s all he can feel anymore. It’s with a similar sense of certainty that he counters, “You're not doing better now, and I know that you know that—you're too smart for that, Pac.”

 

Pac's smile drops and he turns back to his building, placing the next blocks down a little too forcefully. Fit can hear him repeatedly muttering the word “calma” under his breath like a mantra.

 

Deescalate, his instincts whisper, keep your hands visible and your tone level.

 

“It can’t hurt to give the cure a shot, can it?“ He rests a careful hand on Pac’s arm, making sure his movements are slow and deliberate. The other man stares down at it with a complicated expression, but doesn’t push it away. “I’ll be with you the whole time. You’re not gonna be alone anymore, and while it might take some time, things will get better. I promise.”

 

Something splinters in Pac’s composure. He drops the blocks he’s holding and sighs miserably, dragging a hand down his face. Fit’s heart drops in unison.

 

“...I’m sorry, Fit, I can’t do this right now.”

 

In one smooth motion, he pours out two pills in his palm and knocks them back. The label winks at Fit as it flashes in and out of Pac's inventory, too quickly for him to do anything about it. All he can do is watch in dull horror as Pac stumbles back, a laugh already bubbling out of his mouth so violently that it caves his body inwards.

 

Fit takes a step back too. It’s not a conscious action: some part of his hindbrain takes over while the rest of him shuts down. By the time he’s aware of his surroundings again, he’s not at the Favela anymore.

 

It has been a while since the last time Fit stayed up long enough for the loop to forcibly knock him out.

 

It’s just as shitty as he remembers. 

 

He shovels sand all night until his arms give out, letting the monotonous task fill his brain with static. There’s no Tubbo to nag him into finding a better coping mechanism; he can indulge in the acidic burn of his muscles without interruption. He doesn’t even get to see the sunrise before his consciousness snuffs out like a candle, smoke curling into the wind as he collapses in the desert.

 

--

 

The next loop, he shoots down the idea as soon as it’s mentioned. Tubbo opens his mouth again, a familiar spark of mischief gleaming in his eyes, but something in Fit’s expression must convince him to drop it. Without even having to ask, his mouth clatters shut.

 

A loud part of Fit craves the idea of going back to that empty void, whether it's through exercise or sleep. Of shoving the thoughts out of his brain before they can hurt him again. The conversation last night felt almost tailor-made to feed into his insecurities; while Pac didn’t explicitly reject him, Fit saying that he cared for him was the first domino that led him to take the pills again. The more he thinks about it, the harder it is to stop spiraling.

 

However, the painful twisting in his chest is mostly drowned out by a deep, burrowing confusion.

 

Why did mentioning the cure tip Pac over the edge?

 

The only other thing he said was that he’d be there for Pac, and no matter how pessimistic his mangled brain has gotten at this point, it couldn’t have been enough to cause that big of a reaction. Hell, he even said that he cared for Pac earlier and the man seemed flattered. Not upset enough to medicate himself into oblivion.

 

It must’ve been something about the cure, but then… why did he respond in such an odd way…?

 

…Focus, he reminds himself. He’s not here to solve every mystery. There’s a reason why Cellbit’s the guy who everyone goes to for enigmas, and Fit’s an underpaid janitor. He just has to figure out what’s wrong, get out, and then unpack this whole mess to someone better equipped to deal with this.

 

He’s not Cellbit, no matter how many mysteries he runs into. If he keeps chasing down every thread that doesn’t make sense, he’ll go insane long before he gets any answers.

 

--

 

Turns out, he doesn’t need Cellbit’s job to go insane. In fact, it only takes a few more unsuccessful loops before he’s starting to feel like he's actually losing it.

 

There's a restlessness thrumming beneath his skin and it's pulsing like a second heartbeat, rushing faster every moment he’s standing still. The energy's clearly leaking into his conversations too, because Tubbo won't stop pacing around as Fit explains what they've tried before. After Fit rejects yet another theory that was disproven in an earlier loop, Tubbo flails an arm out that nearly hits him in the chest.

 

"Maybe it's all just a bad dream?" he suggests desperately. "Have you tried jumping off a cliff or something?"

 

Fit jerks his head to stare at him so fast it almost gives him whiplash. On second thought, maybe he's not the only one being driven insane by the looping.

 

"Whoa, Tubbo. Jesus christ, man. Take it easy."

 

"I'm not telling you to kill yourself—or I guess I am, but that's not the point! There's some scientific thing that says that you usually wake up before you hit the ground, I think. I don’t fucking know, I’m grasping at straws here!”

 

“That's the dumbest fucking thing I've ever heard,” Fit scoffs.

 

Half an hour later, he's staring down a cliff face as the sun sets behind him.

 

This is so fucking stupid, he thinks to himself. But Tubbo’s right: they're grasping at straws. If they had already passed the point of using Lovejoy of all things, he might as well give this a shot.

 

He jumps. Wind rushes in his ears as he falls, followed by a sharp pain as he smashes into the ground. And then he respawns next to Tubbo feeling like nothing has changed.

 

“Well, that’s it for me!” Tubbo claps his hands together, an unhinged cheerfulness in his voice. “I’m out of ideas, that's future Tubbo's problem to deal with! Good luck to that fucker!”

 

Fit’s already pulling out a warpstone before Tubbo can finish his sentence. Over his shoulder, he calls, “I’m gonna take a walk. See you next loop, I guess.” He scrolls blindly and clicks a location without looking at it. The details don't matter, he just needs to be somewhere that’s not Tubbo’s base or the elevator shaft for a few hours.

 

Because the universe hates him, he materializes in the Favela.

 

After swearing profusely under his breath, he decides he'll just go with it. It's not like his day can get any worse at this point, right? Besides, he’s never wandered around the place this late in the evening. The warm night air is soothing when paired with the rolling waves and the distant smells of sea salt and roses, and a few of the houses are unfamiliar in an unexpectedly lovely way. It's almost certainly because he forgot how Pac’s buildings looked around this time of night, but the novelty is a rare treat that he doesn’t get to experience often anymore. The streets are blessedly empty, too—the only sounds come from Fit’s crunching footsteps and the sea beside him.

 

Halfway through his walk, however, he notices a familiar figure in a white hoodie sitting on the beach.

 

Fit stops in place, eyes flitting over the other man's crouched body. He’s been avoiding Pac ever since the last disastrous talk they had, and he’s not sure if he wants to break that streak yet. There's too many complicated emotions and unresolved issues on Fit's end, none of which Pac will have the context for.

 

Before he can make a decision on whether to approach him, however, Pac spots him first. His expression brightens up and he waves Fit over with a sunny smile. As Fit heads closer, he catches the flash of a white bottle disappearing into Pac's inventory, although the movement is almost quick enough that he can pretend he didn't see it.

 

It's like the potato gun moment with Tubbo all over again—if he squints until the details grow fuzzy, he can imagine a universe where Pac is just in a really good mood. Even if it probably isn't the healthiest mindset, the warm sunset light gentles Pac's smile just enough that the fantasy's easy to sink into.

 

“Hi, Fit! So good to see you! I am just taking a break from working on the Favela right now!” He laughs; the sound is bright and beautiful, even if it's tinged with something a little too chemical. “Man, it feels like I’ve been working on this forever.”

 

“I feel ya,” Fit drawls, joining him in the sand. “There’s always too much work to be done and not enough time to do it, right?”

 

They spend a long time talking on the beach after that, never lingering on anything that breaks the fragile illusion of normalcy. For whatever reason, Pac doesn't seem interested in convincing him to take the pills right now. He's just watching Fit with a soft expression, drinking in everything he says. Fit’s not sure how to interpret it, so he doesn't even try; he just lets it happen.

 

It's… nice. It's really fucking nice, actually.

 

Honestly, it's scary how easy it is to relax around this more familiar version of his friend. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing for either of them, seeing as it's a fragile peace upheld by their tacit agreement to not talk about the pills, but as the golden sky bleeds into the horizon, he can’t bring himself to stop feeding into it.

 

At some point, though, the reverie is inevitably broken. Pac starts fidgeting again. Starts pulling at the strings of his hoodie, gaze darting around the shadows in the Favela. He’s clearly trying to stay focused as he swivels his head back to look at Fit, but it’s a losing battle: his breathing grows noticeably faster with every rustle or sudden movement.

 

That's when Fit slips up.

 

Perhaps it's the relaxed mood lingering from before, or the way that they've naturally drifted closer over the course of the conversation. Or maybe it’s the way that Pac imperceptibly leans into Fit as he flinches away from whatever's lurking in the distance, close enough that the fabric of his hoodie brushes Fit’s elbow.

 

Regardless of why it happens, Fit pulls Pac into a clumsy one-armed hug.

 

His embrace is loose at first, deliberately easy to break away from, and it only grows looser as Pac stays frozen. His ears burn with shame at the silent rejection and his arm drops in response. All of a sudden, he's struck by how profoundly stupid it was to hug the other man without asking.

 

As he retreats, however, Pac seems to shake himself out of whatever stupor he's in.

 

One moment, Fit’s lowering his arm; the next, there’s a tight pressure around his torso as Pac wraps his arms around him. It’s a hug, but not the gentle kind most would associate with the word. Rather, it’s the kind of clawing embrace you give a lifebuoy when you’re afraid of drowning. The angle’s awkward and uncomfortable, but there’s a desperation in the way he clings to Fit that keeps Fit from doing anything to fix it.

 

He's very aware that he’s not a good hugger. He never had a reason to be one before this island, and it's not like he's had much practice since. But he squeezes Pac back tightly and tries to soften his body into something more comfortable, and hopes that’s good enough.

 

“...I really hope you’ll snap out of it soon,” Fit says quietly in his ear. It’s so easy to be vulnerable around Pac in this state that it terrifies him, but he thinks that if he doesn’t say it now, it’ll never stop gnawing at the edges of his throat. “I miss you. This you.”

 

His next sigh is shaky. “There isn't much I wouldn't do to help you, y'know? All you have to do is ask.”

 

Pac doesn’t say anything in return, but his grip around Fit’s waist grows impossibly tighter.

 

They sit there for a long time. Long enough that the sun dips fully below the horizon and Fit’s muscles start to ache, but he’s afraid of what might happen if he lets go too early.

 

It’s Pac who eventually ends the hug, wrapping his arms around himself loosely. “Thank you, Fit,” he mumbles, and Fit has to restrain himself from replying with “anytime”.

 

Instead, he exhales lightly and says, “You’re welcome, Pac. Take care of yourself, alright? Don’t be a stranger.”

 

The irony of that statement isn’t lost on him, but it feels like the right thing to say. Judging by Pac’s tenuous smile as he wishes him a good night, he didn’t mess things up too badly between them. Sure, Pac doesn't really move from his spot after they part ways, but Fit figures that he might just need a few more moments to himself.

 

When he sneaks a glance behind him on his walk back to the waystone, however, Pac's still frozen in the same position he left him in.

 

At first his heart starts racing with adrenaline again, and Fit takes an unconscious step forward to check on him. But then he looks a little closer. Even from here, he can see the red flush that’s spreading on Pac's cheeks and crawling down his neck. The blush only grows brighter when they make eye contact again, and Fit hastily turns away a split second later.

 

Shit.

 

There's a sinking feeling in his chest as he keeps surreptitiously looking behind him. Pac isn't reaching for the pills, despite showing clear signs that he was going to earlier, and that's because of a hug. A hug that Fit gave him, a hug that made him freeze up and blush and he's still not moving.

 

Tubbo's words echo through his brain like some sort of horrible mirage.

 

“You could always try kissing him… I feel like it’s a pretty plausible way to get him too flustered to think about the pills, at the very least.”

 

It's an infuriating vision, but that doesn’t stop the theory from being uncomfortably feasible all of a sudden. The feeling of dread only grows as he gets further and further away from Pac’s frozen body, far enough that he’s just a silhouette in the lamplight.

 

Shit.

 

Shitshitshit.

 

There's a million different reasons why he should be panicking about this, but at this moment, one thought stands at the forefront of his mind.

 

Tubbo's gonna be fucking unbearable when he finds out that his stupid plan might actually work.

