Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s all on this.

A swing from Griefer’s crowbar successfully connects with your nose, despite your attempts to soften the blow by raising your hands in a pitiful attempt at blocking. The cracking sound is satisfying, in some odd way.

Visibly, you stagger back and gather your bearings. A shaky hand comes up to put pressure on the area – are those tears leaking from your eyes? Agh, lame. You’re usually more collected than this, unnervingly so.

It almost feels wrong to see your expression warp, but it feels more rewarding than ever to see you crack. You, the ever-composed you who took a complete beating like a champ the first time you two had fought, softly laughing when he took off. That laugh still rings in his mind, even now.

Irritating. That’s what it all is, what you are. Completely and utterly irritating.

“H4H! CRYBABY.” Everything in this moment spins and swirls, a buzzing feeling that gets worse when he ditches the crowbar to grasp the Venomshank for his own use. It thrums beneath his fingers, energy pulsing madder and madder with every step towards your hunched over body.

For the fun of the game, he twirls it a bit, something about the motion reminiscent of a butterfly knife animation in an old game he used to play. The name slips his mind. Not important enough. Slicing you to bits and pieces is the only thing that matters.

It swings through the air, right towards its target, but doesnt make it. You’d had enough crying and wimping about, it seems, with the way your sword clashes against his own. The way your eyes widen and frantically look everywhere towards him – it’s intoxicating, having this sort of power.

This sort of power, over someone so calm; no trace of the punk you are shows like this. With a bit more straining and pushing, your sword clatters to the ground, kicked much too far away by him for you to scramble over without getting hacked at.

And yet, your brain doesn’t even seem to compute that possibility, shown by the way you make a mad dart for it. Flipping the blade in his grip, he makes yet another swing. The blunt end connects somewhere at your back, and you fall oh-so-not-gracefully face first onto the wooden ground.

You don’t even attempt to get up. Odd. Where was that resolve you’d had the other time you’d fought him? What a pathetic display.

A hiss escapes Griefer as a cut slips itself through his gloves. Nothing that’ll do anything substantial, but worry still clouds his mind for just a split second before he pulls himself together. It starts itching almost instantly.

“YOU. YES, Y0U. DID I HIT TOO H4RD? UNLUCKY, ISN’T 1T?” A mocking sort of ‘aww’ sound leaves him, and he sees the way your expression twists. Oh, so now the taunting gets to you? While you’re laid out on the floor? How fun! “I HEAR TH3RE’S DOCTORS IN B1ZVILLE TO P4TCH YOU RIIIIGHT UP. IF Y0U MAKE IT.”

You scramble onto your back, legs and arms working overtime to crawl backwards away from him. Ragged breathing wracks your entire body, but even that fatigue isn’t enough to stop you from opening your big mouth.

“Would you fuck aaall the way off! I’m trying to start a sword collection here, dingus, I don’t need your... uh, talk.” What a weird bluff to pull. Griefer knows you’ve probably said worse, but the fact that you speak so calmly despite everything about you showing otherwise – irritating.

He’s no stranger to trash talk, though, and yours is at least a little entertaining, if not strange. Better than most others he gets a chance to bully online.

The pointed end shifts and grazes directly below your chin, tilted upwards by his own force. A single movement, and it’ll slice you right at the most vital point. The thrill is not lost on him, a weird kind of adrenaline that pulses in time with the energy from the Venomshank.

You have no sword, no weapon to defend yourself with but your own fists. Your life is in his hands, defeated by your own slowness.

“B3G.”

A shaky breath escapes you, mouth pushed into a flat line as you look up at him. There’s still a shiny line from where tears slid down your cheeks, sweat clinging to your neck that’s currently just a pinprick away from being cut into.

It’s a brief moment that he takes it all in. Your hand reaches at your side, trembling as you fiddle with something on your belt. Just a split second.

His grip loosens. A terrible mistake. Noob.

A split second is all it takes for you to reach up with your other hand, fist knocking the sword just enough for a dagger to then clash against the metal of the Venomshank. Icy blue contrasts against green.

