Chapter Text
Jaron isn’t sure why he expected anything different at this point. After this entire year, after all they passed, kindness is still surprising.
Some part of him is scared at how fast Minute goes from horrified and confused to coordinating whoever is at season seven’s spawn to help them put together a house for the sick. And it’s even scarier how most people involved don’t question Minute about the second SB, trusting that whatever needs to be explained will be, after the SB’s are in bed, receiving health potions through an IV of all things.
Minute is their leader after all. The same way people used to follow Parrot back home, they follow and trust Minute to do right by them.
Jaron now knows he did wrong. He doesn’t regret defending SB—the reflection—from his other self. But he does regret how he went about doing it.
Going behind Minute’s back wasn’t an active thought, it wasn’t a conscious decision to go against him, he just … did it. The old, familiar act of dealing with Lifesteal’s problems without them knowing, a ghost in the cogs. But he isn’t a ghost anymore. He’s sitting in a chair and shaking as he thinks of the consequences of his own actions.
SB hasn't woken up yet. Neither has his counterpart. It’s been roughly an hour or two, so he can’t be surprised; they badly needed the rest after all.
They are in separated rooms, in separated beds. It’s the same building but a wall was built to make sure they can’t see each other upon waking up. Jaron has no idea what will happen to either of them, but honestly … it’s not his problem. It hasn’t been his problem for some time now. But he still stays, he stays because of the fear nagging at the back of his mind:
The fear of what they will do SB.
The fear that they were too late and the meds weren't enough.
The fear that he tried so hard to save another Lifestealer just to be told he failed again.
Jaron bounces his leg up and down, staring at the floor. By now, the building is empty save for the two identical guys and the most paranoid admin of all time. He’s watched him pace between rooms several times now, and even if it’s starting to piss him off, there’s no way he’d call out his nervous behavior now.
He dreads the moment Minute stops worrying about SB—either of them—and starts worrying about him. He’s still waiting for him to turn around and drop the ‘you’re banned, by the way,’ because of the stunt he pulled. Stunts. Plural. This isn’t his first fuckup.
At some point, he feels eyes burn into him. Someone’s staring at him, unsubtly. He can only pretend he doesn’t realise for so long until his eyes drag themselves over to the source. It’s Minute. Fists clenched, intense stare, something uncomfortable in his stance. He looks angry, upset, but also like he’s dreading this about as much as Jaron is.
This might really be it. He steels himself with a deep breath in.
“Why?” Simple enough to say exactly what Minute means, complicated enough that Jaron doesn’t have an answer. “Why did you help SB get rid of the body? Why did you help him?”
“It was a body, it was already dead.” His voice is soft, he doesn’t meet Minute’s eyes when saying it.
The admin pinches the bridge of his nose and turns his head away. He looks shaky, trying to hide the frustration and the fear that is so obviously trying to control him. Jaron supposes he’s a lot better at it when things aren’t this overwhelming. But as he turns, he also reveals a row of dark spikes protruding from his back, following his spine, growing larger in a slow but steady way.
“You were going to just … get rid of him, without asking questions.” His glare at Jaron is harsh. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you!”
Jaron flinches, it’s small, but he knows Minute saw, he yanks at his hat covering his eyes, he looks at everything but Minute’s eyes, somehow it’s easier to stare at his claws.
“I asked questions.” He once again feels like a child saying that. “I always ask questions.” He doesn’t mention that he didn’t ask the right questions; never did he ask SB if the body could still respawn, the possibility didn’t even pass through his head.
Minute blows an angry breath out his nose. “Well, you didn’t ask enough. We could have lost him. Permanently! Do you have any idea how irresponsible that was?”
“I know!” Jaron doesn’t mean to snap, doesn’t mean to let slip how angry and frustrated he also is. “He was dead, Minute. Permadead. For all that I know you had already lost him.” He wants to yank at his hair, this entire thing is so— “I’m sorry, okay?” He knows being sorry isn’t nearly enough.
Minute laughs, but it’s not a laugh of humour. It sounds like disbelief. He rubs at his forehead, then looks away, gritting his teeth. If Jaron were to pay any attention, he’d be able to see those spikes grow. The only thing he really sees is the bumps on his forehead, the horns that break through his skin.
