Chapter Text
Scott is standing in a clearing.
He does not know how he got there, nor what he looks like, nor any of his life before this point. Assuming he had a life before right now, of course. It’s not like he can remember anything, but there has to have been something before this forest, right?
Yeah.
Scott’s being an idiot, obviously he’s had life before this- people don’t just wake up in a random location, people don’t just wake up fully grown. That’s not how things work. Scott doesn’t know a lot of things, admittedly- his memory is gone, how has it not fully sunken in that his memories are gone , and someone needs to help him-
A switch flips- something is turned off in the back of his mind, an external force pushing something down, and all of a sudden Scott is shaking his head, chuckling softly to himself. Who cares if he doesn’t remember anything? It’s not important right now.
What is important, however, is making tools and getting food. Scott walks over a tree and proceeds to peel some of the tough bark from its trunk, fashioning the rough material into something resembling a pickaxe.
The sun is high in the sky, which means it’s noon. Scott knows that, at least.
Maybe he knows more things that he thought, he realizes as he looks down at the makeshift pickaxe in his hand. He laughs to himself again, than says to no one in particular (mainly just to test out what his voice sounds like):
“Well then! I should probably get to mining.”
The sentence is forced and stilted, and Scott’s not completely sure he likes the way the words sound in his mouth. But he’s said it, and it’s not as if there’s a way to take that back. Would be cool if there was, though.
So Scott stretches his shoulders and walks over to a cliffside, where some exposed stone is jutting out at about eye level, ripe for the picking. Or, taking, it’s not fruit- Scott furrows his eyebrows. He’s confused, all of a sudden. He’s not sure he likes it.
So he shrugs it off and smiles again, though this time a little more shaky, a little less confident. He can tell, even without looking at himself, that it doesn’t quite meet his eyes- he can feel the way that his eyebrows are furrowed in confusion, even as the sides of his lips turn up.
Scott decides it doesn’t matter.
He takes his pickaxe to the cliff face and swings. He strikes with more strength than he knew he had in his body, vibrating through his snakes. Pebbles fall. They cascade from the wall, bigger and bigger chunks breaking off periodically as Scott attacks with a vigor he’s not felt before (to his knowledge).
By the time he’s done, sweat is beaded along his brow, and he wipes it away with the sleeve of his denim jacket.
Wait.
Since when has he been wearing a denim jacket?
Scott looks down at himself, squinting, a pang deep in the pit of his stomach as he takes stock of his current clothing situation. The aforementioned denim jacket; a white t-shirt with a large green heart emblazoned on the front, and a pair of blue jeans. His comfortable white sneakers are adorned with rainbow laces.
Scott’s gay, so he appreciates that.
Wait. Since when has Scott been gay?
He’s not sure. But the word feels right, and the meaning feels right, so he decides to keep it. He decides to hold it like a talisman, a piece of himself that he knows for certain, the one thing he is completely and undeniably sure about. Scott is gay.
He smiles, and continues swinging his pickaxe at the stone.
About ten minutes later, he has enough to fashion into a new pickaxe, one of better quality. He's’ not quite sure how he does this, all he knows is that he holds the items in his hand and then they’re gone, replaced by whatever he wanted to make. It’s appreciated, sure, but a little strange at the same time…?
Scott doesn’t… he doesn’t think that whatever’s going on here is normal.
But the invisible hand pushes down on his brain, and he smiles. Everything is fine. Everything is lovely , actually! Scott makes an axe and a sword and a shovel, and then heads off in another direction. He hopes he’ll run into other people.
Wait, are there other people here?
Scott thinks that there are- he vaguely remembers the average shape of people in the back of his mind, and he wouldn’t remember that other people exist if it wasn’t important, right? Scott sighs. This is all just so much more confusing than it needs to be.
He crests the hill, and runs almost face-first into the chest of a tall man, about his age, with long white hair swept back into a ponytail and a dark mask covering the lower half of his face. Odd fashion choices, but who is Scott to judge?
