Archive of Our Own

It is a sunny, clear-skyed morning that fateful day when Bad pushes you away.

Truth be told, you don’t actually remember a lot from the weeks you were red, dormant under the Egg’s influence. Just small bits and pieces - hazy memories of sounds, flashing colors, and a few precise sensations, such as claws and slithery vines wrapping around you, blows to your face and body, and a constant cold breeze.

However, you do have a clear picture of your last second alive, when your body had mostly melted away.

(You will eventually realize that you only retained such a clear memory due to the lava. Its scorching heat had been too hot even for a being as uncanny as the Egg to withstand it, leaving the entity little choice but to let its vines burn alongside your body, briefly returning your senses to you right before you die.)

Your vision clears for just a second and suddenly Bad is in front of you, artistically framed by the vines surrounding the cavern you’re in. There's a look of utmost horror and despair gracing his features, as the demon kneels before the lava pool, apologies frantically leaving his mangled lips.

(You will also later realize that your death by "swimming in lava" shouldn’t have taken so long. Or it should have, but only for you. Your core is diamond - it took a few precious moments longer for the lava heat to kill it than it would have for normal, non-diamond folk.)

(It was your gem-encrusted structure that allowed you to have that last image of Bad before succumbing to a painful death and even worse respawn.)

(Later, you’ll come to curse the sky-blue skin you once loved for the tragedy that that one image will come to bring your soulmate.)

You remember that day being a sunny, clear sky-ed morning from a small, almost unnoticeable crack in the stone ceiling above you, where the sun - or perhaps just the light from a misplaced torch -  just happened to shine through into the cavern from where you stood, drowning in raw torridity.

You remember how that little bit of sunlight shone slightly above Bad, how the demon looked almost angelic, with that pure light glow gleaming just to the right of his head.

You remember mentally snickering to yourself at the irony, and thinking, mind murky from the heat, - and from the pain of dying - how Bad just looked so pretty, it was a shame his face looked so sad.

If it hadn’t, the memory would’ve made a lovely painting.

-

You die, and you respawn, and you wake up confused by your surroundings.

You're not in the mansion. 

Your vision takes a few seconds to clear away, though by then you've already figured out where you are - the annoying lumps on the bed give it away.

You only had such an uncomfortable bed back in your old beach house on Big Daddy Island.

(Back in the day, you and Bad would avoid the old, lumpy mattress and its unsteady frame in favor of the waxed wood flooring of the main room. You'd find all kinds of fluffy pillows and blankets and you'd create a cozy cocoon in front of the fireplace just for you.)

(After Sapnap came into your care, you two decided to build a bed in the house just for him, along with a fully furnished room, but the fiery tween would still rather join you on the floor anyway, every single night.) 

(Hours and hours were spent on that floor - your nights were filled with tickle fights, story-telling sessions, lots and lots of muffin crumbs and hot chocolate stains strewn over fluffy blankets.)

(Eventually, Sapnap did grow older and the tickle fights and stories in front of the fireplace were swapped for late-night adventuring with friends and the closed door of a bedroom that finally got to fill its purpose, - but you and Bad kept your routine.) 

(That wooden floor was your bed by then. Neither of you ever saw a reason to change it.)

(Besides, even after he got older, Sapnap still joined you sometimes. You even remember, once or twice, a teenaged Dream and George getting dragged into the pillow fort by their hybrid best friend, and all of them taking turns in pairs to refill the hot chocolate mugs because five were simply too many mugs for just one person to carry them all.)

(The days passed on Big Daddy Island were always kind to your family.)

You call out for Bad while your vision has yet to clear and when he doesn’t answer, you panic.

(You couldn't feel furry, clawed hands wrapping around your shoulders, nor the tell-tale high-pitched warble or worrywart babbles that meant your best friend was around, so you panicked.)

Your vision finally clears, and you're gazing upon the light wood furniture and smelling the slight mustiness of the house when your memory catches up to you at last.

(That had been a tough respawn.) 

