Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

  "I think you should leave now. You can talk to him later when he's better." 

  The command haunts him, stabs at his aching spaces when he forgets, and reminds him over and over again that this is his fault. It doesn't matter how many hours he had spent, how many favors he had called in, how close he had come to tearing a world apart to save someone so dear to them. Nothing he did mattered, not after a mistake from years, from a decade ago that had culminated in direct hurt to someone he was supposed to protect. Resulted in emotional hurt and pain to so many others, and shattered any last trust or goodwill they had ever felt for him. 

  Only Keralis had left him any kind of hope. "You can talk to him later when he's better." 

  No one defined 'better', they didn't have to. Not when a newly-presented hybrid was trying to learn how to coexist with friends, and manage new instincts while discovering his body all over again. Not when every hybrid on the server had turned their backs to him, and the actions he had taken and defended from the past. 

  Actions he was determined to correct, if only to win back their friendship. (It's possible. He has to believe that it's possible, or else he.. has nothing. And that's not something he can live for.) 

  He’s shaking by the time he reaches his base, his glide wobbling horribly as he aims for his honey farm, instead of the storage tower, not wanting to chance a rocket-powered slam into the side of the concrete. He hasn’t had an anxiety attack this bad in.. in a while, actually. Just thinking about what had caused those makes his legs nearly give out, and he grabs at the iron railings to steady himself, hanging his head to try for a few deep breaths. An unstable update is a far cry from what’s happened today, what he’s been accused of, but the memory still haunts him. And when his stomach clenches and roils, he remembers this, too, and knows it’s gonna be one of those nights. 

  He stumbles into the bubblevator in the back, curling into the force of the pounding water as it propels him upwards, landing on his knees on the upper floor, helmet latches already undone so that he can pull off the helmet and cough up the bitter bile and what’s left of the little lunch he was able to choke down before world-hopping with panic in his throat. He’s shaking even harder by the time his stomach is empty, but the sour smell is enough to make him move away, to give in and crawl over to the ender chest in the corner beside a long-abandoned bed. Two shulker boxes later he has cleaned up his mess, the flint and steel warm in his hand after the fire burns out. 

  The bed is cold and dusty as he leans against it, turning his helmet over in his hands as he contemplates. 

  Something has to change, and it’s not his Hermits. They’ve been through enough; he has put them through enough. He’s one man, and on the wrong side of everyone’s anger and frustration. So many mistakes, so many coming back to hurt them, and so many decisions he’s made on his own have turned out so, so wrong. 

  The helmet fits back into place when he realizes it’s not the sun going down that’s making the room darker. The filtered cold air makes it easier to breathe, though the confined space only makes the sound of his gasps echo around him. He fumbles the blanket off the bed, and wraps it over himself, helmet and everything. Nobody’s going to come looking for him, not here, not tonight. He can indulge in this little breakdown, and get to work fixing his mistakes -all of his mistakes- in the morning. When his hands and lungs are steadier.

  It starts with purging every admin-locked file he has. All uploaded to their private chat server, and available for everyone to look through. Mods and tooltips, player files, hybrid files and notes, histories and logs of their worlds. Every change and modification that has ever been done, including all of the glitches he's fixed, even the ones he'd caught before anyone else knew they were there. 

  Even the ones that would damn him further, for upholding his misguided protection, and continuing to hide the secrets that have been brought to light. 

  (Buried in the data there is his own truth, and he wonders how long it will be before a Hermit calls him on that. ) 

  He continues, spending his time alone with creating care packages for everyone. Food and drink, wool blankets and beds and soft clothing for the safe place of the SS Hermitcraft. Potions and food for bases, extra shulkers and armour and weapons for the respawn room and world spawn. Anything and everything he can think of, shulkers-full of items left where the Hermits can find them. 

  He forgoes his own rest, knowing that it'll only be broken by nightmares and remembered anxiety and terror. Awake, he can keep control of himself, can work to contain and reduce the damage he's done, and hope that it's accepted and recognized. 

  He mutes world chat, turns off his reminders of mundane tasks that don't really need to be done. Leaves on only the server warnings, and the alert that would bring everyHermit running. (And hopes, hopes and prays that his help will still be accepted there, if all else fails.) 

  He begins work on a massive brewery, something that he had already been building in his head, a season-long project that can create full shulker boxes of potions at a time. Complicated redstone that he can now sink his thoughts into instead of worrying how his gifts are received, instead of wondering how everyone is doing, or pushing down the urge to check in on them, or to ask if he's been forgiven. The Hermits have always valued action above words, trust given easily but grudges kept and nurtured until reparations have been made. 

  (And if he has a few more quiet little breakdowns in the basement of the build, well, no one's looking for him anyway. Redstone can't keep away the anxiety attacks, but neither does it make accusations he can't defend against, nor hold him and make reassurances he can't believe yet.) 

  He surfaces from yet another stupid panic attack, and doomscrolls through the muted world chat while he chokes down a bottle of honey to settle his stomach. But the messages aren’t comforting, not the usual daily chatting that goes on. It seems to start with Grian inviting Scar over for something near the Barge, then an hour later Joe and Cleo are asked to bring potions, and Cub asks Hypno to join them. There's no mention of what exactly happened, but a general unease makes him want to dig into the player files, and verify for himself that everything's okay. 

  The honey sticks in his throat, acidic and burning when a new message comes through. 

   Scar and Jellie are fine, they'll be resting at the SS Hermitcraft tonight. Raw fish and cakes are welcome if anyone wants to stop by. 

  Scar and Jellie? What happened? Why wasn't the code used? Why wouldn't- 

  He has to tear his helmet away, nearly breaks his own neck trying to get it off quickly enough to vomit up the sickly-sweet liquid he'd just had onto the stone floor beside him. Deepest void, did they no longer trust the code he had put in place? Had he broken that much of the bedrock that held them together? Could Scar and his beloved Jellie have been hurt worse by his failure? 

  He spits, trying to clear his mouth while ignoring the tears dripping silently down his face. He truly has ruined things, and even fumbling for a bucket of water to clean away this tiny mess doesn't absolve him of his guilt. Washed away redstone can be replaced, and now there's even more reason for him to complete the brewery project, even more reason to keep working to mend the damage he's caused. 

  (And if his hands tremble as he resets the redstone line, or his knees shake as he climbs up and over scaffolding and stone and wool, well, he's no shakier than the relationships he shares with the Hermits.) 

  By the time the Code is used again, he's nearly done with the brewery project. The redstone is all in place and working beautifully. Even though his armours have been set to the side so he can crawl around the narrow workings, he's nearly finished something that can be beneficial to the entire server. 

  He's nearly giddy to respond to the summons, still strapping on the somehow-loose chestplate as he exits the portal at spawn, and finds what looks to be the entire server gathered and waiting, no one in immediate trouble. "Sorry I'm late!" he babbles, trying not to notice Zedaph's strangely smug smile, or the confused looks from other Hermits. "I haven't had to wear the armour in a while so it took a bit longer to assemble. I-" 

  He loses his train of thought as he realizes that they are indeed waiting. Waiting for him, unputtogether as he is.

  For him, even though there's a doppelganger of himself already here, already standing at the head of the group. 

  xB makes a joke about poisoned soup, and even if he didn't want to relive that particular nightmare again, it's almost preferred to the nightmare he's living through now. When an imperfect copy of himself (imperfect only because he's not that clean, not that kempt, not after a week hiding in a redstone-dusted basement) transforms in a familiar glitched sequence into a well-known form, he's not sure that he hasn't fallen asleep in the redstone. He wants to reach out, to try again, maybe, somehow, to make the right choices this time, and hope that he can wake with a smile instead of a scream. 

  Except he's not.. he's not dreaming. Someone falls into another's lap, there's cheering and low cursing, and False springs up with deadly intent as Keralis turns deathly pale. 

  It's all on him again. Every single time, he is the fulcrum that the server turns on and looks to, when the world starts to collapse around them. 

  It's the bucket of lava in his chest, when he turns to the smirking Zedaph, who is waiting with a defiant stare. A ringleader, a friend he had wronged, a man pushed to revenge by his own despairing mistakes. "What is this? What have you done?" 

  Zedaph ignores him, and gives his full attention to the once-brother that knocks what's left of his world from its pedestal.

  "If any of you have seen Xisuma walking around the Cowmercial district this whole day, that has been me pretending to be him,” Ex explains, pausing as various Hermits gasp and murmur before continuing. “After hearing what all of you had to say about me, I figured it was worth a try to try and plead my case for being whitelisted.” 

  He can barely pay attention to what comes after. 'Me pretending to be him.' 'What you all had to say about me.' Was this.. on purpose? What did Ex and the Hermits talk about? He didn't.. he didn't even think they wanted to talk to him, how did..? Why would they talk to his brother, and not himself?

  Except his once-brother is telling a different tale. Stories of friendship and care, subversion of every good feeling he had held for his family and friends, and sentiments that come much too close to his own recent feelings of guilt and despair. 

  "I may be broken, and I may be beyond saving, but if I can make sure that Hermitcraft- the one last good thing in my life- sticks around, I can at least say I did something good.” 

  The anvil has twisted to a sword in his gut, glitched directly into every open wound he has been hiding, pulled into the light simply to make a mockery of him. 

  “Stop playing your games." Stop hurting me, he can't say, not anymore. "Stop pretending you care about things." How could he know, how could he stare right into his own soul, and bare all of his feelings and deepest wants as if they’re toys to play with. Mocking him, and his care for this server, his friends and family.

  He loses track, after that, his own bedrock shaken and cracking. He spits his words by rote, arguments had again and again that he knows like the back of his gloves. Except Ex has brought new weapons, has thrown down a fresh gauntlet and reopened wounds badly healed over. Uses his own shock and history to paint a new picture, a new world that is squeezing him out of it. Resets Xisuma as the fault, as the inattentive brother, as the cause of the destruction of their family. 

  Of both of his families. 

   “Your parents didn’t love me the way they loved you.” Calls him ‘brother’ with one breath, and denies that they were family the next. Left him, accused Xisuma of leaving him behind, of driving him away. 

  Like he had done to the Hermits. 

  Because they were taking Ex's side, was turning without question to another point of view, swayed by a story of abuse and miscare that he had unwittingly participated in. 

  And just as before, his past actions and inactions have already damned him. He has no excuse, no defense, and his pleas are once again swept to the side and ignored as worthless. He wants to curl into a ball and disappear, but he's sure that somehow he'd still be blamed for whatever happened next, for whatever damage has been or will be done by the end of this waking nightmare. 

  Instead he is the silent witness, as each Hermit takes their turn in comforting his once-brother. His replacement, in every way, as they support him and comfort him and give away the love and support that he ached to have directed at himself. At his world, that is now upside down, leaving him floating, unmoored, and wondering what his new place will be, what he can do to have any hope of reclaiming his lost place in their hearts. 