The man’s eyes are turned down at the corners, and just from looking at them, Scott can imagine the way they crinkle up when he smiles. One of his eyes is struck through with a jagged scar, the sclera bloodshot and the iris red. Scott has to admit that the man’s quite pretty, though not really his type.
Anyway.
He should probably say something, huh.
“Oh- uh- sorry, sorry,” Scott mutters, dusting himself off as embarrassment paints his cheeks a dull pink. “Etho, right?”
The stranger nods, looking slightly surprised that Scott knew his name. “Yeah, that’s me- and you’re Scott?”
Scott’s eyebrows crease- how had Etho known that? But still he says, “Mhm… any idea what we’re doing here?”
Etho takes a couple moments to think, his eyebrows furrowing as well. Scott can imagine the way he’s probably frowning contemplatively under his mask. “I’ve gotta be honest with you, dude, I have no clue. I don’t… remember anything else.”
“Yeah, me neither,” Scott confesses with a sigh. “Do you want to stick together for a little bit? Try and figure out what’s going on here?”
Etho nods again, seemingly relieved at not having to be alone. Scott has to admit, he feels the same. They walk in silence for a while, Etho’s height dwarfing Scott’s short stature annoyingly.
It’s a beautiful day, and even Scott can appreciate the way the sunlight filters through the leaves of the trees that he and Etho walk under.
Soon enough, Scott can feel his stomach start to hurt. “Do you have any food?” he asks his quiet companion.
“Oh! Yes, yes I do,” Etho says, reaching into the backpack he has slung over his shoulder and pulling out a couple pork chops. “I killed a pig earlier,” he says in elaboration as to where he’s gotten the meat.
Scott nods and takes a bite.
It’s not the best thing he’s ever eaten (how would he know that, though? It’s not like he remembers anything) but it’s better than nothing. Scott and Etho continue to walk as they eat, the same semi-awkward silence still present and seemingly unbreakable.
They walk for probably another twenty minutes before Etho lets out a long sigh and stretches. “So… do you know anything about yourself?”
“I mean… I know that I like the color cyan.” He wracks his brain for a couple seconds. “Oh, yeah, I’m also gay.”
“That makes sense,” Etho says, and Scott frowns slightly.
“Me being gay?”
“Oh, no- I mean, that kind of too, I guess, you do give the vibe - but the cyan bit. Because your snakes are cyan.”
“...Snakes?” Scott doesn’t know what Etho’s talking about. He follows the other man’s gaze and realizes it’s fixed on the crown of his head, so he puts a hand up there and recoils it in shock when it touches cold, smooth scales.
Scott is… confused, to say the least.
“Yeah, your snakes,” Etho continues, oblivious to Scott’s inquisitive thoughts. “They’re bright cyan. Quite pretty, honestly.”
Etho has very light eyelashes, Scott notices.
“Well thank you,” Scott says, smiling sweetly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were hitting on me…”
Etho’s face goes red, and Scott smirks. “No- no, that was not my intention- god, I’m such a dumbass, I’m so sorry-” he buries his face in his hands, and Scott can’t help but snicker. Just a little, though.
“You’re fine, don’t worry about it.” Scott makes a brushing motion with his hand, and Etho peeks out from behind his hands a little.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, man, I’m just joking around,” Scott says. And he’s sure Etho would’ve responded to him, had it not been at that moment that a very short, very rambunctious man runs up and tackles Etho to the ground. Scott nearly spits out his pork, his companion making a very undignified oof sound as he falls to the ground.
“Wha-” he starts, but only gets half a syllable out before he’s interrupted by the shorter man.
“Etho!” he starts, his arms crossed angrily, “You can’t just leave a man to his own ends in a dark forest like this! There are spooky things in there, Etho, and I don’t like it one bit. A sensitive man like me’s gotta have a protector, you know!”
Etho chuckles lightly, making no attempt to push the stranger off him.
“Do you two… know each other?” Scott asks tentatively, after about a minute of watching the two bicker back and forth like an old married couple.