“Being sorry just isn’t— it’s not going to cut it. Why— Jaron, why are you always in the middle of these things? Why, whenever there’s something horrible going on with my players, are you always there?”
Because I need to, because that's who I am, what I am. The universe is meant to watch, is meant to know. Jaron does more than that, is more than that, but looking over the players of Lifesteal is his self assigned job for what feels like a lifetime now. Minute saw it, right? He saw it that day, he should know.
“You saw what I am, you know what I am.” His eyes meet Minute, the first player to see what Jaron truly is made of, the one who told him he could stay. “You know why.”
“I don’t, Jaron.” He towers over him now. Looking like this, he’s the textbook definition of a real monster. “I know nothing! I don’t know what you are or what you want because just like SB, you keep all your secrets to yourself until things explode. And even then, I don’t get to know any of them.”
Jaron shrinks in on himself. Finally, he can understand how terrified the admin must’ve been all this time. He’d been under the impression he’d figured it out. Not knowing and not having control … he can see why he’s breaking down.
“All you’ve done is cause trouble. All I see you do is cause trouble.” Minute needs a moment to breathe, shoulders rising and falling with each he takes. “I know you don’t know me that well, but I don’t get mad that easily. This place is built on dangerous people. I am one of those dangerous people. But what you did today? It was— you— you nearly killed one of our own, Jaron!”
Jaron flinches, full body now. He shakes his head, but denial isn’t something he deserves, not after what he did.
“I just wanted to help.”
Whatever was holding Minute back from snapping is finally gone. When he glares at him, his teeth are bared. “Yeah, because you’re such a good helper, aren’t you?” He uses his claws to pull Jaron off his chair, yanking him up until they’re face to face, his claws tainting his shirt black. “Helped SB so well when he tried to throw his other self into the void. Helped Spoke nearly blow up the server, didn’t you?”
“Don’t brink Spoke into this.” Fear is replaced by anger. He feels cold. Glaring, he bares his teeth right back at Minute. “He has nothing to do with this.”
Minute shakes his head. “He’s part of the list. Your list of fuck-ups.” He twitches, like he hates the words leaving his own mouth. His rage has an edge to it. Jaron can’t name what it is.
“I tried leaving.” He spits the words out like poison. “After Spoke, I tried leaving.” But he didn't, because every single time, someone stopped him. “I know I fucked up, I know I make stuff worse, do you think I like seeing my— your family in pain?!” It feels like poison, it is poison; Jaron knows that this conversation came later than it should. It came way too late.
“You think you just get to leave, Jaron?” Minute swallows the lump in his throat. He shoves him back with a claw to his chest. “It would be so easy to just leave, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes!” That’s the whole point. Jaron pulls at his hat, the urge to scream is strong. “I don't get to stay, Minute. I never get to stay, I shouldn't have stayed. You saw what happens when I do.” Not that he would ever expect the server to run away with him inside, but details. “You saw it, but you told me to stay.” He didn't mean to push the blame onto Minute, but he did anyway. “So I did.”
Minute pinches the bridge of his nose again, forcing a deep breath out. With a lot of effort, he steps back. He clenches his claws back into fists, shakes his head, and looks away.
“You think I’d just kick you out?” He seems to be trying his very best not to get aggressive again. “I don’t want people to leave just because they’re dangerous. This place is built on dangerous players. Would I kick out Spoke? Would I make SB leave? What do you think I am, some kind of monster?”
“You are kind, Minute. A kind person, kind admin.”
And there it comes again, the urge to scream.
“Too kind.” He levels him with a stare. “I really don't like SB, you know? Not as much as I dislike—” Spoke “—other people. I don't hate him, on a good day you could say I am neutral towards him.” He glances over at the SB, still unconscious in bed. He didn't forget what they talked about before Minute got there. “We don't agree on anything, it's infuriating.” He looks at Minute again. “We did agree on one thing: you are too kind, it doesn't make any sense.”
Minute turns his head away like he’s hit. There’s a scowl on his face but underneath is hurt. “Are you really questioning why I’m kind right now? You’re questioning why I’m letting both of you stay?”
“Is it that hard to believe that I would question it?” Perhaps there was a time he wouldn't, once a long time ago there was a time where trusting that people weren't truly trying to harm him was as easy as breathing. These times have long passed. “You already have a Jaron, you already have a SB, I can't say that had this happened back in my Lifesteal we would show the same kindness.”
