Chapter Text
See, if you asked Mumbo how he got into this situation. He’d have to say he had no idea. Because frankly, he really didn’t.
“I don’t have any money!” The words slipped out quicker than Mumbo could stop them, and he was shoved harder into the wall, cheek scraping painfully against grit. “I- I really don’t!”
“Uh huh, ‘cause someone without money wears that kind of suit?”
“I-”
“Is there a problem here?” All of them turned.
“Who the fuck are you?” The newcomer scoffed, standing upright from where he was leaned against a wall.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.” The barrel was shoved harder into Mumbo’s head. “Don’t you guys have something better to do? He’s obviously got nothing.”
“Mind your own fucking business.”
“Or what? Are you gonna shoot me?” The newcomer spread his arms, an almost maniacal smile on his lips. The gun didn’t move from Mumbo’s head. “Or do you not have the guts.”
All of a sudden, the pressure was gone, and Mumbo was left reeling as the sound of hits went on around him. He shrunk down to the ground, covering his face as the thud of two bodies landed heavily on the concrete floor. He flinched.
“You okay?” The voice was softer than Mumbo was expecting, genuine despite its roughness. And for the first time, Mumbo got an actual good look at his saviour. He was young, maybe a couple years older than himself. His clothes were ill fitting and worn, specks of blood flicked over his face like crimson freckles. Gaunt cheeks and almost black eyes.
“I- I feel like I should be the one asking you that.”
The guy scoffed, examining his hands with a mild disinterest, “I’ve had worse.”
“That’s not exactly what I asked.” The person ignored him.
“We should probably get going, they aren’t gonna stay unconscious like they do in the movies.” A pause. A glance back to where Mumbo was still sitting, eyes wide. “Come on.” And then there was a hand in front of him, an offer. Mumbo took it, allowing the person to pull him to his feet.
“What’s your name?”
A pause, “Grian,” the person answered hesitantly, already making his way out of the alley, side stepping the bodies on the floor. “You?”
“Mumbo.”
“Nice to meet you Mumbo, where do you live?” Mumbo blinked, scrambling after him.
“Oh, um. Up on 21st Street.”
“Wonderful. I’ll walk you there.”
-
If you asked Grian why he helped this random person he found getting mugged. He’d have to say he had no idea. It was stupid in all forms of the word. He got nothing from it, and it put him in a pointless place of risk. But call it the sleep deprivation talking, the feeling of apathy taking over his actions as if it were somehow rational. He sighed, examining his knuckles once more with a wince.
“So… why were you walking alone at night in a suit?” He interrupted Mumbo mid-ramble. Something about a T-Flop? The man paused, looking somewhat sheepish.
“I had an interview. It ran later than I thought it would.” Grian made a noncommittal hum, nodding slightly as they started to trek up a hill, ignoring the pain stabbing at his ribs at every breath. “This is it.” The words snapped Grian out of his thoughts, and he looked up at the building in front of him. Well… buildings, technically. It was a block of flats. Mumbo shifted awkwardly on his feet. “I-” Grian raised his eyebrows, waiting patiently for him to put his thoughts together. “Do- do you want to stay with me tonight?” The words were blurted. Grian blinked, his brain processing the words slower than it probably should.
Then, “At least buy me a drink first.” Mumbo flushed.
“Not like that! I- it’s just the least I can do, really.” A beat. Grian debating his options. On the one hand, he had met this guy like ten minutes ago. On the other, he seemed pretty harmless. (That’s what you thought about Sam.) He shook the thought off. “You can use the shower,” Mumbo offered, an almost hopeful look on his face. And really? That was all Grian needed to hear.
-
So what if Mumbo wasn’t really thinking when he offered a random person a place in his flat. It wasn’t like he was regretting it. More like… rethinking it. He had no idea who this guy was, and he —now that he was thinking more clearly— practically reeked of alcohol, even if he seemed to be sober right now.
