Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s some sort of strange, powerful magnetism that holds them together. Nastasia has given up fighting it.

She tried, at first. When they found themselves in Flopside, the door to the castle impassable, Mimi ran away to hide at Merlee’s manor and Nastasia spent about a week rebuffing O’Chunks. She saw no reason that he should seek her company; she was complicit, after all, in the lie about creating new worlds. She had given up. Her reasons for continuing had vanished, and as she used what little pocket change she had on her to stay at inns she wondered why she was even bothering.

But O’Chunks was persistent. Toward the beginning he was courteous about it, respecting her crumbling boundaries and accepting her refusal to see him. Then, as soon as she was almost certain she had convinced him that she didn’t want to see him, he showed up with more ammunition.

“Got a house,” he told her. “Come an’ see.”

It was an old thing on a lower level of Flopside, and it needed a lot of work. It’d been abandoned for some time now, and most of the lights didn’t work but the plumbing was a bit sluggish. He said he was in the process of fixing it up, so that they could stay there, and not bounce around inns. He’d been doing odd jobs around the dual towns for pay so he could get it. It took all of what he’d saved up.

“What are you doing?” Nastasia asked him helplessly, looking at the sad structure.

He looked at her like she was insane. “Startin’ over,” he said simply. “Come in, I’ll get a fire goin’.”

He practically dragged her into the house, which was cold from no heat. The only furniture in the main room was an old sofa whose springs moaned when sat upon—but he sat her down there and bundled her up in a dusty blanket, and once the fireplace began to warm her, she found she couldn’t leave.

She wept for what must’ve been hours on that sofa. O’Chunks said nothing about it. He brought her some freshly simmered stew and sat beside her while they ate and not a word was said. When she’d drained herself completely, he gave her another blanket and a pillow so she could sleep on the cushions. She supposed there couldn’t have been a bed in the house, so she wasn’t sure where he slept that night.

Half the lights and the refrigerator worked well in the kitchen. The stove was functional enough but had a nasty habit of turning itself off while being used, and since it was a gas range, it had to be watched closely while cooking. The wiring throughout the house was dodgy at best; O’Chunks warned Nastasia not to turn the overhead light in the bathroom on. She didn’t question it, as she could see just fine in the dark. He kept several flashlights handy for himself.

He spent most of those days out of the house, building up more money for amenities. Complain about his meddling as she did, the house was cold and empty without him; she took solemn walks through Flopside. As dreary as Castle Bleck was, this world seemed dimmer still.

Then Mimi got pulled into the eddy as well.

It was on one of Nastasia’s zombie-like walks that she found her. Mimi was in disguise as one of the townsfolk, but her magic could never fool Nastasia’s keen eyes.

“Mimi?” she asked cautiously, wondering what the purpose of the disguise was; the Flip-Flop folk bore no grudges against them despite the world nearly ending.

Mimi looked for a moment like she wanted to run away, but only managed a single step backward before flinging herself forward into Nastasia’s arms.

“I mi—I missed you!” Mimi bawled, her spell bursting into smoke.

There was little for it but to take Mimi back to the house. Mimi hated the house because it had nothing, but she sat on the sofa and rubbed her eyes and admitted that she’d been to visit several times. She had seen O’Chunks often as he was always about in town but had felt too uncomfortable to approach. Why would he want to associate with her, when he was making a somewhat respectable life for himself?

Well, Nastasia had thought the same thing.

“You two live here?” Mimi asked, bewildered. “There’s nothing here!”

“We have a table now,” Nastasia told her.

Mimi housesat for Merlee, guarding whatever strange things the shaman kept. (Or perhaps stealing them, Nastasia supposed wryly, as Merlee was scarcely home to notice.) And as it turned out, she made some money doing it. Enough to spare some for some furnishings, maybe, but she couldn’t bring it to Flopside to use without permission. She had to wait until Merlee returned.

Nastasia was astounded by Mimi’s willingness to offer money, but she wasn’t about to decline. Mimi left, promising to visit again.

After some days, O’Chunks was able to buy a mattress. It nearly cleared out their funds again, but it was modestly spacious. Although they had no frame to put it on, it fit nicely in the upstairs. The space was small up there, conjoined with the attic by a small crawl-through door, and the ceilings slanted. O’Chunks had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on them. The overhead lights didn’t work at all, but it was better insulated against the cold.

“I’ll take th’ couch t’night,” O’Chunks said, after setting the sheets. “Ye move ‘n here.”

Nastasia stared at him for a moment in disbelief. “Why? It’s big enough for us both.”

He’d been sleeping on a too-small, makeshift cot in one of the rooms, while she’d been sleeping on the sofa. He stared at her now with the same level of disbelief as she had at him refusing to use the bed.

This whole time he’d been bending over backward to accommodate her needs while ignoring himself. They hardly spoke to each other since he was always out of the house. And now she realized that perhaps the reason for that was to give her space, because she’d been so vehement that he leave her alone in the first days after the Void closed.

Her heart filled with sadness. Neither of their mindsets had been healthy. But not once had she considered him a bother since coming here.

They fit okay. He was a big man but always hyper-aware of it, trying to scooch to the very edge so she could have all of one side. She badgered him that first night until he relaxed, and regrettably it might have been the most she’d spoken to him in a week.

But they fit okay. Though the world had treated them unkindly, they had each other.

O’Chunks gradually loosened up after that, and they spent more time together. He didn’t try to get out of sharing the bed ever again, and she grew so accustomed to the additional warmth that she wasn’t sure she’d be able to sleep without him there.

Mimi came back and crawled all over O’Chunks when he indicated she was an idiot for not talking to him earlier if she wanted to. She brought with her some home improvement funds; not a huge sum, but more than they’d had. The next step was finding out what to work on first.

“That bloody gas range,” muttered O’Chunks, eyeing the kitchen longingly. He’d tried several times to fix it himself, only to narrowly avoid burning the house down.

“It’d be nice to have the oven work,” Nastasia agreed.

“Elly coulda fixed it,” Mimi said. “We’d make him do it for free, too! An actual electrical guy is gonna be expensive.”

“L en’t here, lass,” O’Chunks said, a bit of melancholy entering his tone.

“What about furniture? We’ve got to replace that thing,” said Mimi, wrinkling her nose and pointing at the sofa. It didn’t take long for one of the springs to break, propping the left cushion up at an unpleasant angle. The fabric was starting to sag as well. “I want a…one of those long ones. Ooh, a sectional! I wanna get a sectional! That way we all fit!”

The other two exchanged looks.

“We?” O’Chunks asked. “Ye movin’ in, lass?”

Mimi’s face did a peculiar twitch until she smoothed it over. “What? No, this is your space—but, y’know, for when I visit. This house is waaaaaay too small for me.”

And yet, despite the house being ‘too small’ for her, she continued to come back. Once, twice, three times a week, occasionally staying the night on the sofa. Each time she made an excuse for visiting, like bringing clothes she bought for Nastasia or sharing her allowance so O’Chunks could work on the house, and each time she made an excuse for leaving again.

O’Chunks and Nastasia sat on the sofa in the living room together in front of the newly acquired television. The sofa was new, too—not a sectional, as it was outside of their budget, but much bigger. Even though there was plenty of room, the pair sat with their shoulders touching.

“Yeah, so should we just tell her she can stay?” Nastasia asked, blowing on her hot chocolate.

“Think she needs tae decide for herself first,” O’Chunks said.

It was true that Mimi seemed to be indecisive on the matter of whether she should keep inserting herself into their lives. Nastasia trusted O’Chunks’ judgement. Plus, for all they knew Mimi might have to stay at the estate as part of her arrangement with Merlee.

In time, the issue would resolve itself. During one of the next visits, Nastasia awoke one night with a start to find Mimi in the process of climbing onto their mattress. They stared at each other for a moment, Nastasia confused and Mimi mortified, until O’Chunks reached across Nastasia and gently tugged Mimi onto the bed.

Mimi stumbled for a moment, flustered, before burrowing under the covers and snuggling up to Nastasia’s side with a content sigh, and O’Chunks turned onto his side so that he could put a large arm around them both.

From that moment Mimi was no longer visiting. She was living under the same roof, and only visiting Merlee’s manor to clean occasionally.

Come the next morning, Mimi was done with doubt and stepping quietly around her feelings. She was back to her boisterous self. Nastasia didn’t realize how sorely she missed Mimi’s energy, or how well the contrast served as an effective counterbalance for her sorrow.

The house became a lot tidier as well. Mimi was particular about a lot of things, but above all she couldn’t stand messes. O’Chunks was less messy than he was careless about leaving things out; Nastasia, however, was known to operate within her own clutter. Bare as the house was, Mimi kept it spotless and ensured nothing was left out to trip over.

They began painting. The floors needed redone, but it made more sense to start with the walls. That way any paint that dripped would be taken away along with the horrendously dirty carpet. The walls became the girls’ project while O’Chunks was out on errands, and he would come home and find them laughing and pressing hand-shaped paint stains onto each other’s coveralls like children.

“We didn’t, um, think this through very well,” Nastasia called, opening every window in the house to diffuse the smell. They painted every wall on the first floor within two days, and the odor was unbearable as they had no fans to move the air.

“But look at this!” O’Chunks triumphantly shaved a square of paint-stained carpet away with a knife, revealing dark walnut floors. “It doesn’ even need re-stained! Why would ye cover this up?”

“I wanted carpet,” Mimi pouted.

“We’ll keep the carpet in the upstairs, but it’ll need deep-cleaned, ‘k? Everything’s so dust—wh—” Nastasia stopped in surprise in the process of opening the window in the living room facing the alley. A rectangular cut of paper appeared to be tucked neatly onto the outside sill, visible through the glass once she moved the curtain.

Mimi paused in gleefully trying to wrestle the carpet knife from O’Chunks to see what had Nastasia so frozen in place. “What’s that? A bill? The mailmen around here sure are screwy, ain’t the mailbox on the front of the house?”

Nastasia carefully retrieved the envelope. “It’s a letter,” she said, frazzled. “And it—” She poked her head out of the window to check, but not a soul was in the alley, and the street was quiet. “It’s—this is Blumiere’s handwriting.”

Mimi and O’Chunks were on their feet immediately.

The letter had no return address. On the front of the envelope, in Blumiere’s messily slanted cursive, was written “to my friends.”

The three of them sat on the couch as Nastasia very gently extracted the letter, as if the envelope were a priceless family heirloom. The letter was long, full of sorrow and appreciation. In it he detailed that he was alive and well, along with Timpani, and please don’t try to find him; he would come to them when he was ready. He added some fragments of what he’d been up to in the time since his disappearance, how he and Timpani have been finding their way around after everything that happened. He apologized generally for the “mess he caused,” said that he hoped they would forgive his madness, and that he wished they were well and had stayed together. He signed it with a promise to visit, should they have remained in or around Flipside.

O’Chunks had to take the letter halfway through, lest Nastasia’s tears sully the page.

“Alive,” she murmured, “he’s alive. He’s alive…”

“Why’d he tell us not to find him?” said Mimi, frowning. “He didn’t even say where he was! How’d he even get this to us? Are we sure it’s not fake?”

“It’s his handwriting,” repeated Nastasia.

Turning the letter over, O’Chunks’ eyes narrowed at the bottom of the page. “There’s a PS. Not sure I like it.”

Nastasia wiped her eyes and put her glasses back on, leaning against his arm to read the note.

P.S.: When you find Dimentio, make the decision for him. His ego has become very fragile.

“Says ‘when’, not ‘if’,” O’Chunks grumbled sourly.

Now they knew how the letter got there, and perhaps why Blumiere insisted no one find him. It may have been meant as a warning that no one else come find him. Still, the news was somewhat troubling.

Did they seriously create an ending somehow where they all made it through?

Another week passed. The little house began to look more like people lived in it, although many things still needed fixing, and Nastasia started to wonder, with how often Mimi snuck upstairs to join them, if they might invest in a bigger mattress. They fit nicely side-by-side, still—but Mimi liked to stretch out during the night, or end up lying across the other two. In the end, they figured out that she just wanted to be in the middle.

But that spot was Nastasia’s—the middle of the mattress between all the love and warmth, with the steady safety of O’Chunks curled around her and Mimi’s sweet-smelling hair tickling her nose. She couldn’t be budged. Eventually, Mimi relented and decided that the easiest way to keep from kicking Nastasia at night was to get herself so tangled up in Nastasia’s limbs that she couldn’t move. As it turned out, no one had any complaints.

“Now all we need is for Chunky to find himself a rich boyfriend, and we’ll be set,” declared Mimi.

“Wot now?” he snorted. “Why don’ ye find one yeself?”

“I’ve decided boys are gross,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“I’m not sure how tae take that, lass.”

Just about the time O’Chunks was considering throwing half the appliances out of the window, Mimi came home from checking in at Merlee’s and announced her arrival by kicking the door open. “O’Chunks!” she yelled. “Get out here!”

O’Chunks stomped out of the kitchen with one of the burner grates in his hands. “Lass, what—?!”

Mimi gave him her best winning smile and jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “I found us an electrician!”

Nastasia, trying hard and failing to concentrate on her book through all the noise, turned toward the door and her eyebrows went up. Luigi was standing in the doorway warily.

“Was less of you finding me than it was me yelling after you at the grocery store,” he offered. “But okay.”

The burner grate slid out of O’Chunks’ hands and banged loudly on the hardwood floor.

Luigi stepped into house and looked around. His eyes landed critically on all the flashlights littered around the tabletops. “…Is there anything in here that does work? Ah—that outlet,” he pointed, probably making a mental note. “But not the overheads, huh.”

“Elly, pleeeeeease,” Mimi whined. “I can’t stand the dark and we’re living off of TV dinners!!”

“Yeah, yeah, you already said,” he reminded her mildly. He ruffled her hair as he passed by on the way to the kitchen. It seemed to be more of an automatic movement than anything conscious. “Beep, beep, Braveheart.” He brushed past O’Chunks, who stood there frozen in shock. The contact shook him out of it, and he slowly picked up the grate from the floor.

Mimi grinned wickedly. “What’s wroooooooong, Chunky~?”

“Nothin’!” he snapped. “I jus’…wasn’t expectin’… Why’s he here?”

“I dunno,” she said. “Like he said, we ran into each other at the store, so I kidnapped him.”

“What the heck!” came the yell from the kitchen. Luigi emerged a moment later, stopping in front of O’Chunks and leaning up close to look him directly in the eyes. “Do. NOT. Turn that thing on again,” he said darkly, and then: “You got a screwdriver?”

O’Chunks froze again for a few seconds before leaning in as well, looming over the other since he was taller. Luigi stepped back a bit from the challenge. “Ye can fix it?”

Luigi blinked, like he was only now registering O’Chunks’ presence. “Uh, no,” he said. “It’s basically fried. Screwdriver.”

They directed him to their scantily equipped box of tools. After making a disparaging comment very typical of Mr. L about the quality, he started removing the outlets from the walls to look inside at the wiring. There were three outlets in the living room. Only one of them received a nod of approval.

“Thinking maybe you should just turn everything off,” he said. “Where’s your breaker?”

“Basement,” O’Chunks told him, pointing toward the door to the stairway. “Ye’ll need a flashlight.”