“I’m not out to hurt you.” Minute looks hurt at the mere idea. “We’re not like that. Haven’t you seen that already?”
Jaron watches him take a deep breath. He rolls his shoulders, looking like he’s trying to calm himself down. The spikes don’t go, and the horns grow a little bigger still, but he’s actively trying to put on a calm face.
“Jaron.” His voice is as steady as it can be, which … isn’t that steady. “Don’t mistake my anger for hate. I wouldn’t kick you out. I wouldn’t.”
“I know.” Jaron’s shoulders sag, he is so tired of everything. He slumps back into the chair. Despite all the shouting, SB doesn't look any closer to waking up. “I have a hard time understanding why, but I know.” He sighs. “You are a good admin, Minute. The universe likes you, and this server adores you.”
He looks at SB, the reflection, the one who caused all of this, the one Jaron can't really figure out what will happen to when he wakes up.
“Don’t blame yourself for things you couldn't know.”
He remembers the worry, he remembers the fear. He knows that there is no way of fixing this situation without hurting anyone. His mouth runs before his brain can catch up.
“He was scared.” And angry, but he suspects that most of it was fueled by fear. “Terrified, it was like looking at a mirror.” He almost whispers the last part, one can only recognize that type of terror when it is something already carved on your own skin. “You asked me why I helped, that's why. I know what it’s like to lose everything. I don't want anyone else to go through that.”
Minute is silent for a little while. He crosses his arms, not in any kind of angry way, but maybe the uncomfortable kind of way, or he’s simply thinking over his words. Either way, Jaron doesn’t have the heart to look at him after his confession.
“He’s not going to lose everything. Neither is the other SB.” He gets quiet after that, messing with the rings around his fingers like a nervous habit—he supposes everyone has their own.
“And neither are you, Jaron.” He pauses, if only to let the words sink in. “I meant it when I said this could be your home. The players here love you too. You belong here, you’re one of us. I’m not going to take this from you. No admin is, I swear.”
“Minute, I—” Words are hard, there is so much he could say. The urge to argue against it is there, the thought of just shutting up and accepting the kindness is ignored. “I think you are the only admin that would, I am not even a player.” There it is. His voice is soft, his hands shake, he stares at Minute's hands because he isn't sure he could survive looking at his face right now.
The more comfortable he got with this Lifesteal, the more that reality of his own making started to plague him. Rek probably knows, Wemmbu took the truth out of his mouth by force, but it feels good to say it out loud, even if it hurts like cutting a limb in half.
Staring at Minute’s hands is a nice distraction from any judgemental look the man could possibly wear, until he watches those claws dig into his palms not out of nerves, but pain. Minute sucks in a deep breath, quiet as he tries to be. He doesn’t let up from torturing his own hands, though uses his thumb to slide one of his rings back and forth.
“Neither am I, really.” Minute sounds more broken than ever. Resigned, defeated, like he’s admitting the same truth Jaron is. “I’m not really a player.”
Ah. Ah. “Stop that.” He glares at Minute's hands when saying that. It's easier to focus on something else than the truth Minute just shared. “I already have enough nerve damage for the entirety of Lifesteal, we don't need to match.” He raises his perpetually shaking hand, smiling as if telling a bad joke. “We're playing the game, aren't we? That must count for something.”
“That counts for you too. One monster to another.”
Jaron tenses, it's been a long time since someone called him that, a long time since he managed to get a grasp on being human again and get himself attached to an identity that shouldn't belong to him anymore. Minute doesn't say it with fear, doesn't say it with reverence, he says it with certainty.
Minute saw Jaron’s true form and he saw a monster. He let him stay.
Minute looks at himself in the mirror and he sees a monster. Jaron can relate.
“How do you—?” He bites his lips, Minute looks as tired as him, it's not fair that he is the one who has to deal with all of this. “Nevermind.” He smiles, it's tired, but less fake than it would be an hour ago. “Thanks, Minute.”
He gets a shrug in return. The spikes on his back crawl back inside, inch by inch. As unhappy as Minute seems to feel about it, he does look calmer.
“Everyone wants you to stay. All I ask is that you … that you ask for help next time. If someone has an issue, talk to me. It doesn’t even have to be me. Just please … don’t do it alone, okay?”