If you could, you would swear that mobs hiding two hundred blocks underground were able to hear your grief. 

- 

Hours pass before you’re able to move again.

Days pass before you’re feeling capable of functioning again.

(Weeks will pass before you feel any kind of relief again. And even then, it will have been short-lived and laden with exhaustion and regret.)

(Those precious seconds before you regained clarity over yourself were the last moments since then that you've felt even remotely okay.)

-

Bad finds you, because of course he does.

It hasn’t been 20 hours since your respawn when you hear that oh-so-familiar voice of the demon that owns your soul calling your name from the beach.

You freeze completely.

(You had gotten up a few hours ago and since then, you'd destroyed a lumpy bed, a small sculpture made of glass you hadn't remembered was a gift from Sapnap until it was too late - one of the bigger glass shards coincidently landed at your feet and you could only cry harder as you noticed the crudely forged panda imprinted on it - as if someone with really small fingers had drawn on the glass as one would on sand - a bedside table and a wardrobe, and the colorful carpet in front of your bed.

(Rough-looking, sharp diamonds could be spotted, embedded all around the room.)

You cease to breathe, but you still do move slowly into the main room, aware that if Bad found you in their bedroom, he could block off the only exit - since the blinds to the bedroom's window are closed - and you want to be able to run.

(It hurts to remember how scared you had been of him. How prepared to run you had been, already.)

(Then again, it hurts to remember him at all.)

The front door to the house isn’t locked. You never had a reason for it, as mobs can’t open doors and no one but you and your friends know of the beach house location.

So, when he's close enough, Bad simply swings your front door open and just like that, your scared dark eyes are locking in with mournful milky ones.

You take a second to look at Bad - actually look at him - and immediately spot signs of the Egg’s overstay in your best friend’s mind.

His dark grey cloak isn’t clean and ironed to perfection, for once. Instead, it’s dirty, rumpled and a little wet, with thorns and leaves clinging to it. His tall, imposing figure looks smaller, meeker, and thinner. The slightly longer clumps of fur that tend to escape from the confines of his hood are matted and his pitch-black horns have lost their shine. The red-rimmed glasses that usually frame his face are nowhere to be seen. His eyes look haunted and afraid, puffy and red around the edges (from crying or lack of sleep, you would guess both).

Bad looks awful. Your best friend looks miserable - anguished, regretful, grief-struck, and in pain.

You hate to see him like this.

And when he whispers your name as if you were the most precious, fragile thing in his entire world - tone wobbly and broken, on the verge of crying - you sense yourself almost giving in, stepping close to hold him, tell him everything is okay, that all is forgiven and the nightmare is finally over.

But then you remember red eyes that should've been milky white, hesitation on an answer where there shouldn’t be any, an obsidian cage made to trap a monster, - not you, the monster alone , you shouldn’t have been in there at all - weeks of hazy memories, and the scorching feeling of drowning in lava as your best friend throws apologies your way, sunlight gleaming above him.

You take one step back, and then another.

You can feel the weight of those steps more on Bad’s face than your own feet. You see the way his face crumples somehow even further than before, and instinctively you know what he’s gonna do next.

Bad walks forward, hand reaching out to you, and you can’t stop your body - shaking, traumatized, reseted after melting way in lava - from escaping through the opened french doors that led to your backdoor porch.

-

You run towards the forest from where the beach bleeds out of without a second thought besides logical thinking, that supplies you’d be harder to trail in between the tall trees - desperately trying to deafen the cries calling out to you, begging you to come back.

You don’t stop running until well after you’ve stopped hearing those pained cries and green and brown are the only colors surrounding you. No red, no black, no milky white.

When you do finally stop, your legs are shaking more than you ever remember them to, your lungs are on fire, and your heart weighs heavier than lead.

(Your survival instincts still didn't let you relax until you’d spent a good minute standing there, silent and still, listening in for any signs that your demon might have followed you.)

Only when you are sure you aren’t being followed, do your knees finally give out and, unceremoniously, you crumble onto the grassy ground beneath you.

