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A clock chimes midnight in the distant room, the bell inside tolling with the new hour. Crickets sing in the late summer night, harmonising with the distant buzz of cicadas and midnight birds.
Silver light shines through the half-open window beside Impulse’s desk, a gentle breeze moving the edges of blueprints and papers just enough to irritate the man sitting in front of them, his pencil chewed on the end as he reads over and studies drawings and notes that feel like nothing more than mush to him now.
The final chime of the hour, and Impulse sighs. He decides calling it a night is better than waiting for the sun to rise — his desk lamp is dim, and he can’t focus as is.
Reluctantly, he shuffles to his bedroom, pulling out an old tank with a faded grey creeper face on it alongside a pair of sweatpants. If he wasn’t worried about being scolded by Skizz, or Gem, or Pearl, or…
Well, anyone, really.
Impulse wipes his face with his hand, pulling the blankets over himself as he adjusts. Maybe it’ll show that he went to bed late in the morning; dark circles aren’t the most hidden thing of pulling an almost all-nighter.
He can hear Skizz’s voice now, if he focuses hard enough.
“Going to bed is important, man! You need that smart head o’yours to do those amazing things you do.” Skizz would say. “Not letting your mind rest isn’t helping your work go any faster. It’s only slowing ya down.”
Even before bed, and Skizz still manages to scold him. Even in his imagination.
Impulse lets his eyes drift shut, the distant orchestra of nature lulling him to doze off, if only for a little while.
He opens his eyes at the first sign of sunlight.
It’s blinding, really — didn’t he shut the curtains before bed? And if I did, who would’ve—
He stops, sitting up as he processes his surroundings. The faint smell of ash and soot hits him; rotting wood too. Impulse sits up, an ache building in his chest, as if something struck him with enough power to knock the wind out of him.
White walls encircle the bedroom, destroyed and claimed by vines and bushes, moss and grass. The bed is unruly, like whoever left it did so in haste. Like they couldn’t spend time basking in sunlight, admiring the person beside them.
Why was he here? And why now?
The ache returns with its powerful force again, and Impulse reaches for his torso. The scent of blood is what hits him next, the sight of it staining his palm as he looks down.
An axe would — the deep cut of a blade haphazardly swung in one direction and another. He feels like he can’t breathe then, like the metal on his tongue is too much to bear. Impulse swallows it back down, focusing on the wall instead.
You’re okay, he tells himself, this isn’t happening. You’re fine, just focus, breathe.
Impulse shuts his eyes.
A weight lands in his hands, hefty but light enough. It’s smooth with a small chain attached to the top. He swallows, opening his eyes and looking at it.
A bloodied clock, the tick tick tick of it out of sync with the time. He can’t let go of it, no matter how much he tries to will himself to. It’s stuck to his hand — a part of him that always places that clock in Bdubs—
Bdubs.
Impulse grips the clock tighter at the thought. Bdubs should be here, too, right? Hidden in the house. Or maybe he’s still in bed, morning rays making him look like someone sent from the heavens. His white hair almost seemed to glow.
Impulse tries to look over his shoulder. Tries.
But he can’t. And maybe a part of him doesn’t want to — some unconscious part of him, telling him don’t look back. Don’t face him.
But, all the same, facing him is all he wants. It’s all he’s wanted since…
Impulse shakes his head, his free hand combing through his messy hair. Bdubs might not even be beside him — it could be that axe, taunting him; filling the place where his soulmate was supposed to be.
He could envision it, really.
He could turn around, see a bloodied axe with Bdubs’s initials carved into the handle. A mockery of what happened — a symbol of another betrayal at the hands of someone Impulse thought he could trust again.
Maybe it’s best he doesn’t, then.
Impulse looks at the floor, the blood dripping from his chest onto the rotten wood. The house is cold; he’s cold. Bdubs always said he was like a furnace, but really, he always felt a little cold.
He could never seem to find warmth in the house, no matter how many times he tried to find it within Bdubs.
He shifts, laying on his back in the bed. The ceiling fills his vision, and for a moment, there’s a sense of peace — not acceptance, but peace. Quietness in a home Impulse would never know again; a home that he and Bdubs built from the wood around them.
He wouldn’t know the softness of this bed, how Bdubs spent so long collecting the perfect wool for it. The pillows, with feathers that were just perfect.
And maybe it’s okay to not know those things anymore.
Maybe it’s okay to find peace in this home again.
Impulse closes his eyes, holding the clocks to his chest, the wedding band on his hand hitting the metal.
He opens his eyes again, and his bed greets him once more. The morning sun rises over the horizon as he overlooks the buildings of the city. He sits in bed, listening as the clock in the distant room tick tick ticks.
It chimes at the tick of a new hour, the bells inside rolling with it. Morning birds sing and harmonise with the wind as dew droplets fall from grass blades. He can hear distant flight rockets go off, the whisper of an elytra in the air.
He hears a distant, but familiar voice.
He has a meeting with Bdubs, he almost forgot. He won’t mind if he’s a little late, right?
+
“Hey! Had a late morning, hm?” Bdubs smiles, hands in his pockets. A golden clock shines in the sunlight, lovingly crafted with the initials “I + B” carved into it.
Impulse hums, smiling.
“Yeah, I suppose. But, hey, you didn’t mind waiting for me, did you?”
Bdubs chuckles, smiling as he shakes his head.
There’s peace in this.
And maybe acceptance, if only just a little.