Chapter Text
Grian woke up with knots in his hair and stomach.
It had been a few days since they had worked on the water wheel. Finishing the project had been the top priority, as they needed it to grind up the wheat they were harvesting.
Busy, is what he’d tell anyone who asked him why he seemed so distracted lately. Distracted, he’d murmur while trying to drag his mind away from the suggestion. Terrified, is what he’d admit in the middle of the night to himself after waking up for the third time with a scream in his mouth and a boombox in his chest.
There had been a reason he hadn’t been back to Cherry Mountain since the incident. It wasn’t because of the people; he had missed the people, the sights, the smells. He truly had, deep down, longed for the simple place he used to call home. There must have been a reason that the thought of walking through the streets made him sick to his stomach, and perhaps it was the indifference of time. It did not care about the reasons, the excuses, the hours he spent staring into his reflection as if just looking at his eyes could make them appear whole again. Cherry Mountain, Grian feared, would only remember the fact that he left.
Grian swung his feet off the bed, riffling his hand through his hair and landing them on the base of his neck. There was nothing to be done of it now, he thought. At some point, running became less sensible than letting danger pass.
Mumbo seemed to be afflicted with a combination of nerves and excitement. He had dressed hurriedly, Grian noted. The hair on the back of his head stuck up a little, the shirt wrinkled and the buttons in the wrong buttonholes. When Mumbo heard his quiet huff of laughter he jumped, twisting around.
“Fancy, uh,” he straightened his shirt a little and attempted to brush down his hair. It only made the hair stick up more. “Seeing you here. Well. You live here.”
“Yeah.”
“Right.” Mumbo tilted his body to cover a basket behind him. “I made breakfast and some sandwiches for later. Ham and cheese, I hope that’s fine.”
“Sounds good.” One of the pieces of Mumbo’s hair fell forward, catching around his eye. Grian stared at it. It bounced back as if waving.
“I was hoping to grab a couple things from Big Ron’s before going into town proper, but if you want to see something specific let me know. Scar said he might drop by as well, we’ll see.” The bit of hair slipped towards the tip of his eyebrow. Grian’s eye twitched in sympathy.
“Sorry, I’m getting distracted by your hair. Can I help tie it back or something?” Mumbo blinked.
“Oh yeah! I haven’t got it cut in ages. I know it looks a bit pants right now, but I think it’ll look nice all grown out.”
“I like it long.” Grian murmured, slipping his arm around Mumbo and guiding him to a stool. He gathered some of the strands towards the base of Mumbo’s scalp. “Suits the whole lumberjack vibe, I think.”
He laughed.
“If I really wanted to commit to the bit, I should grow a beard.”
“Oh, please don’t. Mumbo with a beard sounds more cursed than my heart could handle. Stick with the moustache.”
—
The houses on Cherry Mountain were still made of the same mix of wood, stucco and stone as his childhood. The streets were still, for the most part, named the same names. There was still Mumbo at his side, warm and energetic. But, as far as Grian was concerned, that is where the similarities between this town and his home ended.
The streets felt narrower, smaller. He was used to big cities, he supposed; anything smaller than two lanes both ways was as crapped as an alley. The buildings were smaller. The people felt like shorter, smaller versions of themselves. Withered, he couldn’t help but think. Every single person felt withered.
Grian stuck close to Mumbo, hand hovering but not quite grasping the taller man’s arm. Gone were the anxieties that had clung to Mumbo earlier that morning, lost to the soft comfort of familiar faces that Grian couldn’t quite remember. Could it truly only have been a few years, Grian thought desperately, when every man was a stranger?
Or perhaps he was the stranger. Suddenly, Grian needed to have someone recognize him. Surely someone could connect a name to his face; he had lived there for years! He had gone to school in the building they had just passed; maybe a teacher remembered him, or even a student. A cafe stood on the corner across from the school. He had gone there every Friday for two years straight. But the name on the sign had changed, and the waitress was blonde and not brunette. Mumbo gave a clap on the back to a person with curly hair, and Grian could not place their name. There was no Jill and Bob’s, there was no Big Ron, and there, for a split second, there was no Grian.
Mumbo pulled his arm towards a gas station, idly chatting about this and that. Grian let himself be pulled away from his thoughts and the road. The attendant was as equally unfamiliar as everyone else in this god-forsaken town, but was friendly enough to make conversation with while paying for some sweets. The ache in his chest eased slightly with every passing smile, even if they were tinted with the falsities of a customer service voice. They paid for their food and left, with the tension returning to Grian’s shoulders the second they passed through the doorway.