Only there and then, amid the grass and the trees and the forest critters, do you finally allow yourself to break down.

-

You don't know how many hours you spend on that forest floor, crying away your woes. Only that it can't have been that many - no more than 5 or 6 at least - because the moon and the stars have yet to completely take over the sky when you finally look up to it.

Somewhere tucked inside you, rational thinking prompted by too many years of nomadic traveling with your best friend reminds you that you should probably find shelter before the night covers the Overworld entirely.

You don't understand how your mind can still act rationally after all that has happened, but you're tired, and you're sad, so you don't question it beyond the forming doubt.

You force your legs to stand up without them giving away under you, but it takes a few tries before you're capable of standing without leaning against the nearest tree. Your hoodie, still stained with a vibrant, terrifying red, is covered in smudges of dirt and grass, and your pants aren't faring any differently.

You absent-mindedly opine to yourself that right now, dirty and scuffed, you still look much better than how you’ve been for the past weeks.

You trudge back home in a blur of movement and silence. You don't speak, don't cry any more tears, don't make a single sound - just let your legs carry you back to the shore where you abandoned your best friend.

As you finally find yourself standing before the beach house, you process the fact that your eyes can't catch a glimpse of red and black clothing, of sharp horns, or two thin, swishing tails. There are no wooden boats parked on the shore either.

Bad left.

You can’t understand whether the emptiness you feel is from relief that he’s gone, or disappointment he didn’t stay.

-

Bad comes back later, and you don’t speak to him ever.

(You don't run away either, though.)

The second time he comes, it's the day after his first visit, and he's looking just as frazzled as the day before.

He doesn't shout your name as he leaves the wooden boat anymore, instead opting to silently park it on the shore and make his way to your old home's front door.

He leans his forehead against the oak entryway - horns clacking against the window panes when he does - and softly, so very softly , he whispers your name and apologizes.

"S'geppy…I'm so, so sorry… I'm so sorry… Please, please…" 

You're inside the house - because of course you are, where else would you go? - and you freeze once more, anxiously waiting for your best friend's next move. 

When a few minutes pass and Bad doesn't try to open the door, you feel your body relax, just a tiny bit, and a small part of you compels you to move forward.

You can't explain why you listen to it, but you do. 

And so, moments later, you’re standing before the door, staring at it and imagining the sight of your best friend who’s existing beyond it, and that same tiny part that walked you to the entrance makes you sit down on the floor, back pressed against the wooden door.

You assume Bad heard - or perhaps just felt - your movements because as soon as you sit down you hear a tiny gasp and more frantic apologizing from the outside. 

(He always has a sixth sense trained on you, Puffy always loved saying stuff like that.)

It takes everything in you not to tell Bad to shut up.

He mumbles apology after apology, and you can't bring yourself to utter a single word back.

You even open your mouth a couple of times, when Bad lets out a particularly high sob, or whenever his wording gets just a little bit more aggressive, but never does a single cry pass your lips. 

Eventually, the apologies stop coming as frequently, replaced instead with other things, as Bad starts filling you in on what's been happening on the server since you've been gone.

You assume he's finally accepted you're not going to answer him. 

As thankful as you are for the change in topic, through it all, you stay quiet and still.

(Neither of you knows it yet, but this will become your routine until the morning after the Red Banquet, when Bad will come visit you for the last time, and things change again.)

(You two always worked well with routines. You had so many when you lived together. You never had a big need for those, but Bad desperately craved them if he was to function properly.)

(When to wake up, how to cook, where to farm resources, what days to go out adventuring - it hadn't taken you nearly as long as you had first guessed to fall in line with his rhythm, and you quickly grew to understand and appreciate the demon's meticulously organized lifestyle too.) 

(This new routine you two create - together, always together - is quite strict. Bad will park a small wooden boat on the shores, reach your front door, lean against it, call your name and apologize in the form of a greeting, and when you don’t respond, proceed to fill you in on what's been going on. You will hear him come, lean against the door from the inside, and quietly listen to everything he has to say until Bad has to go back.)