“That bodes ill,” Luigi commented, disappearing into the basement.

Two minutes passed.

Then, “THIS IS A FUSEBOX, O’FLUNKS!”

They all jumped. Luigi thundered up the stairs, looking furious. He pointed at the two outlets he had left unscrewed in the wall. “Don’t plug anything in those. You’ve got ten fuses and six of them are toast. It’s a miracle this place hasn’t burned down—how long’ve you been living here?”

“Um. A couple of months.”

“Move out.”

“No!” O’Chunks barked. “We’ve put work in here!”

Not to mention they had just gotten comfortable, and there was little chance of affording another residence.

Luigi put his hands up. “Fine. Fine, fine, fine, fine. Listen. Gonna need a few days to find some things. C’mere, though.”

He shoved them all into the kitchen and tapped the oven door with the side of his boot.

“Pull it out,” Luigi ordered.

O’Chunks looked contemplative for a beat. “The range, or…”

Luigi cough-laughed at this, surprised and red in the face.

Mimi grimaced and rolled her eyes. “Ugh, boys.”

“Oh, my god. The stove, yeah, the—god, I can’t believe you remember that! Kill me.”

“Would never forget ye makin’ a complete ass o’ yeself, lad.”

“…I’m not sure I want to ask,” commented Nastasia.

“Short version: one time I got myself really drunk,” said Luigi. “The rest is redacted.”

“I walked intae the room while he was sloshed an’ he started flirtin’ with me,” supplied O’Chunks.

“I said, the rest is redacted.”

“Not from me memory, sadly.”

O’Chunks scooted the range about two-thirds of the way out of its spot between the counters. It scraped horridly on the floor when moved, so he started to pick it up instead.

“Waitwaitwaitwait,” Mimi said, waving her arms. “Are you saying it needs replaced? We can’t afford it right now—”

“It’s a fire hazard. Like, a big one.” Luigi disconnected the wires from the backside of the range once O’Chunks had it lifted, and once it was completely out of the way he gestured with a flourish at the wall where it had been. It was stained black with what looked like soot. “Exhibit A.”

Nastasia sharply inhaled—had it been smoking at one point around the wires, and they hadn’t noticed?

Luigi walked around the small kitchen, putting his hand against the walls near appliances and lights, like he was testing something. He promptly unplugged the microwave and switched its placing with Nastasia’s coffeemaker on the other side of the counter, but he moved nothing else.

“Don’t use that outlet either,” he said, indicating where the microwave had been. “God, the currents in this house are so janky— Do you need money?”

They all blinked, caught off-guard by the sudden and unrelated question.

“Do you need money,” he repeated, eyeing them seriously.

“Yes!” Mimi said, before the other two could open their mouths. “Do you have money?”

“I may have money,” Luigi offered cryptically.

Mimi started elbowing O’Chunks ribs ecstatically, triggering a gentle slap-fight.

“We can’t accept tha—”

“Yes, we can! We definitely can!”

Nastasia gave Mimi an exasperated look.

Luigi left shortly after, suggesting that they not flip switches repeatedly and maybe avoid blowing up the house before he came back in a few days. O’Chunks placed the range outside in the alley, out of the way until they could find somewhere to scrap it, and then he left to stock up on things that could tide them over in the microwave.

Nastasia was beginning to realize, after witnessing the interaction with Luigi, that O’Chunks might be sorely missing male companionship. She knew he was in the military when Count Bleck picked him up; they had traversed the wasted, abandoned camp until they found him. He was probably used to drinking and sparring and trading stories with those men, before it all went to hell. It was different living with women; Nastasia wasn’t exactly into roughhousing, and Mimi often drove O’Chunks mad with her rhetoric and mean-spirited taunts.

Of course, O’Chunks would never bring it up as an issue that needed addressed; instead, he sated his boredom by running errands and going for walks. But Nastasia had the mental picture of a sword slowly rusting with disuse, and the thought that he might dread coming home sometimes.

Before she could start to address the issue, or corner him long enough to even bring it up, he brought home a surprise.

“Oi, Mimi,” he called from the front door. “Got ye a present.”

Nastasia looked up from the FlipFlop Tribune and balked.

Mimi slid into the living room on her socks. “This better be good, I’m reorganizing my closet—OMIGOSH!!” she cried, clapping her hands together in delight. “You brought me a really shitty boyfriend!”

Dimentio, tucked under one of O’Chunks’ arms like a sack of luggage, blinked slowly at her like a cat.

She cut across the back of the sofa and bounded over to him. “Hiya, Dimmy!” she said cheerfully, and then she slapped him so hard across the face Nastasia swore she may have heard something crack.

O’Chunks could tell what was going to happen when Mimi’s arm swung back, but all he had time to do was quickly let go so Dimentio might handle the recoil better. The magician landed hard on the floor, propped against the wall, and then Mimi dropped onto her knees and threw her arms around his neck.

“You’re such a dummy.”

He didn’t say anything. He just stared straight ahead into space while she hugged him, dazed.

“Ugh, you stink though,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “We’re taking care of that first!”

Mimi hefted him up off the floor into her arms. It wasn’t surprising that she could carry him, light as he was. No, what was surprising was that he listlessly let her do it. No complaints, no physical resistance. He let his chin rest on her shoulder as she toted him toward the stairs.

He looked absolutely exhausted. Exhausted and defeated. Nastasia felt her stomach twist unpleasantly upon realizing he looked exactly how she felt for the first two weeks after the Void closed—she had recovered, but he still had not.

As Mimi stole Dimentio away to the upstairs bathroom, O’Chunks lingered by the door. He didn’t say anything for a long time, but it was apparent by the stiff movement of his jaw that he was upset in a way Nastasia hadn’t seen before. O’Chunks had previously been very vocal about not letting Dimentio set foot in their house even if they found him, so it was peculiar that he was the one to bring him home.

“O’Chunks,” Nastasia said, patting the seat on the sofa beside her.

“Diggin’ through the bins,” he said hollowly.

“What?”

He dropped heavily onto the sofa, balancing his elbows on his knees and pressing his forehead into his clasped hands. “The dustbins. Top floor o’ Flopside. Sat down on th’ ground an’ jus’….waited, when he saw me. Like I was comin’ tae settle a score an’ he was jus’ gonna let it happen.”

O’Chunks took a deep, steadying breath. “Know I said some things about him bein’ here. ‘Bout how we couldn’ trust him. But he’s so damned broken, Nastasia, he broke himself more’n he did the rest o’ us, an’ I can’t… I could never…”

Nastasia rubbed his shoulder soothingly. “…Did he say anything?”

“Didn’ say a word. I jus’ picked him up—not a damn word—and brought him here. Dunno if it were right or not, but crivvens, I couldn’ leave him there.”

Dimentio continued to not talk for days. Every now and then he would respond quietly, just one or two words, but for the most part it was like his mouth was glued shut. There were few things quite as jarring as a silent Dimentio, as he was known to say a lot of things about anything at any given time. The circles under his eyes were dark, and Mimi had to bully him every day to take care of himself.

Aside from the silence, he was also listless. A nearly daily occurrence involved him just…stopping mid-float, like he wasn’t sure where he was or where to go. Or he would sit on the floor against the wall of the first-floor guest bedroom, away from everyone else, and stare. Mimi was the only one allowed in the room with him—if Nastasia or O’Chunks entered, Dimentio would make himself scarce by hiding in his dimension.

He did the same thing at night. Instead of joining the other three upstairs, he would go into the guest bedroom and vanish until well after noon, when he would emerge for O’Chunks to hand him lunch. He was at least eating well. He wouldn’t eat with them, but the plate he brought back was always picked clean.

“Dimmy, c’mere,” Mimi said the second she caught him exiting his adopted room. She plucked him out of the air and held him like her favorite dolly, carrying him over to the sofa. “We’re gonna watch a movie or somethin’.”

“We don’t have any movies,” Nastasia reminded her.

“Then we’ll find somethin’ dumb on TV!”

By ‘find something on TV’ Mimi apparently meant spending ten seconds on each channel while watching if Dimentio showed any sort of response. He didn’t. She crowded him up against the armrest of the sofa while sitting nearly in his lap, and he just looked tiredly at the screen.

“Omigosh,” said Mimi, flipping from a tennis match and pausing on a music entertainment channel. A toad was singing an elegant solo on a concert stage, accompanied only by a piano. “I want her voice!”

—Which was sort of a terrifying thing for her to say, since she could actually make that happen.

The sound of the piano made Nastasia’s ears twitch, and she sighed wistfully.

“What’s wrong, Nassy?”

“I miss playing sometimes.”

There had been an upright piano in Castle Bleck. The echoing acoustics in the castle made it difficult to play, but it went a long way to keeping her fingers busy and her mind from tanking under pressure. The others often asked her to play, even though she felt she was a novice at best, in high-stress situations, like just before the heroes stormed the castle.

“Where would you put it?”

Both Mimi and Nastasia jumped at the sound of Dimentio asking an unprompted question. His voice sounded strange after its long disuse.

“…Um, what?” asked Nastasia.

Dimentio was still staring at the screen. “Your piano,” he murmured. “Where would you put it.”

“I…” Nastasia glanced at Mimi, who just shrugged in equal confusion. “The house is hardly big enough for…”

“Against th’ wall there,” O’Chunks said, coming out of the kitchen and pointing to the living room wall across from the windows. “So I c’n listen tae ye play while I make dinner.”

Dimentio nodded curtly at him, like this was a suitable answer. Then he carefully extracted himself from under Mimi’s legs and teleported away. Only a couple of minutes passed and he was back, touching down on the floor next to the wall. He snapped his fingers with a flourish, and the piano from Castle Bleck appeared neatly where O’Chunks had pointed, across from the window so that the sunlight came through and glittered off of its clean, white finish.

Dimentio exhaled deeply, and then went back to where he was sitting without another word. Mimi looked at him as if she had never seen him before.

Nastasia rose from the sofa unsteadily to investigate. It needed tuned, and the keys needed cleaned; O’Chunks brought her a washcloth to wipe away the layer of accumulated dust. The bench had appeared with it, and still contained her few pages of sheet music. Once she had it mostly tuned and cleaned, she sat and started to play from one of the sheets. Her fingers were clumsy at first, but the sour notes smoothed out eventually. It was much easier to play without the echo of the cold castle.

Mimi turned off the television, O’Chunks took Nastasia’s spot on the sofa, and Dimentio finally relaxed against Mimi’s shoulder.

“Is it okay like this?” Nastasia asked that night, slipping under the covers into her usual spot.

O’Chunks cocked his head, confused. “Wot? Like how?”

She folded her glasses and placed them on the floor above the mattress. “I mean, uh, you don’t mind? Dimentio being here, I mean.”

“Lass, I’m the one what brought him.”

“He won’t look me in the eyes,” she said, staring up at the ceiling. “Like he thinks I’m going to try to hypnotize him if he does.”

O’Chunks regarded her carefully. “Don’ think he would’ve delivered the letter if he didn’ want anything tae do with us. He’s just flighty still.”

“He hasn’t run. He hides, but he doesn’t run.”

“Aye.”

They were silent for a time. He joined her under the covers, on his side curled around her.

“I think I’d hate him,” Nastasia blurted, “if Blumiere had died. I don’t think I ever would’ve forgiven him. And he—used that sprout on you.”

“Aye, he did.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“It did. I think back tae it diff’rent now. Was a test subject, but he’d no intention o’ hurtin’ me. If he had, he woulda let the ceiling crush me.”

There was truth to that. In the end, Dimentio was part of the reason any of them had survived the end of the world. She knew this, and it made her hate herself—because Dimentio figured out how to get to the ending he wanted without sacrificing any of their team, after she had long given up on it being possible.

“Nastasia,” O’Chunks rumbled, smoothing her hair behind her ear with a thumb twice the size of her nose. “Stop it.”

“I knew,” she said, frustrated. “I knew. I knew what both of them were doing. But I still…I still let you and Mimi believe that…that it was going to be okay—”

“We are okay,” he corrected her sternly.

“But what if we weren’t?”

“Don’t wannae hear it. Stop hurtin’ yeself, lass. The whole lot o’ us survived, an’ any alternative ye brain cooks up didn’t happen.”

She sighed, not entirely convinced but willing to believe it. They lay in silence for a while, O’Chunks sort of shyly caressing the soft skin on the side of her face with his thumb. The warm contact made her blissfully drowsy.

“Come on, you doofus,” Mimi’s voice floated from the first floor. “Stop hiding, will ya? We ain’t gonna bite.”

She emerged from the stairwell, carrying her favorite magician.

“Mimi…” Nastasia started warily, as she thought forcing the issue with Dimentio’s antisocial sleeping habits might not be the best approach.

But, again, he didn’t run. He could teleport wherever he pleased in an instant if he wanted, but he never did leave them, no matter how apprehensive he looked.

“Ugh, stop squirming,” Mimi complained through a yawn. “We’re sleeping, okay? Bedtime.”

She climbed into bed beside Nastasia, hugging Dimentio to her like a stuffed animal. He made a disconcerted noise but didn’t fight her. Even though there was a body between them, Nastasia could tell how stiff he was. She closed her eyes and tried not to imagine his discomfort.

It didn’t take long.

“D-Dimmy,” Mimi whispered, a mixture of surprise and dismay. “Hey…”

Dimentio hiccupped pitifully in response.

O’Chunks tapped Nastasia on the shoulder. “Lass, if ye could…”

“Yeah,” she said, dragging herself out from under the covers.

Mimi rolled over so that Dimentio was pressed between herself and O’Chunks, and O’Chunks let his arm fall heavily around them both. Nastasia took the vacant spot on the edge, resting on her back with her arm around Mimi’s waist.

“See,” Mimi said softly. “Chunky’ll keep us safe and cozy, and Nassy’ll make sure we don’t do anything dumb again. It’s okay! Now sleep.”

Dimentio made a shivery sighing noise, his grip tightening around Mimi, and together they all fell asleep feeling a great deal better.

Chapter Text

Two days later, Luigi was back. He had a backpack slung over one shoulder and a large toolbox in his hands. They were so used to nothing working that they had forgotten about his vow to come back. Nastasia stared at him in the doorway for a moment, wondering what sort of warning she should give as to Dimentio being present, but then Dimentio himself wandered out of the kitchen with a cup of tea and stopped like a deer in the headlights.

They made eye contact with each other for all of three seconds before Dimentio promptly teleported away.

Luigi blinked, his eyes catching on the new addition of the piano. “You’ve got a rat infestation now, too?” he said, and Nastasia relaxed a little. The comment had meaning behind it, but it wasn’t uttered with any particular disgust or malice.

Mimi cackled wickedly from her perch on the sofa as Luigi headed toward the basement. “Hey, Elly! Ya wanna join our thing?”

He paused at the door and squinted at her. “Thing…?”

“M-Mimi?” Nastasia exclaimed, slightly panicked.

“What?” Mimi asked innocently. “We could be a full circle!”

“Um, what are you talking about?”

“Are ya single?” Mimi asked Luigi, ignoring Nastasia.

O’Chunks came out of the hallway, looking much the same as Nastasia felt. “Lass—!”

Luigi’s face flushed. “I—uh, well—”

“Ya wanna be quintuple?”

“…Huh?”