  He doesn't think he has a chance, not when Zedaph pushes his chair back, and pushes his own dagger of pain back at Xisuma's own silence. 

  “On that note, I say we put to a vote, as a server-” deliberately taunting him to disagree, to say anything in response. “-On whether or not we whitelist Evil X.” 

  So this was the plan, all along. He had hurt Zedaph, like he'd hurt Ex, and Bdubs, and every other Hermit before that. This was his punishment, maybe the only way they could forgive him, if he did this thing for them. If he remained silent, and followed their lead, and paid his recompense by doing what he was told, and earning their forgiveness. 

  He's shocked into silence anyway, when Ex makes his pretty speech to Keralis. Demonstrating a skill with words Xisuma didn't know he had, and showing the Hermits a new level of selflessness while all that he can feel is another sense of loss, as Keralis unwinds from his fearful huddle and visibly blooms at the apology. 

  Like he hadn't, when Xisuma had made his. Like no Hermit had, when he was shouted down and chased away and left to his own darkness. 

  He's only a little shocked, startled even, when Keralis addresses him at the end. 

  "Shishwammy?" 

  "Yes?" Please don't let him fuck this up, please, dear void… 

  "Please whitelist Evil Shishwammy." 

  They want him to.. they trust him with this? "K, are you sure?" 

  It's only his sinking heart that makes him pause and ask, not even listening to whatever it is Keralis says to his once-brother, instead of to him. He isn’t even needed for this, but they’re making a point. 

  Giving him a single opportunity, to fix a mistake.

  He adds EvilX to the whitelist, ignores the shock to his fingers as he sends the command. He makes himself watch, as the world-code welcomes a new member, as it seals the harshest of the glitches, mends the worst of Ex's.. 

  The shape of his once-brother's code changes. Heals and becomes solid in places he's never seen it smooth out before. There's nothing in his stomach as he takes a step back, shrinking out of sight, but not losing the visual - the changing, evolving, living code of.. 

  Of a brand new player. Of a living, breathing, non-glitched Player, and void below and stars above, but how had he missed this? How had their parents.. their Admin.. how had he.. 

  No wonder there were so many glitches, trouble that brewed like a storm wherever Ex had gone, that receded when he left and crashed like waves when he 'knocked' against the firewalls that couldn't keep him out. There's even a piece of himself, that's no longer tethered, that snaps back, broken and unhindered now, no longer blinded by being pulled away from him, and used by another. 

  His brother had never been welcomed, truely. Never been whitelisted into their original server-home, never been whitelisted on Hermitcraft or any other world. Never had a settled code, a home to call his own, or a world to escape to, wouldn't have been able to create one himself. 

  He backs away from the now happy gathering, already feeling the burn in his eyes and throat, and if he stays here any longer it will undermine the whole thing. He can’t have a breakdown here. He can't have them turn against him more than they have. To mock him for not noticing, for driving one more wedge between friends, for not being able to control himself, for not letting them enjoy this moment. Not again, and not now, not since he's seen what will make them happy, what can heal the hurt he's caused so many. 

  Doc catches his eye as he leaves, giving a slow nod of what could be recognition, or thanks. No one else comments or even seems to notice, and ticks later he's in the nether and out of the tunnels, racing along the flight path he'd marked out to his witch farm, far from any other build or Hermit. 

  He doesn't quite manage to hold himself back, and staggers forward from the portal to dunk his helmet in the ocean, rinsing it from the little bile that stained the inside. 

  The laughter of spawning witches above him and water below are no comfort to one more breakdown. It's not even for himself, this time, but for the brother he could have been, could have had , and kept, and the lost time and years between them. For his failure yet again as an admin, who should have known better, could have looked harder, been more thorough. For what his brother could have had, had he truly been wanted, and cared for, and loved. 

  He swings his sword through his tears, timing his sobbing gasps with his swing, allowing the energy spent at the farm to soothe the fear and despair until it’s become mind-numbing exhaustion. He doesn’t think he can stay for long, not with the way he hasn't been able to keep solid food down long enough to sustain the physical grind. The little bit of resources will help though, with finishing his brewery. A project with new meaning, to give back to the Hermits, to right the wrongs he's made, and be more mindful of what he hasn't been noticing, to no longer be 'the derpy admin', so lost in his own little world and harming everyone around him. 

  No more mistakes, no more driving the Hermits away, no leaving anyone behind, including him.

  It's still easily days later, shaky and exhausted when he returns to the brewery. He's refilled his inventory with supplies, shulkers full of redstone and glowstone dusts, gun powder and sugar, along with plans for several new farms to round out a complete set of every available vanilla potion. The brief burst of sugar from a few bottles of honey gives him the energy to store the items away, ever closer to filling the hoppers. Giving him purpose, when haunting nightmares turn him back out of his bed too soon. 

  He builds the farms, and finishes work on the brewery, and on expanding his base in the quiet hours that he's left alone. In the days that pass without remark, without visitors, the sun rising and falling and rising again, and hours spent in more physical labor and placing blocks and even more redstone. 

  (He works at the phantom farm on nights that Bdubs is in the Nether, or another Hermit asks for time to work on lighting their bases. He doesn't dare ask for himself, and since he rarely sleeps, the phantoms will be there at nightfall regardless. The dragon's breath farm is a little more tricky, and he has a couple of close calls with totems, but is ultimately successful. The honey helps, though he hates to admit it. He isn't keeping solid food down anymore anyway.)

  He cautiously makes his way back into server life. He monitors world chat again, keeping it muted but watching for opportunities to help out his servermates. Keeping his distance, but offering help when he can, with what he has or can do. Stopping his own work to gather resources, to drop off items from his farms, keeping up his self-sufficiency to stay clear of being a burden on anyone else on the server. Keralis already had free-reign of his farms, and he can easily offer the items he already has in plenty. 

  He's still rarely asked directly for any assistance. Evi- no, Exiona earned his way into the Hermits' hearts by what he did for them, and supporting them when he had made his mistakes. Now Xisuma has to follow his lead, and step back, and work hard not to fall back on derping and inattentiveness. And he does, he does work hard to gain back their favor. He catches his almost-mistakes before they can happen, he fills every request that he can catch in chat, he keeps himself scarce from everyHermit until they can forgive him and maybe, maybe welcome him back some day. 

  They haven’t left him yet.

  It's weeks again before the next crisis. The next use of the Code, and he thanks the stars and void that maybe it was only a one-off, or that the Hermits can at least trust themselves to answer the call even if they don't trust him . 

  He's not the first to arrive, but neither is he the last this time. But he is prepared, and digs out his potion box that's prepped for the kind of unknown situations that a Blue Creeper call can be. 

  Everyone's focus is on Grian, as it should be. The day-cycle is reset, and Cub gleefully takes out the undead fliers that hurt their friend, leaving the others to tend the wounded. And wounded he is, Grian's bright plumage dirty and torn from his fall and roll in the dirt, the wing itself bent unnaturally. 

  Xisuma pulls up the anatomy files from their server, offers them to Impulse, only to find Mumbo already here, and walking the stronger man through resetting the delicate bones of the wing. So he turns his attention towards bandages instead, leaving a pile of them beside Impulse, who grabs without looking as Mumbo's long fingers help him wrap. 

  The distracted 'thank you' is the kindest thing anyone's said to him in ages, even if Impulse wasn't looking at him, or even noticing who it was said to. 

  That tiny flame of warmth is held close to his chest as more Hermits arrive, and he steps back to silently nurture it, moved further and further away as Hermits press close and ask questions and quite nearly get in the way. He bites his tongue, determined not to make the mistake of snapping at anyone, certain that his voice will not be welcome even at the expense of Grian's careful treatment. 

  False arrives, and her no-nonsense tone has Hermits laughing in relief as they're directed to gather more supplies, potions, to clear out space at the Safe Space so that Grian can recover there, surrounded by friends. She spares only a glance his way, though he can't make out the emotion that passes across her face as he steps further back, and away from some of their newly arriving Hermits. 

  A litter is made, Grian bundled into blankets to keep him warm from shock setting in, and there's still plenty of volunteers to carry their friend back to spawn through the Nether hub. Xisuma is already making a mental list of potions and food to feed everyone, figuring he can leave more shulkers at the entrance to the cozy ship as soon as they've got the patient settled in. 

  Mumbo surprises him, breaking away from the moving group to stand hesitantly before him. 

  "I know the Hermits are Grian's family," Mumbo starts, and Xisuma could cry for the uncertainty in his tone, hoping and yet knowing that he's been the cause of it. "But he has a, not quite a, that is, someone he thinks of as a, a sister, of sorts. And, um, this is kind of a scenario, that is," he takes a deep breath, and lets it out in a rush of words. "WouldyouwhitelisthissisterPearllescentMoonsoshecanvisithim?" 

  He knows all of the emergency contacts listed by the Hermits. He knows PearlescentMoon, and knows that Grian holds family dear to him, and can only imagine how much he would love to have his sister there, even if he was severely injured. Temporarily. Temporarily injured, he corrects himself. Xisuma starts to nod, interrupted before he can find out if his voice will work today. 

  "Oh! I should, uh, we should make sure.." Mumbo trails off, searching his many pockets before he pulls out his comm and types out a quick message. "There, that should do it. Can you contact her? I think he'd really appreciate it, and it'd only be a temporary thing, I mean, she’ll be a Hermit soon, so it’s not out of the realm of possibility, right? Just a few days, I think, or a week. Maybe? I'm not-" 

  He prays his voice stays steady. "Mumbo  I'll take care of it." Thank the void, even if his stomach feels like it wants to empty again, the tremors along his spine letting him know he's got only a little bit before this turns into a full-blown attack. "As long as she wants to come, I'll make sure she can be here." 

  Mumbo nods, and nods again, relief and concern and joy and worry chasing across his expressive face. "Okay, okay. Thanks, I mean, for Grian, or his sist- oh, goodness. Listen to me ramble. Thank you, I'm gonna, I'm gonna head for the Cowmercial district then, and meet up-" 

  The lanky man interrupts himself, turning and wrapping his arms around Xisuma for a quick tick, squeezing once before rapidly backing away, tripping over his tongue and feet. 

  "Thanks. Thank you. I'm, uh, I'm gonna go now." And he rockets away, narrowly missing the top of a tree a dozen blocks out. 

  Leaving Xisuma standing alone in the little clearing, his chest and back and arms still tingling from where Mumbo had pressed against him, chest heaving from the silent sobs of not-pain and deep, abiding sorrow, for what he had lost. 

  He follows through, shoves off the bout of anxiety and worry and contacts Pearl directly. The first message is sent from the Respawn room at World spawn, just in case she demands to come immediately. Which, of course, she does, calling him up on the private line he'd given her, and asking how long until he can portal her in. 