“Oh! Scott!” Etho’s eyes are wide as he turns back to Scott, as if he’s only just remembered that the gorgon (that’s right! Scott’s a gorgon!) is there. “Scott, this is Bdubs; Bdubs, Scott. Yeah, Bdubs and I ran into each other before-”
“Before you ran off like an absolute idiot and left me all on my own-”
“Yes, Bdubs,” Etho mutters tiredly, “After I ran off because you were stealing all my things- ”
“Not all of them, just the gold and redstone! You gotta understand, Etho, I have to make a clock. I just have to, you know? It’s how I work. I’m a bit of a strange guy, I dunno if you’d gathered that properly.”
Scott looks back and forth between the two, admittedly utterly baffled by whatever homoerotic thing is going on here. Because let’s all be honest for a moment, there is no chance in hell that this weird-ass interaction is even a little bit platonic. Scott’s gaydar is pinging off like crazy.
“So… should I go…?” Scott asks.
When he doesn’t receive a response from either of the men, who are both seemingly wrapped up in their stupid banter, Scott heaves a resigned sigh and walks off in the opposite direction. The afternoon air is brisk on his face. It feels akin a sharp slap of reality from the dream-like state he finds himself in, and Scott shakes himself all over, trying to get rid of the fog particles clinging to his skin..
The wind is singing. It wraps itself through Scott’s hair, twining through the trees. Scott’s hands are shaking.
Because here he is. Alone, stumbling through an unfamiliar forest, completely lost and unsure on more than one front.
Scott doesn’t realize that his hands are shaking until his knees give out and he falls to the floor, the heels of his palms pressed tightly over his eyes. He tries to breathe, but it’s difficult- how do people do this? How do people intake air, then exhale it, as if it’s the most natural and easy thing in the world?
That’s not how it works for him, Scott thinks detachedly, dimly aware of the sensation of grass on his knees and of fingernails cutting into his palm. Breathing doesn’t seem to come easy for Scott anymore, not since-
Wait. Not since…
There’s something on the edge of his mind, a memory, a sharp feeling of warmth and death and pain. It’s there, it’s there , just out of reach- Scott feels like he could reach out and taste it, he just needs to get a better grip-
All of a sudden, a hand wraps over the memory and Scott’s mind goes blank and, not knowing what else to do, he stands, wiping the residual tears from his eyes.
Whatever that strange burst of emotion was, it doesn’t matter now. Scott stands and keeps walking, and this time he doesn’t notice the shaking of his legs and the anxious pitter-patter of his rabbiting heart.
--
Jimmy’s eyes open atop a cliff.
The first thing he notices is the sky.
It’s the brightest blue he’s ever seen, fluffed clouds painting its surface with blobby streaks of white. It’s beautiful, Jimmy thinks, the sky. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
But his peaceful realization is soon shattered by Jimmy’s second discovery.
And that is the fact that he remembers nothing. Well, okay- not nothing. He remembers how to speak and he remembers his name, and he has a vague recollection of- of cyan-
Jimmy tries to fluff out his wings- because oh right, he has wings - but he can’t move them. Regardless of how hard he tries, they hang limply at his back. His spine is the only thing keeping them from dragging along the floor.
Huh.
Well, that’s certainly strange, and Jimmy has a vague notion that he should be a bit more horrified at this realization, but does it really matter? If he can’t remember using his wings, did they ever really exist in the first place?
Other than ornamental centerpieces to his back, he means, because obviously they physically exist, they’re literally a part of his body. Jimmy sighs, and decides that it’s far too early in the morning for this.
Which, that excuse doesn’t particularly work, does it. Especially because the sun is currently at its zenith, which means it’s about noon.
…So really not morning at all anymore. Jimmy heaves a sigh, and flops back into the grass. He really just… doesn’t want to move? And honestly, can anyone fault him for that? Because Jimmy is so tired, he’s just got here, and for all he knows he’s just started living- for all he knows, he’s been born full-grown into an idyllic landscape where the sky is a bright blue and the clouds are pure white and everything is perfect.
Jimmy is laying on his back in the grass, and he is realizing that he doesn’t know if the sky is truly the bluest he’s ever seen it. He doesn’t know if he’s ever flown with his wings, he has no idea where he’s from, who he knows, what his personality is like.