“Ooh, forget a circle—we could be a STAR! Wouldn’t that be a lot cooler?”

O’Chunks reached over the sofa and covered Mimi’s mouth with his hands. “Don’ worry about it, lad! Has a li’l too much pep today, this one…”

“…Alright, well,” Luigi said, scratching the back of his head. “You might open the curtains, I’m gonna go cut the power, and it’s gonna be off for a while. Don’t open the fridge or anything.”

He disappeared into the basement.

Once he was out of earshot, O’Chunks removed his hands from Mimi’s face. “Lass, what’n the ages are ye—”

Mimi pointed haughtily at the basement door. “Rich boyfriend,” she announced, glaring at O’Chunks. “Go gettem.”

All O’Chunks could do at her command was sputter.

A door opened, and Dimentio poked his head into the room, looking rattled. “What’s he doing here,” he demanded in a stage whisper. No one had thought to tell him that Luigi had been by once before.

“Actually, that might work, too,” Mimi mused, cracking her knuckles. “Dimmy, go seduce Elly, m’kay? We need him to stay so he can keep buying us stuff and fixing it whenever we break it! It’s strategic! Ya like that kinda stuff, right?”

Dimentio blinked at her owlishly.

“He won’ fit in the bed, lass,” O’Chunks said.

This actually made Nastasia start laughing. Everything from Mimi describing their relationships in shapes, to Dimentio fleeing like a spooked cat from Luigi on sight, to O’Chunks arguing that the primary reason Luigi couldn’t stay was because they would need a bigger mattress drove her into hysterics.

“Aaaaaaah, Nassy!” Mimi said happily, cheeks brighter than usual. “Your laugh is so cute! Sometimes I wish I didn’t hafta share you with Chunky.”

“Oi,” O’Chunks muttered.

“Anyway, I guess step one is getting a bigger bed, huh? Then we can seduce him. Does Elly snore?” Mimi wrinkled her nose. “I bet he snores.”

“I’ve been told I snore,” Luigi said from the basement doorway, causing all of them to startle. “I came back to tell you the water’s going off later, too, so use the bathroom while you can. Also, you gonna do anything with that basement? It’d make a great rec room when finished.”

They just stared at him.

“…What?” he said, then locked eyes meaningfully with Dimentio again.

Dimentio’s face went white, and he ducked out of the room.

“Don’t mind him,” Mimi said, snickering. “He’s shy.”

“I do mind, actually,” Luigi said, and ran around the corner where Dimentio vanished. The tell-tale chime of teleportation rang through the air, and then Luigi came back the other way in the hallway and into the guest bedroom. Another chime. Back again, and another chime. Luigi skidded into the living room and glared intently up at the ceiling.

“Stop chasing me, you buffoon!” Dimentio snapped, muffled from the upstairs bedroom, the loudest he’d spoken since the Void closed.

“Why are you running?!” Luigi shouted back. “What d’you think I’m gonna do??”

“I don’t know!”

“Get down here and find out!”

“I will pass!”

O’Chunks snorted. “S’fair he’s hidin’. Last time someone ran at ‘im, he got smacked right out o’ his head.”

“What?” Luigi asked, “Who smacked him?”

“I did!” Mimi said, waving her arms proudly. “’Cuz he deserved it. Just once.”

“Right on.” Luigi gave her a high-five on the way back down to the basement.

Once he was gone again, O’Chunks plopped down on the sofa. “Innit kinda weird? That he acts like everythin’s cool? Jus’ comes in an’ makes himself right tae home. Ye en’t zapped him, eh, lass?”

Nastasia bristled. “No! Of course not. I mean, I’m surprised, too, ‘k? I didn’t really think he’d just, um, talk to us like he did in the castle.”

“Wasn’ he supposed tae change back, though?”

“What do you mean, ‘change back’? I only, um…persuaded him to follow the Count. I can’t do anything to his personali—”

She was interrupted then by deafening silence and the abrupt shut-down of the entire house. They had been so distracted by conversations that no one had opened the curtains as suggested, and so the main room was cast into pitch black—though, since it was close to the evening, the outside light wouldn’t have helped much, anyway.

Mimi yelped in fear, scrabbling on the sofa, and shrieked “D-D-DIMENTIOOOOO!” into the darkness, causing Nastasia to stop on her way to the window and cover her ears in pain.

Dimentio snapped himself immediately onto the sofa beside Mimi, looking around in alarm. “Who is hurting y—?” He grunted when Mimi zeroed in on the yellow light from his eye and threw her arms around him. “Mimi, honestly—”

“Dimmyyyyyyy,” she sniffed, kissing him on the cheek. “You really do care! I knew it!”

“Gracious, it is almost as if we weren’t forewarned not even ten minutes ago that the lights would be turned off! You sounded like the wailing specter of a freshly stabbed murder victim.”

Mimi gasped. “Simile!” she chirped happily.

The natural light through the window only helped a little bit. Nastasia had no issue seeing in the dark, but the scant light at least kept Mimi from further whimpering. She returned to the sofa and all four of them sat there in the odd quiet. With all of the buzzing in the walls gone, they could faintly hear Dyllis’ restaurant door jingling every time it opened from one street over. They could also more clearly hear Luigi approach up the stairs this time, and so could avoid conspiring while he might overhear.

He came out of the basement and went from room to room to mess briefly with the outlets, and then he stopped by their sofa. “Hey, Mimi, can I borrow your flashlight really quick?”

She hummed contemplatively. “It’ll cost ya,” she decided.

“Can you take an IOU for now? I left my utility light in the basement, and I really need to see the connector wires in the kitchen to see if they’re salvageable, so…”

“Ugh, fine,” she huffed, grabbing a bewildered Dimentio by the collar and pulling him across her lap and over the armrest. “But make sure ya bring him back soon. And don’t drop him! He’s fragile.”

“Now, wait a min—I’m not—Stop it!”

“Yep, got it. Thanks!” Luigi said, tucking the hissing magician under one arm and strolling through the kitchen door.

“Would you people quit carrying me around like a designer tote bag?!” Dimentio groused, though he struggled very little.

“F’ye ever decide tae move by yeself, aye, we’ll stop,” O’Chunks called after him. “Glad L has the recipe tae fix Dim’s tongue, though. Was startin’ tae think he’d ne’er get it back.”

“Recipe?” Nastasia repeated, amused. “Apparently, we just weren’t annoying him enough.”

Luigi worked in the kitchen for a while, speaking in low tones with Dimentio. No one believed for a second that Dimentio’s eye was bright enough to effectively light anything not immediately in front of his face, and eventually he seemed to get dismissed. He quietly returned to his spot on the sofa. He had visibly loosened up a great deal—whatever Luigi said to him had knocked some of the sullenness out of him. Then Luigi went around the house (with a real flashlight this time), checking all the rooms for more damaged wiring.

“Um,” he said, poking his head out of the door to the second floor. “Are you thinking of, uh…” He glanced toward the back rooms, and it was obvious he was running calculations in his head but finding no solutions. “…Who sleeps up there?”

“We do!” Mimi declared before anyone could stop her.

Luigi squinted. “Who is ‘we’?”

Nastasia opened her mouth to deflect, but Luigi had already moved on to a more pressing issue.

“With no box spring?” he asked incredulously. “You might as well sleep on the floor!”

“We don’ go in yer home an’ criticize yer setup!” O’Chunks said.

“You wouldn’t,” Luigi countered, “because I live like a sane person. D’you know how unsettling a room is when it’s just a mattress smack in the middle of the floor and a single desk lamp, minus the desk? I feel like I just walked out of an indie horror game.”

“Would ye like tae be sent back?” O’Chunks grumbled.

Luigi went back about his business in the basement. Hours passed like this. They arranged all the flashlights they could find on the coffee table and sat on the floor so they could play cards in the flickering light. Then, just as they were discussing getting takeout from the Hot Fraun, they heard the electricity pop back on. The fridge started humming in the kitchen, sounding a lot less sickly than it had before, and Luigi surfaced to matter-of-factly flip on the overhead lights in the living room.

“Finally!” Mimi cheered, hugging Nastasia, who was closest.

“Bare minimum,” Luigi said, yawning and leaning against the back of the sofa. “But I need a break.”

“Thinkin’ o’ gettin’ us some un-nuked dinner,” O’Chunks said. “Ye gonnae hang around a bit?”

“Dinner. Dinner sounds fantastic. Here.” Luigi waved a billfold toward O’Chunks, sweeping it aside to dodge Mimi’s hands when she reached to intercept it. “For food,” he told her, “not clothes!”

She pouted.

“Actually, here,” he said, opening the fold instead to leaf out a few bills and handing them to O’Chunks.

“A’ight, I’ll go grab us something,” O’Chunks said, standing and walking to the door. He made it five steps before he actually looked down at the bills in his hand and paled. “L—laddie. Wh—”

“Maybe buy yourself a box spring at some point?” Luigi yawned again. “My back hurts just looking at that.”

“I c—I cannae—”

Nastasia stood and joined him at the door. “…Um, how many hundreds is that?”

Mimi lurched forward off the floor eagerly, only for Dimentio to grab her around the waist and pull her onto his lap. “No clothes,” he reminded her.

“Yes clothes!” she sulked.

“This’s over a grand!” O’Chunks blustered, glaring at Luigi.

Luigi counted off nonchalantly on his fingers: “Dinner. Stove. Decent bed.”

“I’m goin’ tae Dyllis’ tae get food, not buy ‘er stove!”

“No, I mean—”

O’Chunks tried to hand all but one of the bills back. “This’ll do!”

“The hell?” Luigi snapped. “A hundred? Dinner for five people on only a hundred bucks? Are you delusional, or planning on just buying everyone hot dogs?”

“We shouldn’ spend that much!”

“Got it, okay!” Luigi said, and took the bills back from O’Chunks, jumped over the sofa, and sprinted out the door. “I’ll handle dinner!”

“Get back here, ye nutter!” O’Chunks roared furiously, and then took off after him.

Fifteen minutes later, the pair returned in the midst of a colorful argument. Luigi had managed to buy them all way too much food, and by the looks of things he’d been tackled at least twice either on the way to or from the restaurant, as the knees of his pants were torn and there was an impressive bruise on the side of O’Chunks’ face. Still, it wasn’t aggressive—just the same sort of showy shoulder-bumping the two always did while working on the same team.

They ate happily and stored the leftovers in the noticeably colder fridge (had the power really been that much of an issue?). Luigi went back to the basement and kicked the furnace until it started working, and the vents popped so loudly with the rise of hot air that Nastasia had to lie down to abate the pressure in her ears. O’Chunks’ thigh served as her pillow, and he ran his large, warm fingers through her hair until she nearly fell asleep.

“I’ll head back,” Luigi said, sounding a bit subdued. He’d been working all day with substantial progress, made all the more difficult by the added challenge of keeping Mimi’s hands out of his pockets now that she knew where he stored his wallet. “Would’ve liked to hook up a stove first, but…”

“Ye c’n stay th’ night,” O’Chunks offered, then gave Mimi a cross look at her waggling eyebrows. “It’s got a bed,” he added very pointedly, patting the cushions of the sofa.

“…You never mentioned that,” Dimentio said sourly.

“As if you would ever sleep in an open room, even if it were the last bed in the world,” Mimi scoffed at him.

“I don’t wanna impose,” Luigi said, sounding as if suggesting he wanted to trek all the way back to his house at midnight was causing him physical harm.

And so they moved the coffee table and dragged the bed out of the sofa. It was stiff, since it had never been used, and it was bent a little at the center still. It took up most of the small living room, leaving only a narrow path into the kitchen between it and the wall.

Once it was situated, O’Chunks carried Nastasia upstairs so she could begin sleeping off her headache, and a socially-drained Dimentio joined her, though he kept to his own side of the bed. He was quiet, though, and thus made for an affable sleeping companion. O’Chunks joined soon after. Mimi could still be heard cackling and harassing Luigi downstairs for some time before she wandered up late in the night.

O’Chunks didn’t stay for long after Mimi came up. At a point where he must’ve thought they were all sound asleep, he attempted to leave the group without them noticing—which was nearly impossible, as the mattress always shifted heavily whenever he got in or out. He crept toward the stairs, reaching the banister before Mimi inevitably called him out.

“Spoon him!” she cheered.

O’Chunks nearly stumbled down the first step. “Wh—LASS?”

“Spoon him!” she repeated. “He won’t resist, you’re the BEST big spoon! I’ve heard stories.”

“I—”

“You are a terrific big spoon,” Nastasia confirmed, shifting a little in the empty space to spread out more.

“The biggest spoon!” Mimi agreed.

Dimentio groan-yawned, annoyed at being awoken. “A ladle, if you will.”

“A l— A LADLE!!” Mimi laughed, rolling around giddily.

“I’m jus’ going to th’ bathroom!” O’Chunks said defensively.

He left, the stairs creaking as he went. Nastasia rolled onto her side up against Mimi, who purred at the contact, and put her arm around her.

“Oops,” she apologized as her knuckles bumped against a sharp jaw in the dark. She hadn’t been expecting Dimentio to stick so close to Mimi now that there was more room.

“Don’t let it happen again,” Dimentio said in a completely nonthreatening manner, and then put his arm across Nastasia’s so that they were each cradling Mimi from either side. “Last time I checked, there was a perfectly good bathroom up here,” he added under his breath.

Mimi giggled happily between them. “There sure is! He’s so obvious.”

The next morning, they would find O’Chunks sitting on the sofa bed, lazily flipping through channels on the television. Luigi lay on his back diagonally across the bed, only partially covered by the blanket, wearing only boxers and one of O’Chunks’ t-shirts, snoring away.

“Sharin’ your clothes already, Chunky?” Mimi teased on her way to the kitchen. “…Why’s he sideways?”

“Not like he brought anythin’ tae sleep in,” O’Chunks said. “An’ jus’ ten minutes ago he was upside-down. He gets aroun’ durin’ the night.”

The toaster was already out on the counter, meaning O’Chunks had probably already made himself breakfast and was simply killing time until the rest of them awoke, so he could go up and take a shower and start his day. But he remained in his spot on the bed for some time, anyway, looking not necessarily well-slept but relaxed. When Nastasia came back into the living room with her fresh mug of coffee Luigi had rolled halfway around the mattress until he was face-down with his arms and head over the edge, with O’Chunks’ heavy leg on his back the only thing saving him from sliding off entirely.

“That bitt’r swill en’t a breakfast, lass,” O’Chunks reminded her.

“I’ll have something else when I’m more awake, ‘k?”

He grunted, unconvinced, and she smiled at him fondly.

“Is that what you’ve been doing all night?” she asked.

“Nae,” he said. “He moves a lot less when he’s holdin’ ontae somethin’. But now the heater’s workin’ it’s too bloody hot for that. Ah—c’mere, laddie,” he said, removing his leg from Luigi’s back.

Dimentio, who had floated into the room while trying very hard to seem like he wasn’t stealing glances at Luigi’s strange sleeping habits, jolted a little when O’Chunks beckoned him. “What?” he said guardedly.

“Wannae show ye something.”

Dimentio gave him an extremely suspicious look. Then Mimi bounced in from the kitchen with half of a toaster strudel hanging out of her mouth and shoved him through the air toward the bed, like she was passing a volleyball in zero gravity.