He nods, not looking at Minute, instead staring ahead at his friend who is always there, looking. It doesn't judge, never did, Jaron feels safe knowing it is there.
“I can try.” He knows it's not the answer Minute wants to hear, but it's all he can promise without lying. “I am not the best at it, but I can try.”
“Thank you.”
If that isn’t a good ending to their conversation, the soft groan of SB is. Jaron perks up, finding the man, the original, stirring in his bed. Minute is faster than him and he hurries to SB’s bedside, feels his temperature, and sits down on the chair left there.
He’s not too sure he should join. He knows this version even less than the reflection. Still, he stares, watching him blink open his eyes and turn to Minute in confusion. Some words are slurred out, probably some about where he is or what happened, but he’s not close enough to be able to properly hear. Minute answers in a hushed tone, a golden apple already in his hand to hand over if needed.
But he’s always been too nosy for his own good. He approaches the bed with slow steps, his fingers itching to check SB’s code, to guarantee that respawn after so long in stasis didn't do any permanent damage, but he keeps himself from asking. That's no way to greet someone who just woke up after that shit show.
“How is the fever?” He’s looking at SB, but the question is more directed at Minute who probably has a more solid answer.
SB tells him “I’m fine,” at the same time that Minute gives him a pained look. The admin shakes his head and sighs. “Still pretty high. He’ll be fine but he needs more rest.” The two aren’t that different then. SB looks ready to get up and get going, despite the obvious sickness lingering.
The man in question scoffs and lets his head fall back on the pillow. “I’m fine enough. How are things on the server? What did I miss?” He pauses, if only to cough. Once he settles down he just looks more annoyed. “How did you deal with that imposter?”
Jaron winces, those are two loaded questions, a lot happened in the year SB was dead, he missed a lot, and telling him the things his reflection did doesn't sound right, not when there is so much animosity between the both of them.
“The same thing we did to you.” He looks at the drip that SB thankfully still didn't make a move to take off. “He's in bed recovering from the fever you both have.” He doesn't mention that said bed is just a wall away from where they are, he prays that Minute doesn't tell him, not now at least.
SB frowns. He looks between them, slower to think than usual. He can’t help but be thankful for it now.
“You didn’t get rid of him?” he asks, and he really does try to sound angry but when he has to fight a cough, it really doesn’t pack the same punch, does it?
Minute stays by his side, hands folded in his lap—he probably wants to reach out, but doesn’t for several reasons. “It’s—it has been a little while, SB. We know him as well as we know you, it wouldn’t be right to just … pretend he doesn’t exist when he’s also you.”
“But I’m the real one.” SB pushes himself up to sit against the headboard with a groan. After he says it, he catches Jaron’s eye. Not for long; he looks away just as quickly, a million thoughts running through that mind of his.
“I know.” Minute sighs. “It’s not fair and I’m sorry this happened.”
“Don’t be sorry, you aren’t the one who lost.”
It’s weird to hear SB, any SB, admit something like that. He must really be sick, or perhaps they truly were different people after all.
“Is it really the only way?” Jaron can’t help himself. He remembers SB’s fear, the words ‘I am not going back, I’ll do anything, anything, to stay on this side.’ It’s a puzzle where all the pieces are on the table, but he lacks the context to make it whole. “You lost and you didn’t respawn, was SB—the reflection—going back in the only way to bring you back?”
There’s a shrug. SB doesn’t ridicule his question, just shakes his head. “It was all just theory until he climbed out and took my spot. We both assumed it was life or death, so we fought for whoever would claim my whole life.” He pauses to sigh, but admitting this doesn’t have him ashamed enough to look away. “There was so much rage. You kind of … underestimate how much effect that much anger has on how you fight.”
“SB,” Minute says slowly as messes with the covers on the bed. As soon as they turn black, he pulls his claws back onto his lap. “Why didn’t you tell anyone about him?”
The guy drags a hand down his face. He looks so damn tired. “He’s not exactly your burden to bear, is he? I had him under control. I didn’t think— he wasn’t supposed to get out. This isn’t his world. I didn’t even know it was possible.”
“But we could’ve—”
“Could’ve what, Minute? I know a handful of people on this server and not enough to let them deal with my troubles. I had everything under control.”
Jaron has the urge to put his hands on his face and scream—in a way only SB seems to be able of, both of them. SB and his counterpart talk exactly the same. SB having ‘everything under control’ is how they ended in this mess to begin with after all.
