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The island has moved on without him.
Every vacant house he passes, every half-finished structure, every ancient egg sign with an out of context message. Each one a snapshot of a time that has passed him by.
Whispers and laughter of months long past carry on the breeze, wrapping around his bruised head. Each one a memory he tries to grab but remains out of reach.
The island has moved on without him.
His blood runs cold at the house being empty. His son’s promise of seeing him on Monday, a Monday he never returned for, hanging above an empty space where Ramon’s bed should be. No note, nothing left behind. Just a father mourning a child he doesn’t know he’s truly lost yet.
But, he supposes, the island has moved on without him.
Ramon may have too - two months is an incredibly long time, for a child that only had one person to believe in for over a year, and that person to up and leave.
So he pockets a random cog from the last Create project Ramon was working on, and leaves. The frog plushies watch him as he goes, glass eyes showing more life than he does, and with shaking hands he descends the ladder.
His son may have moved on without him, and maybe that’s for the best.
Pac’s house is unnerving when it’s silent. He swears he can hear Pac’s laugh with every creak of the floorboards, feels his presence behind him whenever he turns around.
His boyfriend may have moved on without him, and maybe that’s for the best.
So he pockets one of the beautiful red flowers from Pac’s garden and keeps moving. Just a boyfriend mourning the loss of the love of his life that he doesn’t truly know he’s lost yet.
The island has moved on without him.
He’s always found solace in the favela. Everyone has. The atmosphere is just inherently fun - the bright colours, the impeccable vibes, the residents.
His heart sinks at seeing Richas’ empty bed, even more so with no sign of Ramon. His sons both love sleepovers, but he’s running out of places to check.
So he pockets a mushroom as a forget-me-not and leaves the house.
The towering statue is a welcome sight, a sight for his sore eyes. He remembers the work that went into it, the pride the Brazilians rightly had upon its completion, the history behind it that he had learned.
It’s a welcome sight, when the island has moved on without him.
But the row of uneven makeshift graves located chillingly directly beneath the statue is the sight that finally makes him fall to his knees.
His boyfriend’s name neatly etched out onto a marble gravestone makes his stomach drop. His eyes try to cry tears he doesn’t have the energy to produce, and his breathing quickens to a frankly concerning rate.
His fingers tremble as he reaches towards the marble, fingertips tracing the letters of his lover’s name with such tenderness as if they were etched onto rose petals.
He can’t produce a sound, but in his mind it’s deafening - a cacophony of shrieks, screams and yells, piercing and poking at his psyche and what’s left of his sanity.
He plants the flower from Pac’s garden beside his grave, taking a second to place his fingers to his lips, then to the marble.
A silent and sullen goodbye, for the man that filled his life with glorious sound and colour.
He pockets a tiny handful of dirt from the edge of the grave and carries on. A goodbye he could never say even if his body would let him - a goodbye to the life his boss always said he could never have. His one last selfish request with himself, to never truly say goodbye.
The island has moved on without him.
His best friend’s house is an empty nest - where usually full of activity, noise and love, it now sits abandoned, silent, foreboding. Where two filled beds used to be is now an empty space, two crows flying the nest and taking a lifetime of love with them. At least he hopes. He really fucking hopes.
Bagi. Bad. Tubbo. Cellbit. Empty, empty, empty, empty.
His new friends may have moved on without him, and maybe that’s for the best.
The island whispers still carry on the breeze, the memories wrapping around his already broken heart and squeezing tightly. He hears Pac’s laugh in the rustling of the trees. He sees Ramon in every cloud formation, and looks away whenever they split apart.
He always ends up here.
The cheap wood from the shitshack balcony immediately sends splinters puncturing his beaten and rough skin, from where he grips on too tight.
The sunlight bounces off of every surface in the distance, probably some kind of poetic justice he’s either too devastated or infuriated to see.
His head thuds with pain, a pain he knows all too well.
His time is up. And yeah, he thinks it probably very much is.
Quesadilla Island has moved on without him.
Turns out, the wasteland has not.
He opens his eyes to be back in the middle of the nightmare he lived before the life he sought. The laughter in the breeze is now vitriol in the explosives, the loss in his heart is now building up his walls iron-tight, reinforced with the promise of having found something to live for in a life that doesn’t seem like his own anymore.
His fingers graze a petal from the rose bush, he smuggled, and it burns. A barely concealed thorn punctures his weakened skin, and the all too familiar burn returns. Pain - unadulterated pain, rivalled only by the heaviness of his heart.
The island has moved on without him, but he can’t move on without the island.
So the mercenary dons his armour and retrieves his weapon, casting a final look over his shoulder to the rose bush, to the life he so desperately sought.
To the newly adopted son that taught him how to have fun, and find the little wins in every day. To the man that taught him how to love, and how to be loved in return. To the son that saved his life in more ways than he can count, and how to live for someone else, to who he wrote a letter pouring out his love and affection for the final time.
And the mercenary goes off to war.
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