“Here ye go,” O’Chunks said, retrieving Dimentio from the air and neatly setting him down on the bed against Luigi’s side. The magician made a disconcerted noise, looking ready to flee.

As soon as Dimentio brushed up against him, Luigi rolled again, grabbing a handful of the magician’s shirt and manhandling him into a gentle but tight-limbed cuddle. Dimentio was rigid for all of twenty seconds before giving in and curling up into the embrace. The snoring stopped, but Luigi’s breathing remained deep. He hadn’t woken up at all, only instinctively grabbed the body closest him to curl around contentedly.

O’Chunks snorted and pulled the blanket up over most of Dimentio’s head in the manner he usually slept upstairs.

“Oh my gosh he’s like a venus fly trap!” Mimi cackled, finishing her pastry and climbing onto the bed. “Lemme try!” She nudged Luigi’s shoulder incessantly. Dimentio tilted his face minutely to scowl at her.

“That en’t how it works, lass,” O’Chunks advised. “Ye gotta stay still up against ‘im.”

“Huh,” she said, sitting on her legs with the side of her left leg pressed against his back. Sure enough, that did the trick; Luigi rolled over and absorbed her with one arm while keeping Dimentio close in the other. Now he was lying on his back with each of his victims cradled half on top of him, Mimi giggling like a maniac the whole time. “He’s so cuddly! Ooh, how d’ya think he’d handle a third person?”

“We’re not going to try it, ‘k?” Nastasia said firmly, noting that Dimentio looked less than pleased that Mimi had decided to impinge.

Mimi noticed as well, and, showing an uncharacteristic amount of humility, she decided to remove herself. It was a hard-won battle. It seemed once someone had engaged Luigi in a cuddle, they would experience extreme difficulty getting away. Mimi was clever enough to break free by ducking out low, and once Luigi’s arm was empty he snapped back like a rubber band, rolling over again to monopolize all of Dimentio’s personal space.

“I hope ye went to th’ loo already,” O’Chunks said. “Ye’re gonnae be there a while.”

Dimentio raised no objections. With that seemingly settled, the rest of them vacated the living room for a while. Nastasia went upstairs to read while O’Chunks took Mimi out of the house—which was a wise choice, as Mimi wasn’t known to let other people sleep when she wasn’t tired herself—to go shop for a new gas range. Nastasia was only mildly worried about the state of Luigi’s wallet, which O’Chunks had taken with them with the promise that he would protect it from Mimi.

The house was comfortably silent for a few hours. When Nastasia returned downstairs to make herself lunch, she found the bed folded away and Dimentio sitting alone on the sofa, legs folded under him and looking quite lost. Had his eyes been closed, she might’ve thought he was meditating, but he was staring straight ahead at the television, which was off.

“Um…did something happen?” she tried.

She still wasn’t quite sure how to talk to Dimentio, and she had the impression he felt a similar way toward her. Their relationship in the castle had been strained with equal shares of duplicity and spite. He had tried several times unsuccessfully to recruit her to his cause, knowing that she was aware of what Count Bleck intended. She had been too stubborn to see Dimentio’s goal as anything more than self-serving, and he was much too aloof to ever give up his illusion of indifference—so all they ever did was frustrate each other. Even now she wondered whether the attack he intended for Count Bleck may have been meant for her in the first place, if only out of spite.

He startled a little at the sound of her voice, and then looked confused at the question. “…No.”

She looked at him for a moment, waiting to see if he would offer anything else. He didn’t. “Did he leave?” she asked.

“Our mechanic has wandered back into the tomb.”

“And what are you doing?”

He gave her a dull look. “Am I meant to be doing something? My apologies for not using my time wisely. Was a schedule posted without my notice?”

It was an annoying response, yes, but it was also a very Dimentio response, which was oddly comforting. Her worries allayed, so she left him to pursue whatever inner thoughts were causing him to stare into space like he didn’t know how he got there.

‘The tomb’ is often what they called the basement, since it was cold and damp and empty and the walls were cement. Nastasia was the only one who would go down there for the laundry, as she had no trouble seeing in the dark, but she admitted it was reminiscent of a crypt. Now that the lights worked, it only emphasized just how empty and unfinished the room was. The lights weren’t even that functional still—they were simple hanging bulbs, and the one nearest the staircase flickered in its death throes.

The washing machine and dryer were left by whoever owned the house before them. The dryer worked well enough, though it took quite a while to get the job done compared to a newer model; the washing machine rocked back and forth violently while in use, and O’Chunks had propped the front half on two blocks of wood to keep it from traveling. Even though it hadn’t been on since he’d got there, Luigi had apparently zeroed in on the washer needing immediate attention. The blocks were turned on their sides to prop it up higher, and Luigi lay on the floor half-underneath it with his screwdriver busy.

“Um. Having fun?”

He finished securing the bottom panel in place and dragged his way out from under it. “Fixed your water pump, your welcome,” he greeted her, lowering the machine back to the floor.

“…Was there something wrong with it?” she asked. “Was that causing the shaking?”

“Shaking?” he asked. “Oh. That explains why the pump was off kilter.” He opened the top of the machine and peered inside the tub at the spinner. “Yeah, no, any shaking is probably your suspension rods—ah, yep, broken. This thing is ancient, but it’s in better shape than I expected…” He plucked two long sticks with springs out and threw them aside, then finally looked at her. “…But I don’t think you’re here to listen to me complaining about your appliances?”

“Yeah, not really. Dimentio looks like you left him out in the cold.”

Luigi snorted. “Me? I woke up with him in my arms and he immediately fled. Who put him there, by the way? Was it Mimi?”

Nastasia couldn’t help laughing at the absurdity of ‘who put him there’—so Luigi was aware of being a so-called venus fly trap while sleeping. “It was O’Chunks,” she said. “Though, Mimi invited herself in for a bit.”

“Figures,” he said. “Anyway, he put himself out in the cold. All I did was say ‘good morning’ to him and he threw himself off the bed like it was life or death.”

“…Well.” She fidgeted, not sure how to bring it up. “I would think that, um, wouldn’t be odd? That he’s afraid you might… Considering what he did—” —because Luigi out of all of them should hate Dimentio the most, and yet he was the one least bothered by his presence. She wanted to know if there was a reason, or something that she was missing, because Luigi shouldn’t know Dimentio as well as the rest of their team. The circumstances were much different.

Luigi stared at the flickering bulb for a moment, frowning. “It’s…complicated? I mean, it’s not really complicated, but it’s hard to explain.” He retrieved the two rods and began packing his tools away. “Uh…it’s hard staying mad at someone when you’ve literally walked in their shoes, I guess?”

“What does that mean?”

He looked bewildered for a moment. “Oh,” he realized. “You were unconscious, huh? I was fused with him for a while. It was…unpleasant. But.” He scratched the back of his head. “How do I put this…? When you’re fused to someone you feel—really full. Uncomfortably full. But then after you un-fuse, you just feel empty. Like there’s too much room in you.”

“…Like you’ve stretched out a shirt?” she guessed. She’d been told of the fusion, and other than the initial feeling of disgust hearing about it, she hadn’t given it much thought.

“Kinda. But there’s also the fact that I know a lot about Dimentio now that he doesn’t want to even acknowledge by himself. Including the incriminating fact that his ‘perfect world’ wouldn’t be possible if you guys’d died in the process. …Don’t tell him I told you that,” Luigi added with another grimace.

“So that’s why he keeps running, even though he wants to be close.”

“Uh-huh. He gets spooked every time I look at him, like I’m gonna unmask him in public. Which I have zero interest in doing, but—you know how he is. He’ll get over it eventually.”

On their way back up the stairs, they heard Mimi return with O’Chunks, who was carefully cradling a large, heavy-looking box with a medium-size box balanced on top. To Nastasia’s surprise, Mimi only had a small plastic bag with her—one that didn’t look like it was from a clothing store.

“I was wondering where my wallet went,” Luigi commented, looking unbothered. “That’s gonna fit, right? You took the measurements with you?”

“Yea, yea, ye great gomeril,” O’Chunks grunted, setting the boxes on the floor and tossing the wallet back to its owner.

Mimi attempted to intercept the toss, but Dimentio, who was still on the sofa, teleported it from her open palm into Luigi’s hands.

“Ugh, you jerk!” Mimi stamped her foot. “Maybe I shouldn’t mend your stupid poncho.”

He looked startled. “What?”

She took a roll of periwinkle thread from the bag she was holding and brandished it in his face. “Your dumb disintegrating poncho-thing!” she snapped. “I’m sicka lookin’ at all the tears in it. Ya look like a dumpster fairy and I’m embarrassed to be seen in public with ya!”

O’Chunks took the smaller box and handed it off to Mimi, and Nastasia could see from the labeling on it that it was a sewing machine. Mimi took the box and her bag and stormed off into one of the back rooms, which she’d been using to store her clothes.

Dimentio extracted himself from the sofa and drifted after her, chagrined. “I did not ask you to—”

“Shaddap!” she yelled, muffled through the closed door. Not that the door had any chance of keeping Dimentio out; Nastasia hadn’t seen him bother to either knock or turn a doorknob once since she’d known him.

The bickering would die down eventually, as it always did. The staple trait of their relationship was that they were terrible when they were surrounded by other people. In the public eye, they constantly wrestled for control over the room’s attention, acting like they hated each other—but the minute they were alone they were calm, quiet, and affectionate. Well, that’s what they claimed. By design, Nastasia hardly ever witnessed the times Mimi insisted Dimentio could actually live up to the ‘charming’ descriptor.

“You didn’t settle, did you?” Luigi said skeptically, regarding the box as O’Chunks lifted it back into his arms. He thumbed through the contents of his wallet briefly and then hummed.

“Don’ challenge me,” O’Chunks warned. “Ye tol’ me not tae skimp, an’ begora, I didn’ skimp.”

“Right, right, right, you passed the test, now lemme see this thing—”

Nastasia sat on the sofa while they went into the kitchen to open it. She assumed that the large box must contain a new gas range, as O’Chunks mentioned he and Luigi had discussed their options throughout the night, which explained why O’Chunks still looked so tired in the morning.

She could’ve read her book, which was back on the coffee table, but reading through the bickering and horseplay going on in the kitchen was much too distracting.

“Will ye quit messin’ with it fresh out o’ the box? They wouldn’ sell it tae me broken.”

“They would if you were a chump. I’m just checking the—”

“Quit fussin’ or I’ll drop it on your foot!”

“—Yep, right here…see that connector? Line it up with the one on the wall and then—”

A meaningful pause.

“…What?”

“…Ye wan’ me tae put it in now? Are ye ready?”

“Huh? I wouldn’t have told you if I wasn’t rea—OH—damn it I hate you so much—”

O’Chunks sniggered in amusement. Through the open doorway, Nastasia saw Luigi pace a lap around the kitchen with his face in his hands.

“I’m swearing off alcohol!” Luigi proclaimed. “I’m done! Never again!”

“Once was enough. The past is ne’er far, lad.”

“Shut. Up. You know Nastasia is in the other room, right? I’m gonna tell her you’re bullying me.”

“Fat load o’ good that’ll do ye.”

Between bouts of arguing and what sounds like a heavily skewed wrestling match, the range got installed. It looked incredibly out of place considering how new it was compared to all the other appliances. O’Chunks spent an hour or so playing with it and talking about what he could make; then he realized they didn’t have any ingredients and ran out to stock the pantry.

Luigi returned to snooping around the house, finding things that needed attention.

“What’re you doing with this room?” he asked, pointing to the empty first floor room where O’Chunks had stayed the first few nights on a cot.

“Uh,” said Nastasia. “Guest bedroom?” She hadn’t really given any of the rooms aside from their roost on the upper floor any attention. Even saying ‘guest bedroom’ sounded odd, because what sort of visitors would they attract? The house was livable, and they were together, and she hadn’t considered seeking anything greater than that.

Luigi looked like he wanted to shake her. Then he pulled out a cell phone and made a call, still walking around the house while talking. “Yo,” she heard him say, “can you install carpet over cement? If you’re still bored, I have a project for you… What, did you miss me? No, I’ll be home later today, my bad, I shoulda sent a message.”

At some point while Nastasia had her nose buried in her book, Luigi slipped out of the house without her noticing. She didn’t see it as a big deal, as he’d left the majority of his tools behind, indicating he would most likely be back—but O’Chunks was annoyed and Dimentio was especially gloomy for the rest of the day, though having a fresh, homemade meal for the first time in weeks helped ease the soreness a bit.

Over the next few days, they struggled to recapture a rhythm. O’Chunks was out of the house a lot, mostly due to restlessness, but he was always home for meals. Dimentio also spent lengths of time who-knew-where, though they sincerely doubted he was around Flopside—as easygoing as the people there were, they had decided it unwise for Dimentio to wander the town and expose himself to comment. That left Mimi, usually bemoaningly bored, and Nastasia, who was in a state of perpetual discomfit without knowing why, home most of the time alone.

Mimi insisted on shoving Nastasia out of the house most of these days, and they would go shopping for furniture or clothing. The distraction helped ease a bit of the tension, but never for very long, and Nastasia was starting to wonder if she might see a doctor.

On one stressful weekend, with their collected funds rapidly diminishing, Mimi dragged Nastasia to a bar on the bottom floor of Flopside ‘to unwind.’

“C’mooooon Nassy.”

“I don’t drink.”

Mimi frowned. “Yes, you do! It’s a coffee bar.”

“Oh,” said Nastasia, letting Mimi lead her inside by the hand.

It was a small establishment, but cozy and quiet. There were only a handful of customers, though it may have been because it was so close to dinnertime; according to the clerk at the store who had told Mimi about the bar, there were no meals served there.

The bartender, a gentle-looking middle-aged man with an impressive moustache, turned to watch them enter, pausing his work with a siphon. It may have been her imagination, but Nastasia swore she saw an expression of recognition flit briefly across his face.

Mimi hopped onto an empty barstool, pulling Nastasia along into the seat beside her. “Hiya!” she said. A couple seated near the front window glanced over confusedly at the loud introduction.

“Welcome, welcome,” the bartender greeted back, luckily unbothered by her cheery disposition. He cleared some empty glasses from one end of the bar and deposited them in the sink on his way over. “I don’t think I’ve seen you two here before?” he murmured. “My name is Carson. What can I get for you?”

Nastasia gently tapped Mimi behind the shoulder, unsettled. It wasn’t odd for him to point out them never being there, since the clientele in such a place was most likely very regular—but the glimmer in his eye as he said it held that same odd recognition that put her on edge.

“I hate coffee,” Mimi said with feeling, either not noticing Nastasia’s touch or pointedly ignoring it. “Can I get a milkshake?”

“Mimi—” started Nastasia, jolted out of her apprehension by the need to correct her rudeness.

“Sure thing,” Carson chuckled.

“Is that, um…really okay?” Nastasia asked suspiciously. It was a coffee bar after all. The milk bar was said to be over in Flipside.

“It’s simple enough to make a frappé without adding coffee to it,” he assured. “And for you?”

Nastasia hesitated. “Um. Just a regular coffee. Black.”

“Like, full throttle, maximum bitter?” Mimi pulled a face. “I have no idea how ya drink that stuff.”