  It's only a matter of minutes to whitelist her and locate the nearest Universe hub, pull a few strings due to his admin status, and commandeer a portal that he himself programs to their locked and protected world. 

  She's there as he finishes, bold and brash and just as effusive as Grian, and he can see in a heartbeat how well they must get on. Her black and white moth wings flutter behind her in anxious excitement, and she graces him with a small smile as he bows at her introduction. 

  "Nice to finally meet you in person, Iksuma." She gets his name as close as anyone ever does, and he adds it to his mental list. "Sorry it had to be under these circumstances." 

  He nods in agreement, and repeats his warning from earlier. "We'll be in the ocean as soon as we spawn in," he had  logged out from there, so he would arrive with her. "Let the bubbles pull you down, and there'll be armor and weapons if you want them, so you won't be unprotected while you visit." 

  She steps through the portal as soon as he finishes, and he follows as soon as she's clear, expending a fraction of power to pull and shatter the portal behind them, taking no chances that someone could follow. (It'll be a long, long time before he will trust the open hubs again.) 

  Her delight at his Respawn room is only dimmed by the knowledge of why she was here, and he wastes no time getting her a respawn kit and directing her through the next portal into the Nether hub. She doesn't ask any other questions, allowing him to lead her to the Town Hall portal, and then to the waiting SS Hermitcraft. 

  She doesn't even notice that he doesn't follow her inside, though welcoming voices mean she's not alone as she meets the Hermits already there. She's in good hands, beside her brother, and well met to Grian's new extended family. 

  Xisuma flies back to his own base, to his hidden little space behind the honey pits, and succumbs to the anxious nervous breakdown he's been holding at bay. 

  By the time he calmed down again, napped fitfully and showered, it's been a full day since he whitelisted Pearl. He swallows another bottle of honey, thick and tasteless now, as it's been his only food source for much too long. He scrolls through the world chat, catching up on what he'd missed, thankful to see that the message Mumbo had sent out even before he'd left was simply confirmation that noHermit had any issue with Pearl visiting for the duration of Grian's injury. There's a roster already posted, for everyone to volunteer time spent keeping Grian company, and he's happy to see that it's already filled, their friend will be well cared for. 

  There are antics posted as well; Grian waking briefly under the influence of heavy painkillers (thank the stars, his brewery is good for something, he's been good for something), and even he has to smile at some of the things Grian has supposedly said and done. It's a good sign, that his spirits are high even though he was hurt so badly. 

  He can take a measure of courage from Grian. He never wants to see someone so hurt, like Doc had been, or Beef, or even Bdubs after his kidnapping. But Grian was apparently still his happy, perky self, and thrilled to have his friends and family around him. 

  He'll stop by as well, without disturbing the rotation of Hermits already signed up. Maybe make an apology or two, if Grian's willing to accept it. Just the thought lifts his mood even more. He's been distant long enough, and he hopes that his apologies will be welcome this time around. 

  They aren't.

  He makes for the entrance of the wooden build, pressing the unused bandages into Hypno's startled hands, and gestures toward the center room, not trusting his own voice to explain. He can't even meet Hypno's eyes, unwilling to see either challenge or contempt there, too. 

  At least he can flee before Jevin arrives, and tears into him further, or throws the whole hybrid-incident back at him. 

   "If you think I'm broken, you'll ban me. You did it to Exy." 

  He can't win. He can't outrun the hurt he's caused, and it's going to haunt him every day for the rest of his pathetic life. There'll be no more inflicting himself on the Hermits. No more waiting for them to leave him behind, or drive them off. It’s his turn now. They deserve better than him, they have better than him. 

  His once-brother, who has grown and proved himself to be better than Xisuma ever was, has been chosen by the Hermits. It's his turn to leave, to leave them to their happy family, to stop being the pain in their hearts that they're reminded of every time they see him. 

  It’s a quick flight to his base, not that he’s aware of the journey. There’s just one thing to take care of, something that he’s had in the back of his mind for too long, planned out but never acted upon. And all too easy, too quick to complete.

  Until now. Until the end. Until there’s nothing left, and no more reasons to stay.  

  He knows that ZIT has gone to Tango's to stay close to the Cowmercial district, so he spams his rockets and flies high over unseen biomes and land, until he's reached Zedaph's Cave of Wonders. He breaks through the front door, carelessly placing the blocks back behind him, and marches over to the Bumless Pit. The iron trap door is closed, there's no more need for Zedaph to sit here and wait, no one to come up from the Void and be welcomed back, no more anticipated reunion or anger at a friend departed. 

  Only himself, and the cold worthlessness of whatever is left of him, unwanted and alone, and anticipated by no one. 

  He mutes everything. His comm, his chat, his connection with the server and the world itself. He'll disappear, like he'd made Exiona disappear, and go unmourned. 

  The trap door opens with a clank, and Xisuma steps forward. 

  There is no message to announce his departure. 

Chapter Text

  TFC readies tea, in his cozy, stoney build. His message has been sent, and he waits to see what Xisuma has to say for himself. To see if there's any way he can help, or convince his old friend to seek it. 

  No one's seen helmet nor sign of Xisuma in weeks. Cub and False saw Pearl off three days ago, after reporting that they'd had no luck in contacting their head admin. Joe and Cleo had scoured his base, checking the towers one by one, and coming up empty-handed. 

  Their friend was gone in the wind, and the longer he maintained radio silence, the antsier everyone was getting. 

  Even Grian was protesting his restrictions, now that his sister was gone. He had roped Cub and Scar into creating a stack of maps, all spread out around the SS Hermitcraft, keeping tabs on the places they'd checked, possible hiding spots to explore, and tracking down every outlier farm that Xisuma had created, always hoping that they'd find him there. Being his usual derpy self, maybe headbanging to some music like he used to, and entirely unaware of the manhunt that was going on for him. 

  Every minute that passes brings more unease to his old bones. He knows that Xisuma has an alert on the 'Blue Creeper' call, he knows that his friend would respond if able. He'd sent it specifically to their private dm, not wanting to panic anyone else, and hoping, hoping that he could be the one to settle the growing distance that had come between the admin and the Hermits. 

  At ten minutes, he paces his sitting area, wondering if he should pour his own tea while he waits. 

  At fifteen, he sent a second message, reassured only that it's not sent back, that no error message tells him it's not delivered. 

  At thirty, the water has gone cold, and he's digging through his storage in a back closet, trying to find the box of favorites, that goes with him from world to world. In it somewhere, is an old coat, and an ancient sword, and a magenta-hued visor with gold trim. 

  By the time he's kitted up and nearly ready to leave, Joe and Exiona are in his sitting room. Joe frowns at his kit, and TFC waits, bemused, for whatever comment their poet will make. 

  Exiona beats him to it, his nervousness evident in the crackle of static in the air, and the way he can't pull his gaze from the old wooden sword. 

  "You know, I never believed him, when he said he'd met Herobrine." 

  "And what makes you think his tales were true now, youngling?" He leans on the sword like a cane, already ignoring the feedback it gives him, long history with the weapon kicking in, like climbing into the saddle for the first time in eons again. 

  Exiona steps to the side, narrowly missing the questing magic, only partially directed at him. Joe lifts his glasses into his hair, the better to see the glitching code nearly invisible to normal sight. The once-glitch can't quite keep it in his sight, as evidenced by the jump he makes when it hits his boot on a second try. 

  The holographic face on the helmet scowls for a moment, then clears. "That's-" he catches himself, as if he's finally realizing Joe is still in the room. 

  "Oh, he knows," Tin reassures him. "The OG Hermits did, most of 'em. You, now. And this little thing-" taps the wood against the stone "-tells me you've changed, maybe as much as I have, though more recently. Is it only the relation to the glitches, or is your void-sense lost, too?" 

  He's not surprised by the pout, though it reminds him of a younger Xisuma, a man who didn't know how to take a joke or prank, but could trade dry humor for hours with his cyborg friend. It's all a facade, a cover for not knowing their limits, not yet understanding the guidelines to follow and the rules they can break. 

  "I don't know." A copout. 

  "Hmm. You found Impulse, on the Nether roof." He doesn't have to tell him he wasn't there. "And you found Zedaph, when he was in the End." And here he takes a risk, that could either help, or make a mess. "Do you not really want to find your brother? Or are you afraid to?" 

  Exiona deflates, and flops into the overstuffed chair behind him. Dramatic little prat. "You know, I didn't used to have to think about it, if that makes sense. He was just there, in the back of my mind, and I could find him wherever he was. If we were on the same world. Now he's just.. not gone, I think I'd know that. But he's not there, not anymore, not where I can point a direction and say 'that way', or '200 blocks and he's there'. It's.. weird." 

  TFC knows the feeling. "Yeah, it really is. Like static in a limb you don't have. Dunno about logging off for good, though. And it's been a long, long time since my OC has been online." 

  The dramatics are gone, the instant he realizes that someone knows what he hasn't said, has the same experience and uncertainty that he's been through. "You…" 

  TinFoil laughs, and it feels good to do so, even if there are more pressing, immediate matters. "Being a living glitch isn't a whole lot of fun, not when you're focused on what you don't have. But we can sit down over coffee or tea later, and tell stories about watching our Originals." 

  The holographic visor goes dark, and without the red light that hides it, there's a stunned, hopeful face barely visible through the tint. Until the helmet is lifted away, and Exiona is staring at him in wonder and not a little bit of awe. 

  "I didn't want to push on our link," he confesses, shifting his weight in idle fidget. "I've had.. that is, huh. "He takes a deep breath, and starts again. "I spent years stalking Xisuma, and I'm sure that he could feel me like I felt him. I didn't want to make him paranoid, or, or hateful, if he thought I was following him again." 

  "I should have checked in with the both of you sooner, but I didn't realize until after, what had happened between you." He can see the questions chasing themselves across Exiona's expressive face, and resolves to answer as many as he can, and soon. "I also don't want you to be a cause of concern for Xisuma. But with your permission, and an admin to witness," he nods to Joe, "I'd like to use what's left of that link to try and locate our errant X." 

  Exiona barely waits for him to finish before he's nodding, eager and anxious to help. Just like his brother, TFC thinks fondly. 

  "What do you need from him?" He'd picked Joe, because their wordsmith could both see the code around them when he tried, and because he had already displayed a loyalty to both of the X's, and could be an impartial help if he needed anything from the admin-side of the world. 

  TFC shuffles his weight, making himself steady on the prosthetic leg that sometimes gives him trouble. Holds up the wooden sword, crafted with an original Debug Stick, the first and only remaining of its kind. "Think about how you used to sense him, whether from the Void or inside the world. Hold that in your thoughts, and when you have it, grab the handle above my hand. That's all I need." 