No shit-eating grin is on your face, but it makes itself present through your tone. “Nah. That shit’s for losers.”

For just a small instant, he fumbles, and you’re already up off the ground and raring to fight again. But you don’t. A few desperate attempts are made to slash around, to move the sword in any other direction.

Metal on metal sparks as that tiny weapon of yours collides again and again with the Venomshank. It’s strenuous, but he hopes he can knock it out of your hands again if he just keeps pushing–

It freezes over.

The Venomshank. Freezes. Over. Directly at the spot where they collide.

Your hands travel from the hilt of your blade, unsteady in their jolting movements, until they settle at the handle of the Venomshank. Your fingers wrap around his, and for some reason, the touch throws him off completely.

It’s not even warm. Fucking freezing cold is what it is.

“Griefer.” Something deranged lies beneath your tone, just as icy as your hand. And yet, it’s spoken so calmly, a warm contrast. “You are actually. So. Annoying. Give it up already.”

He tries to release himself from your grip after those few stunned seconds. It fails. Your grip is unwaveringly strong. What.

“Do you know just how lucky you have it?” And yet somehow, it grows tighter, squeezes him like a constrictor snake. The tip of the sword is stuck in the ground.

“Do you know how nice it is that you have some kind of family to love on? To appreciate, to remember? I don’t think you do.” You laugh, and fix him with a stare. Sweat forms on the back of his neck, underneath his cap. “You’re throwing it away with all this. What’s your plan here? Tell me. What’re the voices telling you about the future here?”

“TH3Y.” Everything in his throat dries up when he tries to speak. “THEY SP0KE OF 3RASURE. OF TH1S ENTIRE PL4CE. A PR0PHECY.” Some bullshit like that.

No matter how he spoke of his father, it was all necessary for this and this alone. He’d rather take pointed hate from his old man than the complete lack of him altogether. Of home. Of everything.

Hate always wins over solitude, over the blooming knowledge of death.

There’s a subtle hiss to your words. “And what did they say would happen if you succeeded?”

...

...They didn’t. Griefer’s breath hitches.

Oh.

0H, IT’S 4LL A TRAP.

Everything in the room spins at the realization. Your grip on his hands loosens a little, before squeezing again. It’s grounding, not that you even realize. You’d probably seen the look on his face with the way your grin slowly etches upwards.

Griefer’s face contorts into anger. “WH4T ARE YOU GETTING AT H3RE?”

He tries to back away, just to back away from the gaze you’ve been fixing him with. If the bushes in the crib caught fire behind him, he’s sure it’s from your unwavering stare alone. The sword is practically embedded into the ground at this point. Ice creeps up onto the hilt.

“Look at me. In the face, now, do not make me ask again. You should know I don’t beg by now.”

Urgh. What an infuriating way to use his own words against him.

There is no power to be had in this situation. Just making contact with your eyes is enough to make him shiver, with the frantically widened look to them not being out of fear this time around. Even the energy the Venomshank emits isn’t enough to keep his palms warm when your own are overlaid on top of his.

“I won’t make you beg either. That’s silly. Childish. But, I don’t like forcing my hand like this either.”

You lean in, so close he can practically feel your breath fanning his face. If you’d stopped even a few inches closer, he’s sure the two of you would be eye-to-eye, literally.

“Yield.”

Perhaps you are not the one defeated here. Perhaps he is.

...

Griefer snickers a little. It grows into a laugh, a small one.

“H4H. H4H4H, H4H.”

That laugh blooms into something bigger, something that booms and echoes across the vast space. Before he shuts his eyes, he can see just a small bit of confusion cracking through your expression.

Futile. It’s all for nothing at this point, isn’t it?

Your grip slackens, and he immediately takes the chance to rip his hands away from you. You, the wretched beast of a “hero” that you were. When he opens your eyes, you’ve backed away from where you previously stood.

With your hands not pushing on top of his anymore, he can safely draw it from where it was planted into the wood of the floor. Griefer briefly touches the handle of your dagger, before a million other voices join the background chatter of his own and he decides that hmm, perhaps that isn’t a good idea.