As Nastasia attempted to defend what she saw as a perfectly sound and practical choice (she didn’t drink coffee to enjoy it, she drank it for its effects), Carson set to work. Soon there were two drinks on the counter: one hot and one cold, one in a cup and one in a glass, one plain and one with a ludicrous tower of whipped cream. Mimi didn’t even have to ask for the extra confectionary.

“Business was quite slow,” Carson commented wryly, “when the world was ending. No one really wanted coffee when they were already on edge.”

Nastasia felt her face warm with shame. He definitely knew who they were. It didn’t seem like he was asking for an apology, just that he was either trying to confirm a suspicion or gather more information. Bartenders were formidable authorities on the art of conversation and character judgement, after all.

“That—I suppose that’s true…” she replied unsurely.

“Nassy…Nassy!!” Mimi exclaimed, and jabbed Nastasia in the side hard enough to make her jump and almost spill her coffee. “Look look look!”

Mimi was pointing toward a corner of the building, where she had spied a piano tucked away under a sheet.

“That old thing?” mused Carson. “It’s a shame—when this bar first opened, someone had offered to play here, but he backed out when a better opportunity arose. I don’t really have anywhere to store it, and it was hard enough getting it on the elevator to begin with…”

“Hey, can we play it?” asked Mimi eagerly, licking a whipped cream moustache from her lip.

“Mimi—” started Nastasia, exasperated.

The bartender paused, setting the glass he was drying under the counter. “You can play?” he asked with interest.

“She can!” Mimi announced, waving at Nastasia. “And she’s good, too! Nassy, you should work here. You know, play for tips or whatever!”

“Ah, um, I don’t—I don’t know—”

“A pianist would be a huge draw for my dwindling crowd,” said Carson. “I would pay you for your time.”

Nastasia hesitated, mulling it over. If she could earn money, would that take some of the burden off O’Chunks’ shoulders? Or make it so they didn’t have to wait for Luigi to wander back into town to inexplicably buy them things? As it was, they had enough money for food but not much else, and Mimi hadn’t been regularly working for Merlee since the shaman had returned from her travels.

Mimi was already across the room, pulling the sheet off the instrument.

“Oh,” she said, “it looks different.”

It was wider than the upright piano at home, and a bit stockier. The keys were longer, and it had a less polished, natural-looking air to it. Nastasia easily found herself drawn to it.

“A spinet,” said Carson fondly. “My grandmother’s favorite.”

Nastasia ran her hand over the smooth wood finish. The length of the board was daunting, but pressing one of the keys, heavier than what she was used to, yielded a fuller and much richer note than the tinny-sounding upright.

The bench was missing; Mimi stole a chair from one of the tables and Nastasia sat down. She played a loose melody by ear, and the only other two patrons in the bar turned toward it in interest. It still needed tuned; despite that, she was transfixed. The piano she had been playing was a cramped, mass-produced model. This was a unique instrument with poise and history.

She inhaled deeply. She said: “I might… I might think on it.”

Chapter Text

The piano siren…the maiden of the keys… There were a number of variations of the same rumor, of a mysterious young woman who played beautifully haunting melodies at the underground bar. She wasn’t there every night, but as Carson had predicted Nastasia drew a growing number of people even on the days she didn’t play. As it became an incentive for interdimensional travelers to visit and spend money over time, she found herself enjoying the atmosphere. When the crowd was conversing loudly, it felt more like playing at home.

Eventually, the rumor made its way up each level of town, until it had reached the construction company. After having it confirmed by Welderberg, who now haunted the bar after every workday, O’Chunks began occupying at the table nearest the piano for the next two weeks. He wasn’t very casual about it—openly scrutinizing every man who dared approach the tip jar, making sure no one made her uncomfortable—but Nastasia found it endearing. She did feel safer with him there, though she chastised him every time she caught him at it. O’Chunks wasn’t one for keeping long nights, and the bar only closed whenever the last patron of the night or early morning left. It was visibly affecting his sleep schedule, judging by the number of times he skipped breakfast to get to work on time.

“Should anyone bother her,” Dimentio reasoned on a morning when O’Chunks was so exhausted he left the stove on until all the water in the kettle had evaporated, “she need only commit the necessary evil of persuading them away.”

While it was true, she would feel immediately guilty for using her powers on any of the townsfolk. And probably she would also lose her job.

O’Chunks had the nerve to call her out on it, even while knocking a carafe over and spilling Mimi’s stock of pink lemonade all over the counter. “She wouldn’ do that.”

Looking sufficiently harassed, Dimentio snapped O’Chunks out of the kitchen and onto the sofa in the next room. Nastasia hastily threw paper towels over the mess and began scrubbing; Mimi was still upstairs getting ready for the day, but soon she would flip her lid (and perhaps grow some more legs) at the loss of what had become her favorite drink.

“Call him off,” Dimentio told Nastasia curtly. “Considering the state this house is in he will do less construction than destruction.”

“Ah’m fine!” shouted O’Chunks from the living room.

Nastasia finished mopping up the counter and shoved the half-empty carafe of lemonade back into the refrigerator. “Yeah, no, you’re about to pass out. Call off.”

“You know he won’t do it, even if he was actively bleeding out,” Dimentio groused, refilling the kettle with fresh water.

“We’re almos’ done with the project, I cannae—”

“Put him down, Nastasia.” Dimentio poked his head out of the kitchen long enough to remotely guide a blanket from the back of the sofa to drop onto O’Chunks’ head, leaving the rest of his argument muffled. He shrugged it off his face, but he either didn’t care or didn’t notice that it remained draped over his shoulders.

“You need to sleep,” Nastasia said, tapping the rim of her glasses threateningly. O’Chunks pulled the blanket back over his crown, like a hood.

“I cannae leave the guys,” O’Chunks said stubbornly, making sure to not meet her eyes as he passed by to throw open the front door. “They need m—eh? Maria?!”

In the doorway stood Mario, greeting O’Chunks with a look of incredulity. His fist was raised, evidently in the process of knocking before the door swung away from him. Whether Mario was more offended by being miscalled or concerned about O’Chunks’ disheveled, blanket-shrouded appearance was up in the air.

Then, Luigi shoved his brother aside to fit himself in the doorway. He took a single glance at O’Chunks and said, “The heck’s wrong with you? You look like you haven’t slept in five days.”

O’Chunks, caught off-guard by both Luigi’s sudden appearance and cursory assessment of his wellbeing, took a step back. The blanket slipped onto the floor and he nearly tripped over it.

“He hasn’t,” Nastasia confirmed, relieved—maybe O’Chunks would actually listen to Luigi? It was doubtful, but she hoped so. She really didn’t want to put anyone to sleep by force.

“Go to bed,” Luigi told him without any further prompting, before being elbowed in the ribs by Mario; they wrestled for a moment for control of the threshold.

Mario won, stole into the house and made a beeline for the basement door with a notebook and a tape measure. He disappeared without any comment, and Luigi sent a sullen look his way but otherwise acted like this was not outside of expectations.

“Actually, don’t go to bed,” he amended. “Go to sofa. Got work to do up there.”

“Ye can’t just barge intae someone’s house an’ do as ye please!” blustered O’Chunks.

“Watch me.” Luigi stuck his tongue out and immediately went to pull the sofa bed loose. “But first, watch the backs of your eyelids.”

“I don’—!”

With the bed down, Luigi hiked his leg up, placed his boot in between O’Chunks’ shoulder blades and shoved him onto it. The warrior went down face-first with a muffled “whuff,” the flimsy mattress groaning under the abrupt weight.

“Look,” said Luigi, “if I can knock you over with one foot, you have a problem.”

O’Chunks sighed aggressively into the sheets. Nastasia was probably the only one to catch his muttered comment that he’d take exception even if Luigi had managed to knock him over with both feet (or any other multiple of limbs, for that matter).

Luigi unceremoniously threw the blanket over O’Chunks’ back at the same time Mario surfaced from the basement. They locked eyes for a moment, and a silent conversation seemed to take place.

“Right?” said Luigi. “I told you.” Mario rolled his eyes and brushed past him to the front door, and Luigi started to follow him before half-turning toward the kitchen and yelling, “Hey, Snappy! Up for some heavy lifting?”

Dimentio, standing in the doorway connecting the living room and kitchen, glowered over the brim of his teacup. “Surely,” he said, slowly and deliberately, “you are not referring to me.”

“Sure am!” Luigi replied breezily, ducking out of the house but pointedly leaving the door open.

Dimentio took a deep, calming breath, tipped the remainder of his tea into his mouth like he was throwing back a shot and followed Luigi out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

-※-

Nastasia decided to set up camp on the fold out bed—not because she was looking for a nap, but because she suspected O’Chunks might try to sneak out of the house instead of resting. But she had barely finished a single crossword puzzle by the time O’Chunks passed out. There was all manner of commotion going on in the house, so it really served as a testament to just how exhausted he was that he was sleeping through it all. Normally, he woke at the slightest disturbance, and it was likely due to his wartime history and camping outdoors.

She had no idea what exactly the Mario Bros were doing to the house, but it wasn’t quiet. Mimi finally came downstairs to figure out what was going on, and Nastasia promptly sent her to Welderberg to inform him of O’Chunks’ absence. Then, she discreetly started a fresh batch of pink lemonade before returning to her vigil.

Meanwhile, Dimentio’s ‘heavy lifting’ supposedly comprised of teleporting materials from the other side of the Mushroom Kingdom into the house. It was a wonder he hadn’t snapped from being ordered around yet. Then again, it was Luigi doing the ordering—and it seemed like he could get away with nearly anything as far as Dimentio was concerned, at least while his visits were scarce and, therefore, borderline sanctified.

But the magician had limits. Something heavy hit the floor of the upstairs bedroom and sent Nastasia off the sofa-bed in alarm with the sudden, resounding thud. Not three minutes later, Luigi came down the stairwell with Dimentio half-conscious in his arms and carefully deposited him on the unoccupied space of the bed at Nastasia’s feet. Then he went back up, taking two steps at a time.

“What the heck are they doing?” Mimi demanded when she returned, staring up at the ceiling.

“Did you deliver the message?” Nastasia asked, both since it was a higher priority and because Mimi had been gone for longer than expected.

Mimi rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but they wouldn’t leave me alone! They kept asking me how Chunky is and whether they should send soup. All I said was ‘he’s not feeling well’! I mean, would they have just taken ‘he’s too tired for this shit’ as an excuse?”

It was nice to know that whoever O’Chunks was doing construction work with seemed to genuinely care about his wellbeing.

Mimi broke focus with the hammering taking place all over the house and blinked down at the sofa-bed. “Uh, why’s Dimmy out, too?”

“Spent his magic, I think,” said Nastasia, wondering if she was also destined to have her sleep schedule thrown off by some odd circumstance—not that she really had a proper one to begin with.

“Huh. Okay.” Mimi wandered over to the basement door and nudged it open, sneaking down a couple of steps to sate her curiosity. Nastasia was about to tell her to not be an unnecessary distraction when she heard Mimi gasp and scramble back into the room. “Oh! My gosh! There’s carpet! There’s carpet!!!!”

Nastasia folded her crossword and looked at Mimi incredulously. “It—That fast?”

Mimi bounced on her heels and then dashed upstairs. Some muffled banter was heard through the ceiling, but Mimi didn’t sound any less excited up there.

“She wanted a sectional, correct?” Dimentio propped himself up on his elbows and winced. Incoming migraine, Nastasia guessed, as it usually followed too many magic tricks in a short period.

“A sectional,” Nastasia repeated blankly. “They’re not, um… Are they seriously furnishing the—”

Dimentio groaned emphatically, rolling onto his back and pinching the bridge of his nose. “You would not believe.”

All this time, Nastasia assumed it was more maintenance work, something that was being fixed. Carpet, sure. Sealing or insulating the walls, sure. But what the hell was Luigi thinking, showing up and renovating? Then again…

“Also, you gonna do anything with that basement? It’d make a great rec room when finished.”

…She supposed it wasn’t entirely out of the blue. There was a crumb of warning. And it wasn’t out of character for Mr L to take apart and rebuild things to “make them better” on a whim, but houses? It made sense now why Dimentio was so exhausted, if all the things he had to teleport had as much density as a sectional sofa.

There was bickering on the stairwell. Mimi was putting in requests.

“—I don’t see why ya can’t! It’s just—”

“The ceilings are slanted, there’s no way to install a walk-in closet up there!”

“It’s not a bedroom without a walk-in closet!”

“Keep using the guest room!”

“Why should I hafta wake up and then walk all the way downstairs to get dressed?

“Because you’re a spoiled brat with too many dresses?”

Mimi put a hand to her chest and inhaled sharply, affronted.

Nastasia slipped over the armrest and leaned against the sofa back as they came out of the well.

“Luigi,” she said, crossing her arms. “A word.”

Luigi froze mid-step and looked at her warily. “Uh, which one?”

“Why.”

He grimaced. “Nah, sorry, don’t like that one—” And then he practically leapt down the basement stairs to get away from her.

“Get back here!” she hissed at the same time Mimi crowed, “Ooooh, Elly’s in trouuuuble!”

Nastasia stalked him downstairs and immediately became distracted by the massive change in atmosphere.

There was, indeed, carpeting. It was olefin, close-knit and hard instead of plush—but it was much better than the cold, damp-feeling concrete base beneath it. They wouldn’t have to wear shoes when coming down anymore. The sectional took up most of the room and was bent around a large table, and across from it was an oakwood entertainment center housing a modestly overlarge flatscreen TV. There was a thin partition separating the rest of the room from the washer and dryer. The hanging bulbs had been exchanged for simple globed ceiling lights. Against the wall behind the sofa, Mario was nailing the last slat of some shelving together.

It was such a simple thing. Muted natural colors, soft light. But it looked so inviting. Nastasia could already picture them all sitting on the sofa with a contentious, relationship-wrecking boardgame on the table, things being thrown and voices being raised. More games being stored on the shelves, movies being played in the center.

“I thought about nailing the table down,” Luigi said, startling Nastasia out of her reverie. He was testing the cabinet doors of the entertainment center, making sure everything fit properly, and then he promptly stole the hammer from Mario’s hands and skipped back upstairs. “But I don’t think O’Chunks would use it if he couldn’t flip it after losing.”

That vision looked right at home in Nastasia’s head, too. She glanced at Mario, who was glaring up at the ceiling in exasperation while beginning to pack up his tools, and then remembered why she had come down here.

She stormed back upstairs, “Hey—”

Dimentio and O’Chunks were both asleep on the sofa bed, but Mimi must have already been upstairs. Once on the top floor, Nastasia froze again, tongue feeling heavy in her mouth.

There were some small furnishings, sure, but she didn’t really notice—because Luigi was tucking fresh sheets under the mattress, and the mattress was actually two mattresses for the width of the frame surrounding them was enormous. It was a simple wooden build, close to the floor—also carpeted—and sturdy-looking. There was a headboard but no footboard. A nightstand with a lamp on either side. Proper curtains on the window behind everything.

“Well,” Luigi said, straightening, turning one lamp on and off again idly. “You might need two blankets, but.”

Mimi hovered in front of him restlessly, moving one way as if wanting to touch the bed, then backing off and casting somewhat frantic looks toward the stairs, and suddenly Nastasia realized why:

Luigi would fit now.