Instead of commenting something that would end with yet another SB hating his guts, he lets his brain wander somewhere.
“Your counterpart—” SB’s eyes snap to look at him, he looks tired and weary of what's going to come out of his mouth. Jaron feels bad bombarding the guy with so many questions, but he needs to know. “He entered the code, used a gap in the void to go from one season to another, is that a reflection thing or do you …?”
SB laughs. It’s a strange thing to hear in this house of sickness and anger. But he does, and for once he doesn’t sound too mad.
“No, we learned that together. We know a lot about code. How to manipulate it, how to work it to our wishes. Everything I know, he knows, and I know a damn lot.” That’s what it is. Pride. That is a whole lot better than what this conversation has been leading to this whole time.
Great, there are two of them.
Jaron hates how SB reminds him of himself more and more, he has been through a lot of places, different universes, with hundreds and hundreds of variations of the same people, it’s the first time he sees someone who can manipulate code so well without being an admin, the first time since … well, since himself. But while SB sees the universe as something to be manipulated, as just code, Jaron saw something else and gained a friend.
Instead of delving on that he looks at Minute. “Have you checked their code since we came back?”
Minute looks at him for a second before seemingly realising he should. “I was, uh— yeah, I’ll do it now that he’s awake.” He pulls up his comm and gets to work immediately.
Surprisingly, SB doesn’t so much as look annoyed at the idea. Finally.
“How much damage did he do?” the man asks as he watches Minute work over the edge of his comm. “Or did he really only pretend to be me?”
“He played the game.” Jaron talks to let Minute concentrate. “Got teammates, built bases, got hearts.” He thinks about anything that SB could have done that was worse than what this SB could've done and his mind comes back blank. “The only reason I knew something was wrong with him was because of what he did to the code this season.”
“What did he do?” Immediately, SB sits up a little, though is pushed back down by the admin—who carefully avoids touching him for too long. Like this, he looks afraid his other self planted some kind of nuke inside the code that would destroy the entirety of the server.
“Tricked the server multiple times into resetting chunks.” Jaron feels tired just thinking about it. “I don’t think I have slept in the last month, it’s so—” painful, “ — loud.” His hands shake, and he full body shivers remembering the feeling of the universe itself screaming in pain. “He refused to stop, and it’s not like I could make him if I wanted.”
He expects horror and disgust when he looks over. He does not expect to see SB’s mouth falling open in what can only be burning jealousy. “Chunk resetting? That’s impossible. How the— and he kept doing it? More than once?” He scoffs, glaring at the walls. “Of course he’d do that without me.”
Minute isn’t quick enough to suppress an amused snort. He glances to see if anyone heard. Neither Jaron nor SB can get themselves to be mad at that. At last, the air in the room is lighter.
“Let me have a full night of sleep before you try that trick.” Jaron glares at SB, regretting saying anything about the chunk reset. “I still have no idea how SB ended with no code contamination after that.”
“We know how to take care of ourselves,” is the reply, and this has to be the first time SB doesn’t talk about his counterpart with hate.
“Yeah, but doing that on your own code sucks.” He would know, he is the one who looks after his own code after all.
“It would, if you don’t avoid the damage.” SB shrugs. “Slip through fast and careful enough and the code doesn’t have time to contaminate much.”
Minute glances between the two of them like they’re speaking an entirely different language. “Okay, are we done talking about shit I don’t understand? Your code talk is distracting me from my code duties, okay?”
Jaron snorts. “Alright, code master.” He shakes his head, taking a step closer looking over Minutes' shoulders. “Did you find anything weird?”
“Just some dates being set back a year. Everything else seems fine. It’s like he was just, I don’t know, fully frozen.” Minute scrolls through some of the code on his comm before turning his head to him. “Anything specific you think I missed?”
“Check his respawn conditions.” Jaron squints, struggling to understand what is going on in Minute’s admin screens; it’s very different from how he interacts with code after all, but it overlaps, different ways of reading the same book or something like that. “He was tick-frozen back in season six. I manually pushed it, but I don’t think I fixed it permanently.”
Minute skillfully navigates exactly to where Jaron needs him to go. But once he’s there, he … all he does is scroll back and forth, until he finally lets out a noise of confusion. “I don’t know why, but it’s a negative on the respawn. There’s no reason for why though. Everything’s fine.”