Notes:

my dealer: got some straight gas🔥😛 this strain is called "right back where we started from" 😳 you'll be zonked out of your gourd💯
me: yeah whatever. i don't feel shit
5 min later: dude i swear it's fucking day 174 again
my buddy, tubbo, pacing: have you tried kissing pac to fix it ? i really think we should revisit that idea

(yet another enormous thank u to s1renidae + mito for looking over this <3 u guys are legends)

this chapter was super fun to write! its a little sillier than the previous chapters, but i feel like thats right for a server like the qsmp - yes there's the Horrors, but the cubitos also cant resist shenanigans when theyre hanging out together. we're also finally getting closer to fit actually doing something about his feelings... or are we? :3c i guess we'll have to wait and see! (no but fr all those fitpac tags are on the VERY near horizon thank u for braving it out with me <3)

also finally invoked that summary ;P it's taken so long and there's been so much angst to wade through for such a silly bit LMAO would u believe me if i said this was originally gonna have minimal angst. would u believe me if this fic was originally meant to be 10k words max. this has grown so much more than i was expecting but im enjoying the ride

please feel free to leave a comment on your thoughts, theories, what you liked, pretty much anything! i will do a little dance or perhaps even a jig for every single one of them. see you ummmm whenever i end up seeing you <3 <3 <3 I SWEAR IM ACTIVELY WORKING ON THIS FIC LMFAO SCHOOL'S JUST BEEN A LIL MUCH RECENTLY

EDIT: in accordance with bisan's request for a global strike, i wont be updating this fic this week. instead, please direct your attention to supporting palestinians <3
https://www.instagram.com/wizard_bisan1/p/C2MX_xLsJ1m/?img_index=5
https://gazaesims.com/

Chapter 6: put that smile back on your face

Summary:

In which Fit acts on an impulse, Tubbo gets some blackmail, and Pac has a confession to make.

Notes:

HAHAHAHHAA HI GUYS........... SORRY THAT THE HIATUS ENDED UP BEING 4 MONTHS LONG ":) WE'RE SO BACK THOUGH!!!!!! (+ i officially graduated on wednesday, so that's huge!!!!) thank you guys for being patient with me lol i appreciate it a lot <3

as an apology, this one's a beefy one! :] special shoutouts to mito + jae + shlook + sol for prodding me into finishing this, love yall <333

(also peep the chapter count - we're getting very close to the end :3c)

hope you enjoy!!!

Kissing isn't that big of a deal, Fit reasons desperately to himself as he paces tight circles in his cramped bedroom.

 

Honestly, they’re barely even circles. Just big enough to release the jitters building in his joints: four steps forward, a sharp turn, then four steps back. It’s repetitive and mindless, two things he never thought he’d crave again… that is, until Pac glanced over with that vulnerable look in his dark eyes, his hoodie still rumpled from their earlier hug, and—

 

—no. Those thoughts are dangerous. All he has to do is focus on the objective facts, and everything else will fall into place. No troublesome feelings or—or weird emotional breakthroughs, just… facts.

 

Fact one: Kissing isn’t that big of a deal.

 

Friends kiss each other all the time. Some must, at least! And it's just lips against lips—it doesn't even have to be a good kiss! Just enough to throw Pac off his rhythm. Just enough to prove once and for all that Tubbo's wrong, and on the off chance that it does work… well! Fit will have to exile himself out of embarrassment, but at least he’ll finally have escaped this day! That’s worth something!

 

Against his will, the memory of Pac's flushed face zips through him like a bullet. Try as he’d like, he can’t stop himself from imagining that blush in a softer, more intimate setting; can’t help but wonder how that expression might have shifted if Fit was a little braver. Would Pac glance over at him with that gentle look that Fit sometimes catches in his peripheral vision? Would his eyes crinkle, head tilting to the side and a soft smile settling on his lips?

 

…If he leaned in, risking it all for a kiss, would Pac do the same?

 

The thought is almost too much to bear. He narrowly misses his next turn and promptly walks into the wall. Stumbling back and rubbing his throbbing head, he presses hard enough to hopefully smother the embarrassment that’s clawing at his throat.

 

It’s fine! It’s fine. He just got ahead of himself. Got a little flustered, a little hot under the collar. It's easy to fix. If he focuses on the real facts instead of some silly daydream that Tubbo drilled into his head, then everything will be fine.

 

Fact one: The last time he saw Cucurucho, it implied the happy pills had something to do with the looping.

 

This one’s easy. Sure, he might not recall exactly what Tubbo said, but Cucurucho’s frustration is immortalized in his memory. There’s some sort of connection between the looping and the pills, and Cucurucho wasn’t happy when Tubbo unearthed it. Therefore, Fit’s best bet is investigating the pills and going from there. Simple as that.

 

Fact two: Pac’s objectively the best person to talk to about anything related to the pills. Unfortunately, any useful question has a chance of making him relapse again.

 

Once again, it makes intuitive sense to turn to Pac for answers. He’s a brilliant scientist who can do anything he puts his mind to, and he was studying the pills before all this happened. Assuming that his mind isn’t completely gone—which seems like a safe bet after yesterday—he probably has the answers Fit’s looking for. Fit just has to figure out how to extract them without triggering a nervous breakdown.

 

Fact three: When Pac was panicking last night, a hug from Fit helped him snap out of it.

 

…This is where things start falling apart. Where his stomach starts curdling, something fluttering and frantic struggling deep in the pit of his guts.

 

He’s not stupid. As much as he’d like to pretend he has no idea why that worked, Pac’s blushing face has been playing on repeat in his head ever since he left the Favela an hour ago. The other man is fond of him for some reason, and it's probably not in an entirely platonic way, either—which is nauseatingly thrilling and not at all what Fit needs right now.

 

See, Fit is built for survival. Made to be regarded as a friend or an ally at best—not whatever this implies. Sure, him and Pac have shared moments of sincerity and quiet affection before, some of which danced on the boundary between friendship and something deeper, but this? This is different. The ghost of Pac’s body is still warm against his side, terrifyingly tangible in a way that lingers. Fit presses his fingers into his torso in an attempt to chase that warmth, and immediately feels like an idiot for doing so.

 

Fact four, a quiet, foreign voice in his brain hisses, if you keep lingering on these attachments instead of thinking things through, you can kiss any chance of escaping goodbye.

 

…Right. There isn’t much time left in this loop. Even without looking at the clock, he can already feel that unnatural dizziness creeping in; if he wants to plan for tomorrow, he needs to do it now. His gaze flits across his room for inspiration, briefly lingering on the doors as he eyes the exit. Then it finally settles on the empty space where a chest filled with obsidian used to be.

 

… Now, that’s not a terrible idea.

 

It's been long enough that Cucurucho might have forgotten about his indiscretions. Fit would prefer to keep his janitor job when all is said and done. And it’s not like it's completely unrelated to the loops, either: his entire plan is based on the first fact being true. If the pills aren’t relevant, then every other part becomes background noise.

 

…Maybe it’s time to pay his boss a visit and make amends for his earlier actions. Grovel a bit if necessary, playing the part of a frightened resident who was driven to desperation. And if he happens to slip in a few leading questions of his own… that’s easily explained away, isn’t it? He's just a loyal employee who's eager to solve this problem before it gets any worse—nothing more, nothing less. Sure, Tubbo won’t be there to talk for him this time, but he thinks he’s got the gist of it. Keep asking questions, and eventually something will crack.

 

His eyes catch on the doors again. There’s a steady comfort in having an escape route constantly within his field of vision. Even though his warpstone would get him out of here much faster and further, he likes knowing that he’s got a backup plan. One that’s not limited by recharging times, no matter how many times he uses it to escape.

 

Hm. Fit pauses. Recharging times.

 

On second thought, maybe there’s something that Tubbo can help with.

--

 

 

“So, like…” the man in question mutters during the next loop, his brow furrowed. Despite Fit’s shitty instructions, cogs are clearly turning behind his eyes. It’s simultaneously reassuring and so reminiscent of Ramón that it makes Fit’s heart ache. “You want an easy way to get out of there. Like… a stasis chamber, or something?”

 

Shaking off the way Tubbo’s goggles match the brassy glint of scales, Fit nods. “Yeah, actually, a stasis chamber would be great. That is, assuming it’ll still function when I’m down in the Federation catacombs. And you’re not tagging along for that,” he adds quickly, intercepting Tubbo before he can make his usual request for the 100th time. “I swear to god, that bear's gonna murk me if there’s any funny business. I need you back here, helping me to get the hell out of dodge if things go south.”

 

“That’s… ugh. That’s fair, I guess,” Tubbo sighs, seemingly mollified by Fit’s implied trust in him. “I can be your fucking… I dunno, your guy in the chair or whatever. Wouldn’t a warpstone work just as well, though?”

 

(The pounding of feet on cold tile. Hands tingling with adrenaline as they curl around a gemstone that won’t activate fast enough — a chainsaw roaring behind him, loud and ravenous.)

 

“No,” he replies firmly. “I need something more reliable than that.”

 

“Alright, I guess. Suit yourself. The stasis chamber should work no matter what, by the way; it’s not redstone. Just bullshit server magic.” Tubbo shuffles through his inventory, materials flashing rapidly in his hand, and then starts building an ugly-ass tower right in the middle of the elevator shaft. As an afterthought, he adds, “If I’m gonna be honest, I’m surprised you want to go back there! You did not sound hyped when describing it earlier.”

 

“I mean, want is a strong word,” Fit mutters, his voice barely louder than the obnoxious sound of Tubbo placing down stone. “I don’t want to go back there, but I gotta know if it’s worth grilling Pac at all. If the pills are completely unrelated, then… there’s no point in stressing him out with all that, I guess.”

 

(That part is mostly true. It doesn’t make sense to interrogate him if there’s nothing useful to gain, and Pac’s theoretically only useful if the loops relate to the pills. The fact that it delays the stupid fucking kiss strategy is just an added bonus.)

 

"Yikes.” There's a sympathetic gleam in Tubbo's eyes as he glances down at Fit, even as he sucks a very unsympathetic breath through his teeth. "That's rough, dude. Good luck getting through to him in this state. That’s gonna suuuck.”

 

Not for the first time, Fit reflects on how everything’s made so much worse by the fact that they’re in the fucking elevator shaft again. As much as he logically knows that he can't risk Cucurucho overhearing them, it doesn't make this added bit of repetition any easier to swallow.

 

"Trust me, Tubbo. I know."

 

"Right, right.” And there’s that gleam again; that twist of Tubbo’s mouth when he thinks he’s about to say something fucking hilarious. ”Speaking of persuasive tactics, though, are we sure you're not gonna try kissing him? Like, 100% positive?"

 

…And like clockwork, Fit is forced to endure the most wretched repetition of them all. Except it's a million times worse now, because he doesn't even have anything to refute it with anymore.

 

“I mean… it's not a terrible distraction,” he begrudgingly admits. Gaze fixed firmly on the deepslate wall, voice level and calm. If he doesn’t engage, then maybe Tubbo won’t latch onto it either.

 

“Wait, are you for real? No joke. You’re actually kissing him?”

 

Fit lets out a long-suffering sigh in the hopes that it will shut down the conversation. No such luck. Instead, Tubbo whips around to stare at him, eyes sparkling like Christmas came early. "Holy shit. You're not immediately denying it. Please tell me you're giving this a shot, please. It'd be so fucking funny if that was what fixed everything."

 

"I'm not—fuck, I'm not promising anything! But I'll put it this way: at this point, I'll do whatever it takes." Another long, dragged-out sigh. "Even if it means kissin' Pac."

 

"Holy shit, that's crazy. That's crazy! You're telling me that Fit MC of 2b2t is gonna break out of this with the power of gay sex?!" Tubbo lets out a hysterical laugh, only for it to peter out to a drawn-out groan as the reality of that statement dawns on him. Burying his face in his hands, he mumbles, "That's actually crazy. If this works and I gotta look you in the eyes tomorrow knowing that you shagged your way out of a time loop, I'll fucking lose it."

