Chapter Text
Last Life had left a sort of hollow feeling in Mumbo’s throat. That sort of want to cry but you can’t. And he couldn’t. Maybe it was after doing so much of it when first getting home from Last Life, and then again when Grian, Pearl, and Scar all went back there. Maybe there were just no more tears left to cry.
It still hurt.
Why did it still hurt? It was just a game!
“How did I go insane like that?” He thought back to those few moments where he let himself be controlled by bloodlust. Those few moments where he went with his gut—he went with instinctual feelings and fought as if his mind was never constantly riddled with anxiety.
“Why did I—“ Mumbo fiddled around with redstone circuits as he tried to make sense of the jumble in his head. “How did I even do it?” he muttered. (He wasn’t sure how much of him was proud that he was able to play to his strengths of end crystals or how much of him was disappointed that he fell so fast.)
If anyone flew in now, they’d see this mess: This mess of someone trying to fix wires together to make a human launcher because he wanted to be wanted; this mess of a guy trying to hold back sobs while failing to make sense of why his head was this way and why he was able to reason out killing his friends.
After all, there had been a reason he started Peace, Love, and Plants.
It hurt—it hurt so so much to see Grian so broken and alone after 3rd Life. It was crushing. He was nearly constantly beating himself up over one thing or another and it had taken Scar of all people to help break him out of it. But seeing Grian’s fear-based actions stemming off a game of war, Mumbo decided there would be no blood on his hands. He would let no memories stick with Grian when the two were together.
After a while, the whole “no killing” thing became a joke.
Grian was relatively better, though Mumbo didn’t know if that was due to possibly being put in some therapy or if the hermits encouraging helped the case, but he seemed just a bit lighter now.
It had hurt though—hurt a lot—when Mumbo didn’t know what to do or what his best friend needed in those first few weeks. He tried to be there, but every group interaction left him feeling out of the loop. Pearl somehow knew his struggles. Scar was there to see his struggles. Impulse was just so friendly and nice and great that even if he didn’t experience the situation firsthand, he was also very much so able to help Grian.
What did Mumbo do that was helpful?
What did Mumbo do to be the hero he was pretending to be?
Mumbo wasn’t philosophical. He wasn’t super smart. He wasn’t good with the whole emotions thing. Yet he still could spot the fact that he was insecure and totally didn’t trust himself or believe in himself. But really, only an idiot couldn’t see that side of him.
He tried not to let the feeling of imposter syndrome crop up again, but it liked to mess with him: while he was building, while he was around the Boatem group, who he still couldn’t fully call his friends because he obviously didn’t belong here, and even while he was wearing this stupid Batman costume because it made him feel just a smidge more confident.
After messing around with the redstone—only to find it was more difficult than expected and he couldn’t figure out how to fling someone just the right amount of distance—and feeling like a failure after it, Mumbo flew back home. Of course, that resulted in a rough landing in the tree (a banged up elytra and sore knees and leg).
“I dunno who I was fooling… why’d I go for a hero look when I can’t even pretend to be one.”
He curled inwardly on himself. The smell of nature and growth and old wood, which was still firm and strong, kept Mumbo grounded for a little while at least. “At least they can’t see what a mess I am in here.” The thing about Treesa was she was a nice place to run and hide to. Of course, all the hermits would know where to find him, but she was safe (and she was a gift by two of his favorite people on the server).
He envied Pearl and Grian, whether it be their confidence, competence, building abilities—man their trees looked great. And sure, they were builders, it was what they were born to do, but Mumbo wanted to feel like he could fit in with the group of those who could build structures that looked like paintings.
It felt as though Mumbo was going in circles. One moment he thought he might have just a little more confidence and then the next he was back to ground zero.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted help for this. He wasn’t sure if he just wanted praise from his server-mates. He wasn’t sure if he just wanted a hug at this point. Maybe just something to break him from his thoughts.
His stomach growled.
Food. That would help. It always helped. Stress eating was the best thing ever invented.
And just because nobody would be watching him, he decided to cut up some bbq pork and slop it on a baked potato. And because no one could judge how much food on it, he could pile as much cheese, sour cream, and butter as he wanted. And the best part would be the coleslaw which would contrast the spice in the bbq sauce and the warmth of the potato. His mouth was practically watering at the thought of it.