They turned the corner only to reach an old brick building with a dilapidated sign out front. For the first time since entering town, Mumbo seemed to reflect the emotions radiating off of Grian’s skin.
“I haven’t really been back here,” he murmured, eyebrows drawn tight. “It doesn’t seem right for it to be so…lifeless.”
Big Ron’s was a shamble, with the boxes that once piled in front shoved to a small mountain of dusty cardboard. There was no merchandise; what had once been an overflowing mass of electronics and machinery lay empty shelves and litter. Grian could see the ghosts of machines that now lived in Mumbo’s workshop, once protected tables now fading outlines. One of the windows had been smashed and covered with a disintegrating plastic tarp. What had once been a sanctuary of their future was now an obituary to the past.
It would be easier, Grian thought, if it was completely empty. Instead, the odd bits and bobs formed themselves into a landmine of memories. Here was the counter in which they would open cold root beers in the middle of summer: there, an etching into the wall they had made as proof of their own existence. Grian drew closer to the marks, fingers brushing the edges of the mustache he had carved all those years ago. Below it read a simple “Mumbo and Grian were here.”
“I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Yeah. It was so sudden, you know?” Mumbo dragged out two metal folding chairs, gesturing for Grian to sit in one.
“If you don’t mind me asking, how did he pass?”
“See that bit of machinery over there? The one with the large lever?” Grian nodded, face paling.
“There was an issue with the mechanism. Something had gotten caught, and it wasn’t working properly. I had gone into the other room to get some oil to try to unclog it. Big Ron started poking around in the machine to isolate the problem.”
“Somehow he managed to dislodge the bit of debris. The machine started operating again, and hit him square on the neck. I heard a thud in the other room and came rushing in. By the time I got here, he was already dead.”
“That’s…I’m so sorry, Mumbo. I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“Thanks,” he said, shrugging. He tried for a casual tone, and missed by a mile. Grian wanted to wince at the slight breaking of his throat. “I just…hadn’t expected it. It was a shock.”
“It never gets easier, does it.” Grian shuffled, leaning into Mumbo. “The hole, I mean. The gap people leave.”
“It doesn’t.” Mumbo said, eyes unfocused. He stared past Grian, as if remembering another person sitting there. Big Ron, Grian thought, or perhaps a younger version of himself. “The gap just gets easier to ignore.”
Grian opened his mouth. An apology bubbled at his throat for a thousand different things but most of all for leaving. The words failed to become sound. He closed it.
“Enough of that.” Mumbo stood. “I’ve got to get some tools, and then we’ll head up to eat.”
They folded the chairs. Mumbo ran upstairs, leaving Grian a chance to breathe. He walked over to a bench next to the machine, gripping the cool metal. It was soothing, he thought distantly, that the feel of metal never changed. It was stagnant where everything else was a rushing torrent, an anchor among the tides. His eyes watered. He sniffled, once, and then instantly felt a rush of guilt. Grian didn’t deserve the chance to grieve.
He was the one who left first.
The walk down main street was a series of stills for Grian. They must’ve left the house at some point; the sky outside was still a clear blue. The buildings felt like set pieces, a town of props and blank extras. Grian remembered raising his hand to greet a few of them. Every step seemed to raise Mumbo’s mood, animated in more frames than Grian ever saw. They were only a few minutes away from the truck when Mumbo suddenly turned to grab Grian’s hand. Grian fought off the flinch and blush that threatened to overtake him.
“Before we leave town, I have something I want to tell you.” Mumbo wrung his hands. Grian hummed.
“After yesterday night, I thought I’d make a few calls. Scar called a few friends, they grabbed a couple others, and well. Before I knew it half of our old classmates were planning on meeting down at the park. They were hoping you’d like to join us?”
Grian took in the sincerity plain upon Mumbo’s face, even as the words rang false in his ear. All those people, asking for him? For a second, he considered it a prank; perhaps it was some ill-timed joke. But this was Mumbo, who had never lied to him, and out came the words that always fell when Mumbo was concerned.
“All those people for little old me? How could I say no.”