You cry a lot with this new routine. So does Bad. Neither of you tries to hide it.

-

You learn about the Red Banquet weeks before it takes place.

Bad becomes careless and loquacious whenever he comes to talk at you (talk at you, because you never talk back). 

He talks about the Eggpire and the progress he's made with it, the new people he's recruited, and the plans to spread the Egg's influence further.

(Nothing made you sicker than hearing your best friend talk about the cult he'd created. Nevertheless, you could never bring yourself to step away from the door. You guess you were probably just too lonely to be able to leave, clinging to whatever contact you could get from someone else.

(You’ve always been a clingy person – always had a hard time letting things go.

(It’s not really all that surprising that that was your downfall.)

You notice early on that with each passing visit from Bad, the demon looks worse and worse for wear.

Truthfully, you don't even see him all that much, merely catch glimpses of dark-colored clothing and darker-scaled horns.

And while yes, you do notice the clothes you once knew to be black with red accents discoloring until they are light gray and white, it's in his voice that you find most of your clues.

The thing is, Bad's always been an expressive person. When he talks, his limbs are never still, clawed hands theatrically following his words, tail and ears swishing to match his feelings.

And despite the lack of pupils or easily-identifiable facial features, Bad's face is somehow always as easy to read as an open children's book.

(To you, at least. You were always the best at reading Bad. Not even Ant was as good as you. You always took pride in that knowledge - just one more thing about Bad where you scored number one.)

And then, Bad was chatty. Naturally, the demon liked to talk, hum, sing, make noises. You were never sure whether that was a demon thing or simply a Bad thing, but in the end, it never really mattered.

The point was that Bad loved using his voice. Everyone who spent more than a couple of hours around him knew that. It was his favorite tool. You're sure Bad could have more fun playing with his voice than a five-year-old could with all the toys in existence at their disposal.

(And after raising a child like Sapnap as the enabler parent you've always been, you could understand how far that comparison could go.)

Bad loved using his voice, and the one person that heard it the most besides the demon himself was you.

And so, when Bad's voice changes, you notice.

You can't find other ways to explain the slight changes you detect except that it reminds you of a sickness. It’s like his voice caught a virus. A virus that's slowly spreading through him and sapping away his life force.

(And isn't that exactly what happened?)

Every time Bad visits, you notice his voice has lost a little bit more of its natural inflation, and the guilt that plagued most of his stories in the first few visits lessens considerably.

Eventually, his speech becomes mostly monotone and tired, no matter how awful the tellings of the atrocities he's committed become. 

(That's one thing that never changed. In these visits, Bad always sounded tired .)

So, it doesn't come as a surprise anymore when 3 weeks into this new routine of yours, Bad reveals to you his plans for the Red Banquet.

He doesn't leave out any detail that you can guess and it scares you how meticulous his planning is. It hits you mid his near manic rant that Bad – your best friend, your other half, your Bad – is taking this seriously. He's actively trying to craft a plan that will work .

For the first time in decades, you think you can't understand your best friend.

(You can't understand him then, but you do get there eventually, when you're the one planning an elaborate trap for your friends so you can help hatch the Egg in exchange for Bad's safety and freedom.)

(It’s weird, how you essentially just followed in his footsteps.)

(...No, it’s not weird.)

(It just felt too predictable to be true until it wasn't.)

It's the first time in over a week you've heard him waver on anything that isn't your name or an apology, and you want to call out to him.

You don't do that and eventually, like always, he leaves.

So yeah, it doesn't come as a surprise, but it still leaves you feeling hollower than ever.

-

Later that night, after he's gone, you waste your waking moments resisting the feverish urge to hit yourself (and failing at it, if the little cracks that later litter your arms and chest are to be accounted for) because right before he left, Bad had asked you, voice so low you barely heard him, what you thought of what he was doing.