Screw whatever kingdom they’re talking about.

“H4H4H4H4H, H4H, HAA4!” The cackling ends there, and he looks at you for one last time. He’s dead meat regardless, so...

“TH4NK YOU. F0R THAT... REALIZATION. SINC3RELY.” It’s not very sincere at all, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

A sneer carves through his face. “IT DO3SN’T MATTER ANYM0RE. IF TH3RE’S ONE TH1NG I CAN H4VE– 1F THIS PR0PHECY 3NDS UP TRUE– IT’LL BE Y 0 U.”

Griefer’s arms raise the Venomshank and strike down, but not on you, no. On him, his own leg.

A bubbling pain erupts after a pause, poison blooming through the veins of his thigh until that pain is matched by a euphoria greater than anything his existence has seen yet. Both, at the same time. It’s frightening, lovely.

You gasp. His own father in the corner looks on, shocked. It doesn’t matter. He knows he can just drag you down with him, in the end.

For a couple of days, it’s been the same deal over and over again. Or has it been weeks?

Brief moments of consciousness spurred by some external noises, perhaps a voice he’d recognize every now and again. A blissful floating in the void – something itches near his eyes, he thinks, but his arms itch far worse, useless at his side.

There’s not much thinking to do in a state like this, no, but Griefer wonders if he chugged too many Witches Brew drinks and was now facing the consequences.

No, no, couldn’t be that. There is no energy drink in this world that causes this much itching.

Everything– there is no way he can possibly emphasize it more– itches. Burns. Like a million needles being held beneath the surface of the skin, prodding and poking everywhere they could find. His leg though – the left one? That’s the worst contender.

What the fuck did he do this time? It’s all blurry.

There’s a moment where he feels conscious, feels like he can finally get a grasp of the world. More voices, none that are... blatantly recognizable. It’s not his father, he thinks he’s heard that one around. Why is he here? Little voices, a buzzing poison that flows through the air.

Metal clanks on the floor, and everything briefly stops talking. When they start again, it’s reduced to background chatter, as if drowned by cotton.

Step, step, step. Someone is here in... wherever this is.

“Yo.”

Griefer has heard that voice before. Somewhere. Still blurry. For some reason, it irritates him beyond belief, not that it sounds particularly bad. But why?

In all the ways that a firework would, the voices explode. Loud, crackling and overwhelming – everything surrounds him all at once just with that single word spoken aloud by somebody.

The Venomshank. It’s right there for the taking! Where are you, where am I? The itching somehow gets worse than before, the feeling of something travelling below his skin and reaching to the left, like a sunflower aiming its hungry head towards the sun. GRAB IT ALREADY! What are you waiting for?!

What the hell are they talking about?

His fingers twitch at his side. Then wriggle, then flex, then move. They’re moving? Oh, they’re moving. Moving!

When he shifts, he can tell something’s wrapped around his head. A blindfold? Multiple blindfolds? Oh, bandages. Why would somebody need multiple blindfolds? One does the job, stupid.

Everything ceases to exist in the future, erases itself. Hey, hey, come closer. You, what little family you have left. I’m hungry! Are you really just going to let this happen? Ooough, Bloxy Cola...

They all keep rattling on, overlapping over one another. The final kick in the coffin is one of them saying he looked, quote, “more like a Kevin than a Brad, honestly. Or a Kyle, really.”

What. The hell. Is that even supposed to mean?!

Something about this whole situation is hauntingly familiar, but no matter how he tries,it all slips his memory. The Venomshank, he knows that, knows something about... About...

Minutes upon minutes pass. They won’t stop talking. His mouth feels dry, an uncomfortable gummy sort of feeling to them. Fangs scratch at the bottom lip when he breathes, opening his mouth to speak.

“H0LY SH1T.” None of it stops, a twirling carousel that has no end in sight. His hands raise after a great effort, scratching at the coverings on his face. “5HUT. THE ####. UUUP!”