—-
There are few things worth more, Grian thought, than sitting down at a campfire with people you thought you’d never see again. It was late summer now; the hazy heat lingered like a house guest overstaying its welcome. Beacons of light flicked across the sky in the form of fireflies, intertwining with the sparks of the actual fire. Golden light illuminated the faces of the group, echoing the faint remnants of sun found in the edges of dark purple clouds and pink streaks. Ren, an old acquaintance from school, sat across the way, lightly strumming on a guitar, while Scar had rolled up his wheelchair close to the fire, warming his hands. The lady from the tavern, Gem, he learned, was a joy to talk to. He had made his rounds already, and now sat warming his hands next to the fire. Mumbo, Grian found to his delight, had plopped down next to Grian with two plates in his hands.
“Figured you’d want one?”
Grian mumbled his thanks, grabbing the plate. It was a larger crowd than he was used to with nearly a dozen people scattered across the yard. Every face was familiar, like an actress in a film you couldn’t quite place until you figured it out in the middle of the night. So many people from Cherry Blossom; even a few from his village; it was easy, Grian decided, to live on Mumbo’s land and forget that mere miles meant the difference between home and the life you used to live. A rickety old fence and some fields was all that kept them separate.
The word felt strange even in the comforts of his mind. Home. It had been nearly two months, had it not? It hadn’t been the longest time he’d stayed in one place; nearly two years of his life had been at school, far longer than his time here. But city life was crowded and bustling and then he wouldn’t be here. Had he stayed any longer, there would have been no home to go back to.
Distantly, Grian heard Mumbo laughing at something Scar had said. It was a cute laugh, he decided. Mumbo’s laugh could come from the sugar plum fairy and Grian would be none the wiser. He snorted slightly at the thought of Mumbo dressed as the sugar plum fairy, dressed in pink and-
“-eh Grian?” Mumbo elbowed him, eyes filled with mirth.
“What?”
“We were just talking about harvest plans. I was thinking we could plan a party near mid November, and gather the lot together. It’d be fun, yeah?”
“Oh… well.” He stammered. “November’s a while away, right?”
“Not really? Life gets really busy around here during fall, you know that. Best to set dates when everyone’s here. Who knows when we all can get together again?”
“Y-yeah.”
The conversation continued, ebbing and flowing around the island of Grian’s mind. Two whole months. Congrats. All he’d managed to stay for was two whole months and yet here Mumbo was talking about November as if it were a given. What of December then? Of Christmas? Of next summer, and winter, and spring? It scared him. Two whole months before the world decided he was committed, an anchor to a land he’d thought he’d never return to. A land that was only meant for trespassers.
He would leave, eventually. Right? Home meant nothing to a man who lost it who knows how long ago. Home was a fantasy he could not afford. They would move on, surely. They had before. These people, who met his gaze like a pleasant surprise rather than a miracle. Had he stayed away, their lives would remain utterly unaltered. Even Mumbo would be better without the man. He wouldn’t know the difference.
There was a whole world beyond the farm. Past the fields there were mountains and oceans and dreams. He could be free from the guilt that clung on these walls; free from the still voice in his head that whispered that he was only good for abandoning people. That the choices were to leave or be hurt. Grian couldn’t afford to be hurt again.
Thoughts swirled in his head, trapping his limbs to the side of him as soft voices sang to the strum of Ren’s guitar. The only time his mind ever quieted that evening from its torrent roar was the moment Mumbo’s head tilted back, resting itself on Grian’s shoulder. What should have been the picture of comfort and peace was swiftly swept away in the anxious current of his mind.
Once the fire died down and the field was kept, the two of them had wandered back to the farmhouse. Mumbo had kept a steady stream of words, laughing at this or that and nudging Grian all the while. Grian, for his part, had inputted a few hums and haws, claiming he was tired and racing up the steps to his…the room. He had locked the door behind him, slipping out of his jeans and into a pair of sweatpants.
Prior to this week, Grian had had nearly two months of deep restful sleep. Now, for the 2nd in a row, the moon kept his company all night long.
—
Grian held himself differently. It must have been something, maybe in the twitch of an eye or the folding of a shoulder. Nothing large, nothing imposing; just enough that when he saw Grian for the first time in years, the first thought that Mumbo had was what happened?
He curled over his cup like always, but in a way that felt defensive rather than comforted. He smiled, but always lasted a millisecond too long to be anything but forced. Even now, as the man was tucked away upstairs in a guest room, the quiet echoed louder than the words he had spoken yesterday evening.