 

"I'm not gonna do any of that with Pac!” Fit shouts, resolutely ignoring the burning of his cheeks. “And it's not happening today, anyways—I'm just—I'm just preparing stuff. Getting shit ready!"

 

If he's… kissing Pac, or whatever, there's no way he's gonna give Tubbo the satisfaction of knowing he inspired it. Fit was already leaning towards waiting for a fresh loop, but now that he's got a legitimate reason to put it off, it’s a no-brainer.

 

From where he's slumped on top of his half-finished stasis chamber, face still pressed firmly into his hands, Tubbo hums doubtfully. "...Okay, man. Whatever you say. Not sure how you're gonna get shit ready if you're stuck in a literal time loop, but alright.” Then his head suddenly snaps up, a shit-eating grin slowly spreading across his lips. “Wait, wait, wait. Let’s actually examine this. What’s the game plan? Are you gonna give yourself a pep talk in the mirror? Practice kissing a pillow? What’s the plan? What’s—what’s the plan, huh?”

 

Fit goes to answer him, to pull something, anything, out of his ass, but Tubbo’s faster. In a mocking falsetto, he simpers, “Oh, Pac… I've got a time loop, and I can only escape if you kiss it better…!“

 

At this, Fit looks up in the futile hope that infinite patience can be found in the mechanical web above him. It doesn't work. In the background, Tubbo's spluttering out sorries, although they’re made extremely insincere by how he's scream-laughing so hard he's practically folded in half.

 

"Preparing stuff—" Fit finally says through gritted teeth, "like meetin’ with my boss and learning if the pills are connected to the loops in the first place. And hopefully pulling an excuse out of my ass before Cucurucho kills me for all the shit I've pulled recently."

 

“Right, right.” Tubbo quiets down at the reminder of Fit’s situation, although his expression is still stuck in a state of shocked glee. Considering the goldmine of blackmail material Fit just handed him, that’s probably the best he can get. “And that’s where the stasis chamber comes in! I get you. Lucky for you, I can whip up one of those bad boys easily! Gimme a sec and I’ll have this done for you, king.”

 

True to his word, Tubbo finishes up the stasis chamber only a few minutes later, gesturing for Fit to join him at the top. A weird tingling sensation shoots through Fit as the enderpearl leaves his hand—almost like a part of his soul has peeled off with it, leaving the edges raw and windbitten. Phantom ripples shiver around him. The feeling of being submerged lingers long after he steps out into the fresh afternoon air.

 

…This is why he tends to avoid this kind of magic as much as possible. It’s never really agreed with him; at least not the natural kind that’s devoid of any player influence. It’s an uncomfortable reminder that he’s a slave to this world’s code, not the one manipulating it. His hacks don’t work on this server. Never have, and probably never will.

 

That unease clings to him like a film as he makes his way over to the janitor’s closet, and then rises to a fever pitch as he enters the main area. He can already see Cucurucho’s gleaming white fur. It’s not directly facing Fit, its attention seemingly fixed on some sort of device, but it could glance over at any moment. Danger.

 

On instinct, Fit presses himself against a nearby wall and uncorks an invisibility potion. Then he pauses as the cool glass brushes against his lips. If he gets caught while invisible, then his whole strategy of claiming innocence shatters immediately. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. But Cucurucho’s already walking away, the soft padding of its footsteps getting fainter as Fit’s heartbeat fills his ears, and he won’t get another chance like this if he interrupts it. Fuck.

 

No time to deliberate. He slams the potion down his throat, his limbs fading before him, and tucks the empty bottle away as quietly as possible. Then he follows Cucurucho down the familiar twisting hallways. As the bear makes its final turn and stops by a door, Fit’s gaze catches on one of the many monitors shining through the half-shuttered window. 

 

…You’ve gotta be shitting me.

 

It’s that same monitor room that has haunted him for over a month now. He can't help but see it as a dark omen: if this is anything like the last time Fit went in there, then he’s toast. The thought burns bitter in his throat. Unconsciously, his hand tightens around his communicator, Tubbo’s name already prewritten in the text box.

 

He doesn't send anything, though. Like it or not, there’s no turning back now. Cucurucho opens the door after typing one final thing in its device, and Fit slips in behind it, quiet as a ghost. It immediately beelines towards someone who’s completely shrouded in the hazy shadows of the room. Fit can’t clearly see their figure or read their body language, so he shifts his gaze to Cucurucho instead: its posture is ramrod straight, standing at attention. Whoever this new person is, they must hold some level of importance.

 

When the unknown figure finally speaks up, their voice has the characteristic buzz of cold machinery below it.

 

“...What is your progress? Have you found a permanent solution yet?”

 

Fit strains his ears as the silence stretches on, doing his best to filter out the ambient hum of the monitors. He can hear a faint scratching sound, followed by a quiet thunk and the whisper of pages being turned.

 

Judging from the voice, it’s probably Federation? Or at least it’s not an islander. It’s frustrating how little info Fit can gather at this distance, but it’s not worth the risk of getting caught—

 

"Hm. And the dosage? Is it still stable?"

 

A pause. "YES."

 

“Ha ha ha. This situation may be inconvenient, but at least it's useful for something.” Another shuffle of papers, but louder this time. ”Keep an eye on that. We can’t risk any more incidents impeding our work. We’ve already seen how that goes.”

 

Fit's eyes narrow as they talk. Something about their voice is… surprisingly smooth. Less like a series of recorded voice lines, and more like someone talking through a voice changer. Or maybe it is a voice line and this one happens to be a more advanced model; without any visual confirmation, he can’t be sure. The only thing he can confirm is that this isn’t a low-rank worker. He creeps forward during a lull in their conversation, hoping to catch a better glimpse of their face, only to abort the motion as soon as he hears the raspy whisper of fabric. He can feel his pant leg catching on one of the monitors.

 

Fuck.

 

With no other good option in sight, he freezes. As if on cue, Cucurucho's head swivels around eerily fast to look in his direction… and yeah, that’s enough eavesdropping for today! He’s good, actually! Moving at a snail's pace, Fit unhooks the invisible fabric from the machine. Then he creeps to the back of the room, cracking the door open when both of them seem suitably distracted. Against all odds, he actually manages to duck back into the hallway unseen—or at least he assumes so, since no one's yelled at him yet.

 

He speeds up as soon as he’s out of earshot, holding his breath as if it’ll make his footsteps lighter. Then he sprints the rest of the way to the main area and leaps onto the plate that’ll take him to the broom closet. 

 

As soon as he materializes in the cramped room, he waits. Lets half an hour tick by, processing what he just heard as his body slowly loses its transparency. When he feels like it's been long enough, he chugs some milk to get rid of the particles and steps on the plate again, shaking the tension out of his shoulders. If he maintains a natural expression, then maybe his boss won't suspect him.

 

As if summoned by his thoughts, he sees the bear entering the main area. Now's as good of a time as any. A split second before Cucurucho spots him, Fit plasters an easygoing smile onto his face.

 

“Hey, boss. We need to talk—”

 

Before he can finish his sentence, however, Cucurucho pulls out a gun and shoots a hole through his fucking skull.

 

Everything is agony for a heartbeat, searing fire ripping through every nerve in Fit’s body, and then he respawns in his bed a few seconds later. He’s half-expecting to feel that heavy veil of depression again… but no, he's just fucking pissed and shaking with adrenaline. Death loop be damned, he needs to know what the hell is going on. Tearing his way through spawn, he slams his ID on the Federation scanner as soon as he makes it to the closet, and soon finds himself face-to-face with Cucurucho again. 

 

“Listen to me—”

 

“YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE.”

 

“—I just came here to clear things up! That’s all!” Fit raises his hands in surrender, but Cucurucho’s gun doesn’t lower. “Stop—stop pointing that fuckin’ thing at me! I’m just here to talk!”

 

“YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE,” it repeats icily.

 

Fit takes an unconscious step back, and nearly stumbles over his own goddamn corpse. Even this little movement causes its claw to twitch on the trigger.

 

“I mean, this is technically one of the Federation rooms I’m allowed in—” he starts, but then his eyes catch on the gleaming barrel of the gun, “...not that it matters, of course.” His voice goes velvety as he injects every ounce of remorse he can into his words. ”What matters is this: I apologize for my earlier behavior. I was desperate. Not thinking straight.”

 

Cucurucho doesn’t say anything, but its gun dips slightly. Fit takes this as encouragement to keep going. “I got… well, I got a little nervous when things kept repeating. Nervous enough that I felt like I needed to take matters into my own hands, if you catch my drift.” The gun neatly realigns itself at his temple, and Fit quickly adds on, “It was a mistake! I'll readily admit that. But you gotta understand, it's been a couple months on my end.” He lets some vulnerability seep into his voice. It tastes sour on his tongue, but hopefully that extra authenticity will stop him from getting shot again. “...S’kinda scary, not knowing why things keep repeating. I just wanna know what’s goin’ on.”

 

The bear regards him, its coal-black eyes sweeping across his face. Then it lowers the gun completely and tucks it away into its inventory. “OKAY.”

 

“Okay, like… you’ll tell me what’s going on?” Fit chances. He already knows the answer, but he can pretend for a moment like things will be wrapped up in a neat little bow.

 

“NO.”

 

“Well, alright then. Uh… is there anything I can do to help? I’m more than happy to assist with pretty much anything, honestly.”

 

Cucurucho shakes its head. It writes in a book for a few tense minutes, and then hands it over. ‘We are aware of the issue and are working to get it under control. Please do not investigate any further.’

 

Fit stares at the words until they turn into meaningless scribbles. Rolls them around in his head, lingering on every phrase. The wording doesn’t escape him: it’s an “issue”, not a feature. Clearly, whatever’s going on has gotten out of control… that is, if they had any control in the first place.

 

As he digests this, Cucurucho turns to leave, and a sudden jolt of panic shoots through Fit; it can’t leave, not now. He hasn't even asked his original question yet. He needs to say something, anything, as long as it keeps Cucurucho talking.

 

“One more thing.” Fit’s voice rings through the white room, reedy and desperate in a way he immediately hates. Cucurucho turns back to him and inclines its head slightly.

 

“WHAT.”

 

He should ask about the connection to the pills. That's not what comes out of his mouth, however.

 

“Why’d you let me remember? Was I… fuck, was I supposed to do something?”

 

Slowly, his white-knuckled grip on his composure is loosening. Fit can feel his words burning in his throat and twisting into something poisonous, but the dam has already broken; it’s impossible to hold back at this point. “I don’t—I don’t care if it ruins whatever fucked up experiment you’ve got goin’ on. You keep saying our happiness is your priority, that we should enjoy the island, but—but I’ve been miserable for months now! What more do you fucking want from me?”

 

Cucurucho regards him for a long moment, its blank stare boring a hole between his eyes. His forehead itches with the phantom sensation of a bullet as blood soaks through his boots. Finally, the bear lowers its gaze to write in a book. Fit lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

 

‘It was not our intention for you to be aware. You were resistant to our attempts at fixing that issue. We apologize for any distress it may have caused you. It will be resolved by the end of tonight.’

 

…Fit should probably feel some sort of grim satisfaction right now. His intact memories were a fluke, just like he theorized earlier. There’s no conspiracy against him. No flickering monitors while he scurries around as the Federation’s labrat. But as he shifts his attention to Cucurucho’s careful wording, an all-too-familiar dread slowly sinks its teeth into his skull.

 

‘Resolved’.

 

“...What do you mean, it’ll be ‘resolved’. What exactly are you fixing?” A pause; a desperate prayer that he's overthinking this. “The loops, or… or my memories?”

 

Cucurucho’s grin doesn’t shift. All of a sudden, Fit desperately wants to rip it off and expose whatever mechanical viscera lies beneath it. “What the fuck are you fixing!?” he repeats, his voice rising as bile gathers in the back of his throat.

 

“I HOPE YOU ENJOY THE ISLAND.”

 

With that, Cucurucho disappears, leaving nothing behind but the notebook that’s still clutched in Fit’s white-knuckled hand.