One falls off, and then the next, and one by one they all lift up around his forehead, somewhere above his mouth – doesn’t matter, he didn’t care, didn’t ask. Is his cap missing? Yup.

The room explodes into color, into beaming light that spills everywhere through a singular window. It’s a distinct feeling of home, with the way the entire structure of the building gives away its location in Turitopulis. Staggeringly empty, yet somehow overwhelming all the same.

Empty as in decorations. The entire room is filled with vaguely bed-shaped blobs, bandages and some other items laid out on the shelf next to him. Curtains separate some areas, but most are pulled back entirely. Plants and vines sprawl out around the room, overlapping most at the area where he was.

A healing bay, he realizes.

Somebody is standing off to the side. His vision is too fogged to tell who, but the vibrant red top of some sorts is visible from where he lays. Lays.

Griefer is laying down. Is he on a bed? Clearly, there’s a blanket laid on top of him. Why was he asleep for so long to begin... with...

His limbs. Are green. Green. There are plants covering where his hands should be, leaves crawling up and down the forearms. All of them lean towards whoever it is at his side.

He trembles. And squints.

And squints even further.

“Damn, I didn’t even say anything! Unless you heard that Kevin comment. Then nah, you didn’t.” Hands raised in a surrendering motion, you back away slowly. Then pause. “Oh wait, you’re actually awake! Didn’t think that was happening anytime soon. How ya doing?”

You. You.

A memory flashes by him, collides with his brain at the same speed of the train in Bizville (not that he’s really seen it, moreso heard of it). A full-speed punch to the face.

A punch to the face akin to what Griefer knows he did to you. Among other things, like beating you into a pulp. Or trying to. Trying to kill you, take you down to his level, more like. And failing. Miserably, at that.

He gulps at the memory of the sheer lunacy in your expression. Immediately, he calms down upon noticing the lax and almost empty-brained look you give him, a thick bandage plastered over your nose. Black and blue colors sprawl beneath your eyes.

Griefer tried to kill you. You tried to kill Griefer. Or at least, he hopes you were, in a sick way. Being dead would be a much better fate than having to deal with actually being alive to have to talk about this with his dad.

Already, he dreads it.

“WHY...WHY 4RE YOU H3RE–” He coughs, shooting up to hunch over as something crawls up his throat. A leaf lands on the blanket. “WHAT THE ####. HAPP3NED.”

You shrug. Already, your nonchalant attitude is starting to piss him off.

Griefer wheezes, pain crackling through his lungs and damn-near everywhere else in his body. He can’t help but to raise a hand– what he thinks is his hand, honestly– towards you, accusatorily.

“I TR1ED TO K1LL YOU.”

A humming note fills the air for a second. You nod.

“Yup.”

“I B3AT THE EVERLOVING SH1T OUT OF YOU. AND Y0U– 4CK, YOU CAME B4CK. THEN. AND N0W.”

Now, you’re rocking back and forth on your feet, hands innocently held behind your back. There’s a longer sheath on your belt, he notices. It’s getting harder to keep squinting.

“Yuuuup. Ya sure did that. I sure did that. Anything else?”

It takes everything to not just yell at you, to ask you to get out. But you’re here for a reason, whatever it may be. You have your sword, after all. The Venomshank is yours. There’s no way you’d ever willingly talk to him outside of being forced to.

“WHY 4RE YOU EVEN H3RE. WH4T MORE DO YOU 3VEN WANT.”

For a long moment, the two of you just stare at each other. Nothing. No response from you. Urgh. Since you’re gonna just look at him like he’d grown a third head, he’ll just... unfocus his eyes. Relax a bit.

Still in an unbroken spell of silence, you make the decision to sit on the bed with him, awkwardly shifting his legs to the side before plopping yourself down criss-cross applesauce on the left center. All of this while making eye contact like he’d try to attack you if you broke it.

There's literally a chair right next to the bed if you'd just walk over. Why are you like this?

It’s slightly easier to see you like this, though, to see the way your face shifts as if you’d been trying to come up with a good response the whole time.

You break the silence at last.