  Herobrine's Original hasn't been online in decades, hasn't been heard from in years before that. It hasn't stopped him from looking, though the occasions come few and further between. He still knows, deep in his heart, that he could find him again. 

  What he'd say to Steve, he doesn't know. Maybe 'thank you'. 

  But those are thoughts for another time. Right now, his focus needs to be here, to put his history and abilities toward someone much more dear to him. Someone who convinced him that bonds of choice could be stronger than those of birth, and that a family and a home were more than empty words and a sense of disbelief. 

  He thinks Exiona feels the same, even if he hasn't realized it yet. Or maybe he has, as his shaking hand reaches out, steadies, and grabs the handle in a desperate grip. 

  The world stutters, glitches in a maddened cascade around the room. He'll need to replace those blocks later, or maybe Joe will do him the favor of purging the corrupted blocks while he's gone. The sword holds their combined glitch to the immediate area, but directs its own power down, down, below the bottom of the world, below the bedrock, and into the Void beneath it. 

  Into the Heart of the Void, where few have traveled, and fewer still return to the worlds above. It's been more than a lifetime since he'd walked there last, and a place for the shattered, for the left behind, and the forgotten.. it's the last place he ever wants to return to. 

  The sword disappears, and he takes a step back, already feeling the cold heat that blazes from his eyes, code and overlay and the making and ending of the world visible all at the same time around him. 

  " Wish me luck," it's a strange whisper he can't contain, and won't, until he has found his quarry. 

  Exiona is stunned into silence, but JoeHills nods and offers a hand he cannot take, not without repercussion. "Good luck, good hunting, and good fortune. May the stars guide your quest, the sun light the way home, and the grass be plentiful and sweet. May the paths you walk be always steady beneath your feet." 

  Trust a poet to know the old words, and not flinch from the response. 

  " May the Void be merciful and swift, and release us when we fall."  

  And between one tick and the next, Herobrine steps forward, and through. 

  He really isn't expecting anything. Or he's trying not to, aware that this deep in the Void his subconscious can easily change his perceptions. 

  This deep in the Void, it's easy to be lost, to lose a sense of self, or to lose grasp of sanity altogether. 

  It's a little too on-the-nose though, when he's standing on bedrock, in front of a very familiar Button. 

   "If I turn around and Doc is sitting in that silly throne, I'm going to be very disappointed in your imagination, X." 

  There's no answer, humourous or otherwise. And no Doc, when he turns around. 

  No Xisuma, either, though he is certain his friend is somewhere in the area. An area that looks suspiciously identical to the Hermits' first Nether Hub, which has already been deleted and reset for the newest update. The clubhouse is here, the differing signs still readable in the Hermits' hands, along with the treehouse built by Scar all those months ago. 

  Before so much had torn their admin down, one slow glitch and hurt at a time. 

  The bedrock appears to continue into the distance, but TFC is certain that's only an illusion. He knows more than others how deceptive the Fog can be. 

  He climbs the simple ladders, surrounded by the beauty of Scar's build. Even something this small, meant to be temporary, stood out as lovingly crafted. And that protection would ward off the scavengers for a good time. Hoisting himself onto the narrow porch isn't as hard as it usually is, gravity working here more as a suggestion rather than a command. And though the ladders should have announced his presence, the door is still closed, and oak fence beside it serving as covering for the window. 

  He knocks, willing to give the occupant inside the chance to welcome him. 

  It doesn't come. He opens the door anyway. 

  He has to remind himself again, that he has no expectations here. Because it's a little maddening, to see the dozens of helmeted heads all turn to stare at him. Each one a little different, some more than others. Older helmets with opaque visors, newer ones with sightless faces, ones he's never seen before, in a myriad of colors and mob inspirations. A familiar yellow bee, and the dark red of the strider with its sad grimace. A broken visor and a giant eye leaking painted blood over the ridge of the deformed helmet. 

  And in the midst of them all, a scarily thin man in a tank top and sweats, bent over another helmet with paint and tools. Greying hair is unkempt, his clothes hang as if two sizes too big, and his shoulders sag in the silence between them. 

  "I didn't figure you'd come." 

   "You didn't answer my call." It takes an effort to will the power back, long enough for the figure to stiffen where he sits, wiry muscle with too little fat to cover flexing before becoming still again. "I made tea, but couldn't find a friend to share it with." The world- the Void shudders around them, and he hopes that TFC can survive here like Herobrine could. "Were you really expecting me?" 

  The head shakes, and refuses to turn. 

  Not him, then. But who else could follow- 

  "You were expecting Exiona?" He waits, but no answer comes. "I don't think he can follow you here, not anymore." 

  "Go away, Tin. Herobrine. You're not welcome here." 

  Ah. "You would deny the paths to another? One who came all this way to see you home?" 

  "I am.. home." It's the hesitance that makes him pause, as if the word is unfamiliar. "It's where I belong. Where mistakes come to unravel. Let me be." 

  "Your home is Hermitcraft, X. Whatever is eating at you can be better dealt with with your family- "

  Laughter interrupts him, harsh and despairing, and stars above, but what happened to his friend? 

  "Family?! My family is dead, Tin. My parents' code scattered in the Void, my brother a glitch that was never welcomed, never wanted by anyone, gone until he wasn't, and that's all my fault. My family was hurt by me, torn apart and smothered and bullied by me. No one stays for me, and I've destroyed any family I had with my own filthy, bloodstained hands." 

  "X, your family are the Hermits." He's not sure where this has come from. "They're fine, they're waiting for you."

  A black and teal helmet is set down, careful, leashed movement. "My family is dead. I have no one, I deserve no one." It stares back at TFC, sightless space where eyes should be, and a freshly painted mouth, open in an anguished scream. "I'm just a mistake that escaped to ruin them."

  "That's not true. The Hermits are fine, they care about you and are worri-"

  “Don’t lie to me, Tin.” 

  Bedrock cracks at his voice, somewhere in the Void, much, much too close. 

  “I tried. I tried, and tried, I cared and I bled for them. I gave everything I had to the Hermits, every moment of my life, and that still wasn’t good enough. I haven’t been good enough, I’ll never be good enough. Too many mistakes, apparently, and everyone can be forgiven except the admin. I’ve loved and supported every one of them, but I’m the one left to try and fix everything on my own.”

  The crackle dies down, and voiddamnit, he’s Herobrine, and a Hermit, but he has no idea how to fight this. “They’ve been- we’ve been trying to reach out to you, X. But we didn’t want to push, or force you into something unwanted-”

  It takes everything in his power and years not to flinch at the lightning that strikes outside their shelter. Xisuma shudders, and glows. 

  “Oh, really? Do you think I wanted it to end like this? Do you think I wanted to leave, to be tossed out like trash, to despawn in loaded chunks?” There’s an ancient pain there, that feels even older than he does. “At least in the unloaded chunks I didn’t feel like I was withering away. I didn’t- I wasn’t watching a timer as I was dismissed and forgotten about.” His chuckle is the furthest thing from humor, and sounded like a death rattle. “It only hurts when they walk away, Tin. When they stopped looking at me at all, and gave everything they had, everything I wanted, to my brother. My replacement.”  

  “No one can replace you.” 

  “You already have.” The helmet in his hand goes flying, and strikes unerringly at the familiar black and grey helm sitting on the far wall. As it hits, it glitches, and is absorbed into the grey, flashing red eyes lighting for a single tick before the visor darkens again. “Exiona, savior of Hermitcraft, protector of the Hermits. Who’s never made a mistake, never caused a Hermit harm directly, or indirectly by his actions. Except, oh, wait! He has.” Another helmet flies, and another, and TFC could swear they were morphing into Hermit-heads, the decorative blocks that they traded for from the wanderers. “And yet he’s the one that gets forgiven, he gets the pithy speeches and comfort, he gets the invite and acceptance, and why? All because of his tragic backstory? Because he apologized?” The helmets in the room have all changed, have become the mocking grins of his friends, nasty smiles that make him want to hurl at the way it hurts. “Well, I did that too! I apologized, and worked to correct my mistakes, but nobody cared! I was told to pound sand and leave, and apologize later! And I did! I gave everyone space, and time, and I built and helped, and I tried! I agonized about every single move and interaction, I did just what he did, and still no one cared! I did everything right!!” 

  The last shout rings around the room, echoing as if it were a massive chamber instead of the barely half-dozen blocks it was. Outside, it’s raining. It’s raining in the Void. It’s raining, and it drips from the wooden ceiling as the tears pour from violet eyes and soak into his shirt. 

  “I did everything right, didn’t I?” The plea isn’t lost on him, though it breaks his heart. “Why didn’t the Hermits love me enough to keep me, Tin?” 

  Damn his old bones anyway. He should have done this from the start, instead of trying to handle it with kid gloves, and trust that his friend could handle it. 

  He should have known better, should have remembered how much he had craved the attention, the reassurance and comfort he had been offered, how much it helped, when he had confided in his friends. 

  “I’m so sorry, Xisuma.” He says it as he’s closing the distance, repeats it as he folds the somehow smaller man into his arms, and takes on the too-slight weight and heavy sorrow of a friend. “I’m so sorry, Xisuma, that we failed you this way. That we didn’t see your reaching hands, when you were asking for help instead of offering your own.” He’s shaken by the strength of X’s sobs, and when blocks flicker around them, TinFoil closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to worry about whether the floor is there or not. “I’m sorry for whatever part I’ve played in this, though for what it’s worth, I forgive you. Whatever it is you think you’ve done, or have done, or will do, Xisuma. I still love you as my family, and I will always, always forgive you.” 

  “Why couldn’t I get it right? Why was what I did so heinous, that no one could forgive me? Why.. why couldn’t I be loved, too?”  

  “Of course you are!” He squeezed tighter, afraid for a moment that if he lets go, Xisuma will disappear into nothing but void and xp. “Of course you’re loved, of course you’re forgiven, nobody hates you, X. Not even your choice of tea, or that mocha cafe whatever you like that should just be a good old fashioned hot cocoa.” He’s thinking fast, trying to discover the source of his admin’s despair. The pause is good, if not the giggle or chuckle he was hoping for, but he’ll take the little head-butt to the chin. It’s moments like this, when he wishes Biffa were still with them. Biffa knew how to read X, knew with a glance or a quip just how to draw him out, put him at ease or get whatever it was off of his chest. 

  And he realizes that maybe he’s not the only one, that Xisuma hasn’t had anyone do that for him in a long while. 

  “I’m tired, Tin.” 

  His damn knees ache with the pain in that tiny confession. “Sweetheart, you should rest then. Let me take you home, Xisuma.” 

  “I don’t think I have one anymore.” It’s practically the cry of a child. “I’m nothing but a ball of pathetic mistakes that no one wants to deal with." 