And you, you who are supposed to be his best friend, the one that should always be there for him, always looking out for him, kept quiet – you didn't answer him like you wanted to.

(You should have.)

Bad was leaving to prepare for a banquet where the guests will be the only meal served, and you kept quiet.

You wish you were brave enough to craft a boat and go with him.

But you aren't, so you don’t, and instead you throw your body against sturdy, light wood walls to numb the pain and soothe the self-hatred. 

(Later, you will realize Bad probably told you all that in hopes that you'd stop him, and tears will blur your eyes once again.)

(If you had said anything, Bad might've not gone through with the Banquet.)

(The Red Banquet might as well have been your fault, too.) 

-

On the night the Red Banquet is taking place, you don’t sleep.

The last time your best friend came around was 5 days ago, which is a longer break than usual, – Bad usually visits once every 3 days – but he had warned you then that he might not be able to come around again for a while, due to being too busy finishing the preparations for the event he was going to host, so you're not worried.

Well, not too worried, anyway. Probably. 

(That day he mentioned, while forcing out a giggle that hadn't felt humorous at all, that he’d be wearing a suit for the occasion – "the Egg is a fancy muffin", he said, "and everything should be executed according to its tastes.")

(It was a tad pathetic of you, but it was that knowledge – Bad will be wearing a suit   – that almost broke your silence.)

(Despite all the years you’d been together, you had never seen Bad in a suit before – or in any kind of formal attire, for that matter. Bad never liked to dress fancy, always a strong supporter of comfort over style.)

(He had caved in and promised to wear something nicer for Sapnap’s wedding, however, all those months ago when the kid first informed them of the good news. You had been so excited. But then the wedding kept getting pushed back, and with everything that eventually started happening… Sapnap’s wedding became less of a priority.)

(You’d give anything to go back to that day Sapnap dropped the news. Bad had cried so hard for an hour straight and his reaction to finding out Quackity of all people was to be his second son-in-law will never leave your mind, hidden away in your memories as one of the many good ones only the three of you share together.)

(You hated the ugly pools of familiar jealousy that had formed in your core when you realized that so many, less special , others would get to see the sight of Bad in a suit before you. It had made you want to throw a fit, whine and cry and complain that Bad couldn't do that to you, that it was unfair, that no one but you should get to see Bad looking fancy like that.)

(If the situation were different, you’re sure you would’ve done that. You’re sure Bad would’ve expected you to, as well. You’ve always been a little possessive over your best friend, but that was fine. Bad was just as jealous, if not even worse than you.)

(But then, you remembered how those “less special” others would be killed by said fancy-looking demon in just a few days if your demon's plans went how he wanted them to and the petty jealousy is all but mostly forgotten.)

(Had Bad truly wanted the Red Banquet to be successful? It’s a hard reality to grasp, even now.)

As it goes, on the night of the Red Banquet, you stay awake, and you think.

You think about lots of things. You think of friends and acquaintances, of your mansion, your items, your pets, your children. You think of all the things you left behind. You think about the Egg and the misleading dinner party that’s being hosted in its honor. 

But most of all, you think about your best friend – about his corny way of talking, his dislike for cursing, his favorite (muffiny) food. You think about the ridiculous height advantage he has over you, about a pair of thin, long tails, and two big, white milky eyes that once held in them all of the compassion and care in the Overworld.

You actually find yourself cracking up a smile at a memory or two. It’s a surprise in itself. You haven’t found a reason to smile in months .

(Of course, each time a small smile came, tears and grief had followed tenfold. But you had taken what you could get. You’d always been the optimistic one – learned early on to take the bad with the good.)

Somehow, it feels like mourning. Like you’re saying goodbye to something – someone – that will soon cease to exist.

(You had been mourning. For the first time of many in the following months, you had mourned Bad, his existence as a person, and his existence as your best friend. You mourned the fallout of your relationship and everything you had ever built together. You mourned the death of your best friend.)

(You didn’t think you’d get him back if the Red Banquet went as it should. As Bad had wanted it to go.)