“Uh. So. About that. Do you... know what happened to you? After ya kinda just stabbed your leg and went ham.”

He pauses to think. No, no he doesn’t. Everything around that part felt fuzzy, dreamlike in quality before it cut off completely.

“I D0N’T.”

Again, he narrows his eyes, getting a good look at how you’d respond to that, whatever it would mean. You grin, sheepish.

“That’s both good and not good at the same time. Ya wanna hear the story?”

He scoffs. “0F COURSE I W4NT TO– 3URGH– H3AR THE ST0RY, PUNKASS.“

A coughing fit wracks him mid-sentence, more leaves and flowers spat out onto the thin cotton of the blanket. He knows what would’ve happened when he stabbed himself – courtesy of the voices, how polite. What he desperately ached to know now was how the hell you both survived.

Immediately, your grin drops as you lean closer to him. Look him dead in the eye with a look that makes him think that maybe you really are dead. He swears something’s actually wrong with you.

Was Shedletsky high when he gave his trust to you? Of all people? You, who had hands so cold they could’ve frozen over hell itself? You, who had all the unstable rage of a prey animal? You? You? Was he on crack, perhaps?

...Shedletsky was sure ruffled up though, he knows that much.

“In truth...” He feels like you’re about to tell him someone important died. “...You just kinda turned into some plant monster and bit me. Like, a million bajillion times.”

How anticlimactic.

When you roll up the long, vibrant red sleeves of what he recognizes as your hoodie, a few gargantuan bite marks make themselves known. There’s bandages that were clearly supposed to cover them up. All of them unravel when you mess with them.

“Got this sucker while I was still reeling from your little transformation stunt. Real nasty, that one.” You whistle.

The bite mark is an angry red, scabbed over, yes, but the plants that spilled out were nauseating to look at by now. Plants in general were starting to just... tire Griefer out. He’s scared to even glance at what his body looks like beneath the sheet.

While you’re explaining each and every one of your injuries in a weirdly detached amount of detail, his vision blurs again as he stops bothering to squint at everything. A weird one, you are. You almost never crack, except for that time where you actually did in fact crack under pressure just a tiny bit and it was admittedly fucking terrifying.

As much as he wants to see the true full height of your emotions, to actually just end you right here and now– he can’t. He’s genuinely unable to even move his legs the slightest bit, unlike his upper body. This, too, is terrifying.

You never did answer him about why you were here to begin with, did you?

Your name. That ought to get your attention. He blurts it out, and you snap your gaze to him. Immediately, he can tell your chattery grin has dropped from your face in a record amount of time just like before.

Creepy.

He coughs under the spotlight of your gaze, fixed smack-dab on him. “WHY 4RE YOU H3RE TO BEGIN W1TH.”

As if nothing ever happened, your face lights up again with a lazy smile as you clearly prepare to start rambling.

“Ohh, forgot about that. So like, your dad visited you earlier, real concerned, that one, lucky you–” His heart drops to his stomach. “I was actually here to visit him! Y’know, check how everything’s doing, but you were in the room too so I figured heeey, two-in-one combo, riiight?”

“4RE YOU JUS7 HERE TO T4UNT ME. B3 SO FOR RE4L RIGHT NOW. LIKE, 4CTUALLY, BECAUSE TH1S IS SOME WEIRD 4CT YOU’RE DOING.” Carefully, Griefer squints. Not a hint of malice shows on your face.

“Calm down, not my problem you have...eh, what’d you call it? ’Skill issue?’” Oh, you’re definitely here to taunt him. “I am actually a little concerned, though... sometimes, you talked when I was fighting that monster version of you. It sounded... painful.”

Your thumbs twiddle with themselves, fidgeting around as you shift your position on the bed to scoot a little closer to him. Please don’t. “Anyways. I just wanted to make sure you were alright, is all. Nothing malicious, ‘kay?”

It’s staggering, really, how sincere you sounded, the warmth to be found in that tone. As much as Griefer doubts everything about those intentions, he knows first and foremost that you’re horribly blunt. Honest. It’s awful. The weird twang of something hopeful in his heart is completely awful.