  "I do." He can't take the time to think this out, can't let this man believe for a second more that he's not loved, wholeheartedly. "I want to have you around, derps and all. I love you, and not just because you accepted me, and all of my history, and gave me a home. I love you for you, and everything that you've done for the Hermits. Whether it's worked out or not, you've always had the best intentions, a goodwill that encourages us all to do better, to be better versions of ourselves." The ball of tension is unwinding, muscles that felt like iron blocks moments ago loosening until he can feel the bones beneath like bars. It's a start, a good one. "I'm sorry for whatever we said or did that brought you to doubt that. I'm sorry that we lost your trust, and hurt you, and didn't find you again to mend the broken bridges before they crumbled." There's a rocking sensation with his words, and it's so easy to scoop Xisuma into his arms and allow him to curl against his chest, a lanky pile of skin and bones that was lighter than he should be. 

  Eyes still closed, he takes a step forward, and another. Holds onto the image of his home, and the dear friend in his arms that has always deserved the best. 

  "Hermitcraft is your home, X, and the Hermits will always be your family. And family means that sometimes we get things wrong, sometimes there are misunderstandings, and untrue words are spoken. But you've helped us learn that family can be a choice, and not a reflection of where we've come from, but where we intend to go. That we can make those mistakes along the way, and even when we can't make out the helping hands waiting for us, all we have to do is ask, and they'll lift us back and support us until we can stand on our own aching feet again." There's a change in pressure, fresh air on his face, and voices that hush into stunned silence. 

  "The Hermits never stopped loving you, X. Let us take care of you, now, like you've done for us for so long." 

  There's an awful lot of unspoken shock going around. 

  TFC steps onto concrete and glass, and Cleo and Keralis halt their quiet argument to stare at him, and the still figure still cradled against his chest. Joe doesn't look up from the crumpled paper he holds, sitting on a bed that looks new but for the bouquet of spilled poppies dropped beside the unused pillow. 

  Cleo's face goes blank, a trait that TFC is glad he trained himself out of ages ago. But Keralis looks devastated, eyes already overflowing with tears as he visibly holds himself back, only a single hand reaching out. 

  "Shashwam? Please, please.."  

  In the overworld light, Xisuma is even paler, his freckles dark spots of color against skin tinged bone white. They're working against the clock now, though their friend isn't awake to say so. 

  "He needs rest, Keralis," TinFoil reassures him, and nods to the bed as JoeHills finally looks up, guilt and sorrow weighing visibly across his chest. "We'll need to take care of a few things for him, before we can move to the recovery ship, and talk some things out." 

  "But he is, he's still- " Keralis can't seem to get the words out, hovering like he's afraid to touch, fearful of upsetting some balance when he doesn't know which way it will swing. 

  He's in the way, when Joe moves to stand beside Cleo, and TFC would really like to rest his burden a moment. 

  "There will be time, for talking?" Keralis asks, and the tear tracks on his face aren't new, he's been crying for a long while. 

  Something's happened, and it's more than just a missing friend, something, he thinks, closer to the outpouring of hurt that he'd listened to, and the faces painted over, hidden until they'd morphed into mocking, cruel visages of friends. 

  He pushes, as gently as he can without twisting his good knee, until Keralis falls back onto the bed, and he can deposit the still-sleeping Xisuma in his lap. Keralis holds him just as close, wrapping himself around his best friend and sobbing into his shoulder. 

  When he straightens up with a groan, Cleo is there to support him, and then passes him off to Joe so that she can wrap a huge blanket around Keralis and herself, tucking their admin between them on the now too-small bed. 

  "He needs a helmet, I didn't bring any of his armours with us," TinFoil starts, but Joe only nods and hands him the paper he'd been clutching so tightly. 

  "We fucked up, Tin." 

  He can't focus on the shaky words on the page, not when Joe has fallen back on crude, blunt words. 

  "He's here, he'll be fine." he tries for reassurance. "We have him now, we'll make sure he's all right, that he's cared for." 

  Joe scratches furiously in his book, an anger he doesn't usually show as he draws, or writes, or however it is that he channels the admin knowledge that he has. "It's my words that came in anger, that undermined everything he believed in, it's my fault that-" 

  "Joe, no-" 

  Cleo's growl cuts through them both. "Stopit ." She doesn't lift her head, but Tin can feel her glare like a brand. "It's everyone's fault. All of us. Including him, and don't you dare forget that, Joseph." 

  Tin stares at the page before him, ignoring Keralis' quiet murmur, and the flare of power from Joe. Words leap from the page, disjointed, out of order, smudged here and there from tear stains that washed them to faint impressions. Trust and broken and I don't deserve and I love you all and I'm sorry. Simple words that add up to a complicated tale, a perspective unseen, and deeper hurt than it should be possible for one person to bear. 

  He hadn't thought Xisuma had gone to the Void by accident. 

  He also hadn't thought it was planned.  

  TinFoil folds the paper in half, and lets the tiniest bit of power through his fingers to change it, turning the sad crumpled note into one of his favorite photos. 

  Joe doesn't miss it, glancing back at him before securing the half-mask that covers Xisuma's mouth and nose around his ears. "This'll keep him, just don't let him knock it off in his sleep." 

  Cleo catches his hand before he can pull away, kissing the back of it before tugging it in a physical reminder. "We will keep him safe. All of us, and don't you forget that. You don't get to be as stupid as I was." 

  Joe's face crumples like the note had, and it's a much shakier breath that miraculously doesn't turn into tears before he can turn around and face TFC. 

  Tin simply holds out the photo, and waits to see what Joe needs. 

  It's a group shot from the beginning of the season. When Beef and Etho and Doc had returned, and Biffa and Jessasin had joined them for the start of their new world. Dozens of happy, ecstatic faces on a tiny island, arms thrown over shoulders, legs crossed and lifted and kicking the air and sand. Leather and iron and diamond armours in evidence, all mismatched with a new beginning, and a family made up of friends that were all too happy to be together. 

  It's one of his dearest memories, and favorite things to think back on. It's a reminder of how far he's come, and his path into the future. The universe had a funny way of throwing curveballs, and when planning couldn't accommodate its tricky ways, these were the people he was glad to have at his back, have beside him, and even have in front of him. 

  And he knows that every single Hermit feels the same. Even Xisuma, once he's rested and eaten, and his family can recover some of the weight he's been holding on his shoulders. 

Chapter Text

  He cries in his sleep. 

  Keralis carries their missing friend through the jungle, through the nether, and inside of the community build. His construction vest is thoroughly damp with tears from cradling Xisuma’s curled form close to his chest, but he doesn't seem to care. He meets none of their gazes, as if to do so would require him to relinquish his burden. Instead he marches through the wooden interior, down and onto the center landing of beds and blankets, and sinks into the approximate middle to fuss over their friend. 

  Tin follows with Joe and Cleo, supporting Joe more than they pretend to support him. He doesn't regret destroying the note, but he wishes their word-loving poet hadn't read it first. 

  Hermits pour in in groups, having heard the news, returning from their own searches, responding to the unused call that brings them together all the same. There's no hard questions yet, just simple queries for blankets and pillows, for drinks and potions, and too many checks for injuries. 

  And all the while, silver tears slide down pale hollow cheeks. 

  Zedaph and Exiona and Wels are some of the last Hermits to arrive. Zedaph looks shocked, and Tin doesn't know if it's because he doesn't recognize Xisuma out of the armours, or just the surprise of his appearance. Wels looks sad and haunted, likely by his own experience with self-imposed exile. And Exiona… 

  Exiona doesn't look surprised. But he does look as quietly devastated as Keralis, as Joe,  and visibly holding himself back from trying to help, keeping himself physically away from the central area, his relationship with Keralis still strained, even after that day in the… 

  TFC blinks, and nearly curses himself aloud. This is what he had missed. The why and how of Xisuma's silence, of his retreat from his family and friends. And Exiona's own reluctance to reach out, possibly still unknowing of the full circumstances that had transpired before, harsh words thrown and apologies gone unheard by the one who needed them the most. 

  He meets Joe's red-rimmed eyes, and knows that Joe realized it before he did. 

  Someone has to say it. Someone has to break every heart in the room, to heal another. To point out the final moment when they had all failed him, and set their friend on a downward spiral to the point he had given up on living with them, and possibly even living altogether. 

  He doesn't expect it to be Hypno. 

  "Weeks ago," Hypno starts, waiting for small chatter to die down, for concerned and worried faces to turn towards his spot beside Keralis. "The day in the shopping center, when we voted Exiona in that evening." He pauses, waits for recognition. "How many of us spoke with Xisuma beforehand?" Hands go up, and Tin isn't the only one to feel his face fall, his suspicion confirmed. 

  Hypno's own arm raises, ignoring Keralis' small wordless complaint. "How many of us made, or accepted apologies that day, regarding things we had said, accusations made over glitches, or firewalls, or hybrid's treatment." He gets a few more odd looks, glances of confusion or growing wariness. A few hands start to lower. "How many of us spoke about Exiona, and reasons to forgive, or to accept him as a Hermit." Those hands raise again, and Tin wants to close his eyes, afraid of the next query. But Exiona hangs his head, and he owes it to both of these boys -who they were, and who they are- to witness. 

  "How many of us knew, that it was Exiona we were speaking to, and not Xisuma." Hypno keeps his hand in place, as does- 

  "Put your hand down, Zed." 

  Exiona's voice cuts over the noises of shock and dismay, and of Zedaph's indignant squawk. "But I-" 

  "You didn't know," he says simply, the usually glowing holographic visor dark. "And I hadn't intended to give myself away, except that you were so mad." His helmet is tilted towards the blanket-wrapped bundle in Keralis' arms. "Coders, you were the only one who yelled at me, thinking I was Xisuma that day." He sounds pained, on the verge of sobbing himself. "You were the only one still mad, who wasn't surprised or glad to see me, when I was.. when I was pretending to be my- to be Xisuma." 

  His dark visor looks around the room, at silent and crest-fallen stares. "I told you , I told you all, that I had pretended to be him. I had no idea something had happened. Even if I had, I could never have imagined the responses I got, that something could have come between all of you, that everyone was so fucking glad to see Xisuma. Even when Doc was lecturing me, and Tango gave me shit but still welcomed me, and Joe made-" he sniffs hard, and shakes his head. "What the fuck happened? Zed said it wasn't anything big, just some derps and disagreements about me, and then Bdubs getting kidnapped. That- " he points at his brother, not noticing Keralis' flinch because he's staring at Zedaph, "does not look like a disagreement."  

  Cleo hisses at his tone, and Scar hides behind Cub as False moves to protect them both, Wels sets a hand on a red shoulder pad and Zedaph's bluster falters. 