Nastasia opened her mouth, unsure of how to approach the situation, but the anxious aura of the room was somewhat strangling, and Luigi interrupted her anyway.

“Before you yell at me,” he said, misreading the situation by a great deal, so much so that in any other situation it might have been funny, “it’s a sort of….you know. Thank you.”

“What?” was all Nastasia could manage.

“The whole…” Luigi made a vague, circling gesture with both hands. “Thing. I felt accepted. I’d never really…uh. H-had a team? Maybe?”

“Elly,” Mimi said urgently, gaze flicking back and forth unsurely.

He either didn’t notice or was intentionally ignoring the state of the room, of Mimi’s uncharacteristic uneasiness, of Nastasia biting a hole in her bottom lip. “You know I’m usually either not noticed or people think I’m really strange, but—” Luigi wrung his hands together fitfully, beginning to pace. “Even though I wasn’t there at the beginning, even though I was kind of intruding—”

Nastasia wanted to shake him. Maybe even hit him.

“—I felt like I was part of something. Even if it was just a necessity for a stupid prophecy.”

Across the room, Mimi was visibly panicking—Do something! Fix this!—but she was helpless in the same way Nastasia was.

“A-anyway,” Luigi rambled on, drifting toward the staircase. “Sorry for being rude all the time and barging in here with my brother to remodel your house. Heh, I guess that was also imposing. Again. But, you know, I would’ve felt bad not doing anything.”

Wake O’Chunks. They needed to wake up O’Chunks, it had to come from him. But Luigi was between them and the staircase, shoving hardware back into his toolkit, avoiding eye contact.

“But it’s late a-and—I should get back home, so—”

“Luigi—” Nastasia started, voice clipped.

“I’ll come visit!” he said brightly, tucking the kit under an arm. “I mean, if—if that’s okay? Something’s bound to break with, heh, with Chunks pawing around. He seems a little more careful now, though.” Spoken affectionately toward the end, with a hint of wistful. “Right then, I’ll get out of your hair now. Enjoy your sectional—” Mimi flinched. Luigi raised his free hand, spreading his thumb and forefinger in a painfully familiar gesture, the metaphorical final nail in the coffin: “L-ater.”

Then he disappeared down the stairs. There was a soft call to summon Mario back to ground level. A bit of shuffling. The front door opening and closing.

Mimi sat down on the edge of the massive bed and made a long, frustrated noise, pulling at her pigtails.

“What just—happened?” Nastasia asked, expression pinched.

Mimi threw herself backward so that she was now lying on her back, glaring heatedly at the ceiling. “We just got friendzoned.”

-※-

The next few days were rough, followed by even rougher weeks.

O’Chunks spent the first thirty-six hours, after waking up and being informed of what had happened, inconsolably indignant. Every word out of his mouth had a bitter edge to it, and if anyone made the mistake of mentioning Luigi by name he would go off on a tirade, going as far as to snap at Mimi enough to genuinely frighten her. He then spent the majority of his days outside of the house, both ashamed of his actions and still boiling dangerously just under his skin. He was out early and returned late, and occasionally he didn’t return at all until morning.

Dimentio, conversely, had reacted with a grim sort of acceptance, like he wasn’t surprised at all. On the surface he seemed unaffected, but where he used to purr out his words his voice had fallen flat. It wasn’t that he talked less, just that he lacked the usual animation that accompanied his words. Nastasia found this even more melancholy than when he had originally arrived at the house and spent months not speaking at all.

The bed was wonderfully comfy—Luigi had been right about the box spring—but it felt too big. It was difficult for all four of them to share for the acute feeling that something just wasn’t right, and so one of them would stay downstairs instead. Somehow, it was more acceptable to think that whoever slept on the sofa in the front room was what was missing, rather than having to feel the same way when all of them were there.

Nastasia used her tips to buy small, distracting things. She started to fill the shelves with books, cards, movies and boardgames. She became temporarily fascinated with tarot cards in particular and would do a reading for the household in the morning. Most of the readings were acutely gloomy; it seemed like she drew The Tower nearly every time. After a while, she became frustrated and placed the deck on the shelf where she couldn’t easily see it. Nothing good had ever come of prophecies, anyway.

For a while, Mimi called Luigi every single day. It always went straight to voicemail, but she left messages. In them she would claim something in the house had broken, in an attempt to lure him back. It was a different appliance each day, and the causes grew increasingly dubious as this went on. They’d left a lamp on for too long and the shade caught fire, or they were watching a fireworks display in high-definition and the television exploded, or the vacuum got snagged in some wiring and blew all the electricity in the house out. This became a ritual until about three weeks in, on a day when Mimi let the voicemail run silently for nearly a minute before saying a solemn, “we miss you, jerkwad,” and hanging up. After that, at Dimentio’s insistence, she gave up.

It took about a month for the atmosphere in the house to finally unspool into something less suffocating, and the distractions Nastasia had brought home seemed to be earning their worth, even if O’Chunks would pettily insist on bringing the games up to the front room instead of using the basement.

Tuesdays at the bar were particularly slow, and so Nastasia came home early. O’Chunks was sitting on the sofa with Mimi draped over one of his legs, both of them unconscious. Judging by the cards and dice scattered over the coffee table and floor, sleep occurred in the midst of a game of…well, none of the pieces matched, so Nastasia couldn’t begin to guess what they may have been playing. She quietly left her shoes by the door and went upstairs.

As expected, Dimentio had put himself to bed properly and was alone with a book in front of his face, though she could tell he wasn’t actually reading. She wondered if he had heard the sound of the front door opening and closing and had just grabbed the book out of habit so he could appear detached. Nastasia mulled over her options. She still didn’t really know how best to deal with Dimentio, and he previously had a habit of avoiding being alone with her, leery of her abilities. But that was months ago, and the circumstances had changed; if you-know-who was mentioned, he would coax her into the conversation somehow, subtly, maybe even subconsciously.

She stepped into the bathroom to ready for bed. When she came back out, he was still on his side with the book, but the effort looked decidedly more half-assed. She paused at the foot of the bed.

“Do you want me to brainwash him to stay?”

Dimentio blinked slowly, rolled onto his back and folded the book neatly on his chest, staring with pitched annoyance at the ceiling. “Would that not make this infinitely worse?”

“You’ve been floating comments about my powers for a while now. I can take a hint.”

“Perhaps I merely wish for someone to commit further atrocity than I have.”

Nastasia felt her chest tighten. She climbed into bed and lay down under the covers next to him, also on her back, a careful five inches apart. If he was bothered by the proximity, he didn’t show it.

“Though, you cannot brainwash someone from this far away now, can you?” he said bitterly.

“No,” she admitted, “but he promised to visit.”

“And you would do it if I asked?” he scoffed.

“Sure.”

The mattress shifted as he physically recoiled—still lying down, but she could feel the slight jerk of his shoulders. This was not the answer he had been expecting. The moral dilemma hung heavily in the air for several seconds.

“I thought Blumiere was a fool, for falling in love,” he said finally, voice tight.

Nastasia turned her head to look at him, surprised; Dimentio never talked about Blumiere, and any mention of him from anyone else caused obvious discomfort. She knew that the two of them knew each other from before the rise of Count Bleck, but that was the extent of her knowledge.

“I assumed it was the source of his madness. The very root of the problem.” Dimentio’s fingers fidgeted over the cover of his book. “In reality, it was loss. I know that now.”

“Is that why you tracked him down, after everything?” she asked.

“I thought I had killed him. Even though he was already dead from the very second he reached for that damnable book. I should have felt relieved instead of devastated, and yet—” Dimentio sighed, frustrated. “—and yet he had the nerve to greet me again with a smile. To pat me on the shoulder with pity and send me off with a message. Somehow that hurt even more than believing him dead.”

He paused to grimace at the ceiling. “That was an unnecessary tangent—no, I do not want you to brainwash Luigi.”

Ah, Nastasia thought wryly, character development. “I don’t think he needs it,” she said contemplatively. “I think he just got spooked. He didn’t reject you.”

“I would much rather him have rejected me than rejected us,” Dimentio snapped, suddenly irritated. “But it seems that is what happened.”

She chewed on that for a moment, unsure of what to say, shocked and even a little touched.

For lack of a better response, she addressed the smaller elephant in the room: “You’re oddly straightforward today.”

At this, he made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. “You missed dinner. I was served a rather palatable bowl of humble soup.”

Oh, there was definitely a story there. But she accepted him rolling over and setting the book on the nightstand as the signal to end the conversation, so regrettably she had to wait until morning to hear about it.

According to Mimi, there had been an intense debate during a game of Yahtzee, which devolved then into an overheated game of beggar-my-neighbor, which resulted in one leg of the coffee table destroyed (since the lights were off last night, Nastasia hadn’t even noticed that the table was askew, having been propped up by books and the cardboard tube from an empty roll of paper towels). The argument was solely between O’Chunks and Dimentio (though with Mimi as the informant, it was doubtful she wasn’t involved in some way) about their differences handling the same situation; Dimentio had lost the card game and no one had won the dispute (the collateral damage of the table effectively ended the shouting match), hence the humble soup remark.

Despite said mysterious argument, O’Chunks had calmed down considerably by the time he came home from work the next day, even going as far as to look refreshed. Whatever had caused his moodiness had been successfully aired out, it seemed.

And that turned out to be very fortunate. They were all in the basement playing Uno when there was a knock at the front door, and, since everyone assumed it would be Luigi, no one objected when O’Chunks meaningfully popped his knuckles and went up to answer it. Had his stormy mood continued, whoever it was might have received a due amount of fury—but when the door opened everything was instead quiet.

Nastasia craned her neck toward the stairway to try and pick up the voices in the entryway, and in doing so realized that Dimentio was no longer on the sectional with her and Mimi, and had probably not been since the knock.

“I don’t hear anyone getting beat up,” Mimi said, sounding faintly disappointed. “Maybe it’s another salesman. Though he’d prolly beat them up, too.”

Nastasia furrowed her brow. There was certainly no violence—what she could make out of O’Chunks’ voice sounded…apologetic? Compliant? Which was bizarre. He didn’t have a habit of being rude to strangers, but there were very few people who could make him immediately docile.

They were just floating the idea of going upstairs to check when Dimentio suddenly appeared behind the sofa, grabbed each of them by a shoulder, and promptly deposited them on the floor of the living room.

Mimi recovered first, intending to complain about the rough treatment but instead gasping sharply with her hands over her mouth—her smile grew steadily wider behind them. Nastasia picked herself up to sit back on her knees and found herself staring at Blumiere, standing just inside the doorway.

It took a moment for that to sink in—Blumiere, looking healthy and content, in their work-in-progress home. They had just talked about him last night, for the first time in a long time, so Nastasia wasn’t entirely sure whether he was a mirage spawned from exhaustion or if she was still asleep and dreaming.

“I likely haven’t earned the right to ask for a hug,” he began, shifting uncomfortably in the silence that followed. “But mayb—oof—” He staggered into the wall when Mimi launched herself full-throttle into his chest. (O’Chunks had moved, just slightly, to intercept her until he thought better of it.)

“Countyyyyyyyyy!” Mimi stepped away from him and stamped her bare feet on the ground. “You hafta call first! Ugh, I am SO not dressed for this. Just—hold on a sec!” Then, she ran into the room that still held all of her clothes and slammed the door shut.

Blumiere chuckled fondly, and Nastasia felt her throat constrict. He turned to look at her and held his arms out in invitation almost shyly.

“Nastasia?”

Something about the way he said her name—maybe the tone or the inflection or even just the context—reopened a fissure within her chest. It sounded different. His voice was different, no longer weighed down by a storm of brooding emotion, but it was still him, and oh, she never thought she would see him again—

“Ye might have tae go to 'er,” O’Chunks said to Blumiere, carefully and tensely keeping himself out of the way, fighting the urge to go himself.

Nastasia was still on the floor trying to sort through the complex knot of emotions that was unraveling faster than she could parse, a dizzying amalgamation of fear, anger, longing and relief that made her somehow feel both heavy and light-headed.

Blumiere took O’Chunks’ advice and dropped down to sit on the floor in front of her, gingerly cupping her cheek as if she might spook and run away.

“Nastasia…I apologize. I—oh,” he said when she threw her arms around his shoulders and sobbed into his lapel.

Relief had won, because his hand was warm against her face, he was warm where she was pressed up against him, and that meant he was alive. Alive, alive, alive, alive. He put his arms around her and held her through it like it was the most natural thing in the world, and she thought she might never regain herself.

“I’m so sorry,” he tried again, keeping his voice low and private. “I treated you so terribly, Nastasia, and all you wanted was to help.”

She was too out of sorts to even start thinking of how to reply to that, and then Mimi burst back into the room, having changed out of her stay-at-home frock into a more mature, high-waisted dress complete with intricate embroidery and large hoop earrings.

“Alright, now we can—!” She stopped herself short of where Blumiere and Nastasia were on the floor. “Oh no, Nassy are you okay?”

“I really should have sent a warning first,” Blumiere admitted ruefully.

“You should’ve done a lot of things first,” someone says from the doorway, and it startled Nastasia out of her episode. A young woman sat on the piano bench. She hadn’t noticed her at all, as distracted as she was by Blumiere.

Lady Timpani, surely, but she didn’t look at all like Nastasia expected. It was likely because when Nastasia was trying to picture a woman worthy of Blumiere, she automatically thought of royalty. A queen, a princess, high nobility. The reality was that Timpani was simply a human woman. There was fraying at the edge of her tunic and patches sewn to cover holes in the knees of her jeans.

“But, Timpani—”

“He was so excited to come here,” she went on, addressing everyone aside from her husband. “We have some things to take care of before we can relax, so it would’ve made more sense to do that first—then we could visit for longer—but he insisted—”

“Ye can’t stay?” O’Chunks frowned. “Ye jus’ got here.”

“We’ll be back,” Blumiere said, starting to disentangle from Nastasia. Before standing, he took a moment to straighten her glasses and brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “Ah, is this a braid?” he asked thoughtfully. “It looks nice.”

Nastasia couldn’t get her mouth to work.

“I did that!” Mimi announced, raising her hand like she was answering an important question. “Nassy’s been letting me play with her hair. Dimmy won’t do it because he’s catty.”

“Catty enough tae skip out on us,” O’Chunks muttered. Nastasia hadn’t even noticed Dimentio was gone again. He must have left right after moving she and Mimi upstairs.

“He’s not here because of me,” Timpani said. “We sort of have…some issues. You know, tried to kill me and all.”

“I’m pretty sure that means he likes you,” Blumiere offered. “And normally he wouldn’t let that phase him.”

“Well, I did also threaten him with a garden spade,” she said mildly, kicking her feet.

“That…is a fair point. In fact, you threatened him with multiple gardening tools, as I recall. It would be nice if you two could eventually reconci—”

Timpani put a stern hand on his shoulder and started steering him toward the door. “Darling. If murder is how he expresses affection, then we speak vastly different love languages. It’s just not going to work.”

Blumiere sighed in defeat, letting himself be guided.

“Wait, when’re ya coming back?” Mimi shouted after them.

“A few weeks, maybe a month,” Timpani replied with a blithe wave. “We’re doing some travelling. There are a number of people we owe apologies to—” Blumiere chuckled nervously. “—and so we’ll be away for a good while.”