 

“MOTHERFUCKER!!” Fit screams, punching the pristine wall beside him and earning nothing but bloodied knuckles for his troubles. Then he takes a deep, steadying breath. Drags his hand down his face as he composes himself, and pulls out his communicator.

 

You whisper to Tubbo: Change of plans
You whisper to Tubbo: Gonna talk to Pac tonight
Tubbo whispers to you: LMFAOOO
Tubbo whispers to you: if he says somehting weird kiss him with tongue
You whisper to Tubbo: Fuck off
Tubbo whispers to you: do you still want me to wait by the stasis chamber

 

Fit pauses, his temper slowly settling. As childish as it is, he's gotta admit that the idea of having an escape route out of an awkward situation is tempting. Very tempting.

 

You whisper to Tubbo: Sure

 

Then he tucks his communicator away again, a pounding headache blooming behind his temples.

 

Right! He didn't learn anything about the pills, but now he's got a time limit before everything falls apart. Great. And if his code doesn't cooperate again, the easiest way to circumvent that is through a full wipe… which is fucking fantastic! Exactly what he needs, a fucking lobotomy.

 

He needs to find Pac and interrogate him about the pills. It doesn't matter if it's useless anymore—it's the only thing he can do in this situation. On the off chance that it does give him something to work with, he might even be able to fix the issue himself.

 

(If it doesn't, well… at least he won't be alone when it happens.)

 

Finding Pac isn't the hard part—just as always, he's working on the Favela and loudly humming pop songs as he rocks on his heels. It's finding the resolve to approach him that's the tricky part.

 

Get it together, man. Just because Tubbo said you should kiss him doesn't mean you're gonna actually do it. All you gotta do is wait for an opening, and then hug when it feels natural. Or hold hands, if you're too much of a pussy to hug him—just do something. And even if everything goes to shit, it's not like the outcome will matter anyway. 

 

Squaring his shoulders, Fit calls out in a too-gruff voice, “Pac?”

 

Pac doesn’t turn around to look at him immediately, even though he halts his movements. For a second, Fit's worried he's going to have to chase him down again. But then he suddenly whips around while smiling brightly, his face still reddened a bit with exertion. “Fiiiiiiiit! WOOHOO! It’s so good to see you!”

 

“Yeah, you too, you too. Sorry to interrupt when you're in the middle of somethin’, but…”

 

“Oh no no no, it's all good!” Pac chirps, dumping his building materials to the side. The crashing and shattering that follows is concerningly loud, but Pac continues on like nothing happened. “I really needed a break, anyways! What's up?”

 

“Nothing much,” Fit lies. As he talks, he obsessively runs over his goals in his head: figure out what's going on with the pills, and stop Pac from freaking out. Figure out the pills, stop Pac from freaking out. Fuck. “Just wanted to swing by and talk for a bit. Ask some questions.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah! Ask away!”

 

His first attempts are… less than successful. Every time Fit nudges the conversation towards the pills, Pac skirts around it with an absurd joke or a topic change. If it were any other loop, Fit might’ve enjoyed the excuse to chat and forget about his issues, but there's a ticking timer in his head this go-around; in a twist of irony, he doesn't have the time for that anymore.

 

Finally, Fit gets tired of dancing around the issue. There's one topic in particular that made Pac crack during their last confrontation, so he uses it again with ruthless efficiency.

 

“So. The antidote.”

 

“The anti-” Pac visibly stiffens, and then goes back to swinging his arms rhythmically. “The… I mean, uh, what antidote? Sorry, I got—I got confused for a moment there! There’s no… there’s no antidote. Antido—you mean, like, anti-boat, right? Like, you hate boats, or something?”

 

Despite the circumstances, Fit can't help but laugh a little. “Nice save.” A flicker of satisfaction shoots through him when that gets a genuine grin out of Pac. The Pac he knows is still here, then—hidden under white fabric and chemicals, sure, but he can work with this. This is doable.

 

“...but no, I mean the antidote,” he stresses again in a more serious voice. He's not giving into the easy back-and-forth conversation, no matter how tempting it is. “You didn't mishear me, I want to talk about the antidote.”

 

All traces of laughter disappear from Pac’s eyes. “Oh. You—” His voice breaks off into a growl of frustration, even as his smile remains eerily unmoving. “Ugh. There is no antidote, because I don’t need one! You don’t get it, Fit! Can't we go back to talking?”

 

“Then help me get it,” Fit pushes. The words come out too forcibly; Pac flinches hard, hand drifting slowly towards his inventory. Cursing silently, he loosens his shoulders and tries to soften his voice into something gentler. “Just… c’mon, Pac, help me understand why you’re doin’ this to yourself.”

 

It’s silent for a moment. Fit’s hand twitches at his side, already aching with the phantom warmth of his backup plan. There's no way that Pac will willingly engage in this conversation without breaking down or taking more pills. Honestly, he doubts holding his hand (or, god forbid, kissing him) could even fix this. That conviction only grows as the pause stretches on, settling on his shoulders alongside the late afternoon heat.

 

But then, a miracle happens. The other man nods slowly, uncurling so he can fully face Fit.

 

“...Do you ever not want things to change, even—even if they are bad for you?” His gaze is flighty as he stumbles over his words, flitting constantly between Fit and his surroundings. “Like… things are easier if they are the same, because that is what you know! It’s—it’s familiar. That's why.”

 

"...I'm not sure I do get that feeling, Pac,” Fit carefully replies. Even as he says that, however, he realizes it’s a lie.

 

When he first arrived at the island, everything was perfect—clean water, fresh air, the works. Too perfect. He still hasn’t managed to shake off that creeping sense of unease. No matter how little he wants to return to the wastelands, a part of him will always be most comfortable with blood caked on his teeth and smoke lining the back of his throat. Those sensations are honest; not like this sanitized paradise, where you can't tell if the water is poisonous just by looking at it.

 

Pac must see some part of that revelation reflected in Fit’s eyes, because he nods violently. "Yeah yeah yeah! Uh, it’s like—it's like—like, sure, I know I am getting addicted, but I don’t care because I am a real person again! This is easier—” he shrugs, a jerky motion, “and I’m used to it by now! It's familiar! So it will hurt even more if I stop taking them!” He lets out a bright laugh after saying that, as if it'll somehow turn the upsetting statement into something hilarious. It doesn't quite work. Neither does the way that Pac suddenly crowds into Fit's space, eyes fever-bright and elated. “And everything feels awesome now , so why would I stop in the first place! Right? Right?!”

 

“...it's only been one day, Pac,” Fit points out as gently as he can, backing up until he can't feel Pac's breath on his face anymore. His heart is pounding, for some reason. “It's not too late to fix things. You're strong, I know you are. You don't need them.”

 

Pac's smile doesn't drop, but it does dim a few degrees. There's an oddly guilty glint in his eyes, although it flickers away so quickly that Fit's suddenly unsure if it existed at all.

 

“Yeah,” he finally says after a lengthy pause, “yeahyeahyeah, I guess you're right. It's only been one day, yeah.”

 

“See?” Fit says in a hopefully encouraging voice. This time, he's the one to close the distance. He steps a little closer, emboldened when Pac doesn’t flinch away. “It's gonna be okay.”

 

“I just—I don't know what you see in the old me. I felt so sad that it hurt and I wouldn't stop crying all the time. Why would you want that back?” All of a sudden, Pac lurches forward again and grabs Fit's sleeve, his smile raw and desperate. ”With the pills, I don’t have to be scared anymore! Nothing hurts me, and if I feel bad, I can just go back to feeling good again. It's perfect!! Everything,” he leans in, whispering as if it's a secret, “is perfect. And I don’t ever want to stop!”

 

Fit shouldn’t be making any promises he can’t keep. It's not fair to either of them, and it’s not like the message will stick beyond today. Despite knowing this, however, his voice is low and fervent when he says, “I’ll protect you this time, Pac. I promise.” He takes a deep breath; for a brief moment, it’s like he’s carving his words into some bright and inevitable future. It feels real when he adds, “I’ll try and make it so you don’t have to be scared anymore, even without the pills. Just… trust me, okay?”

 

If it wasn’t for the tightening of his grip, he would’ve thought that Pac hadn't heard him. He's just rhythmically swaying back and forth, muttering something under his breath. Eventually, however, the other man mumbles through a strained smile, "You know, I really want to believe you right now.”

 

“Alright,” Fit softly says. Progress. “Thank you, Pac. That means a lot.”

 

Pac gives a jerky nod, and then slowly, painstakingly, lets go of Fit’s shirt. As soon as he’s fully detached, however, he scrambles back until his back smacks into a wall. He's getting that frantic look again. The “oh fuck, I need to take enough pills to kill a small mammal” look. Not good. More prodding about the antidote can wait; it's time for Fit to bring out the big guns.

 

“Do you, uh…” Shit, Fit thinks despairingly, why is it even more awkward the second time around? “Do you want… a hug?”

 

“A… a hug?” Pac splutters. His panicked expression is momentarily overtaken by confusion, which is a marginal upgrade. "Like… like a,” he spreads his arms wide against the brick wall, “like this?” He looks like a puzzled bug that's been pinned to a corkboard. Fit wants to die, a little bit.

 

“...Yeah,” Fit finally manages through his embarrassment. “You want one? Or…”

 

“Oh! Uhhhhh, yeah, sure!!” Pac quickly unpeels himself from the wall, recovering some of his earlier cheer. “That's—that's kinda random, but yeah, I want one! Uh, I didn't know you liked hugs this much! Good to know!”

 

“I don't,” Fit says automatically, but then he catches himself. “Not unless it's… y'know.” He inclines his head sharply, not even sure what he means by the gesture. Pac stops in his tracks, hesitancy overtaking his eyes, but then Fit sighs. “Get over here, okay? You're… hugging you is… it's good. And I offered anyway, so…”

 

“Right,” Pac breathes, a stunned look in his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Me hugging you is good.”

 

“Uh-huh.” Fit sounds like an idiot, and when he turns to shield his burning cheeks from Pac's gaze, his arms slightly outstretched, he's sure he looks like one too. “If you don't get over here soon, I'll change my mind. So hurry up.”

 

Like a spark of lightning has run through him, Pac jolts into action. “Right!” And before Fit knows it, he's surrounded by warmth and soft fabric as Pac embraces him. He focuses on breathing steadily and tries his best to ignore the tremors that occasionally shake through Pac's body. For different reasons, he also ignores the way that Pac's hair tickles his neck or how he leans into Fit's hesitant touch. He’s just giving his friend a hug to comfort him. That’s all that’s happening.

 

When he starts to pull away a little, Pac holds on with a death grip. Fit isn’t expecting the resistance, but he’s not exactly complaining: Pac’s strength never fails to send a guilty thrill down Fit's spine. This time is no exception. Eventually, Pac's grip slackens so that Fit can pull away, but Fit doesn't break contact. Instead, he shifts so they’re loosely holding hands. The touch leaves an uncomfortable buzz beneath his skin, but he endures it. If he understood their previous conversation right, it might be the anchor that keeps Pac from drifting.

 

“...You feeling any better?”

 

He anxiously looks up at Pac as the silence continues, only to find him already staring at him with an odd look on his face. The other man ducks away as soon as they make eye contact, muttering something under his breath in Portuguese and laughing in disbelief to an invisible audience. Fit just barely manages to catch the translation.

 

I'm not gonna kiss Fit, you guys are crazy.

 

…They’re still holding hands.

 

Sure, Pac hearing voices is concerning. But that hasn't stopped the rest of his sentence from worming its way into Fit's brain. ‘Cause that means that some part of Pac is thinking about kissing Fit right now, and that sends Fit's heart aflutter. It won't matter in the long run if Cucurucho's gonna wipe him anyway, and there's no rule stating that he can't kiss someone in the middle of questioning them. Hell, it might even make the process easier.

 

Fuck it. Whatever happens, happens.

 

"You could… kiss me, you know." He swallows, throat strangely dry. "I mean, I… uh. I certainly wouldn't be opposed."

 

Pac whips his gaze up immediately. His eyes are wide and dark, dilated pupils swallowing up his irises. “Que?!” he half-laughs, a hysterical tinge to his voice. “What… what are you saying?”