  "Yeah, I was mad, why wouldn't I be? He took you away from me, even after he knew you were just trying to help." Zed looks to the others, to Wels and Impulse and Tango for courage. "He banned you, without asking anyone else for permission, after so many of us vouched-" 

  "I was a glitch!" Exiona cries, nearly in tears himself. "I wasn't a Hermit, that was the whole point of voting me in! So I wouldn’t have to hack in, so I could belong somewhere, and make up for all of the hurt I’ve caused!” Zedaph winces and opens his mouth, closes it again as he continues “Zedaph. My friend, please. This was my chance to prove that I had changed, to make my apologies, that everyone deserved, regardless of whether they were accepted. Because he was right, and I still had some soul-searching and growing up to do. Just saying ‘I didn’t mean to’ wasn’t the same as ‘I’m sorry,’ and taking responsibility for what I’d done, and working to do better.” His voice breaks, comes back detached and resigned in a way they’ve seen before, on the nether roof. “I know what came between me and Xisuma, I’ve made even his adult life a living nightmare; between the glitches I couldn't control and the times I was so out of my mind with Void-madness that I stalked and tormented him. But that’s got nothing to do with any of you, and I never asked you to hold a grudge on my behalf.”

  “Exy,” Zedaph protests. “I’m not mad at him, not anymore. But I was, because he hurt you-” 

  “And I hurt him! I also hurt the people I wanted so desperately to be friends with! Of fucking course he didn't want me here! I-"

  "I did, though." 

  Exiona freezes at the quiet voice, the lack of inflection and vibrancy. “You.. you don’t mean that.” 

  Xisuma doesn't answer for long, quiet ticks. He doesn't move, either, though Keralis tries to coax him up, to even lift his head, his freckles pale and fading. It's only when Exiona clears his throat that Xisuma sighs and speaks again.

  "I fucked up." His words are emotionless, quiet and numb. "That's what I did. I destroyed everything, all on my own. I was so afraid of losing anyone, that I took away choices they should have had. I didn't tell anyone I knew where the glitches were coming from. I didn't let anyone help when they could have, because I wanted to be the hero, the one they stayed for. I made mistakes, and I ruined their trust, and their lives, their friendships. I denied them new friendships, because I didn't know how to help you, and then I nearly killed Bdubs, and wrecked what little was left." His tears haven't stopped, but no one dares to interrupt, this is the most they've heard him speak in weeks, and he deserves to give his side, even if it's wrong. "You made your apologies, and everyone accepted them. But mine were shouted down and ignored, just like I had done to you." He quiets further, and Hermits lean forward, straining to listen, not that he notices. "I did the only thing they've asked me to, and even that revealed more of my mistakes. And you were there for them, when I wasn't. When I couldn't, because I had already ruined what meager good I thought I'd done. I'm nothing but a bully and a thief, and I wasn't going to make the server suffer my presence any longer." 

  The noise in the room spikes, as he pours the last of his care into their hands of judgment. He doesn't feel any better for the telling of it, and maybe worse for laying himself bare for the beating. His reasons have already been stated, and dismissed, he doesn't believe this will help, but for finally knowing whether this truly is the last he'll see of the Hermits at all. 

  Beneath the raised voices and disordered cacophony, he cracks bleary eyes open. The Hermits mostly pay attention to each other, mouths and eyes moving, aborted gestures to make their points, to comfort each other. He still gets odd looks, stolen glances that slip away, that roam over him and frown. He can only imagine what they see, not having looked at himself too closely these last few weeks and months. He hadn’t expected to be here again. 

  His eyes ache from too many tears and the brightness of the Overworld even indoors, and every time he blinks they feel like they'll fall into the dark bruise of his face. And it's only Keralis beside him, steady, caring Keralis that is holding him upright, that keeps him from sinking into the yawning pit of his chest, that feels too hollow to support him. 

  If anyone else speaks to him, he doesn't hear it. Not over the ringing in his ears, the remembered harsh words and accusations that keep coming back to fill his head and thoughts as the faces that had thrown them join the shrinking room. 

  He doesn't deserve any of this. Not the stares, not the hushed nonsense of voices, not the feeling that he's failed them again, by being brought back and paraded about for everyone to stare at and pity. 

  Just another mistake, in a lifetime of them, after he'd promised himself he wouldn't make any more. 

  And when Keralis shifts and pulls away, finally done with him, he curls forward, wrapping his arms around his empty stomach, and gives in to the small darkness he can find inside himself, letting the half mask drop on one last, one final mistake. 

  Keralis has to lean forward to help Grian with the newest pile of blankets and pillows, still aware of Xisuma shifting behind him as the large stack nearly tumbles to the ground. 

  "Oh, here, just drop 'em in the pile, Brian, it's okay." He helps control the fall instead, smiling up at Grian's exposed concerned look. "Then everybody can grab what they need, yeah?" 

  "Zooma'?" Keralis twists around at Grian's call, only to see the messy, unkept hair that covers the hiding head beside him. "I think his mask slipped," Grian says, already reaching for him. "X? Are you-" 

  "Leave it." The rasp is almost understandable, but Grian flinches back before visibly steeling himself. He draws attention when he snaps back.

  "Icks-eye-zooma, did you do that on purpose ?" 

  Every little mutter and movement ceases, until it's almost possible to hear a tick update. Xisuma tenses, and doesn't uncurl from his ball of misery. 

  Exiona speaks into the dead silence. "If this is about me-" 

  Violet eyes appear in a flash, angry and nearly glowing under the lanterns, visible mouth curled in a horrible sneer. Or the prelude to a sob. "Not everything is about you. You don't get to take the blame for my life like you do everything else. I'm perfectly able to fuck it all up on my own, void-damn it!" 

  Everyone stares in shock. Xisuma shakes visibly, eyes locked with his twin. For many of them, it's the first time he's ever raised his voice in anger. For some, it's reminiscent of the fury he'd displayed that day in the Hub, when they'd rescued Bdubs. Realization takes too long to dawn, for too many of them. 

  Xisuma is hiding nothing. Not from them, and maybe no longer from himself. It’s written all over his face, his body language, still shrinking away from them, as if expecting a blow, and poorly prepared for it. Anger, and guilt, and frustration, all turned inward, until it has eaten away at the soft, gentle strength of someone they cared about. More sets of eyes took in the drawn features, the lack of armour that exposed a too-thin body, the quick, inefficient breaths of overwhelmed lungs, of reaction to stress and no longer hidden anxiety and wear. 

  His gasps sound painful, air forced out to support the stilted words. "Just let me despawn in peace, I don't want your pity and hate. I never wanted.. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I never, I'm sor- "

  Xisuma flinches. Flinches, at the unfinished word, his own bitten-off apology. 

  But his inhale turns into a cough, and another, and the tiny gasps between aren't enough to make a sound between the wheeze of over-extended lungs. Keralis pulls and Hypno and Jevin reach out to tug Xisuma upright, Cub sets out an ender chest and Exiona reaches for Xisuma's hand to force it open, searching an unfamiliar inventory to produce a familiar grey helmet to grasping hands. 

  Keralis bullies Xisuma into it, not that the man fights him, and checks that the seal is secure before starting the familiar cadence of breathing exercises that too many of them know. As a group, they breathe in and out, watching with relieved and sorrowful expressions until Xisuma has calmed again, slumped between the Hermits around him. 

  Because they are, most migrated onto the beds and floor around them, clumped together for comfort and concern. Brought together again, hoping for healing in this place of pain. 

  Keralis sniffs, and pulls at the blankets until Xisuma is covered again, out like a campfire after a dousing. "Tin? Where did you find him?" It's not quite an accusation. 

  TFC sighs, and leans forward on his cane from the corner he'd tucked himself into. "He went to the Void. The.. it's hard to explain, for players that have never been there, who wouldn't remember it if they had. But it's a place he thought no one could follow, where he could be forgotten." 

  "Idiot." Exiona leans into Zedaph's hug, the holographic eyes on his visor unreadable. "Like we would forget him that easily." 

  "He thought he already was." Joe clings to Cleo's hand, a heaviness weighing on him as he shares. "He.. he left a note, a- it doesn't matter, I mean, it does, what it meant, but.. he-" 

  Cleo trades one hand for the other, and wraps her near arm around his back. "Focus, Joe. Or I'll tell it." 

  He shakes his head with a shakier smile. "No, no you're mad at him for it. And I can't- I don't want that. Any more than he-" 

  She growls, and pulls his head to her chest, facing out at their friends as Joe hides his face against her neck. 

  "He ran away. Because we blamed him for shit, and ignored his apologies, and he thought we replaced him with Exiona. Which we did not." She glares at Zed and Exiona, a wordless demand to stay put and hear her out. "X has been a dear friend for all of the seasons I've spent here, and I'm pissed that he could believe we think so little of him." 

  Joe lifts her hand with his, and thumps it against her stomach. "We ignored his pain, Cleo. He was struggling, and we heaped our own pains and frustration on him while ignoring his own, and dismissing every apology he made. He never heard us, the apologies we gave Exiona instead, he never knew that we forgave him for his mistakes, for mistakes he wasn't aware he had made before they hurt someone. 

  "And we kept ignoring him, in the name of giving him space, and failing to recognize that he was just as hurt as we were. He has found us, he has always made sure to come to us , to make sure that we are cared for after something happens, and we failed to give him the same comfort that he's always given to us." 

  TFC shakes his head. "More than that, I'm afraid. We were all there, when Ex admitted to playing in Xisuma's skin, and sharing his pain, his history with us. Yes, Exiona deserved our support, but so did Xisuma. And even after everyone was so visibly shaken by the revelations made, we did to Xisuma what Exiona says their family did to him. We treated his pain and his past as irrelevant, and chose to let him walk away from us without any protest. And without acknowledging that some of us had been talking about him, about Exiona, without including him -without Xisuma's foreknowledge, and without even addressing the reasons so many of us were speaking with who we thought was X in the first place." 

  "My mistakes." Xisuma sounds resigned, like he hasn't been listening to how they've failed him. Or as if he's heard, and deemed it all still, somehow, his fault. "Every past mistake that I've made, every misstep and failure, everyone I've loved and refused to let go of, all unforgivable. For pushing my way in where I shouldn't, for upholding what I thought was right, for trying to protect those who didn't want me to. For trying to apologize when no one wanted to hear it." 

  "X-" 

  "Just tell me to go, and I will. Just.. just take care of each other, and, and-" 

  Cleo practically tosses Joe to the floor so she can stalk over to the bed, Hermits stunned into the statues she's so fond of. 

  "How is it," she demands with a hiss, "that you can be so smart, and yet so stupid at the same time." It's not a question, and she doesn't expect an answer. 

  She also doesn't expect Xisuma's comm, offered in a shaking outstretched palm. She elects to ignore it. “You’re just as much of a hypocrite as the rest of us.” She accuses, and her glare dares anyone to speak against it. "All the pretty words that you can find for everyone else, and not a single one for yourself. As if you alone are unforgivable, out of all of us.”