But of course, potatoes were better freshly baked, so he’d have to wait a couple hours before he could taste such goodness.
His stomach growled again as he continued baking the potatoes, and cutting up the meat and adding the sauce to it. He hadn’t eaten in quite some time, mostly because he lost his appetite after all the war and being sucked up in a mindset of guilt. He was practically shaking from probably what was low-blood sugar. But he wasn’t starving. He could wait on his dinner.
And when it was all said and done, he hardly spent five minutes scarfing down his dinner. Yes, it was just as amazing as he had expected it, but he had been so hungry that he wasn’t able to enjoy it as much. And when he was full—almost uncomfortably so—he didn’t feel good about it. He was living such a nice life, like one of those rich heroes in movies, and he didn’t deserve anything remotely like that. He’d murdered people with exploding crystals for goodness sake.
So if he did take longer increments of time before eating his next meal, nobody had to be the wiser. And if he did eat smaller amounts when he ate, nobody noticed.
It had been quite a few days since that whole train of thought came about. Nearly a week at this point.
He was constantly shaky, making it difficult to place redstone in the right places, and even harder to keep from spilling water all over it. He could barely fly around the server now, though it wasn’t that he was lighter; it was just that he couldn’t keep his balance. But the worst of all this was it was so hard to think straight yet he still couldn’t help but feel guilt at even the thought of food.
Mumbo knew he couldn’t face his friends like this. Not in a million years. Xisuma would be disappointed—he’d probably kick him off the server for being such an idiot. Mumbo could hardly get anything done in this state, yet the thought of food made him want to throw up (what little water and food he had in him still).
His stomach and sides were constantly hurting. His entire body felt heavy. And only in the following week, when the finale session of Last Life occurred, did he fall ill to his stupidity.
“…could call Impulse or Scar,” he barely managed to think out the full thought. “Ask to not tell Pearl and G about this… they’d do that… maybe.” He’d feel incredibly guilty for having to get their help. The hermits were so kind, yet it felt like taking advantage of them. He could keep his mental and physical health intact—even if at the moment he totally was falling apart and he knew it.
“Zedaph’s—he’s… doctor, right? …Call him?” He shakily pulled out his communicator, talking to himself with as much strength as he could to prepare himself for an actual conversation. Yet he knew his voice sounded dry and weak and every word hurt his insides. At this point, he wouldn’t mind passing out. He was so weak and he felt so sick and tired even one the days he wasn’t sick.
“Hello, hello, hello! This is Zedaph speaking.”
“H-hey Zedaph, how’re you?” Mumbo barely managed to say.
“I’m doing fine. Just hanging around the lab, finishing up the last bits of the combrewetor. I’m getting a spot set up for a new aging potion I came up with! But how’re you? What brings you to call me at the moment?”
Mumbo took a deep breath. Even if Zedaph couldn’t see him, it didn’t mean Mumbo didn’t want to stop shaking so violently. “You’re-you’re a doctor, right?”
“Oh—is there anything I can do to help?”
“I—well—I figured I’d call you since I feel-feel utterly terrible, but you’re probably not the person I should call.”
“No!” Zedaph cut him off. “No! I’ll help! Can you fly over here or do I need to make it over to Boatem?”
“I uh—I don’t want to bother you, but I don’t think I can fly at all.” It was more than just “thinking” he couldn’t fly though. He hadn’t been able to move quickly on his feet in days let alone run with any proper balance.
“Don’t worry! This isn’t a bother. Setting up one more potion in my machine can be put off for later.” Thankfully Zedaph didn’t feel the weight of the situation over call and was rather optimistic. “Now then, I’ll bring some things over to your place to give you a general check-up, and then I may need to fly you over to by place. Sound good?”
“Yeah. Sounds-sounds great.” Mumbo slipped underneath his sheets as if hiding away from the problem just a bit.
“I’ll be there in a bit. Bye Mumbo!” Zedaph hung up before Mumbo said his goodbyes as well. Though he was glad he ended the call, as endings were often awkward.