“Because me and him physically aren’t able to coexist at the same time. Not on the same side of the mirror, at least. There’s only supposed to be one of us using the one username we have. The server doesn’t respawn a player who’s still alive, meaning it just doesn’t kick in.”
Jaron’s comm weighs heavy in his pocket. To this day, no one in this Lifesteal really questioned the fact that he and Angel basically share the same username, it’s weird seeing someone in the same boat but not. He has been very careful not to die after all.
“Is it only respawn, or do you two share comm messages as well?” He turns to look at Minute, realization dawning on his face. “He is laying on a bed, do you remember SB getting any achievement?”
The admin immediately opens up the main chat and scrolls up like his life depends on it. There is not, in fact, a message to indicate this is the first time SB slept in a bed this season.
“Yeah, I thought not.” SB sighs and drapes an arm over his eyes. “We’re just entangled, nothing to do about.”
“You could change your username.” At the glare sent in his direction, he raises his hand to calm him back down. “Or he could change his username, it would fix the respawn problem.”
The idea isn’t immediately dismissed, at least. Both of the others are thinking it over. It’s not a bad idea at all. They’d both get what they want, mostly. But there’s also another big, glaring issue with this:
Do they both get to stay on Lifesteal?
“That would work.” The man in question doesn’t seem entirely happy about it either. He’s smart though, smart enough to realise this isn’t just a question about choosing one over the other. “I do think there’s a bit more to decouple than just our username, but in theory … yeah, it would work.”
Whatever peace they managed to create with this conversation isn’t meant to last. He doesn’t hear it, but his friend calls his name and Jaron is turning before he even knows why. The sound of a door creaking open follows his own reaction. Jaron doesn’t need to look at Minute or SB, he’s already running by the time the sound of someone falling to the ground hits them.
SB managed to make it to the door before his legs gave up on him. Even with his mask Jaron can hear the heavy breathing of someone who shouldn’t have gotten out of bed. He’s kneeling by his side before he can think over if it’s actually a good idea, one hand on his shoulder and the other flat against his forehead. His fever is still high.
“Please—” he begs, chest heaving with the effort it takes. He stares at Jaron like he’ll do something, even after everything he did to help.
“Stop running.” Jaron was never good at saying the right things, but he hopes he can, at least this time. “They won't hurt you, I promise. You need to go back to bed.”
Still, SB looks past him to try and catch a view of the other two. Beyond the haze of sickness, it’s impossible to ignore the fear. “No—” he heaves for air, “—you don’t know him like I do. He’s never going to let me live—” It ends in another coughing fit, shaking his whole body. Still, he clings to Jaron like he’s his last hope.
“No one is dying here.” He holds onto SB, even if he looks too out of it to truly understand what Jaron is saying. “SB, I need you to trust me.” He hates doing this but he knows it will work, he tells himself that it’s for SB’s own good. His hands become blurry, his friend guiding him through the act of becoming more than himself. “You are safe. They are not going to harm you, I promise.”
In an instant, SB’s eyes lock onto him instead of trying to find the other him in his panic. He’s not allowed to do anything but believe it, and at that, the fight finally drains from his body. He sags against the door and a shaky breath escapes him.
“Okay.” The man doesn’t look at him. “Okay, I see. Are you …” he glances up at him quickly, and it has to be the most vulnerable he’s seen him since meeting him. “Am I getting kicked out?”
The blur fades from his body. “I don’t know, I’m sorry.” Jaron dares to glance at Minute, who is standing at the doorway, looking at them. “But you are not going back to the mirror, I am not letting that happen.”
SB squeezes his arm before he lets it fall into his lap from exhaustion. He stares at him one last time before nodding.
“Thank you.”
Minute decides then that it’s time to interfere. He clears his throat, stepping up to the two of them in an awkward display of trying to look the least threatening he possibly can. His expression has gotten a lot more sympathetic since his first realisation of the situation.
“Hey,” he says, voice soft now. “How about we get you back to bed, SB. You’re still really sick, this is the best place for you to rest right now.”
Jaron can tell he’s trying his best, that this is some silent apology for making assumptions about this whole thing, about SB and what he was doing. But he knows it’s real, and he hopes SB knows it too.