It’s a particularly rough night for everyone, the night of the Red Banquet. So many people are losing so much tonight – their safety, their relationships, their mental health, their loved ones.

You know all of this because the mastermind behind it all is your best friend and he told you all about it himself.

And yet.

Somehow, despite knowing how absolutely selfish you sound, you can’t help but wonder, every time you think of Bad, if you aren’t going to be the one losing the most out of tonight.

-

Bad comes back to you at dawn, the morning after the Red Banquet.

He's hurt. His shoulder is covered in blood, seemingly opened up in an ugly, violent slash.

The white dress shirt he's sporting is ruined, with a massive hole torn certainly by whatever blade caused the wound on the shoulder, and the classy wine-red vest he wore over it is probably equally as doomed, splattered in a considerable amount of blood.

(A part of you still wishes you could’ve seen him at the actual banquet.)

Bad is for once not wearing a cloak, and you would wonder about the lack of a pair of red-rimmed glasses if those hadn't already been missing for weeks.

His horns are adorned too, which is unusual. Expensive-looking rings encircle the dark scales, a few even connecting to each other through thin golden chains. All of the jewelry pieces seem to be in some way speckled with blood.

As you peek through the closed blinds and watch the man who you are not sure is still your best friend walk closer and closer to the door, you remember a certain conversation Bad had with you weeks ago. The only time you ever answered him.

("You’re blue again. You were red before… Do you remember that?")

(It had been one of Bad's first trips to visit you in the beach house. Early on in your new routine, a week since you respawned. Before Bad started scaring you with his devotion to the Egg.)

("Every time I remember you’re at least you again… I think it was almost worth it.")

("The Egg hasn’t called for you again. It- it praised me, for killing you… For letting go of my weaknesses.")

(You were Bad’s weakness. Still are. You knew he was yours too. Still is. But the word had sounded bitter coming from your best friend. And it did turn out to be a bad thing. It's what doomed you in the end.)

(Why had it sounded like such a prize, then?)

(...You wish you two could’ve lived in a world where weaknesses weren’t bad things.)

("Anyway, the point is… it thinks you’re gone. I don’t think it’s in you anymore.")

(You remember the relief of weights lifting off your shoulders. The Egg had seemed to like you so much when you were under its control. Until then you had been living in constant fear it would call back on you, and you’d be unable to say no. Like before.)

("You lost your connection to the Egg, didn’t you..? Because I..") 

(You had. Or at least you had guessed so. You hadn’t heard its creepy voice in your head since you respawned, nor felt any kind of need to go to it. You had just been feeling hatred.)

(But you couldn’t be sure. The doubt had been gnawing at you.)

("What if- what if that’s the secret? What if we need to lose a life to be free of the connection?")

(As soon as Bad had said those words, your heart rate dropped.)

("Skeppy,-")

(You hated that you’d known what was coming the moment he said your name.)

("-if I ever asked… Would you… end me?")

(You distinctly remember the solemn quiet that fell over you as soon as the question was out.)

(You had forced yourself to think about it. To at least consider it. No matter how wrong it felt. He hadn’t been asking you to do it then, if ever. It had just been a possibility, and one you had to consider.)

(It had worked once. Maybe it could've worked twice.)

(The memory of two red eyes that should’ve been milky white crossed your mind. You hadn’t wanted to see that ever again.)

(So you made your decision.)

("Okay.")

As always, Bad leans his forehead against the wooden door before he talks. You forget to breathe as Bad goes through his apology speech again.

You’ve been hearing it for a long time now, you know how it goes. That’s not what takes your breath away.

It’s his voice. Bad sounds so regretful again. Like he hasn’t in weeks.

A feeling you belatedly identified as hope flares in your chest. Is your best friend not gone? Is he actually coming back to you?

Just what happened at that Banquet?

“I tried… I tried to- to kill them, Skeppy! I just… I don’t know how they’ll ever be able to forgive me.”

Then Bad turns around, a trail of blood left in his wake, and he goes to sit on the edge of the dock.