He scans your face for anything that suggests otherwise. That this was all some cruel prank, that maybe you’d had the intention of taunting him this whole time.

Nothing. Just a stupid, sheepish grin.

He’d take it over the vacant expression anyday, but this... even this was unnerving. Somehow.

Neither of you even really know the other, but yet here you are with your bleeding heart. He wishes you had even bled at all, wishes that he had just toughened up his resolve during that fight and slashed you when he had you rather than gloating.

He got out practically on the brink of death. You walked out with a broken nose and a few bites. One of you clearly had it better than the other.

Your eyes widen a bit, head whipping around at the closed door. Amidst the background noise, a clear-cut voice drawls out in the background– Dad, a realization that causes more panic than anything else.

Turning back to him, your grin fades a little. “Gotta take care of some things. Be right back, I wouldn’t try to get up if I were you.”

It’s a long few moments that you take to practically throw yourself off the bed and bound over to the door, but it gives Griefer just a bit more time to think with a clearer head. An indent replaces where you were. If he were able to move a leg over it, would it already be cold?

Before you’re out the door, you turn around. “Ohh, by the way, I gotta mention that you’re awake to your dad when I can. Sorry! Not really. Also, if you want your hat back, then go and talk to him.”

You talk. A lot. So much so that he’s still processing the word “oh” by the time you also move on to whatever you’re rambling about now. Did you always do that? No, no, he remembers you practically keeping your mouth shut the whole time up until that fight – up until now.

What time is it?

“You sure are lucky to have him, y’know! Lucky he still loves you too. Try not to get too shaken up! You got this, dumbass.”

The only word he got out of that for a good few seconds was ‘dumbass’.

“WH–” Huh??? “WH4T?”

The reassurance-to-insult in such a short span of time almost gives him whiplash as he continues to process everything you just said. His dad still loves him. Are you on his side or not? Hat. You’re not sorry at all. DON’T YOU FEEL WEAK?

...His father still loves him? After that?

Before he can even get any of these questions out, you’re straight up gone. The door made practically no noise as it shut. Each inquiry buzzes and rots inside his brain.

Are the voices getting worse or not? It’s impossible to tell. For the most part, they’ve quieted down as you left (strange), but one still persists with enough intensity to replace the rest. It’s the one he’s heard all along, the one that taunts him so with tellings of nothing but pure hatred.

Oh, everything’s spinning now.

As much as he’d like to just plop back down, to not have to sit upright like this – it hurts – the thought of the Mayor entering any second now is the one thought that keeps him still like this.

...Should he... look at the damage?

...

Griefer doesn’t think he’s ready to look at the evidence of his failure. Not the full picture, not yet, not yet, not yet. A sacrifice of mortality gone wrong in every way possible – living was the worst case scenario to be had. And yet, here the two of you stood.

Speaking of which, the sound of the door across the room opening causes him to snap his full attention over. One person enters. It’s not his father, but rather, you in all your annoying glory. Is this disappointment he feels, or relief?

He grumbles something even he can’t decipher as you stride your way over to him, the pep and energy of a living ray of sunshine with a smile to match. Your eyes though? Almost dead. Almost. Not a single shine of anything positive.

The incessant chatter of voices starts up again the second you enter his space.

Already, you’re peering down at him from a distance way too close. “Yooo. He’ll be coming in soon enough, ‘kay? Just wanted to warn ya.”

“...0KAY.” Another cough. This time, an entire strand of a vine lands with the rest of the bits and pieces of plants. Is it harder to breathe, or is that just his imagination? “IS TH3RE AAANYTHING 3LSE THAT I SH0ULD KNOW? ARE Y0U DONE TORM3NTING ME?”

“Pff, nah. Didn’t know my presence – goddamn, shut up–” You screw your eyes closed, bonking at your head with a fist. “...I forgot what I was saying. Anywhooo!”

Who were you even talking to?

DON’T YOU DESPISE IT?