  “Aren’t I, though?” His arm steadies, voice firms and turns to heated lava. “Every mistake I’ve made has been thrown back at me. Every tiny little fuck-up held against me, regardless of how much I’ve tried to change or apologize or make them right.” He waves the deceptively small device. “You’ve already told me how much of a monster, and an abuser, and a bully I am. How no one trusts me, or cares about leaving me. So go ahead, take it.” His voice breaks, rallies again with a rough breath. "I don't even know why TFC dragged me back, none of you want me here anyway. You got your replacement, you can figure out who you trust to be admin instead of a pathetic piece of shit like me." 

  Cleo's hand moves without warning, and the admin’s comm goes flying, lost in the shock somewhere in the room.

  "Don't you dare talk about my admin like that." she hisses, catching the arm she’d smacked in a vice-like grip. "My X is fucking perfect, and I wouldn't trade his derpy face for anyone else. He gave me a whole damn family to care about, and he's got the biggest fucking heart that I've ever seen, even when he's being an absolute baby about a misunderstanding that should have been cleared up weeks ago." 

  Xisuma barely manages a questioning noise in his throat, words temporarily offline. 

   "We fucked up, X. And made apologies to your doppelganger instead of you. You made the mistake of hiding away where we couldn't find you, but that never meant we didn't want you, or didn't forgive you. No mistake is unforgivable, or none of us would be here. None of us would be a family to lose.” 

  He looks even more lost, smaller once his anger has deflated. “Then why?" 

  Cleo reaches out, her hands gentle on either side of the helmet, tilting it up until she could rest her forehead against the visor. “Why would we care that you hid yourself away? Why would we know what it was like, to hurt our friends even though we didn’t mean to, didn’t want to, didn’t know how to make it better? Why would we care, that you were hurting, and didn't tell us?" 

  "But.. that was my fault, the, the glitches, I couldn't st-" 

  "Fucks sake, X. I thought we already agreed that the glitches were no one's fault, and as long as we have each other, we'll get through 'em. We already have. And that includes you, ya' silly derp." 

  The fond moniker from Ren doesn't get the smile it usually does, or the chortle they're used to hearing. 

  "Zuma?" Bdubs' brashness is muted, his hesitance clear. "I'm sorry, for saying I hated you. I don't, I really don't. You got me back, and it's not.. It's not your fault, about what happened. You're still my family, and Hermitcraft is still home, and I wouldn't trade it for anything, honest." 

  Doc nods in agreement, his furred hand still petting soothingly along Bdubs' wing. "We said a lot of horrible things that day, and you gave your reasons, and apologies. A server doesn't just run on its admin, we have a responsibility to pay attention, too. To help you out, when you're in over your head, or when you're asking for feedback not to just wave you off and blindly trust that everything'll be okay." 

  He's still lost. "But.. I keep making more mistakes, I.. you all.. " he struggles to find the words, wilting again with their gazes on him. "I can't stop, and I can't live with myself to think that every mistake is going to be the last, the last one allowed, before, before-" 

  Xisuma trails off, his breaths too quick again, even beneath the helmet. His words slur together, a mishmash of panic and haste to set them free, tripping over his own air instead. 

  It's too familiar. Too well known to too many of them, and out of place on this face, this Hermit to struggle with the occurrence. 

  Too painful, to see him curl into himself, as if trying still to hide, instead of reaching out, for the help he has always offered to them. To watch him flinch at a kind touch, holding himself so still they can nearly see him vibrate with it. 

  It's enough, they're close enough they can hear the whispers, the unmistakable whimpers.

  "Broken and banned," he repeats. "What I deserve. Coward, didn't go through with it. Deserve it, for what I've done." 

  Grian turns his head, gives him an odd look. "You're not perfect, X, none of us are. But that doesn't mean you're broken." Xisuma nods, shakes his head, as if uncertain to what he's agreeing to, or denying. "And no one deserves to be banned, especially not for something they've been trying to fix, or to improve in themselves." 

  Xisuma flinches again, shudders with an audible breath that catches. "Not what you told me." 

  More looks are traded, sorrows shared that their friend has been holding onto so much pain from their long-forgotten words. False reaches out, finds a hand to grip and refuses to release it. 

  "X, please. You're not unwanted here. Whatever we'd said, whatever you heard, please know that it wasn't what was meant." It takes her a moment to shift around closer, still holding onto his blanket-covered hand. "It's not like you to hold a grudge, or even to run away like you have been." Her eyes are sharp, sharper than even Cleo's words earlier. "What else is wrong, X?" 

  Xisuma shakes his head, hardly stronger than the shivers building across his shoulders. Like a furnace on it’s last piece of coal, the fire is fading in front of them. 

  That, or they're watching the last embers before the stone is fully smelted. 

   "This isn't what I wanted, not for you, Xisuma." Exiona speaks up again, hesitant after the earlier outburst, but he barrels on before Xisuma can contradict him. "I know I haven't been the best brother, but I still don't want you hurt. I just.. I just wanted to be wanted, you know?" He looks around, at everyone gathered, but his gaze falls back to Xisuma, who doesn't answer. "I've caused so much trouble for everyone, even when it wasn't what I was trying to do. And it hurts to still see you hurting, when there's so many people that would help you out, if you would just let them." 

  "Exiona." TFC is gently chiding, leaning forward. "That's exactly what Xisuma is feeling." He taps his fingers against the head of his cane. "He keeps reaching out to us, trying to keep us safe, to keep us happy, and around. And we've taken that for granted, and forgotten to reach back, and make sure that he knows the same." His blue eyes glow faintly before fading again, making contact with each Hermit, with everyone gathered. "That we want him to be safe, and happy, and here, with us. That his presence doesn't depend on what he can do, or how hard he works, or even the mistakes that he makes." Tin smiles, as the Hermits move closer to Xisuma, taking his weight, pressing against him in a group hug, offering their comfort to him. "Because we've all made mistakes, Cleo's right about that. And we've all been forgiven, we forgive each other, and it doesn't make us weak, or broken, or unworthy. It makes us stronger, as a family, as friends that care, that have gone through some of the same problems, that can help each other out when we're struggling through life." 

  "But.. he has all that." Exiona sounds confused, sneaking his own glances at the others, at Xisuma. "He's always had that; a family, and friends, and whole worlds to explore and live in. It's why I was always so jealous, so.. so angry, at myself, because I couldn't have the same, that I couldn't be loved like he was." His voice gives him away, the tears they can't see behind his own visor. "He's always had everything I wanted, but I didn't- I don't want to take it away, I wanted to share it with him." His visor goes dark, and without the hologram his teary eyes are barely visible. "Xisuma, please," he pleads, not even knowing if his words are welcome. "You're one of the best parts of Hermitcraft, you always have been. I wanna be here with you, not without." 

  A harsh chuckle turns into a cough, and no one's laughing at the disturbing sound. "Are you sure you want to?" Xisuma asks, his tone unusually mean. "Did you know? That you were never whitelisted on our homeworld? Never accepted as a full player by our parents, by our admin?" His words are cutting and quick. "It's the reason you bled glitches, why your powers never settled, why you couldn't control them. And all I did was reinforce that, after your exile. Your glitches are as much my fault as anything else, my mistake-" 

  "You were a kid! Same as me! How were you supposed to know-" 

  "I should have known! You were my little brother! And I couldn't protect you any more than I could protect my parents! My Hermits!" 

  The room echoes with their outburst, but there are grins and relieved smiles around, only growing when Xisuma looks around, looks stunned at their response. 

  "I.. wha..?" 

  Tin smiles the widest at him. "We're your Hermits again, X. And why would you have ever thought to check his code? Children are not responsible for the actions of their elders, and neither are you responsible for anyone but yourself. Not recognizing something you didn't know to look for isn't a failing. Doing something to fix it once you know is what makes you a good admin, and a good friend. A good brother." 

  It's the half-block placed beneath a pillar of sand. Xisuma folds into their open arms with hiccuping sobs, and is still nearly drowned out by their words of comfort and agreement. 

   You've always helped when we ask. 

  You've taught us to love. To be a family. To be the best of ourselves. 

  You taught us to take care of ourselves, and those around us. 

  You've been there for us, let us be here for you.  

   You're not a mistake. You're not the mistakes you've made. We forgive you.  

   You are wanted. You are loved.  

  Xisuma has been wrapped into a hug of Hermit proportions. Surrounded by friends and family of their choosing, and not turned away, not turned upon, not abandoned. Accepted, and comforted, and loved. Somehow, still wanted.  

  He doesn't have to be perfect. He doesn't have to fear for every mistake, for his past to condemn him, for the future to overwhelm him. His family will be beside him, supporting him, helping him. 

  It's enough to make him smile, when his stomach grumbles, protesting its emptiness after his emotional outpouring, in the presence of new comfort. 

  Scar grumbles good-naturedly from where he's laying against Cub and Joe. "I heard that, but I'm too comfortable to move. Who's near the food barrels? We should share snacks, and someone'll need to feed Jellie." 

  Cub musses his hair, chuckling when Scar pushes into it, just like Jellie would. "There's cake in the back barrels we could share." He tilts his head back towards Xisuma, and it's the gentle knowledge of someone who's gone through the same that allows him to meet dark eyes. "Though I'm thinking that X might want something a little lighter on the stomach." 

  "Something that's not honey," Xisuma agrees, and it's amazing how light he feels after all of his outbursts. Like nothing can hold him down, except for all of the Hermits that have draped themselves over him, keeping him here, loving him despite his mistakes. 

  Keralis even holds him a little tighter. "Tell me you're not starving, Shashwam." Coders, it's nice to be called that again. 

  It's easy to reassure him. "Honey has as much saturation as steak, I'm not starving, K." Though he doesn't know what compels him to continue. "I just haven't been hungry. And the Void is.. different. For me, at least. Kinda like creative mode, food's not really.. necessary." 

  "So you haven't eaten in-" Wels shakes his head, and doesn't finish, so he's unsure if that was supposed to be a question. "Tea and soup it is, I think we've got a shulker or two of those suspicious stews stored away." 

  Of course they do. Xisuma had dropped those off himself, after a sleepless night by the H.E.P. Headquarters. His brown mooshrooms were still safely hidden away, and he'd had a half-stack of reasons for grinding away at the task. 

  Surprisingly enough, not a single one included himself. And yet here he was, benefiting from his own work. 

  From the obvious care and concern around him, that he thought he had lost, that he had stopped looking for, in fear that it wouldn't be there. 

  "Tea would be nice," he agrees, and finds the courage to gently tease his friends. "Though I'm going to need an arm back for it." 