Your hope dies out as quickly as it first emerged.

(Bad stayed quiet for a few seconds – either stunned that you actually answered or that it was an affirmatively, you’re not sure. Probably both, you guessed. It's not like you were having a much easier time accepting what you had just agreed to, anyways.)

("...If I ever go sit down on the dock, then, would you… join me? It’s just that the view from there is prettier, you know? It- it’d be nicer to do it there, I think.")

("...Okay, Bad.")

You can feel tears welling up. You don’t want to do this. Anything but this.

You pray to every deity you can remember ever existing that something – anything – takes him away from that dock. Please.

You don’t want to kill your best friend.

But you're already fetching the diamond sword that’s been leaning against the fireplace for weeks. It’s beautiful – definitely one of your best creations as of late. You worked on it for a week straight, not too long ago.

(It had never been used. You crafted it with intentions for it to never be used – you had hoped you could’ve destroyed it, one day, with Bad by your side.)

(You could still remember your ideas. You imagined dumping it unceremoniously in the middle of the ocean before forcing Bad into a tag game with your boats. Or throwing it haphazardly in a volcano while the demon fretted about you being so near the hot temperatures despite your lack of skin. Or purely spending it all on dumb tasks like stealing wheat from someone else's farm and using whatever you could get from it on gifts for Bad and your kids. They could all use a little gift from you.) 

(You had so many dumb ideas.) 

You go grab the diamond-encrusted carton box that’s been sitting on the coffee table for way too long and you stop holding back the tears when it’s finally encased around your head.

You only realize how badly your hands are shaking when you go and try to grab the knob to open the door that’s been both your recliner and your one single barrier from the outside world for the last month or so. 

You are screaming in silence as you leave the house and start following the blood trail that’s seemingly mocking you in its origin.

(You ended up not seeing a lot of blood in the end. Your cut was clean and fast. Not messy and not slow. Meant to shorten the pain as much as possible.)

You hate yourself as you step on the dock and join your best friend, who is calmly sitting in its edge, looking beyond the horizon. You don’t dare sneak a glance to your left. You copy him instead. 

The sun is setting before you.

“Skeppy..?”

Bad looks at you and it’s all you can not to look back.

“Yeah, Bad?”

You don’t stop the tears from flowing, knowing they're hidden behind your box, but you do try to keep the emotion out of your voice. Not even for Bad, but for you.

(You didn’t think you could keep your shaky resolve from breaking if your voice did.)

“Do- do you think that, everyone will be able to forgive me, for- for all the stuff I did?”

He’s barely holding on, too. You take some comfort in knowing you’re not alone.

“Yeah, I’m sure they will.”

And you are. Because it’s Badboyhalo you’re talking about. You’re not even sure exactly what happened yesterday, but you don’t think you have to. You know your friends. And you know Bad.

You’re sure everything will be okay, eventually.

(Despite all of the grief clouding that particular moment, you two had been so hopeful for the future. You were really expecting it to work. You were so sure you could fix things, help each other, and go back to before .)

(Where did it all go wrong?)

(Why did this happen to you?)

(Ah, yeah. Weaknesses.)

(You two had been so, so dumb.)

Bad looks forward again.

“Thanks, Sgeppy.”

That’s as much of a “do it now” as you’re going to get and you know it. You stand up. The weight of the sword hanging on your hip is crushing you. 

You think of the hopeful future the two of you will build together, after this. 

I don’t wanna do thi-

You bring the sword down before you can think of anything else.

-

The night of the day after the Red Banquet was a hot one.

You remember it being so from the warm breeze that rushed through you as the hours ticked into the night. Bad wouldn’t have liked it. For a Nether-born creature, he’d always had a tendency for enjoying colder weather.

You remember manically giggling to yourself at the irony, and thinking, mind numb from killing your best friend, how the evening sky just looked so pretty, and it was a shame it was going away already.

If it weren’t for the demon dying in your arms, the memory would’ve made a lovely painting.