“Yeah, let’s get you to bed.” He grabs SB’s arms, moving one of them over his neck to try and help the man into standing up. SB is tall to an annoying degree; Jaron would say that out loud, complain and make a joke if the man didn’t look like he was one sneeze away from triggering a respawn. Instead, he looks at Minute, who is quick but careful at taking SB’s other arm, helping moving him back to the bed.
Jaron is happy to let Minute tuck the guy into bed. If he has to be honest, he’s dead tired at this point. He could use a good, long nap again. He still sticks around to see how Minute mumbles a couple more reassurances, then turns on his heel to find the other SB again.
He doesn’t have to search for long. Before he can even finish turning on his heel, he catches sight of him in the doorway. SB—the original one—doesn’t give him the chance to raise his hands and urge him back.
“He’s been here for a year, right?”
Minute makes the mistake of turning to him, allowing the two look-alikes to see each other. But this time, nothing happens to turn this back into a bloodbath.
“I have,” the mirrored one says. And even if the sickness and mask covering his face taint his voice, it’s weird to hear the same voice in a single conversation again—Jaron finally realises this is what Rek must feel like so often.
A hum. SB considers them when Minute leaves a diluted potion by the other’s bedside. “You and Minute seem close. Did you team this season?”
“Team Apocalypse. It might be the greatest team the server has ever seen—” Again, he breaks out into a cough. Minute is quick to fetch a bottle of water for him. It’s hard to ignore the softness with which he helps him drink now after SB takes the mask off for a second.
Jaron watches the SB in the doorway think. For once it’s not a calculating, emotionless look. There’s feeling in those eyes, conflict in the way he pulls his eyebrows together into a frown.
“I guess you haven’t needed me for a long time.”
Minute is on his feet in an instant. “SB—” he starts, raising his hands, like he needs to console him already. Jaron is glad he’s not the only one in this position now.
“No, I understand it now. He hasn’t needed me and he’s made his own friends. I guess we are very different people now.” He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at his other self. His chest rises and then falls with a deep breath.
“I guess … you can have Lifesteal. You can have it if we manage to split us. If not, I want my life back. You can’t claim it for yourself.”
“It’s doable.” Jaron crosses his arms, looking at both SB’s then at Minute. “Even if for some reason an admin can’t, I can ask in a favor. You both can have your own lives.”
He can only see one of their reactions, and it’s from the SB right in front of him. He takes a deep breath to hold it captive in his lungs before he nods, stuck somewhere between grateful and relieved, and disappointed. With that, he considers Jaron for a final time before he leaves the room silently.
Jaron might never understand him. But he can understand him a little bit better when he looks over his shoulder to see the sick SB look away with what have to be tears in his eyes.
It’s a relief for everyone. None of them have to choose between one or the other.
“I think—” he looks at SB, sick in bed and safe, then at Minute, who looks one second away from collapsing in a chair, “–that I will be going now. Call me if anything happens.”
He isn’t sure if he says it to Minute, to SB or to his friend, but it doesn’t really matter. He could walk out of the door like a normal person, that’s always an option, but it’s a boring option that would take too many steps. There is no one in the room who at this point would judge him for doing stuff his way.
He takes a step and falls right through the floor. Spectator mode comes to him as easy as one takes a breath. He needs to sleep, he needs a nap, he is so tired.
He lets himself forget about all that just happened, tries to not mull over everything that could have and did go wrong by fault of his own too much. He flings himself to what at this point became his designated nap spot.
Poafa’s base greets him like a wife welcoming a soldier that came home from war. A giant tree with enormous leaves, the perfect nap spot for someone who can’t stand beds anymore.
He leaves spectator, naps are better taken in survival after all. He sinks onto one of the lower branches, letting himself relax for what feels like the first time in weeks.
There are still a lot of things that aren’t right, things that need fixing or just need to be forgotten and buried to never be touched again; he makes a mental note to talk with his other self when he is back from wherever he went this season. He also should probably check on Rek to see how he’s holding up.
A lot of things to do, a lot of problems for another time.
He looks at the blue afternoon sky one more time before closing his eyes, letting his body shut down for once.
“Jaron, what the fuck.”
He opens his eyes, and with his arms crossed, standing over him, is Poafa. There is a shulker box in his arms, an expression on his face like the man looks like he just found a hair in the middle of his salad.
“Heeey, I can explain?”