The door closed with a click. For at least a whole minute, nobody spoke.

“Well, that could have gone better,” Dimentio commented drily—though most of the comment was lost in O’Chunks jerking away and cursing at him for appearing beside him out of nowhere.

Chapter Text

“I just, uh…”

“Yeah?”

“…I don’t know.”

“I mean, are ya upset? Relieved?”

“A little of both.”

Mimi, her hands busy in Nastasia’s hair, huffed.

“I just feel weird, ‘k? It’ll go away.”

Truthfully, she wasn’t sure it would. Her stomach had been in knots ever since encountering Blumiere in the living room. Although the event was brief, the effects were still draining her days later.

“Prolly ‘cuz ya didn’t really get a chance to talk,” Mimi reasoned. “He just kinda came in and left again. It was sudden.”

Nastasia leaned forward to dip her hands in the warm water before taking an emery file to the last of her nails. “Is it weird that I kind of wanted to kick him out?”

“Really??”

“I don’t know why.”

“Is it ‘cuz he didn’t make an appointment?”

Nastasia sighed out a soft laugh, leaning back into Mimi’s shampoo-slathered fingers. Since she had been listless for days, Mimi had insisted this morning on a “spa day.” Nastasia at first was reluctant, knowing that personally self-care was an absolute nightmare for her—but Mimi was essentially doing everything, and sitting in a warm bath with Mimi massaging her scalp turned out to be absolutely divine.

When she first heard the term “spa day,” Nastasia had feared being made to play dress-up or getting makeup caked across her face. Instead, Mimi was meticulously taking care of her. Pampering, really.

“I can’t do mosta this stuff to myself,” Mimi had said, referring to the bath, nail trimming, and massages. “So I gotta live vicariously through you!”

The majority of Mimi’s body was synthetic. She couldn’t soak in water, she didn’t have nails to trim, and her body had no give to it. When she’d lay beside Nastasia in bed, Nastasia could feel more than hear the strange purr of mechanics under Mimi’s “skin.” It was oddly soothing, a welcoming white noise that helped her sleep. If Mimi were transformed into anybody else, Nastasia could only tell it was her by the faintly audible sounds of gears turning.

And anyway, despite her apparent self-serving attitude, Mimi was borderline obsessed with tidiness. In the early years of her existence, she was made to clean the property of the woman who created her—a punishment, Mimi said, for being a failed experiment. She was timid and easily spooked. It wasn’t until Count Bleck lured her away from her maker and began showering her with praise and gifts that she started to exhibit all of the snotty vainness that now pervaded her character. But, underneath, she never let go of the mistreatment, and she made the house spotless every chance she got, wringing her hands every time someone walked in as if they would check for dust and reprimand her.

Nastasia hated that Count Bleck used pretty words and material objects to manipulate Mimi into devout loyalty, but she never regretted removing Mimi from servitude. She would go back and burn the witch’s house down if she could, if it would somehow free Mimi from her compulsion to please.

In a way, this was healing for both of them. Nastasia loosened her control and let someone else take charge of her, and Mimi got to pamper someone who wouldn’t judge her performance.

Plus, Nastasia had no idea how to take care of herself. She didn’t start out with the body she had now and had only put minimal effort into maintaining it. Mimi was doing things to her that she had never even heard of. What was a cuticle?? Why did it need pushed? Why was Mimi scrubbing the bottoms of her feet with a weird rock?

“I won’t complain about not havin’ skin like this. Taking care of it is a bitch.” Mimi made a face, dipping the pumice stone back into the water to clear it off. “But you’re gonna be so soft when I’m done.”

Nastasia already felt almost unbearably soft. Between the warm water and her tingling scalp and relaxed muscles, she kept drifting off to sleep. Mimi let her fade in and out of consciousness and only spoke to her in between nods so as not to disturb her.

The next hour she was out of the bath but still half-asleep, her head on Mimi’s lap as the girl cleaned her ears. Nastasia had no idea why this was important to do and was hesitant as her ears were sensitive—but now she never wanted it to stop. Mimi was so careful and meticulously thorough that Nastasia drifted off again; she was undoubtedly catching up on plenty of lost sleep by now—and maybe adding some additional rest to her reserves.

“How ‘bout red this time?” Mimi asked, shuffling through her paints.

Nastasia agreed without fuss. Previously she had requested dark blue with stars—a sentimental pattern that betrayed her longing for her former boss. But now it felt weird. Count Bleck was no more, yet Blumiere had survived.

Mimi hummed as she worked, and Nastasia forced her thoughts to still and forced herself to relax.

Everything seemed forced, somehow, and she couldn’t explain why.

Nastasia was enjoying both the soft rain and the daily crossword puzzle when the fuss started below her. First, banging. Then, yelling. She craned her neck, both annoyed and curious, to try and discern just who was yelling, but the floor muffled too much to be specific. In fact, she thought it must have been multiple voices all at once. It wasn’t odd to hear O’Chunks through the walls even at normal volume, but she was alarmed immediately when suddenly she could hear Dimentio better than anyone else; Dimentio never raised his voice on principle. He was rarely genuinely emotional, and it was harder to manipulate people when yelling.

She set the paper down on windowsill where she had been sitting and headed downstairs. She stepped out of the stairwell just in time to see the basement door slam shut, and before she could venture further Mimi had linked their arms at the elbow and was insistently dragging Nastasia toward the front door. The living room sofa, she noticed on the way, was turned onto its back.

“Nassy, hey!” Mimi said loudly. “Let’s go for a walk, okay??”

This was instantly suspicious, as it was still raining and Mimi hated getting wet. She grimaced as she opened the door, grabbing the house’s only umbrella and marching outside.

“Mimi, what—” Nastasia started, only to have the open umbrella thrust into her arms. Mimi shut the door behind them with what seemed like a pointed amount of unnecessary force and then locked it.

“Walk,” Mimi hissed, and then crowded into Nastasia’s side so they would both fit under the umbrella.

The only reason Nastasia obeyed was because she knew Mimi couldn’t keep secrets. After reaching what she felt was a sufficient amount of distance from the house, and also mildly annoyed that she didn’t have a jacket, Nastasia asked again, “Mimi, why are we out here?”

“Elly came back,” Mimi said. Then, her voice lowered conspiratorially: “And in case they kill ‘em before we get back, we both have an alibi now, got it?”

Regrettably, that cleared up a lot of things the same as it left information to be desired.

“Uh, did it seem like they were going to?” Nastasia asked anxiously. Immediately she wanted to go back; the property value would fall drastically if Luigi wound up dead in their basement.

“Dunno,” Mimi said flippantly, steering their walk toward the Hot Fraun. “Seemed like it coulda gone both ways. Either they’re kickin’ or kissin’ him and I don’t want part of either.”

They entered the restaurant and ordered parfaits, sitting and chatting for at least an hour. Well, Nastasia mostly listened. She simply enjoyed the animated way with which Mimi talked about mundane things—but today she had a surprise subject.

“Would you help me if I opened a café?” Mimi asked.

“A café?” Nastasia repeated, amused. “Um, where would you put it?”

“On top of Flopside Tower.”

A precarious place for a restaurant, for sure.

“O’Chunks could help build it, and I thought you could help me with the—money and stuff? All I know is how to keep money, not use it, so…”

Nastasia had heard her mention a café before, but she hadn’t taken it very seriously. Mimi was frivolous about a lot of what she talked about, but it was apparent now by her thoughtful sipping of her mixed shake that it was something she had been rolling around her mind for a while.

Nastasia paused and gave it some thought. “Where would we get the money to begin with?”

Mimi was chewing on her straw. “Kinda depends if Elly is still alive.”

“We don’t even know how much he actually has, ‘k? He could’ve been spending his life savings reworking our house and just hasn’t said anything.”

“Nassy, why would he carry around hundred dollar bills if it was his life savings?”

Well, that was a good point. It would be odd behavior for someone with a normal amount of funds to hand out hundreds like they were candy.

“We don’t, uh, know where that money came from,” Nastasia said.

Mimi blinked at her. “What, you think he sells drugs or somethin’?”

“I just mean that…” Nastasia wasn’t really sure what she meant. It just felt wrong, somehow.

“I got rich offa slavery!” Mimi pointed out loudly, causing several patrons to swivel their heads toward them.

“W-with unusable currency!”

By the time they went out again, the rain had gotten heavier. Mimi attempted to lure Nastasia back inside to avoid the weather, but Nastasia was too worried about the state of affairs at home.

“You can stay here, ‘k?” she suggested. “You can come home when it stops, or I’ll come back and get you.”

“Ugh,” Mimi said emphatically, and pressed herself as close as she could get under the umbrella.

Said umbrella was actually large enough that the proximity wasn’t necessary, but that seemed unimportant enough to not bring up.

Mimi unlocked the door and flounced inside, shaking water off her skirt as she went. As Nastasia shook out the umbrella and stepped onto the mat to remove her shoes, she heard her say “Hiya, Elly!” and breathed a sigh of relief.

The sofa had been righted, and Luigi lay across it face-down with his arm dangling limply over the edge of the cushions. On top of his lower back was Dimentio, sitting cross-legged and eating a bowl of ice cream while watching television.

“Um,” Nastasia said, not quite sure if she should check for a pulse.

“Welcome back,” Dimentio said dully.

“So ya didn’t choose violence,” Mimi surmised, somehow sounding both relieved and disappointed.

“We did not choose violence.”

Luigi turned his head enough so that his mouth was no longer pressed into the cushions and said petulantly, “They did, too.”

“We did not choose violence,” Dimentio corrected. “Violence may have occurred, but it was not chosen.”

“You threw me down the stairs!”

“We dropped you down the stairs. Accidentally.”

From the tone of his voice, it seemed like had it not been an accident, it may have transpired anyway.

“And your version?” Nastasia asked when O’Chunks poked his head out of the kitchen.

“He lost his balance, is all,” he said gruffly. “Unfortunately.”

“You elbowed me in the face,” Luigi argued. There was, indeed, a rather large bruise covering his cheekbone.

“On accident. An’ then ye fell.” That being said, O’Chunks disappeared back into the kitchen.

Once again, the morality here felt very gray. Nastasia wanted to kick all three of them out into the rain.

“And you didn’t stop this,” she said to Dimentio, who bit the inside of his cheek. There was very little probability that he couldn’t have stopped a fall from occurring. He’d already saved Mimi launching herself down the stairs twice, once without even having to see it was happening.

“’Twas a crime of passion,” he said mournfully with a dramatic flourish of his spoon, betraying no indication of remorse.

“Yeah, don’t make it weird, ‘k?”

“It’s Dimmy,” Mimi said unnecessarily, “he’s always gonna be weird.” She sat down on her knees in front of the sofa, reaching out to deliberately poke Luigi’s bruise. “So, then. Elly.”

He didn’t flinch from the pain as much as from her expectant tone. “Uh.”

“Ellllyyyyyyy.” Another merciless poke.

He turned his face back into the cushions and said into them, “Mmf phmph mrrrm.”

With a pointed sigh, Dimentio placed his empty bowl on the floor, grabbed one of the accent pillows, placed it on top of the back of Luigi’s head and then reclined against it as if Luigi were just a normal part of the furniture. “He somehow convinced himself that he was intruding.”

“You understood that?”

“No, I’ve no idea what he just said. I am telling you what was discussed in your absence.”

“Oh,” Mimi said. “Well, that’s just dumb. I called him like 87 times.”

“He is quite foolish, yes.”

“Mmrrrf,” Luigi said with annoyance.

“What was that, darling?” Dimentio leaned up a bit, so Luigi could turn to speak again.

“I need to use the restroom…”

Dimentio squinted. “No, you don’t, you coward.”

O’Chunks emerged from the kitchen once more, this time with a plate of steak and vegetables. “Dinner,” he grunted, gesturing at the girls.

“Nassy and me already ate.”

“A parfait and a shake isn’t a dinner, ‘k?”

Dimentio vacated his perch, and O’Chunks took his spot dutifully. Luigi, who had immediately started to get up when free, hit the sofa again with a heavy whuff.

“Goin’ somewhere, laddie?”

“I guess not,” Luigi wheezed. “Can you maybe not break my ribs, though?”

O’Chunks obligingly moved a little farther down his spine. There was an audible popping sound, and everyone in the room startled; O’Chunks had the decency to look alarmed and shifted his weight forward toward his feet.

Luigi winced but otherwise showed no sign of immediate distress. “Hey, that fixed it!”

“Wot?”

“The disk I slipped when you threw me down the stairs.”

“’S not my fault yer a clumsy gink,” O’Chunks retorted, though he was obviously relieved.

By the time Nastasia made a plate for herself and returned to the living room O’Chunks was in the same spot, Dimentio was sitting on the back of the sofa with his socked feet resting on Luigi’s head, and Mimi was reclining across the backs of Luigi’s knees.

“Um,” Nastasia said. “I think he gets the point?”

“No, he’s in time-out,” Mimi informed her.

“That smells really good,” Luigi said with interest, as if his predicament were only a minor inconvenience. “Share?”

All in all, it was a strange dinner. Nastasia never did find out if the fall had been intentional or accidental.

Whenever Luigi visited, he seemed to bring the rain with him. Nastasia could tell the second he hit town because the humidity that made the air of Flopside so much thicker than Flipside’s would release like a knot coming uncoiled and the pressure in her head abated. He would stay for a few days, and when he left the humidity would build up until the next time he appeared to relieve it again. The trade-off, of course, is that by the time Luigi made it to the house he smelled like a wet dog since he never thought to bring an umbrella or a raincoat.

She still considered it a net positive. The house became a lot more lively when the use of the basement was in full swing. After dinner they would play games just as they had in the castle, and they would all end in some level of uproar; board games until Mimi started cheating, card games until Luigi started losing, and video games until O’Chunks broke a joystick. If they weren’t playing games, there would be a movie playing, or sometimes Nastasia could reserve the table for a jigsaw puzzle. She enjoyed quieter, organized activities—despite that, she often found herself sucked into the others’ hectic rhythm.

Mimi redid Nastasia’s nails every weekend before she went to work at the bar, experimenting by using toothpicks to add intricate details. Previously, she only had about five colors, but now she had several different shades, including one that was simply a glitter coating. She had even bought a little lamp that allegedly made the paint dry quicker so Nastasia didn’t have to worry about accidentally smearing it on the furniture.

Mimi had just started putting her paints away in her bag when Luigi ducked out of the headlock O’Chunks had him in (who knows what started the tussle this time, Nastasia tried never to think about it) and launched himself over the back of the couch.

“Wait!” He flattened his hands on the table. “Me next!”

Mimi froze, blinking at him in disbelief. “What—seriously?”

Luigi frowned at her. “Uh, yeah? What, you don’t take new customers?”

She paused for a moment and then dumped her bag back out. “Yeah?” she said. She tried to sound annoyed, but her eyes were bright and betrayed her excitement. “Whaddaya want?”

“Surprise me.”

Mimi cracked her knuckles. “You asked for it!”

She did wavy stripes in bright pink and a canary yellow, and then applied the glittery topcoat. She was obviously trying to pick colors that she thought he would hate, but Luigi just held up his hands and turned them back and forth, admiring the sheen. O’Chunks leaned over to get a look and snorted in amusement.