Some of it had to be the simple weight of time; if wrinkles and trembling were easily brushed away with the excuse, surely the blankness in his eyes could be of the same thread. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, or the consequence of a faulty memory. Either way, Mumbo reasoned, the effects of it seemed to have soothed away slightly in the months Grian had lived here.
It was a little harder to remember the justifications and excuses when Grian walked into the room looking like that.
His hair stuck up in all the wrong ways, a tangled nest that begged of a comb. His hands, once as steady as the heartbeat of machinery, now began to resemble a leaf tittering in the wind. Worst of all, his gorgeous blue eyes reassembled that of a dull and icy pond.
Mumbo stood instinctively, guiding the man towards one of the stools. Grian’s eyes drifted towards a spatula, but Mumbo swiftly picked it up and began to fuss around the kitchen. There was no way he was going to let Grian make breakfast when the man was shaking like that.
“Have you reorganized the kitchen?” He joked, yanking open drawers and coming up with various seasonings. “I swear I used to be able to find everything.”
“Yeah, well.” Grian murmured. “Half of the stuff lived in moving boxes.”
“Very organized moving boxes, might I add.” He cracked some eggs onto the stove. “Who knows. If you didn’t live here, I might’ve had the world’s best system of organizational cardboard boxes.”
“If it makes you feel any better, you won’t have to deal with my system much longer.” Grian sighed, grabbing tea. His hands clutched around the goose mug.
Grian had made these comments before, in that same self-deprecating tone. Today, however, Mumbo could hear the cracks of…something touch the edges of his voice. Something dangerous. Nevertheless, Mumbo responded in the same way he always did.
“Well, you can’t go until you’ve tried some of my scrambled eggs. I’ll have you know Scar will eat them voluntarily.”
Grian scoffed. “Scar will eat anything that you put in front of him.” He swirled his spoon in the tea. He mumbled something that Mumbo couldn’t quite catch.
“What was that?” He asked, turning to face Grian completely.
“Nothing.” He said, eyes fixed to the mug. His hands were white, tight and strung. “I’ll just…”
“I’ll just what?” Mumbo straightened, posture stiff and reminiscent of a statue tucked in the middle of ruins. Ruins, Grian couldn’t help but think, not unlike the ones that faced him every time he left the farm.
“I’ll miss him, okay? He’s a good friend.” Grian took a sip of tea, averting Mumbo’s gaze. Please let him take the hint. Please let him let Grian go without a fuss. Please, Grian begged, make this easy.
“We can always call him over?”
With Mumbo, it was never easy.
“It just sucks, you know?” His shoulder’s had shrunken in. “Leaving everyone behind. Like, I know they're just around the bend. But every time I think about staying, I just can’t.”
“You’re leaving.” Mumbo’s tone left no room for argument. His face, Grian thought, could not be more stone.
“This was never meant to be permanent. I just wanted to stop in, I never wanted things to be so-”
“Real? Running away because things are hitting a little too close to home? That is so typical of you.” Mumbo paced, turning like a caged tiger. “God. I can’t believe you. I can’t believe I let myself fall for you.”
“You never loved me, Mumbo. This?” He gestured around the house. “Nothing more than a cheap fantasy. A lonely man clinging to the last remnants of his childhood. You don’t even know the real me anymore. The person you knew died in a basement years ago.”
“But I do know you. I know you love lavender tea, but only if no one else is watching. I know you will choose the goose mug out of all of my mugs, because it makes me smile like nothing else. I know you are a good man, a frightened man, and above all else I know if you walk out that door, you will never forgive yourself.”
“You don’t know anything!” Grian practically screeched. “This isn’t real in the way you think it is. I’m just some placeholder for the thing you call love. This,” He grabbed the mug off the counter, sloshing the tea. “is just a cheap gift I made because I liked pottery. It can be replaced at any store. It doesn’t mean a happy ending. It doesn’t mean anything at all.”
“Why are you doing any of this?”
“Because I’m me! I’m me, and I leave, and the gap gets filled by something else. You’ll live without me. You always have.”
Grian lifted up the mug, brushing its roughened edges. He stared Mumbo down, watching the core of his favorite person shatter.
A crashing sound. The clang of a door being slammed shut. The sound of a truck engine revving.
The sound of tears clinking onto porcelain shards.