A deep dread sets into his chest, and Jimmy realizes that he knows nothing.
He might as well be a baby. He might as well be a literal newborn, with how much he knows about the world, with how much-
He can feel something, someone, something -
Pressing. His mind is putty, they are molding it. His brain squishes under their fingers.
His panic starts to dissipate and Jimmy’s eyes blow wide open and he screams , claws at the perfect blue sky and the perfect white clouds and pulls at his mind, reaching and yelling and please please please, don’t take this from him, it’s the only thing he has left -
And then it’s gone.
And Jimmy stands, and walks down the hill, and doesn’t think about it.
He wants to think about it.
He wants to know what’s happening to him. He wants to know who has such control over him, he wants to know who he was before. Jimmy wants to know everything.
But the hand that has such a firm grip on his mind does not allow him to think these thoughts. And Jimmy is left walking down the hill, and looking up at the clouds. They truly are very pretty today.
He fashions some tools, wooden at first and then reinforced with stone. He chops down some trees. He ambles aimlessly through the forest. His feet slide around in his comfortable converse, which… well, he’s not sure about quite when and where he got them. And he looks up at the clouds, and his eyes crinkle at the edges into a smile.
Jimmy’s thought an almost ridiculous times before over the course of this day, but the clouds really are gorgeous. He dimly wishes he could spread his wings and fly to them, get lost in the cotton candy softness, free from burdens and confusion and his apparent memory loss.
Jimmy sighs.
Life is just confusing today.
And don’t get him wrong, it’s not like that’s necessarily a bad thing, but sometimes Jimmy would simply prefer a straight-forward explanation rather than the half-quilted frankenstein of an idea that is really just… nothing. Mist. Mist in the wind, fragments and questions blown away by the weathers of time. Or, in this case, a forceful hand.
He shakes his head roughly. All the philosophical thoughts dissipate, and Jimmy feels relieved because honestly, that was becoming a bit much for his silly little bird brain. Jimmy laughs.
He laughs, and though it’s quiet and caught under the weight of his breath, it offers a much-needed sense of relief for the canary. With newfound confidence and a spring in his step, Jimmy sets off through the surrounding woodlands.
Someone has been this way before.
Jimmy can feel it in the air, can hear it on the wind, can see it in the footsteps that had trampled through the grass.
He walks slower. Makes his pace quieter, lighter- refrains from running or whatever the heck whoever's been this way before had done. He’s not quite sure why he’s being so cautious, but he trusts his own judgment. If he didn’t, where would he be?
…In a gutter somewhere, most likely. Jimmy lets out a small, self-deprecating laugh, and can’t shake the deja vu that rips through his gut.
This is, truly, a very strange day.
The sun is getting progressively lower in the sky, though it’s not sunk to the horizon yet- it’s not low enough in the sky for Jimmy to start worrying about where he’s going to spend the night.
Jimmy yawns, and decides that it’s best that he go get some more resources.
There’s a pseudo-cave to his left. Jimmy descends into it carefully, quickly, striking some of his coal against the rough stone walls to spark a light. He can already see bits of iron hiding in the corners, more coal, andesite-
There’s a lot in this little cave, Jimmy realizes. He takes his pickaxe to the wall, and gets to work.
--
Scott’s been stumbling aimlessly through the woods for about an hour now. There’s a kind of deep paranoia set into the footprint of this land, an aching kind of loss that maybe hasn’t set in yet, but Scott can feel screams entrenched in the roots of the earth. He can hear maniacal laughter whispering from the trees, he can almost feel the mournful song of the sky, can smell the sharp scent of lightning and death drifting through the wind.
He looks around, tensing, shoddy stone sword held in a death grip in his right hand. He’s sure someone must be watching, he can hear the voices, the whispers, the screams -
He whirls around, sword hand shaking as he points his weapon in the direction of the bushes. Scott creeps forward. He pushes aside the shrubbery, heart beating hard and fast in his chest.
No one.
His breath exhales from his mouth in a shaking stream of air, and he falls to the dirt on his back, heels of his hands pressed hard against his eyes. No one’s there. Scott is fine.
Scott is safe.