 

Just as quickly as it came, Fit's bravery shrinks away, leaving him flustered and frustrated with himself. What the hell was he thinking? Yeah, real cool, Fit. Ask the guy who's clearly going through it if he wants to kiss you. Awesome. What the fuck is wrong with him.

 

“Ignore me! Ignore me, fuck, that was stupid and I wasn’t thinking—” Fit immediately backs off, not wanting to push it any further.

 

Mid-retreat, however, Pac grabs the back of his head and kisses him.

 

It’s surprisingly soft considering how fast the motion is. Warm, chapped lips brushing against his with a tenderness that he isn’t expecting. The pressure is brief, but it lingers in a way that makes his brain go fuzzy. Fit’s frozen for a moment, hands hovering uselessly at his side and mouth agape, and then Pac leans back with a nervous look in his eyes. His expression grows even more mortified once he sees whatever's plastered on Fit's numb face.

 

“Sorry!” he yelps in a panicked voice. Fit can barely hear it over the loud buzzing in his ears. “Sorry, you just—I must have misheard that, oh my god, I am so sorry! Stupid—I should've taken more pills, should’ve... um, I just—you were offering, and I was feeling so many emotions, and I kissed you without thinking, and—”

 

“It’s okay, it’s okay. You didn’t mishear. I…” Fit swallows, the words caught in his throat. “I liked that a lot, actually.”

 

“Yeah?” Pac breathes, like he doesn’t quite believe him. A hopeful smile slowly spreads across his face, brimming with a quiet giddiness, and it’s leaking into his voice. “Do you—I mean—”

 

“Yeah,” Fit responds before Pac can even finish his sentence, “yeah, fuck, please—”

 

This time, he's the one to move closer. He threads his fingers clumsily through Pac's soft hair, feeling the other man shiver beneath him, and his metal hand hovers for a moment before settling on Pac's hip. The movement isn't particularly smooth or practiced. But it's hard to care about that when Pac is starry-eyed and pulling him even closer, placing a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth as if to tempt him.

 

They stare breathlessly at each other for a moment, faces no more than a couple inches apart. Pac seems to be searching for something in Fit's gaze, while Fit just can't look away. He's fully aware that he's lost the plot at this point, but all his thoughts scatter whenever he feels Pac's breath on his lips again. His entire world has narrowed down to the man in front of him.

 

Eventually, Pac finds whatever he's looking for, and their lips meet again. It's even easier to lose himself in this one—easy to lean their weight against the wall, eyelids fluttering shut, easy to forget the circumstances they’re stuck in. Pac tilts his head to deepen the kiss, and Fit helplessly sinks into it. There’s a chemical taste to Pac’s mouth, but it's drowned out by the heat that washes down his spine with every slide of their lips. All he can focus on is the scorching warmth of Pac’s body pressing against his own. Everything smells of sweat, salt, wildflowers, and something else that's so intoxicatingly Pac that Fit feels dizzy.

 

When they finally break apart for air, still hovering so close that their faces are nearly touching, Pac breathes, “Fit, I have something to confess to you.”

 

Fit’s head is still spinning, Pac's voice vibrating in the tiny space between them. Mindlessly, he gasps out an "Mh-hm, I'm all ears" , but he can barely hear it over the sound of his frantic heartbeat.

 

"Fit, I… ugh.” Pac gnaws on his lower lip, his gaze settling on a spot over Fit’s shoulder. And fuck, Fit can feel it when he sighs, hot air fanning over his lips. “I, um, I don't know how to say it right now in English. Sorry, my brain right now's a little…”

 

"It's okay! Take your time." Fit knows that he's saying words, but they’re tumbling out of him without his conscious input. He’s not sure if they’re even comprehensible—somehow, he’s still dazed and breathless even after they broke apart. It’s not helped by the fact that Pac still looks devastatingly kissable, lips swollen and parted slightly. “Take all the time you need, I’m here.”

 

He feels like a teenager with a crush—which is ridiculous, because he's a grown-ass man who should know better by now. There are bigger things to worry about. This is just a temporary indulgence before both of their memories are inevitably erased—he still needs to ask about the antidote, for Christ's sake! Kissing isn't a big deal, so he shouldn't be affected by this.

 

He looks away from Pac’s lips in an effort to regain his composure, but then the remnants of the evening light catch on Pac’s face, and it’s impossible to think again. His eyes are deep black, speckled with little glints of gold that shimmer in the slowly setting sun. They're dilated and a little hazy, and for once, Fit knows it's not because of the pills. The realization shoots a jolt of heat through his stomach. He's forced to avert his gaze again.

 

Then his brain starts to catch up with what Pac just said, and his mind goes utterly blank for a different reason.

 

Pac has something to confess to him.

 

A confession.

 

And fuck, Fit doesn't honestly think he can handle that right now! Not like this, at least. No matter how spontaneous he has unwillingly become during the past two months, the chasm between where they are now and what that implies is still terrifying. In only eight words, Pac has threatened to shatter the careful walls that Fit has put up to protect them both. He’s scared shitless, but the worst part is that a traitorous part of him wants that more than he has ever wanted anything.

 

The silence as Pac deliberates his final words is agonizing. Lips still parted a little, eyes fixed on the distance. Every now and then, his expression twitches; the fact that Fit is close enough to catalog every single one of them is dizzying. He doesn’t even know why the hell they’re still this close, but he also can't bring himself to move. The idea of even slightly pulling away is unthinkable.

 

Finally, Pac blurts out, “I'm not sure why… or how, or if it is really happening.” He shoots a pleading look. There's an unspoken hear me out below his words, and Fit knows clear as day that he would believe anything that came out of the other man's mouth .

 

“I’m listening,” Fit breathes, and the grateful look Pac sends him soaks into him like sunlight. “Whatever it is, just say it and I promise I'll listen.”

 

“...You're too good to me, Fit. Um.” Pac pauses, worrying his lip between his teeth. ”Like I said, I'm not sure if it's actually happening, or if I'm crazy, or whatever. But… I think I'm repeating the same day again?”

 

Everything stops.

 

All of Fit’s senses narrow until they’re concentrated in a single pinpoint. A deafening rumble builds up his ears, swallowing everything around him.

 

He can’t think. Can’t begin to process what he just heard. Can't even breathe correctly.

 

All he can do is choke out a strained “what?” as his world falls apart around him.

Notes:

WE FINALLY GOT THE KISS!!!!!!!! ENORMOUS DAY FOR THE FITPAC COMMUNITY (ignoring the other bombshells dropped for now <3) ‼️‼️‼️ you would not believe how difficult it was to get fit to kiss this man... it took DOZENS of loops before he was desperate enough to give kissing him a shot. the bit where pac calls out the voices/his chat for telling him to kiss fit is actually taken directly from his happy pills stream - it was too perfect not to snatch <3

ALRIGHT now its time to address the other big reveals in this chapter >:D

first off, we got some big clues for the cause of the time loop! i wouldn't be surprised if it's enough for some of u to get it on the nose, considering how accurate u guys have been even with limited info ;P

secondly, as several of u keen-eyed readers predicted, pac's also aware of the loops :3c i tried to sprinkle a good amnt of clues around while never directly saying it, so hopefully it hits a good balance where it wasn't obnoxiously obvious but also didnt come completely out of left field! :] (several scenes involving/mentioning pac might make more sense if u read them w that context ;P)

finally, a huge thank you to beloved mito for beta reading this chapter <3 mwah ily!!

please feel free to leave a comment on your thoughts, theories, what you liked, pretty much anything! i will knit each and every single one of them a little personalized sweater...... see you in two weeks for the finale! >;Dc (but fr this time since ch7 is pretty much finished already + school is finished JSDJWSDCKSS<3)

Chapter 7: where we started from

Summary:

In which difficult conversations are held and Fit waits on a sunrise.

Notes:

here we are! the final chapter, at last.... hope u enjoy! <3

Pac’s rambling frantically and stumbling over his words, but Fit can barely hear him over the blood rushing through his ears.

 

“It's hard to tell how long it has been, but it’s long enough that even I can tell something’s wrong—maybe, like, a week? Two weeks? I dunno, I—”

 

What the fuck, Fit repeats in his head, what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck!

 

When Pac mentioned telling him something, he was expecting… well, at this point he doesn’t know what he was expecting anymore. A love confession, probably, which is a whole minefield of emotions that he really doesn’t want to get into right now! He was banking on them both forgetting everything that happened tonight. The kiss would be one last hurrah before he got wiped, and then he would theoretically never have to worry about it again. It wouldn’t even be impossible to respond to a love confession under those conditions. Hell, Fit basically confessed his own feelings back there, which is another fucking minefield! He's practically dancing on mines at this point, and—

 

—and they just kissed, and they’re still pressed up against each other, close enough that Fit can feel Pac’s hot breath on his skin, and Pac probably remembers every single loop they’ve spent together. Every disastrous conversation; every stupid scheme to snap him out of it. Every far-too-sincere word that dripped from Fit’s lips.

 

…He numbly tunes back into the words spewing out of Pac’s mouth. Literally anything is preferable to thinking about that.

 

“—believe me, but I swear that it is true! Ha, what am I saying, it’s not like you will probably remember this… Fit, am I a bad person for not wanting to leave this? For—for letting it happen? Like, is it wrong of me? I never run out of pills, I’m never being kidnapped, nothing can hurt me… it’s awesome, right? Am I a bad person for that?”

 

Pac trails off expectantly, and the air fills with a stagnant pause. It dawns on Fit slowly. He’s expected to provide an answer.

 

The thing is, it’s really fucking difficult to think. Not made easier by the fact that Pac is still half-cradling his jaw with one of his hands. His skin's still pressed against Pac’s skin, warm and slightly tacky, and they're still breathing each other's air—god, his skin is so warm.

 

Over the pounding of his heart, he eventually manages, "N-no, I don't think you're a bad person. I could never think you’re a bad person, but—but wait, Pac, are you telling me you're stuck in a time loop?"

 

"I think so?” Pac’s voice is suddenly high and uncertain as he backs off, tightly wrapping his arms around himself. Fit takes the opportunity to breathe for the first time in a hot second. “I'm not sure, it might just be because of the pills? I mean, it's not like everything is the same, but I keep having to build the same buildings in the Favela, you know? I dunno, maybe I have gone crazy, talvez sou louco—"

 

“You’re not crazy,” Fit interrupts, striding forward and grasping Pac’s sleeve like it’s a lifeline. He swallows roughly at the accidental intensity of the movement. Pac visibly tracks the motion of his throat before his eyes dart up again to meet his gaze, and fuck, Fit can’t think too hard about that or he might actually explode. ”You’re not crazy, I promise. I’ve been experiencing the same thing. Thought I was the only one.”

 

A cold draft blows in from the sea. It raises the hair on Fit's arms; unconsciously, his hand flexes from where it's gripping Pac's hoodie. There's a trembling silence suspended between them, electric and all-encompassing, and he isn't quite sure how he's going to break it.

 

“...It’s kinda nice, isn't it?” Pac ventures after a moment, his dark eyes still trained on Fit with a strange intensity. Whatever emotion lies behind that odd statement has clearly been festering for a while. His words are strung like an arrow, pressing a taut and jagged edge against Fit's sternum. “You don’t need to worry about what is going to happen, because you have already seen it a bunch of times. Like, when you think about it, it’s… it's perfect, right?”

 

And Fit's trying to be patient with Pac right now, he really is, but he can’t quite suppress the harsh scoff of laughter that escapes his lips.

 

“Not gonna lie, it lost its appeal after week one. Perfect is not the word I'd personally use to describe it.”

 

Pac’s expression noticeably darkens at this, his eyebrows furrowing as he turns away from Fit. But then a critical part of Pac’s earlier rambling finally registers. “Wait, you said ‘letting it happen’. Do you know what’s goin’ on, or—or can you fix it?”

 

He knows he's struck gold when Pac visibly stiffens, a deer-in-headlights expression on his face.

 

“Um… no…?”