“Dio,” Luigi said, “c’mere.”

Dimentio, sitting in a corner with a stack of books after failing to mediate the wrestling match, looked up and squinted. “What.”

“He won’t let me,” Mimi said, though she looked hopeful. “He’s weird about his hands.”

“Won’t let you what?”

“Lookie.” Luigi wiggled his fingers in the air. “You, too, could have sparkles.”

It was obvious that his social meter was running dangerously low—of which hitting the bottom could result in either an explosion or general waspishness—but since it was an activity that both Mimi and Luigi were now involved in, he picked himself up from the floor and slouched over.

“I can’t believe you baited him with sparkles,” Mimi whispered with barely contained glee.

Nastasia found herself for the first time envious—Dimentio was now getting the spa treatment she had before, though now with the added benefit of getting to sit in someone’s lap while they combed their hands through his hair. Dimentio was fast asleep before Mimi finished his second hand.

Then, everyone still awake looked at O’Chunks expectantly.

He hesitated. “I’ll jus’ break ‘em,” he said shiftily.

“Nope,” Mimi said, rifling through her kit and brandishing a clipper, “c’mere. No paint, but your cuticles are awful.”

And so it became routine that everyone got their nails done on Saturdays.

Unlike the initial reactions of the other three, Luigi had absolutely zero qualms about sharing their bed. He would snuggle up to anyone who asked for it, and also anyone who didn’t—though, his sleeping schedule was a hard adjustment. He came to bed long after the day ended and awoke before the day started. Then, to make up for the lack of actual sleeping during the night, he crashed around midday for two or three hours.

Often Nastasia’s daily nap would coincide with his. Usually, Dimentio would be in the bed with Luigi at this time—not necessarily to sleep, but to relax in the quiet to recharge his incredibly low social meter—but this particular instance the magician was absent.

As a result, Luigi was alone sprawled out on his back to take up the whole of one mattress and snoring loud enough to rattle the attic walls. Nastasia wrinkled her nose, considered finding someplace else to nap, and then changed her mind.

She toed out of her shoes and changed into her sleepwear. Then she stepped onto the mattress and lowered herself into place, on her side with her neck resting over one of Luigi’s outstretched arms. She would have liked more time to reposition the pillow so that it was actually under her head, but his reflexes were quicker than she anticipated, and within seconds he had turned over and curled tightly around her. As it always inexplicably did whenever his arms were full, the snoring stopped.

She was still for a moment, mulling over shoving him off temporarily so she could get a pillow first and then try again, but then she felt him jolt behind her, startled.

“Nsss?” he slurred before his brain caught up, and he all but threw himself off the bed.

She found herself slighted—so he would cuddle with Mimi without complaint but not Nastasia? It was true that she didn’t actively seek out affection, but Luigi was usually so quick to offer it regardless.

“Shi—S-sorry, Nastasia, I—uh—”

Oh. Instead of being repulsed by her presence, he simply thought his company was unwanted—bizarre, since he was there first and she had muscled her way in without asking.

She half-turned to look at him over her shoulder. He was red in the face, but his eyes were guarded. She hated seeing that. “I meant to,” she told him, and he froze for a moment.

“I only really need a pillow, I can go somewhere else if—” he started hastily.

“I meant to,” she said more sternly, pulling one of the pillows under her head and pointedly facing away from him.

There was a stretch of thick silence. She held her breath—had she been too confrontational? Did she make it worse? Was their relationship (or lack thereof) something she could even salvage?—but eventually the mattress dipped under his weight as he settled down behind her, and tentatively he laid an arm across her waist. It wasn’t nearly as tight an embrace as when he had been unconscious.

“Why did you wake up?” she asked, since he had never been known as a light sleeper and had never woken during a sleep-cuddle.

“…Unfamiliar smell,” he mumbled.

That made just enough sense. They hardly spent any time together, even in the castle—especially in the castle.

Although she had come up intending to nap, she was much too caught in her thoughts and his breath too uneven for her to sleep. After a long, agonizing minute of second-guessing herself, and still hurt that he had initially jerked away from her, she said, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused.

Surely he knew why. Surely it was the cause of his apparent aversion.

“Um, you know, for brainwashing you?”

A brief, solemn pause. “Hypnotizing,” he said quietly. “And I’d already forgiven you.”

“It’s nearly the same thing, yeah?” she said, bristling at the correction.

His arm tensed around her. “Not the same thing at all. Brainwashing is wiping someone’s mind and putting something else in its place. Brainwashing is making someone lose who they are. The floro sprout was brainwashing. All you did was give me an objective.”

She swallowed. “Um, but if I hadn’t done it, Dimentio wouldn’t have gotten the idea to…”

He snorted, giving her a comforting squeeze. “You can’t and shouldn’t take responsibility for Dimentio’s behavior. He’s not something that’s explainable.”

“And you forgive him, too?” she asked.

To her surprise, he said, “No, I don’t.”

The flatness of his tone startled her. “Then—”

“Nastasia,” he said, pressing his forehead against the back of her skull. “You can still love someone without forgiving them for something.”

“That’s—!” She chewed on her lip, torn between logic and emotion. “I don’t think I could do it. Your heart is stronger than mine.”

“You still love the Count, right?”

“Of course,” she said. “But he—”

“And do you forgive him?” Luigi murmured. “For leaving you behind?”

“I—” And Nastasia stopped, because while loyalty was always on the tip of her tongue, now it tasted bitter. Mentally, she took a step back. The more she considered it, the more she realized: “No,” she said. Then, like a student figuring out a high-level math problem by herself: “No! I…I don’t!”

An immense weight fell from her shoulders, one that she hadn’t realized she was carrying. Something that lay deep in her psyche that interrupted her inner peace. No, she didn’t forgive him for leaving her! After all she did for him, after all the loyalty and the hardships… He didn’t have to love her back. She understood that she would never measure up to his beloved—but if he had only not disappeared, had not been noble enough to sacrifice himself to undo the damage he caused—

And while she was unconscious, even! She couldn’t even say goodbye or get to yell and scream and kick him until he found another way to fix himself. Instead, he went away, and she woke up with a shattered heart.

Luigi yawned hugely behind her, finally relaxing. “Get some rest, Nastasia,” he said, and finally she did.

By the time Blumiere and Timpani reappeared in the house, Nastasia had sorted through her emotions and was prepared for it. She let him hug her without fuss this time. He was warm, kind, and talkative, and that took some getting used to.

“That is Blumiere,” Dimentio scoffed, seeing the expression on Nastasia’s face. “And this is the first time you have met him.”

That much was apparent. The first time they had crossed paths, he had introduced himself to her as Blumiere. Over the months that followed, she witnessed the slow dissolution of his personality into whatever the Dark Prognosticus dictated as necessary. He had never been happy, though, and seeing a genuine smile on his face as he talked was unbelievably cathartic.

She could tell Dimentio, despite his mask of self-importance, felt differently about it. He hung in the back of the living room while Blumiere chatted up O’Chunks about his travels and watched with acute agitation, but he looked away any time Blumiere tried to catch his eye.

It had only been five minutes in when Mimi bounded up the stairs, Luigi in tow. Mimi flew directly into Blumiere’s arms, but Luigi stopped at the basement door when he saw their visitors, eyes wide.

“Oh, no, he’s hot,” Luigi said faintly, and then vanished not half a second later. It was so abrupt that the case could be made that he had never been there at all.

“…Dimentio,” Blumiere said reproachfully.

“Reflex,” Dimentio bit out hastily, “and now I am off to drown him and possibly also myself.”

He’d already teleported away by the time Blumiere managed one step toward him.

“It’s okay,” Timpani offered. “After all, I’m told murder means he likes you.”

Blumiere sent her a wry, exasperated look.

O’Chunks led a quick tour around the house. He was quick to point out that the guest bedroom had finally been finished, but Blumiere was more taken with the bed upstairs.

Upon seeing it, he clapped his hands together and said in absolute delight, “Oh! All of you…?”

“We like to sleep in a pile!” Mimi announced. Then, following a half-panicked look from O’Chunks, she added unsurely, “Uh, you know…for safety?”

“It’s at least a little more, um…organized than that.” Nastasia said, elbowing O’Chunks in the side. It’s not like a huge double mattress bed can be explained away so easily, and Blumiere didn’t seem the slightest bit uncomfortable. If anything, he looked incredibly happy about it.

“I’m so glad you all stayed together,” he sighed after they had gone back downstairs to settle on the living room sofa. “I’ve felt so unbearably guilty.”

“You could stay, too!” Mimi threw herself over his lap and stretched out luxuriously.

Blumiere chuckled and patted the top of her head—the way Count Bleck used to do, except now the affection was genuine. “I need to find a job, so that Timpani and I might start a life together.”

“Elly can just give you money,” she offered, unbothered.

It took a moment for him to realize who ‘Elly’ was referring to. “The agent of the prophecy himself?” he gasped, then paused. “It only just occurred to me who it was that Dimentio removed. I only saw him for a split second.”

“I didn’t even get to say ‘hi’ to him,” Timpani said. “Or to badger him for a visit with Mario.”

“He’ll be back. ’s like a bad penny.” O’Chunks retreated into the safe haven of his kitchen. “Gonnae drudge up a meal.”

“Oh!” Timpani snapped to. “Let me help.”

“Eh, sure?”

“I am going to sit here and wait for Dimentio,” Blumiere said directly to Mimi and Nastasia. “And while I do, the both of you are going to tell me what you’ve been up to.”

“What’re ya gonna do to him?” Mimi asked with interest. “I got to slap him once!”

“I am going to hug him,” Blumiere proclaimed, “and there will be nothing he can do about it.”

Apparently, Dimentio had dumped Luigi into the middle of the Tile Pool, and they were both sopping wet when they returned well after dinnertime. Dimentio wasn’t in the house for more than two minutes when Blumiere chased him out onto the street with the threat of affection—Timpani’s face marked her annoyance, but she held her tongue.

Instead, she zeroed in on the window boxes. O’Chunks had built them for Nastasia to tend flowers. Originally, she had requested them only to find some sort of daily rhythm to follow, but she found it immensely satisfying to watch their progress; the feeling of accomplishment had been elusive since she found herself in Flopside.

“These are darling!” Timpani gushed. (Nastasia secretly wondered if it had anything to do with her past tenure as a butterfly. Maybe she should experiment with milkweed?)

Nastasia was surprised to find that Timpani was easy to communicate with. Once, she had loathed the idea of speaking to the woman who drew so much of Blumiere’s affection, but she no longer saw Timpani as a rival. She didn’t have the air of someone who was pompous or took anything for granted, and perhaps knowing that was why Nastsia felt like she could live with their marriage.

Timpani turned from the windows and, as if she had been reading the room without looking at it, said, “Nastasia, I want to thank you.”

“…Uh?”

“For taking care of Blumiere.”

Nastasia blinked in confusion. “I, um…didn’t really do anything?”

Behind her, Mimi was screeching and trying to tackle Luigi after he intentionally wrung his waterlogged cap out over her head. O’Chunks picked them both up, one under each arm, and forcibly removed them from the room.

“Nonsense,” Timpani said seriously, unbothered by the loudness emanating from the adjacent hallway. “And he certainly doesn’t feel that way. You kept him anchored.”

That was hard to believe. Nastasia did try to help him preserve himself, but most of the time she was rebuked by the persona created by the Dark Prognosticus. It wasn’t really until he ran into Tippi in Sammer’s Kingdom that some progress was made, and Nastasia really had nothing to do with that.  

“He talked about you the most; you were his biggest regret. He wanted to visit so bad, but he was so afraid you’d be mad at him.”

“I am mad at him,” Nastasia blurted without thinking, then doubled back. “Uh, I mean, er—”

But Timpani was beaming. “Me, too!” she said. “We should grab a coffee sometime and talk about it!”

“I…” That…sounded kind of nice? “I actually work in a coffee bar, so…”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to bother you at work—”

“N-no, it’s fine!” Nastasia said hastily, unsure why she was so flustered. “My schedule is, um, pretty flexible right now, yeah? If it’s not a weekend, I usually just go in whenever?”

“Oh, good!” Timpani clapped her hands together. “I’d love to hear you play, too.”

And so it went. Nastasia found it hard at first to say anything ill of her former boss, but Timpani had no issue easing her into it by sharing the traits by which Blumiere was both endearing and impossible. Timpani became an indispensable ally that night; she didn’t in any way make Nastasia feel guilty or ashamed about her feelings, and as the conversation developed Nastasia found herself thinking that Blumiere didn’t deserve someone as practical and grounding as Timpani.

When they returned to the house, walking close enough for an occasional friendly brush of shoulders, everyone was still awake and in the basement. Blumiere had observed everyone’s nails aloud, and Mimi took that as her invitation. Now, he was sandwiched in the corner of the sectional between Mimi and O’Chunks as the former was busy with her paints and the latter provided color suggestions. (O’Chunks never really had his nails painted, but he let Mimi provide enough basic nail care that the neat appearance of his fingers was now comically juxtaposed with the rest of him.)

“Ah!” Blumiere attempted to wave before O’Chunks, apparently the hired muscle of this salon, took his hand and forced it flat on the table. “Welcome to La Maison des Ongles.”

“Honey,” Timpani said peaceably, joining them at the table, “I’m never going to learn French.”

“Yes, you’ve said.”

“Italian is superior, anyway.” Luigi shifted off the sofa so that Timpani could slide onto the sectional and then sat back down at the edge of it, Switch controller in hand. “For one, we actually pronounce all of the letters.”

Dimentio, floating with his chin in his hands and his legs kicking idly behind him, clicked his tongue. “Quel parti pris ignorant!”

“See, there were probably like five S’s in there that you never used. They’re starting to feel left out. Also,” Luigi said, staring incredulously at the screen, “what happened to my island?!”

“It lacked flair.”

Luigi turned to look at Dimentio incredulously. “How did you breed all these flowers in only two days?? Did you use Gameshark on my Animal Crossing file??”

“Showin’ yer age there, laddie.”

“Wow, shut up. Who is this?”

“Golly, Elly, ya don’t even remember your own neighbors?”

“This cat was NOT here before.”

“How odd. I seem to recall sending her half of your furniture as a welcoming gift, so I am sure she was there for at least two days.”

“So help me if I go back to my house and my golden bathtub is missing…”

“Oh dear, the aristocracy is in shambles,” Dimentio said dolefully. “The tyranny of island representation hangs in the very balance! Relegated to bathing like peasants, are we?”

Seconds later he was hit in the face with a cushion and fell out of the air in surprise. On the way down his leg hit the table, flipping it upward and flinging Mimi’s bag of paints all over the floor. Timpani had the foresight to grab the open bottle before it spilled and lean back to avoid getting hit by the table, but Blumiere and O’Chunks both caught it on the chin, and O’Chunks recoiled enough to tip the sectional backward, throwing everyone onto the floor. This all occurred within the span of a few seconds, and even though Nastasia could always see it coming, it still startled a laugh out of her.

Because this is just what tended to happen when they were all in a room together. An outside onlooker would think of this household as dysfunctional, not knowing that the chaos truly meant that they were a well-oiled machine.

It still had its hiccups, but it was a machine that Nastasia was more than happy to be a part of.