Mumbo winced. Screw him and his empathetic brain. He sighed, refocusing on the task at hand. Finding clothes that would at least semi-fit Grian’s small frame.
(He tried his best to ignore the concern swirling in his gut from the bones showing from underneath Grian’s skin, the scars trailing up and down his arms.)
He settled on an old pajama shirt and some drawstring sweatpants. He’d find Grian some everyday clothes in the morning, but for now, this felt like good sleep wear. He placed it gently by the door of the bathroom, right where he’d told Grian he’d put it.
The whole thing felt so mundane. Like he hadn’t almost been mugged and killed. As if he hadn’t just been saved by some random guy who couldn’t be much older than him. He shook the thought off, forcing himself to get off of his bed. To go into the kitchen to get dinner ready.
And then he paused. Did Grian have any allergies? Food restrictions? Mumbo frowned, looking around the kitchen as if some magical textbox would appear and tell him all of the answers. It didn’t.
He decided on eggs and bacon.
-
Grian stared at the face in the mirror. At the person who he no longer recognized. He paused. When was the last time he had? Was it before high school? Before moving to Japan in the first place? He shook the thought off, forcing himself to open the door, to release the pent up steam. The sweatpants Mumbo had lent him were a bit long, and the shirt was baggy. But still, it was better than the blood speckled clothes in his hands.
(He hoped he didn’t increase Mumbo’s water bill too much. That he wasn’t being a bother.)
He walked slowly, the pain from before catching up to him as he followed the sound of movement to what seemed to be a kitchen. Mumbo was there, humming quietly to himself as he moved something around in a pan. Grian stood awkwardly in the doorway, hair messy and black eye forming. He cleared his throat. Mumbo jumped.
“Oh goodness!” He laughed. “Don’t scare a man like that!”
“Don’t be so scareable,” Grian countered, taking a seat at the counter as if he wasn’t about to tip over, as if the room didn’t spin as the adrenaline continued to fade. Mumbo held a plate out towards him.
“I made dinner?” It was an olive branch. A peace offering despite nothing wrong happening between them. Grian stared at the eggs and bacon with an unreadable look on his face.
Then, “I’m not hungry.” Mumbo frowned.
“Are you sure?”
“Yep.” It was a lie. He was starving. But he couldn’t trust it. He couldn’t. He had no idea what could’ve been put in there. He had no idea what could’ve been added.
“Do you have an allergy?” Grian nearly winced from the concern dripping from Mumbo’s voice. How could he sound that genuine?
“No, I’m just not that hungry.” The words came out more aggressive than he intended. He looked away. “Thanks, though.”
-
In the end, Mumbo had let it go, pointing to his extra blankets and pillows and telling Grian he could set up whatever on his couch. Maybe that would come back to bite him. But from the way that Grian had awkwardly asked where he should put his bloody clothes, Mumbo was beginning to think that wouldn’t be the case.
It was endearing in a way. Concerning in another. He was a puzzle that Mumbo was itching to solve. A redstone circuit that was broken, that he wanted to figure out how to fix. And maybe that wasn’t the best reaction to have when coming across someone so obviously hurt. But he was a thinker at heart. A problem solver!
It was all he could think to do.
-
Grian wasn’t quite sure what to think of Mumbo. He was nice, sure. Awkward and eager to help. Obviously young, probably naive. Or at the very least more oblivious than Grian had been at his age.
(A gun in his hands. Blood on his shirt. Dying friend in his arms.)
He shook his head, forcing those thoughts to the corner of his brain. Mumbo had gone to bed a while ago, or at least to his room. Grian was laying still on the couch, listening intently as the sound of cars rushed by, as groups of people walked through the streets.
He had been lucky to end up on this server. He had been lucky to survive at all. It didn’t matter that he was living on the streets. Or that he had practically nothing to his name. He had gotten out. And now, he had somehow scored a place in someone’s flat. Even if it was only temporarily.
It was better than nothing. And that was all he could bear to ask.