 

Pac's voice comes out high and unconvincing, bad enough that even he winces when it leaves his mouth. Fit feels the other man's posture twitch, and redoubles his grip on the hoodie immediately. He's not letting him escape this time; not now.

 

“Pac.”

 

“It’s not… I don’t know anything,” Pac stammers, twisting his arm in a half-hearted attempt to escape. “I—I maybe have some idea, but, uh… I mean, it’s not a big deal anyway, right? ‘Cause we can’t escape, so...”

 

Fit's relief at not being alone anymore slowly turns corrosive, eating holes in the sides of his stomach. Suddenly, he feels sick. Hopefully he’s misunderstanding this, hopefully this doesn't mean what he thinks it means, but just to be sure…

 

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

 

Pac falls silent.

 

The answer should be simple. It should be the easiest answer Pac has given in his goddamn life. But he's avoiding eye contact and fidgeting in place, and that somehow hurts even more than the silence did. His voice comes out a lot quieter than he’s expecting, a pained and betrayed whisper: “Pac…”

 

“You—you are making this sound a lot worse than it is, okay!” Pac tries, plastering a strained smile on his face. “I mean, we don’t need to escape, right? Things are good right now!”

 

“What do you mean, we don’t need to escape?” Against his will, a sharp tinge of desperation rears its ugly head in Fit's voice. “What do you— of course we need to escape! We can’t get the kids back if we don't move on from this day. We’ll never get Ramón back, we’ll never get Richarlyson —”

 

Pac's eyes are shaky and frantic when they meet Fit's: sclera white as bones, inky pupils swallowing up his irises. “But… but if I stay in this day forever, I already have Richas! And no one can take him away from me this time! Because everything is the same forever and ever and ever, and he will never leave!”

 

“That’s not fucking Richarlyson and we both know it,” Fit manages through gritted teeth. Something dangerously close to rage shoots through him, wild and bristling with teeth, and it’s getting harder to squash it down into something palatable with every word he utters. “It’s just a pile of rocks, you know this, Pac—”

 

“You said that you care about me, right—” Pac interrupts, a desperate prayer, and Fit growls in frustration.

 

“Don’t change the subject, Pac! Of course I care about you, but—”

 

“Then if you really care about me, why don't you want me to be happy?” There’s something raw and pleading in Pac’s voice that Fit really doesn't want to think about right now. Not now, not when his emotions are amplified, straining and snarling against his ribcage like they're trying to eat his heart. “Why… why don't you want that for me?!” 

 

“Fuck, Pac, I do want you to be happy! The drugs, and the time loop, though, they aren't doing that! They're—they're hurting you and turning you into a different version of yourself! And deep down, I think you know it too!”

 

The light behind Pac’s expression snuffs out, the sharp lines of tension in his face dulling to a resigned flatness. His body slumps inwards, gaze darting away. A part of Fit miserably thinks, no no no, not again.

 

“I need to be alone for a bit, okay? Just leave me alone, Fit. I have a lot to think about.”

 

Based on the way Pac keeps sneaking furtive glances at his inventory, he’s not going to think about it. He’s going to do the exact opposite of thinking about it. But Fit doesn’t say that out loud, because he’d be a fucking hypocrite considering the number of loops he’s slept through.

 

“Okay,” he instead says softly. All the fight drains out of him, leaving him exhausted. He releases Pac’s sleeve and lets his fingers go limp. “Whatever you need, Pac.”

 

A beat.

 

“I’m not… Fit, I'm not mad at you, it’s just—”

 

“It’s tough. I get it. Just let me know when you’re ready to talk, okay?” Fit debates leaving his last thoughts out, but then figures there’s no point in playing it safe anymore. It's not like any of this will matter by the end of tonight, anyway. “I missed you. Please don’t leave me alone again for too long.”

 

Pac’s scowl softens and he turns away, eyes suspiciously shiny. “I missed you too, Fit. And—we will talk about it later today, I promise. Just give me some time?”

 

“Okay,” Fit repeats, just as quietly as before. “I’ll hold you to that.”

 

It goes against every instinct he has, but he forces himself to walk away, one heavy step at a time. Over his shoulder, he hears Pac murmur, “This will be the last time, I promise.” He isn’t quite sure if the promise is directed toward him, and he’s even less certain if Pac intends to keep it.

 

But Pac told him to give him time. And at this point, that's all he can really do.

 

Every second that passes after Fit arrives home is excruciatingly slow. He turned off his communicator as soon as Tubbo started asking how it went, unwilling to go through that whole song and dance again, so he can't even ask Pac how long he should wait. All he can do is pace in erratic circles around his base like a dog. His jaw clenches and unclenches rhythmically, every muscle aching with built-up tension.

 

He told me he needs time. He needs time, and rushing things will only hurt the both of us. 

 

Despite his best efforts, Fit's resolve to avoid using his communicator crumples after the first hour. He responds to Tubbo first: things could’ve gone better, and there’s no point in manning the stasis chamber anymore. The idea of Tubbo teleporting him out of whatever conversation he’s going to have with Pac later tonight is unthinkable, so he makes sure to stress the second part. Then he sends a message to Pac asking if he’s okay. Pac doesn’t respond, which is fine. He asked to be alone. It makes sense. (A small, nasty part of him wonders if Pac lied about agreeing to talk with him too, but he squashes it down—Pac wouldn’t do him like that. He hopes.)

 

The rest of the day dwindles away as dread squirms within Fit like an eel snaking its way through his guts. Every lost moment of sunlight is another reminder that he’s stuck here because he rushed things. It sucks. Without any other leads to follow, he's completely paralyzed. Even keeping his communicator nearby doesn’t help—no matter how many times he checks it, his messages to Pac remain unread. All he can do is wait and hope that he hasn't broken anything that can’t be fixed before the sun rises.

 

After the sunset burns its last streak of deep gold into the sky above him, he decides that he’s waited long enough.

 

It takes a bit of searching, but Fit eventually finds Pac sitting on Copacabana beach. He’s half-curled in on himself, tracing idle schematics in the sand. His smile at Fit’s approach isn’t quite natural—it’s a little too wide, a little too carefree—but it's still noticeably mellower than he’s used to seeing on Pac’s face as of late. The undercurrent of manic energy beneath his motions is a subtle hum, barely even noticeable if you’re not looking for it. It could almost be mistaken for genuine happiness if Fit didn’t know better by now.

 

Pac pats the sand beside him and Fit eases himself down gently, leaving a few feet of space between them. No words are exchanged. They sit quietly next to each other, surrounded by the sounds of rustling palm leaves and crashing waves.

 

It feels like there has always been a space between the two of them, both infinitely vast and impossibly small. It's in part a physical distance, since Fit rarely lets himself linger on Pac's touch, but it's composed of more than just that. Even when they were sharing breath a few hours ago, bodies pressed together so closely it felt like they could fall into each other and never unfuse, there was still that hair-width of a gap keeping them apart.

 

That gap has never felt more pronounced than it is now. It’s a terrifying infinity that separates them into two fundamentally different worlds. And even though there’s realistically only a few feet between them, and even though he’s still a little mad at Pac for keeping secrets from him, every part of Fit aches to close it.

 

Despite thinking this, however, he doesn’t make any gesture to beckon Pac closer. Instead, he just glances at the man in question, who’s staring wistfully into the ocean like he wishes he could drown in it. His bright smile has faded in the silence, leaving him quiet and contemplative.

 

It’s discomforting to see Pac like this. He’s usually a survivor above all else, and a damn good one at that; it’s one of the traits Fit admires most about him. He always finds a way to pick himself up from the wreckage and move forward. It’s a strength born from necessity, considering how many people he’s lost, but it’s never been a strength that Fit has questioned.

 

Looking at him now, it’s a lot harder not to notice the bags under his eyes. The sheer longing in his gaze as he stares into the black depths. There’s a profound tiredness to him that’s visible even through the haze of stimulants, and now that Fit thinks about it, that tiredness has been there for a lot longer than he’s willing to acknowledge.

 

On bad days, Pac sometimes looked at him like he was already dead.

 

He was always quick to cover it up with a smile and an offhand comment whenever he was caught, but there was no mistaking the premature grief that clouded his features. He stared at Fit like he was an old photograph of someone he’d never see again. Like every moment of happiness was fogged over with miserable nostalgia. Like he was already resigned to Fit haunting his memories as a resentful spirit.

 

There’s a sick comfort in not being the only one who’s fucked up in their friendship. It’s definitely not happiness: Fit would give up nearly anything if it meant that Pac would never have to look at him like that again. Rather, it’s a sense of understanding that runs bone-deep, almost like an unspoken promise between the two of them.

 

On his own bad days, Fit thinks that’s the closest thing to love that he'll ever get.

 

(He doesn’t let himself continue that train of thought or vocalize it. Even if he’s pretty sure that Pac would get it, the idea makes him nauseous, like he’s baring his underside to the edge of a sword and waiting to be gutted alive. It's safer to leave it unspoken. Safer to hope that Pac already knows it, so that it never needs to be spoken.)

 

An hour passes in pensive silence. Maybe more. It's enough time for Fit’s eyes to adjust to what little torchlight is refracted in the glittering water, at least. Eventually, the stillness is disrupted by a shuffling noise as Pac scoots closer to him. He’s shivering even though the night never gets that cold here on the island. The movement is erratic and unnatural in a way that sends a pang through Fit’s heart. Barely visible through the gloom, he can see Pac’s fingers twitching; it’s a repetitive and lurching motion.

 

“Withdrawals?” Fit’s voice breaks the quiet. Internally, he curses the way his tongue becomes clumsy and useless in his mouth directly afterwards. “The shaking. Is—are the withdrawals bad?” He sees how Pac’s brows knit together in confusion, and hastily elaborates, “The bad side effects of not taking the drugs. Is that why you're shaking?”

 

Pac shoots him a small smile that wobbles at the edges. “Yeah, that’s probably part of it? But I think I’m mostly just cold.” Shuffling even closer, Pac huddles deeper into the fabric of his hoodie for warmth.

 

There’s an infinity—minus two feet and half an inch—between them.

 

“I, uh. I think I have a cloak in my inventory, let me just—” Fit begins rummaging through his backpack, only to be stopped by a hand pressing down on his arm.

 

“No no no, it’s fine!” Pac waves his other hand dismissively, as he can somehow shoo away Fit's concerns. “I'm not that cold, it’s no problem! I just gotta… I just gotta take my medicine and I will be warm again! You don’t have to worry about me.”

 

“Can't exactly stop,” Fit laughs quietly, and then grimaces as the reality of that dawns on him. If he somehow manages to avoid being wiped today, that'll be yet another thing he has to think about later. Ugh.

 

That reminds him, though: “We gotta actually talk about it now, y'know. Like you promised.”

 

“...I was hoping you had forgotten about that,” Pac jokes weakly. In Fit's peripheral vision, he sees the other man's hand clench in his hoodie until it almost matches the color of the fabric.

 

“Sorry, I'm not lettin’ you off that easy.” It's not accompanied by his most convincing smile, but Pac seems to appreciate the effort by the way his shoulders relax minutely. That small amount of progress is immediately undone by Fit's next words, however. “But you gotta promise me you won't take the pills during our chat. We can't talk if you're not fully here, okay? You feel me?”

 

“I…” Pac's voice breaks and he takes a deep breath before speaking again. His words come out small and defeated. “Okay. I won't take the pills when we talk. I promise. I'm sorry.”

 

“Thank you,” Fit murmurs, letting out a quiet sigh of relief. “I know it’s hard to stay sober without the cure, so I really appreciate it.”

 

In the corner of his eye, Pac fidgets. “I mean, I did figure it out. It took me a lot more time than I think most people would need, but I did it.”

 

Fit blinks. Runs through all the possible things that Pac could have figured out, and comes up with far too many responses. In the end, he settles on what he hopes the answer is.

 

“...Figured what out? The loops?”