  Keralis full-on grabs the edge of someone else's blanket, and pushes against False so that he can tackle Xisuma like a teddy bear in need of a hug. "Nope, no, nada, not gonna happen. Shashwam's gonna need a straw, 'cause Papa K needs too many hugs, needs Shashwammy to stay right here, right…" 

  His dear friend bursts out crying into the blankets, and this he knows, this he's familiar with, giving comfort to others. "Keralis, I'm fine, it's okay. I'll stay right here with you, and let you hold my tea." 

  "But you weren't, and you didn't tell us. I could have lost you- we did lose you, and I'm so happy that Tin brought you back, even if you looked dead, and I've been so worried.. " he trails off, wiping unceasing tears into the blanket, even as Xisuma tries to free an arm to squeeze him back, or coax his death grip to loosen. 

  It's a more difficult effort to loosen his tongue again, and the apology that sticks in his throat. "I'm sorry, K. I got stuck in my head. I'm sorry to make you worry-"

  "No! Nonono!" Keralis nearly headbutts his helmet, springing up and grabbing to hold it still. "Not be sorry! Let us know when you hurt! Let us help, instead of hiding like.. like a fluffy ostrich, with your silly head in the sand. No wonder you suffocate!" He tries to throw his hands in the air for emphasis, but one gets stuck in the blankets he himself had twisted,  and falls back heavily against XIsuma.

  His brain is stuck. He's never seen an ostrich in vanilla, but for some reason he's replaced it with an enderman in his head; all long legs and long arms stretched out behind it, torso bent over to hide glowing eyes in the sand.

  It hits too close to home, and yet so far away as to be unreasonable, completely ridiculous, absolutely -

  "Oh my days," is what comes out of his mouth. "I'm an ostrich." He's certain he doesn't mean it. But the mental image is still there, and he can't stop the high-strung laughter and tears that accompany it. Stars above, it's so good to laugh again, even at himself. Or at the tremulous smile of his friend, so proud of his analogy, if startled by teary laughter.

  Cleo sighs, but her smile gives her away. "That's it, K. No more wandering in my zoo without supervision. And you leave my poor peacocks alone."

  "Gigacocks, Cleo. Get it right, my dear."

  His chest aches with his laughter, bright and maybe a touch hysterical, but he can’t dial it back, can’t bring himself to hold in the relief that spills out, empties from his chest until he’s leaning into yet another hug, drained, but in a good way. 

  “There you go, Shashwam. Feel better now?” Keralis rearranges the blankets yet again, this time not stifling or trapping him. “All forgiven, for what we did?” 

  He nods tiredly, and hopes he can stay awake for the promised tea. “Of course, I’ll always forgive you, I already have.” 

  “Did you, though?” xB is gentle but unyielding. “Because I can help but notice that you took so much to heart, to the point you believed we had turned on you, X." His smile only somewhat softens the blow. "Kinda sounds like you were holding a grudge against us, for being thoughtlessly cruel." 

  Had he? He couldn't tell anymore. He hadn't let himself be angry, not until Tin followed him into the Void, and met his tantrum with kindness. Kindness he didn't think he could get, or deserve again. Kindness he had perhaps denied himself, unknowingly bitter over his perceived treatment. 

  "I didn't mean to," is what he can come up with, too exhausted to fight himself any longer, and finally falls back on all of the advice he'd given his Hermits over and over again. "I got stuck on what I was doing wrong, instead of focusing on what I was doing right. And maybe that included my friends, when they couldn't magically know that I was struggling, even when I insisted that I was fine, and handling it." 

  "If you want us to be a little pushier, just say so, X." Cleo volunteers. "It's what I needed, and False was there to drag me back. We want to be there for you, like you've done for us." 

  There's plenty of agreement, along with the smells of lavender tea and warm soup, and before he knows it there are bowls and mugs passed around, a few potions exchanged, and he's still propped up between friends, still supported and no one pulls away even when he doesn't immediately tuck in. 

  Wels nudges his knee. "Eat as much as you can, don't worry about not finishing all of it." 

  "I- yes, thank you." There's maybe more eyes watching than usual, when he unlatches his helmet again. His pulse skips, but he deserves this, he deserves to be both seen and heard, and comforted for his vulnerability. Nevermind that he flinches from the glimpse of his own reflection, because no one flinches from him. Only smiles and nods, and fond tips of their bowls towards him when he lifts it towards his mouth. 

  The first sip of broth is delicious, and he's reminded again of how long he's punished himself for thinking he wasn't good enough. There's just a hint of the regen potion at the back of his throat, but it mixes well with the mushroom stew and warms his chest. He manages about half the bowl before he has to set it aside. 

  Keralis snuggles right back in as soon as the bowls are collected. "I miss our little picnics, Shashwam. You always look so much less stressed after. Even if I do interrupt your work sometimes." 

  "Sometimes those are the only breaks I have, so I appreciate your interruptions, K." He could fall asleep right here, with his belly and heart both finally full. "I've had too many anxiety attacks lately, and I haven't been taking care of myself like I should to limit them. It's good, to have good reminders." 

  "You're too hard on yourself, X."  "Yeah, but we contributed to it, don't give him a hard time now."  "Just means we're due for a few days off of minigames and fun."  "All in the name of taking a break and enjoying the late game before someone starts a war."  “I think one per season is more than enough, don’t you?”  

  He’s missed this. More than just the sharing of a meal, of time together. But being a part of the family he’d chosen, being included, listening to the plans and complaints, the jibes and teasing, all of the ups and downs of living together and separately and being in each other’s bases and inventories. Remembering to take care of them along with himself, so that they could all bring out the best in each other, leaning and growing and thriving together. 

  Xisuma finishes his tea, aware again of the tiredness in his limbs, the thicker air that makes breathing a chore, but also the missing ache of thinking he was doing everything wrong. Beside him is both his helmet and the half-mask that someone had kindly created for him, that'd he'd dropped out of the misguided notion that he wasn't wanted or welcome. He doesn’t want to put the full helmet back on. Doesn't want to dig out the armour, that would separate him again, even if everything is a touch too loud, too bright. He’s enjoying the ability to share space with his family, to soak in the warmth of friendly touches, and he has waited far too long for this to hide himself away again. 

  He lifts the silver mask to his face, fitting it over his nose and beneath his chin, and there’s fresh, dry air flowing before he pulls the straps around his ears. It makes him a little light-headed at the first breath, but he’s used to that, it’s nothing new. 

  What is, is the cool blanket draped over his shoulders, the body that tucks in behind his, Keralis still at his side. Cleo's voice, softened from her earlier anger, threats veiled in reassurance that she won't let him out of her sight, not until he knows that he's wanted and forgiven. 

  He would protest, if he wasn't so tired. Would warn her of the anxiety attacks even in his sleep, but he's already done that, and they didn't turn away, didn't leave him cold and alone and ignored. He has nothing left to deflect with, no concerns except for the one he's given them; just himself, messy, and tired, and broken down into falling gravel. She's the full-block beneath him, catching his fall, waiting for him to settle, and with his eyes closed, he can trust her to have a silk touch shovel to scoop him back up. 

  Someone dims the lights, and conversations quiet into groups, in small parts, jumping from one to the next as they mingle and rearrange and weight adds to the blankets, the Hermits, the friends around him. 

  He still worries, that he's not good enough, that his mistakes aren't forgotten, even if they're forgiven. That one day his derp will be deemed too big, too heinous to ignore. That they'll leave him behind, too difficult to deal with. That the Hermit's goodwill will run out again, again, again… 

  Keralis' callused thumb runs over his cheek, wiping away the wetness that crawls down his skin. 

  "Shashwam?" 

  He's afraid. Still afraid, that if he opens his eyes, the Void will greet him, and all of his comfort will disappear into the Fog. He's stretched thin, and he's so, so tired. 

  "Ex-shwammy? Can I call you that, for now?" Keralis doesn't seem to be talking to him, his voice turned away, towards.. "Would you like to come over and cuddle him? I think it would help both of you, and ease his mind enough to rest a bit." 

  Even after.. he's been just as stupid and cruel as- 

  "Suma?" Right beside him, always. Haunted by their past, by each other, by every hurt and word exchanged. "I-I'd really like to-" 

  He reaches out, blindly. Finds his other half, his brother, his code-clone, his living, fully-realized family reaching back, squeezing him just as hard as Cleo chuckles as she's jostled, and Keralis coo's beside them. 

  "I'm so sorry, Xisuma," his brother, his brother whispers against his neck. "I'm sorry it took me so long to notice." 

  "Me too." It still hurts, to say the words, fearing they'll be turned back. "I'm s-sorry I wasn't a better brother to you." 

  "You were always too good to me, 'Suma. Better than I deserved, and someone I looked up to, even when I was too upset to realize it." There's a kiss pressed to his shoulder, where an old scar still remains. "Forgive me?" his brother asks, as if he hadn't, years ago. "For being so jealous that neither of us realized there were bigger issues to worry about?" 

  He laughs, and it's full of tears still. "I don't need more worries, I really don't. I just-" void, he's so pathetic. "I just want to have my family safe. Just that. All of my family, safe." 

  Doc chuckles, and somewhere Grian yelps and giggles, and Mumbo joins him. "As safe as we can be, with such menaces in the family," comes his amused rumble. 

  "We're not really built for safe," Tango agrees. "But at least we can be loved and taken care of, when we inevitably find ourselves needing help." 

  "Though if this season has taught us anything, it's that we could all stand to talk to each other more," Impulse adds. "Not just about builds and server life, but our fears and personal struggles." There's more agreement, and quiet affirmations. "None of us are perfect, and I think maybe being less spread out and, well, hermit-y for a bit would do us all some good." 

  He loves them. So much it hurts sometimes, but better that than the misery of believing that he couldn't, that he wasn't allowed. 

  "'Suma?" 

  He answers his brother's whisper with the last of his strength. "Yeah, 'Sona." The nickname comes easy, like acknowledging their history hadn't. "Forgiven. Stay." There's more, so much more, but he needs rest, needs to let revelations settle until his heart believes again. "Hermit now, can't get rid of us." His thoughts are floating away, but one makes him smile. "Gotta come to meetings now, server-life's not all minigames and prank wars." 

  Exiona laughs wetly, and hears his disjointed mumble for the acceptance it is. "Meetings are boring, I'll sleep through 'em." 

  TFC's laughter cuts over the others'. "Those who miss meetings tend to get volunteered for projects. And that goes double for anyone caught sleeping." 

  "Oh, heavens, don't remind me!" Scar groans. "It was one time, and Jellie fell asleep on my lap first!!" 

  Laughter joins the stories told, fond and familiar seasons and history between them, smiles and memories shared and exaggerated. 

  And in the midst of their happiness, two brothers reconciled and reunited, one finding his place, and the other reassured that he had never lost his. 

  Every call is answered, even those unspoken.