But if Scott is safe, then why is he looking around rapidly, eyes wide like he’s being actively hunted down? If Scott is safe, then why is he breathing hard and fast, why is he swallowing down all the animalistic whimpers that come to his lips? Scott is scared, Scott is terrified , and he doesn’t know why.
He wraps his arms around his core, trying to steady his racing heart. He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine. There is no reason for him to be this paranoid, there is no purpose to his paranoia, his fear.
Hell, it doesn’t even feel like his ! The fear is foreign in his mind, it’s like someone breathing down his neck, it’s not his emotion .
Doesn’t change how scared he is, though. It doesn’t curb his rampant anxiety, this knowledge that he is fine, that he is safe, that he is genuinely not in trouble.
Scott feels like he might throw up.
He clutches his stomach, rocking forward and backward on his knees. Deep breaths, Scott. Deep breaths.
There’s a voice, there, a familiar soothing tone, in the back of his mind. It sounds like a boy, a friend, someone who cares- Scott chokes out a sob. Grief more potent than anything he’s ever felt rips through his body, and Scott doesn’t know why . He is so, so sad. Something terrible has happened, the wind whispers to him, something awful has happened to someone you love.
A hand rests on his shoulder. Scott doesn’t turn to look at who it is, just buries his face in his hands and starts to cry. His mind is racing, racing , too fast to control and too paranoid to calm down. This time, the force keeping his emotions in check doesn’t do anything- maybe even perpetuates the awful feelings, and it hurts it hurts it hurts - but there’s a hand on his shoulder and it’s nice, it’s grounding, it makes Scott feel safe-
Feathers tickle his back and a quiet voice asks, “Are you okay?”
A sense of familiarity so achingly sweet spreads through Scott’s body, and he feels a smile quirk at the edges of his mouth. He doesn’t know why, but he laughs. Scott’s shoulders relax, and he feels the person’s hand fall downwards with the drop of tension, still holding on lightly to him. Like this person, whoever they are, could never even fathom the idea of letting go of Scott.
Scott feels wanted, Scott feels found, Scott feels loved. He wants to turn around and wrap the stranger in a hug, he wants to laugh into their chest, he wants to lean his head against their lap and stare up at the sky with them.
“I am now,” he says, finally turning his head with watery eyes to take in the appearance of the boy sitting next to him.
Golden wings, straw-blonde hair, concerned eyes as blue as the sky above them. He is so beautiful.
Scott feels like he’s seen the boy before.
There are memories here, he can feel them in the back of his mind, but for once he doesn’t dwell on them. What matters right now is that he is here, and this boy is here, and they are together.
“I’m Jimmy,” the familiar stranger greets semi-awkwardly, exchanging his hand that’s not resting on Scott’s shoulder for a handshake. The canary smiles, and Scott smiles, and the world flips back into its rightful position. The oceans stop their torrent and the moon stops its careful careening towards the earth, and the sky is bright and blue and free .
And Scott, though he can’t remember, has an overwhelming sense that this is the first time in his life that he’s been free.
He wants to sing and laugh and dance. But all that, he can save for later- right now, he turns his grin to the man sat next to him.
“It’s nice to meet you, Jimmy. My name is Scott.”
Jimmy smiles, and everything is right in the world.
.
.
.
.
Six weeks later, Scott stands over a grave, a poppy clutched in his fist. His expression is grim and dark, and he has seen more carnage than anyone his age has the right to. His hands shake and he has to fight to hold back tears, adjusting his iron and diamond armor and kneeling down to the headstone.
He presses his lips to the poppy, and the flower quivers gently. Then Scott lets it fall. The red petals are stark against the newly-dug dirt, and Scott takes a moment to observe the beauty. But the color reminds him more of blood than it used to, blood caked in straw-blond hair, blood pressed between golden feathers. Blood falls from the lips of the man Scott loves the most.
He allows himself a moment to cry, he allows a tear to drip from each of his eyes, he allows the pain and borderline war of the last month and a half to sweep over him.
Then he stands, and wipes his eyes. His moment of vulnerability is over.
Scott has work to do.