 

“No, no, not the loops. The cure! I even tried it one time, and it sucked soooo bad. Sorta ‘cause I felt horrible, sorta ‘cause it didn’t fix me at all, y’know?” He snickers. The noise comes out sharp and forced. ”I mean, it did kinda stop me from taking pills when I was sick and shaky. They just sorta flew everywhere like this,” he mimes an explosion with his hands, “when I tried to pick them up. But then I took a bunch more the next day, and everything was awesome again!“

 

After saying this, he cackles loudly in the way he always does after sharing something terrible that happened to him—eyebrows raised teasingly, his whole body leaning in to catch every microexpression of his audience. It's a deeply concerning habit, but also oddly endearing. Fit can't help but fixate on it. No matter how unhealthy that coping mechanism might be, it's a familiar element in a Pac who has grown increasingly foreign.

 

“That's… rough,” Fit finally responds, still unsure of what exactly Pac wants from him. The other man bobs his head eagerly in response, swaying a bit in the sand.

 

"Yeah! And after taking the cure, I talked to Tubbo because he's really smart and probably knows what to do! But I kept crying and shaking, so he got really freaked out. It was kinda funny seeing him get all panicked and stuffs. Like, probably not good… but pretty funny!” Pac laughs again, and then gets weirdly bashful all of a sudden. “I tried looking for you too, but, uh… I couldn’t find you on the map anywhere.”

 

Fit has a pretty good theory as to why Pac couldn’t find him, assuming he's got the timing right. He vaguely remembers receiving a series of panicked texts from Tubbo near the end of his slump. It's not too much of a stretch to assume these events were linked. Instead of voicing his thoughts, however, he murmurs in a low, admiring voice, “You're really somethin’ else, aren't you, Pac. I think you’re vastly overestimating how many people could make an antidote under those circumstances.”

 

Pac shrugs awkwardly, mumbling something self-deprecating under his breath, but Fit stands by what he said. He already knew the other man was brilliant, but all of Fit's efforts pale in comparison to what the other man somehow managed to accomplish even while high off his ass. 

 

“I mean it, man. That's seriously impressive.”

 

“If it was Tubbo or Mike, they would be strong and not use the medicine at all,” Pac counters half-heartedly. “I got lucky. You don't—you don't congratulate someone for finishing a race after they broke their leg on purpose.”

 

“Don't be so hard on yourself. I mean, I can't say I don't get it. It's a shitty situation. Hell, I barely got through all this even with Tubbo helping me, so you’re not weak for using the pills. Especially since you've been addicted for, what, two months at this point?”

 

Instead of comforting Pac, it's like his words send a jolt of lightning through him. “Wait, two months?!” he splutters, nearly falling over as he jerks his body to fully face Fit. “It's been two months?! Man, I thought it was—I thought it was one or two weeks, not two months!! What the hell??”

 

“Oh. Um.” Fit scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, it's been two months. Thought you knew that already.”

 

Pac shakes his head furiously, wide-eyed with shock. “No!!! I mean—I mean, I thought it was a little weird that it reset every hour or two, but…”

 

“Every hour? Wait, do you mean the big reset at the end of the day?”

 

For some reason, Pac pauses at this, expression turning vaguely guilty again. “Yeah. Um. Yeah, that one! Man, I guess it being every day makes more sense…”

 

“No, no, no, back up a sec. I saw that look. What do you know about the reset?”

 

“What? I don't know anything! I—” Pac sighs, visibly giving up on the burrinha inocente act halfway through and slumping down in the sand. “Yeah, okay. That one is a little bit my fault." Fit can barely process the words as cold shock shoots through his system.

 

It’s… Pac’s fault?

 

What comes out of his mouth is a hoarse, “...It is?”

 

“Yeah. Um, or some of it is? Not at the start, but later, yeah. I'm used to servers crashing on me, so it wasn't hard to see what was happening. Then I just had to keep it crashing, which is, y'know, sort of me and Mi—sort of my thing.” 

 

“So…” Fit says, trying to keep his voice steady, ”so you figured out it was a server-side issue. And you made sure the world kept crashing before they could fix it. Is that right?”

 

“Yeahhhhh?” Pac sucks on his teeth, eyes fixed firmly on the horizon. ”Close enough, at least.”

 

“Did you do it today?”

 

“No, no, no, not yet. I was gonna do it later tonight, but,” and here he shrugs, “I promised to talk with you first. So.”

 

“Alright,” Fit says slowly, still mentally catching up with the fucking bombshell Pac just dropped on him. “And… can you also promise me that you won’t do it again?”

 

Pac sharply inhales.

 

“Please, Pac. It's been two months. We can't keep going on like this— I can't keep going on like this.”

 

“I know… I know I should, I know I should,” Pac mumbles. “It’s just hard, ‘cause for once in my life, I have full control over what is happening to me, y'know? I know what is going to happen every single day, because every day is the same! So I can do whatever I want without getting hurt, and I won’t ever get this opportunity again, so…”

 

Fit just stares at him for a moment, face furrowed in genuine confusion. Pac's expression is so sincere, and Fit can tell that he earnestly believes every word he's saying… but respectfully, that's the most backwards-ass reasoning Fit has heard in a long time.

 

“...How is reliving the same day over and over again while taking drugs a form of control?”

 

Pac’s face goes blank. His eyes dart from side to side, almost like he's solving mental equations in his head, and his lips part as if he's about to give a rebuttal. Then he groans loudly as he punches Fit in the arm. “Damnit, stop making sense. I hate it when you do that.”

 

A wave of relief pulses through Fit at the acknowledgment. It leaves his lips as a breathless chuckle that's almost drowned out by the waves. Still, he needs to make sure they’re on the same page: “So you’re gonna stop interfering with the maintenance?”

 

“If…” And here Pac pauses, his expression twisted in pain. “If… if you really want me to. If it’s hurting you. Then yeah, I will stop.”

 

And suddenly, it's like a crushing weight has been lifted off Fit's chest. The watery moonlight shines a little brighter around him; the cool night breeze feels a little softer on his neck. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to exist without that weight. “Fuck, dude. You genuinely just made my month,” Fit mutters disbelievingly, and the punched-out laugh that escapes him feels like it's been held in his lungs for years now.

 

Pac just hums in response. It's a quiet, subdued noise. Before long, the beach is silent again other than the sound of inky waves lapping at the shore; Fit is too busy basking in his relief, while Pac's stewing in his thoughts. And then Pac snickers out of nowhere, stretching his legs out and leaning back in the sand.

 

“Man… Mike wouldn't even be in this situation, huh?”

 

There's something fond and grieving in the way that Pac’s eyes crinkle. He's not looking at Fit, instead tracing the edges of a seashell as he stares into its whorls, but Fit can’t look away. The man before him isn't quite a stranger anymore, but it's growing harder and harder to pretend like he knows Pac as well as he thought he did. This isn't an expression he's ever seen on Pac's face before.

 

“He would probably make fun of us for, like, sitting and doing nothing right now. 'Cause he’s strong and can deal with stuff even without drugs, so it never would have lasted this long. And he's really good at escaping prisons, y’know? Maybe the best!” A considering pause fills the air, half theatrical and half hollow. Pac idly taps his fingertips against the seashell. “Hm. Maybe he was the best? Y'know, ‘cause he's probably dead now, so...” His laughter rings like funeral bells in the night. “Either way, it's true. I mean, this situation is not really a prison, but close enough, right? If anyone could do it, I bet Mikey could.”

 

A beat passes, heavy and suspended. In a quieter voice, Pac adds, “...I wish he was here right now. And Richas. I miss them a lot.”

 

Pac’s face is usually expressive and open, but right now, the scattered light dances on every twist of his mouth and flex of his jaw until it loops back around to being unreadable again. His expressions are strange in this state. Unguarded in the way the dead are. When paired with his glowing white hoodie, it’s disturbingly reminiscent of a ghost.

 

Fit shouldn't feel guilty for seeing him like this. Pac’s willingly sharing this moment of vulnerability, not breaking down because he has no other option or because he thinks he’s alone—if anything, it's the most honest and balanced conversation they’ve had in a while. Despite knowing this, however, sour guilt curls around Fit's heart like a vice.

 

“Sorry,” he mutters, somewhat stupidly.

 

Pac retracts his body a bit and shoots him a bewildered stare. Fit really shouldn’t miss the warmth as much as he does. “Huh? Sorry… for what? You didn't take them away or anything.”

 

“Sorry—” I wasn’t there for you in the way you needed “—that I didn’t talk to you earlier. About the loops, I mean.”

 

“Ah. That’s okay! It’s not your fault, Fit.” There’s a faint smile in his voice. A real one, which somehow makes it worse. “I’m sure you had more important things to do.”

 

“No, no, it's just…” Fit trails off. In a sudden dizzying lurch that starts in the pit of his stomach and squeezes viciously at his throat, he realizes he doesn’t fully deserve the trust that lies beneath that smile. “That's not…”

 

Honestly, he stopped deserving his trust as soon as he spent weeks avoiding Pac just so he didn't have to see that strained grin and white hoodie. He stopped deserving it as soon as he started prying into Pac's personal business. Hell, if he’s being completely candid with himself, he stopped deserving it during the original day when Pac screamed at him that he had been waiting for someone to save him. Before all this started, Fit could’ve claimed that he was doing his best to support him given the circumstances. Knowing now that the other man had been conscious during every loop that he had slept through, though… Fit feels so fucking useless it makes his teeth ache.

 

“...that’s not what I meant,” he presses on, desperately hoping that Pac will understand what he means without having to spell it out. “I should’ve checked if you were also looping instead of assuming you’d be too out of it to give any answers. I should’ve—fuck, I should've reached out earlier instead of treating you—instead of treating this like it was a science experiment, I—”

 

“It’s okay, it's okay,” Pac interrupts. He holds eye contact as he says it, sincerity ringing through every word. “It’s not your fault.”

 

Something cold presses into the side of his thigh. It’s Pac’s prosthetic leg.

 

There’s an infinity, minus another foot and three quarters of an inch, between them.

 

“Let’s just watch the sunrise, okay? The rest comes later. And if the day repeats again, we can plan to escape this tomorrow, together.”

 

Fit’s throat tightens. It’s impossible to speak, and even more impossible to break Pac's heart by admitting that this might be the last day he ever remembers. He nods after a beat of silence instead, and when Pac graces him with a small smile, his traitorous heart skips a beat. It stutters again when he feels a warm pressure by his side, and a heartbeat later, it resumes its thrumming so quickly he’s sure Pac can feel it.

 

There’s an infinity, minus Pac’s head on his shoulder, between them as they watch the sky together.

 

The sensation is unbearably warm even through the fabric. It’s the kind of heat that almost itches. Knowing that it’s because he's not used to this kind of proximity outside of combat doesn’t make it any less intense.

 

He shifts to relieve some of the tension building up in his joints, but then freezes mid-motion as Pac makes a small noise and burrows his face into the junction between his shoulder and his neck. Little sparks of lightning shiver through him at the contact, warm and skittering down his spine.

 

Fuck.

 

He shudders involuntarily, and feels Pac’s lips curl into a smile against his clavicle. The feeling is featherlight and far too reminiscent of a kiss. It takes all his strength not to shudder again.

 

Pac is warm. So warm. The kind of heat that almost itches. More than that, Pac's teeth are so close to brushing his jugular, which is viscerally terrifying in a way that few things are these days. It's such a disgustingly vulnerable position—if Pac wanted to kill him right now, it would be so easy.

 

And Fit.

 

He's.

 

Unable to stop himself from leaning into it—from tilting his head so his neck is a little more exposed, even though it makes the uncomfortable buzz below his skin rise to a fever-pitch. Pac doesn't do anything with it, but Fit can feel the way his smile widens. It's a slow, satisfied motion that shouldn't be nearly as intoxicating as it is.

 

Fuck, this isn't fair, Fit thinks half-hysterically through the sleepless haze that's slowly blurring his mind. This isn't fair at all.

 

For his own sanity’s sake, he forces his attention towards the view in front of him instead of the distracting man curled at his side. It's an impossible task, made more difficult by Pac's warm breath on his neck, but he fixes his gaze on the horizon and figures it's good enough.