Zedaph didn’t know how grateful Mumbo was that he was willing to do this. Mumbo wasn’t as close to him, so this mental stuff he was dealing with wouldn’t break any friendships Mumbo had.
“Mumbo! Mumbo! I’m here!” Zedaph lightly shook him awake.
“Yeah? I’m up.” He tried to bolt upright, but only made himself dizzy, so he lied back down.
“Just general observation, but you look a lot weaker and smaller than I remember,” Zedaph mentioned.
“Y-yeah, been losing weight, you know with the whole hero thing. Getting healthier and stuff since I haven’t been eating meat.”
Zedaph frowned at him. “No—I mean, abnormally small. Like underweight. Which, that can always be fixed, but it’s-it’s less common, you know?” Zedaph looked at his patient, with a half confused, half concerned face. “So, I’m assuming you’ve caught something?”
“Yeah. It’s quite a bit worse than I’m used to.”
“What are your symptoms?”
“Feels like I’ve taken a weakness potion, to be completely honest.”
Zedaph grimaced while taking a few notes.
“Headache too. Dizzy and terrible balance. Oh, and I get really hot a lot. Fever maybe?” Mumbo guessed, hoping maybe all these symptoms were a part of some sickness too.
“Alright… How many days have you had it for?” Zedaph continued scribbling.
“For—for about two, three days maybe?”
“Ok…” Zedaph sat down at the edge of the bed, propping his head up with his fist while in thought. “So, I may seem like I’m prying a bit, but I’m only trying to get a sense of what’s wrong, ok?”
Mumbo nodded weakly.
“This isn’t a long enough timespan that you would’ve lost weight to this extent. When was the last time you had a good three full meals?”
Oh.
Oh man.
Would he just—would he just lie about this?
“L-last-last week,” he said, very unconvincingly.
“Yes, I see…” He wrote down a bit for a minute. “Do you have any idea why you’re suddenly a lot weaker?”
“I’m not that much—”
“Yes, yes you are. It’s a bit obvious if you couldn’t tell.” For a second, they made eye contact and it felt so exposing, vulnerable. Then Zedaph started to speak, but much softer now, putting a hand on the younger’s shoulder, “I know it’s hard to explain whatever it is you’re dealing with, and I know I’m not your best friend that’s going to know every detail that’s going wrong, but generally speaking, I need to know what’s going on so I can help treat it.”
“I know.” Mumbo looked down. He was wasting Zedaph’s time and on top of that, he couldn’t even be honest about everything. He was being such an annoyance about this, he just knew it. “I—I haven’t been eating, hardly as much…” he said faintly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He wiped his eyes for a second before continuing. “Only—only when it’s absolutely dire and stuff.”
Zedaph moved over and crushed him in a hug. It would’ve been more comforting if he weren’t struggling to breathe. When Zedaph noticed this, he quickly changed position and apologized more than a couple times.
“I don’t know what to do… I—I can’t really tell anyone about this. You’re the first I’ve told. I thought maybe you’d not hate me as much because I don’t know you as well…”
Zedaph pulled an arm around him, and Mumbo practically flopped on top of him. “So, admittedly there aren’t many ways to fix it. Most commonly, one lets themself die to reset their hunger and after eating well for enough days or weeks, things get better. Of course, we’re living in a world where you’d be a literal child if we did that. But, that’s really our only option, unless we want to ask Xisuma what he’d do.”
“No! N-no. Don’t—don’t tell Xisuma about this… please.” He felt himself nearly to the point of crying on top of someone who was acting as his doctor.
“Look, we’re going to handle this in whatever way is best, alright? But legally, one shouldn’t share health information without permission. And I know—believe me I know honesty and admitting to things are difficult, but it won’t be as bad as you think. Xisuma won’t hate you. He may be freaking out for a few days, making him a bit frustrated, but he won’t be upset with you.”
Mumbo just laid there, hardly able to think rationally. “Let’s-let’s try this whole killing thing considering it’s the tried and true—and then-then I’ll go tell Xisuma.”
Zedaph agreed with the plan, and he took Mumbo up and they flew off to get to their potion of instant death.
Mumbo didn’t know the road to recovery, but at least now someone knew, and he was getting help now—even if the future was dark, filled with being little and fighting the urge to fall back into unhealthy patterns.