 

It's getting close to the time when he usually blacks out. The sky’s beginning to lighten already, removing any privacy that the darkness might have given them. Despite knowing the dangers of this, however, Fit can’t bring himself to break their contact. It’s selfish, but as the hours slip from him like sand through clumsy fingers, he instead focuses on memorizing the way Pac’s hand snakes through the crook of his arm and stays there. The touch still burns, but the longer it remains, the more a gentle warmth spreads through him. It's like Pac’s finishing a circuit he didn't even know was there. 

 

In the distance, he can hear songbirds trilling. A terrible hope flickers in his heart as the melodies build on each other, simultaneously fragile and painfully bright.

 

He shouldn't give in. Shouldn't acknowledge it. As soon as he believes that his situation will genuinely improve, the universe will snatch it away—just like it snatched away Ramón. There's no reason why this should be any different. As the sun continues to rise from the sea at an impossibly slow pace, however, it's getting harder and harder to starve himself of it. Even when he squeezes his eyes shut, the light bleeds through his eyelids and stains his world a brilliant red.

 

He hears Pac quietly gasp. Feels a tug on his shirt, sharp and insistent, and then the shifting of weight as the other man lifts his head off Fit’s shoulder.

 

When he opens his eyes to check on him, the sky is miraculous.

 

Rising from the sea like a spirit, a glowing orange band on the horizon gradually bleeds into the pale blue above it. The early fog is fading. Undeniably the breaking of dawn. A strange burning quiver runs through him at the sight, dizzying and fluttering like a bird caged beneath his ribs.

 

It takes him a moment to place it. He has been holding his breath ever since the first rays broke across the water.

 

As he releases it and draws in deep lungfuls of cool air, the feeling takes flight.

 

It’s the first full sunrise that he has seen in over two months.

 

Objectively, Fit knows that there have been prettier sunrises on this island. This isn't a glorious flume of colors, it's the aftermath of a healing bruise; beyond the initial brilliant strip of orange, it's mostly composed of patchy purple streaks over a yellowing sky. There's gritty sand trapped in his metal arm and sea salt caked on the roof of his mouth. He can’t even hear any birdsong anymore—not over the shrill screeching of the countless seagulls that keep dipping in and out of the ocean.

 

Despite knowing all this, however, he thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

 

He turns his head towards Pac to say this and finds him already staring back, eyelashes glowing a subtle gold. His dark eyes are impossibly warm. The sunlight forms a gentle halo around his head, and as they maintain eye contact, a blush slowly stains Pac's cheeks and spreads to the tips of his ears.

 

The effect is ethereal. Fit's words evaporate in his mouth like mist.

 

a sunrise

 

He's not brave enough to kiss him again, even though Pac's lips are parted slightly and it'd be so easy to close the distance. That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t desperately want to. His mind replays the sensation of Pac’s lips barely brushing the base of his neck again and again and again, until he can almost feel the phantom touch like a butterfly fluttering on his skin.

 

“We did it,” Fit instead says quietly, his chest aching like the wind has been knocked out of it. Everything feels dream-like, and it’s only intensified by the way Pac keeps staring at him with that awed look on his face. “I think it finally ended.”

 

“Yeah… yeah, I think so too,” Pac replies in a similarly hushed voice. He lets out an exaggerated sigh immediately afterwards, although even that noise is gentled by the golden light. “We gotta face the real world, I guess. But I get to say ‘I told you so’ when things get scary and unpredictable again!”

 

“Y’know, I can live with that. The rest comes later, right? We'll figure it out together.”

 

“Yeaaaah, maybe you're right. And you know what?”

 

Pac’s lips curl into yet another smile, painfully fond and mischievous in a way that’s so him that it hurts. It soaks into Fit bright and warm as a summer afternoon. Fuck, he missed seeing that smile. He also really needs to stop looking at Pac’s mouth. Despite thinking this, however, he can’t help but lean closer as it parts again to speak.

 

In a breathy whisper, hot air tickling the shell of Fit's ear, Pac murmurs, “passa tudo,” and Fit lets out a bark of laughter that’s so loud it even startles himself.

 

At this, their strangely pensive moment is broken. The tension dissipates with the morning fog, leaving just two idiots on a beach that’re sitting a little too close for comfort. Everything suddenly feels more real. More tangible, more like something that would actually happen to him.

 

“Passaaaa tuuuudo,” he echoes playfully in a silly voice, drawing out the words as Pac giggles beside him.

 

They both scramble to pull out their balaclavas, repeating the phrase back and forth until they physically can’t form the words through their hysterics anymore. Fit's chest feels lighter than he can ever remember it feeling. Before he knows it, he finds himself wiping away sticky tears through the rough fabric, and as soon as the skin around his eyes starts to sting, he pulls the balaclava off. The other man has the decency to avert his eyes and pretend that the only reason why he’s tearing up is from laughing too hard.

 

They’re out.

 

They’re finally out.

 

He slumps back in the sand as the exhaustion built up from every iteration of yesterday hits him at once. Fuck. Yesterday. What a beautiful word. Pac follows soon after, his fingers intertwining with Fit’s as naturally as breathing. They’re both still shaking a bit as the last of their laughter fades. What little he can see of Pac’s face is flushed red with mirth, and Fit's sure he’s no different.

 

For the first time in a while, though, he doesn’t care about how ridiculous he probably looks, or what he needs to do tomorrow, or how he’s gonna convince Tubbo to believe him again. All that matters is the way the sun keeps rising, steady and beautiful, and the warm weight of Pac’s hand in his.

 

Everything passes, Fit mouths, and the idea of this phrase actually being significant again almost sends another helpless wave of laughter through him.

 

That doesn’t sound too bad, all things considered.

 

--

 

At some point, he must’ve dozed off in the sand, because he wakes up to a buzzing on his wrist. A horrible, wasp-like drone.

 

…Fuck.

 

His heart sinks so quickly that it sends boiling waves of nausea rolling through his stomach.

 

It didn't work. After all that, it still didn't work.

 

The only solace he has is that his memories weren’t wiped, but even that’s a cold comfort; he still can’t bring himself to open his eyes. Just like the idiot he is, he actually thought it would work this time. The definition of insanity is trying the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, and that’s never been clearer than this moment.

 

He roughly presses his face into the pillow again, figuring that he deserves a long nap after yet another failure. But then he pauses. Something's… off. There's a worn blanket on him, and when he moves, it strains against him in a way that he's not used to. As soon as he notices that discrepancy, he realizes that other key details are different, too: everything from the temperature to the mattress under him is slightly off. The air doesn’t even smell of stone. It smells of warm wood and flowers.

 

When Fit finally gathers the courage to open his eyes, he’s bracing himself for white concrete and artificial lights. Instead, he's met with a sprawling, blue sky behind a glass ceiling.

 

He’d like to pretend that the first thing he feels is relief. Instead, it’s a sudden blind panic that sears through every nerve: things are different, and it’s not because of something I did. He lurches up, chest heaving, and then his eyes catch on a pair of armchairs. One lime green, the other deep blue. The adrenaline leaves his system so fast that he feels dizzy.

 

It’s… it's the warehouse. He’s in the warehouse, somehow.

 

“What the hell…” he whispers, and the words scratch at his throat.

 

His communicator buzzes again, and again, and again. Fit checks it just so that he has something to steady his hands with.

 

Tubbo whispers to you: HA
Tubbo whispers to you: HAHAHHAHAHAA
Tubbo whispers to you: I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO
Tubbo whispers to you: I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO
Tubbo whispers to you: I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO
Tubbo whispers to you: I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO
Tubbo whispers to you: GAY AS HELL BOY
Tubbo whispers to you: I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT ACTUALLY WORKED LMAOOOO
Tubbo whispers to you: so much shit has gone down btw
Tubbo whispers to you: let me know when you’re ready to talk :)

 

Letting his arm fall back into his lap, Fit rolls his eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck in the back of his skull. Despite this, however, it's impossible to fully suppress his grin. Tubbo might have been a pest, but after a full month of being Fit's only ally, he can't help but feel genuine fondness welling up. That's a kind of loyalty that rarely gets to be tested. He hates to admit it, but some of Tubbo’s gay jokes are even starting to loop back around to being funny again.

 

Then his communicator vibrates once more, and the name flashing on the screen makes Fit's heart rate pick up. Speak of the devil.

 

pactw whispers to you: oiii o/
pactw whispers to you: check what day it is :D
pactw whispers to you: meet me and tubbo at the factory?

 

Fit switches his attention to the day counter in the corner of his screen with an urgency that borders on desperation.

 

Keeping his composure at this point is impossible. His hands are shaking so badly that he has to pin his arm against his chest to steady it. From where it's pressing against his ribcage, his heart sends nauseating reverberations through his bones. Pac isn't cruel: he wouldn't point out the day counter if there wasn't some sort of change, he wouldn’t. After spending over two months in the same day, however, it feels impossible for it to be anything other than day 174 again.

 

He has to read the number a few times before it fully sinks in. When it does, it's as if he's been tapped with lightning—simultaneously stunned and gloriously awakened.

 

“Would you look at that,” Fit breathes.

 

Things aren’t perfect.

 

They can't be perfect until he has his beautiful baby boy back with him safe and sound.

 

Not until his mission stops casting its shadow over every move he makes.

 

Not until he can name the things he loves without being afraid that they'll be ripped away from him.

 

But it’s day 176. A new sun has risen, bright and ephemeral, and Fit knows he'll never see this exact sight again. The wispy clouds will never flow in the same way; the sparrow settling on the glass won't return faithfully every single morning. Each moment that passes is simultaneously so fragile and so permanent that it sends his heart racing: whatever he does from now on will last.

 

Things aren't perfect. They might not be for a long time.

 

But for today, it's close enough.

 

You whisper to pactw: Meet you there.

Notes:

WOOHOO WE'RE FINALLY AT THE END! i was not expecting it to be this long?? i genuinely think i was possessed or smth. mito i love you for beta reading this chapter, ur the realest <3 the mid-chapter art was drawn by me btw - hopefully it didn't interrupt the moment! :] (i am posting it just as an embedded link right now but i swear to fucking god im gonna get it to work)

ANYWAYS, FINAL THOUGHTS! thank you all SO much for your kind words <3 this was my first time writing in a hot sec nd i was SUPER worried abt posting it, but from day 1 u were all so enthusiastic!!!! it really helped reignite my love for writing :") i appreciate u all more than i can express in words <3333333333

special shoutouts:
-seraph (honoraryangel) for being So Very Normal abt fit w me + for our late-night convos 🦭
-siren (s1renidae) for ur incredible editing (u esp made ch4 run so much smoother) + for all our little science/brain horse metaphor conversations :D
-mito (seriouslycalamitous) for ur endless encouragement and enthusiasm + for beta reading + for all our little mind meld moments <3 love u sm
-my beloved friends on the bbsmp (esp jae + sol + acid + shlook!!! thank u for clowning on me until i finally updated this lol love u guys)

final words: if this fic inspired u at ALL to create a qsmp/fitpac/ANYTHING timeloop fic. presses my lips to the mic. PLEASE write it + let me know abt it. im BEGGING u im in the trenches here. PLEASE. I CANT BE THE ONLY TIME LOOP GUY.

bonus: here's the fic playlist aka my pride and joy https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3RLpJEYOxRhgLrdH5C10UI?si=-njHNfxnSoCZtprUC5UtIw&pi=u-pwOib6a1Tjms

for the last time (for now!), please feel free to leave a comment on your thoughts, theories, questions, what you liked, pretty much anything! :] i'm sending them all off like paper cranes, flying free and beautiful into the summer sky <3 see you all sometime soon!! ive got several other ideas cooking that im excited to share with u - ur not getting rid of me yet >:]

( here's my tumblr if you wanna chat :D)

EDIT: HERE'S SOME BEAUTIFUL ART BY MY BELOVED FRIEND SOL IM CRYING ABOUT IT AS WE SPEAK
https://www.tumblr.com/solsays/753874893305757696/right-back-where-we-started-from-chapter-1?source=share

AND HERE'S A RECURSIVE ONESHOT (from the pov of pac) WRITTEN BY THE INSANELY TALENTED MACK MACKDIZZY!!! <333 https://archiveofourown.org/works/58556152