There’s not a single word that he can get in before you’re gripping onto his shoulders. Cold. So cold. It’s felt even through the warm layers of leaves that jolt at your touch. The cheery smile on your face is gone in a flash, and he’s beginning to think that it’s just a constant poker face at this point. Why are you able to do that so fast?

“One more thing, Brad.” He shivers, not just from your icy grip. “If you don’t apologize I’ll make sure to finish the job. If you don’t appreciate what you have, what you take for granted...”

There’s a flash of something in your expression at last, in your scrunched down mouth that doesn’t even need squinting to see. Something pained, something that makes it seem as if you’ve seen it all before.

Something lonely. That’s a new one.

“...Eheh, I’m rambling again. Ignore that–”

THEY’RE LOOKING DOWN UPON YOU. DON’T YOU DESPISE THEM? ALL OF THEM?

...No.

Y0U’RE LY1NG.

He cuts you off.

“N0.”

It’s said completely to himself, so quiet it’s almost inaudible, but it piques your attention anyhow. “Hmm? No?”

“I W0ULDN’T EVER NOT T4KE HIM FOR GR4NTED. NOT AFT3R THAT.”

Hesitantly, well, ‘hesitantly’ isn't the word, it’s more along the lines of ‘painfully-while-practically-grinding-his-teeth-into-dust-at-the-action’, Griefer raises his own hands and plops them onto your own shoulders. The foliage that envelops them is sickening to look at.

You’re close enough, too close, these are just the consequences of your lack of understanding for personal space.

Isn’t it?

“EV3RYTHING 1 DID W4S FOR HIM. EV3N IF HE GOT IN THE W4Y– AGH– I’D RATH3R HAVE D4D HATE ME TH4N TO SEE H1M GONE.” The snarl that forms on his face is involuntary. Along with the coughing, but that’s usual by now.

You blink through huge eyes. Once, twice. Startlingly, all semblance of any previous emotion is gone again, replaced by a neutral frown. Your eyes stare into the plant-covered hands on your shoulders, then back to him. You retreat your hands. He retreats his own after an awkward few seconds.

What’s even happening at this point?

Your voice comes low and quiet, indistinct compared to every other bit of background chatter. “He didn’t see it that way. You should tell him that, okay?”

And in the blink of an eye, you’re back to a smile that beams so much light that the plants on his body could probably photosynthesize from it. What a stupid thought. “Not that I mean to meddle, yeah? I already am, though, so before I go, good luck, sunshine!”

The emotional whiplash you radiate just through conversation alone is headache inducing. He’s not even gonna breach the topic of the nickname just to get you out sooner.

“Y0U’RE GOING? ALRE4DY?” Thank god.

“Yuuup! D’ya want anything?” Briefly, Griefer opens his mouth only to get interrupted. “And I’m not bringing you soda. I don’t know how the hell you can chug thirteen hundred cans and quite frankly my wallet doesn’t wanna know. ‘Kay?”

That... wasn’t anything near what he was going to ask for, especially from some weird stranger like you, but fair. He was just gonna ask you to get out already. Stranger. Acquaintance? Enemy? Friend? What can he even consider you?

You wished him some semblance of good luck, even with everything he did to you and everyone else. Came and talked to him, even if a bit of it held vague threats. Vague. That’s a good word to describe you, this whole connection to begin with.

There’s taunting from you. Some menacing side that’s only shown through brief moments, a cold air to you that definitely isn’t personality alone.

...

SO W E A K.

If nothing else, he can consider you weird, that’s for sure.

In the midst of thinking, you however seem to have gotten impatient, waving a hand close to his face. “Yo. Hello? Helloooo? Robloxia to Griefer? Braaad. Heeey.”

Annoying too.

The final straw, you hesitate before just straight up booping him. On the face. Directly.

Now, he’s pretty sure most of the influence the Venomshank had on him when he transformed is gone, but... he can always just blame his next action on that should push come to shove. You look squishy. It won’t hurt you too bad if there's no venom left. It’s only fair.

Griefer bites down on your hand, fangs and all.

Chapter Text

You, reasonably, ended up revoking your offer to get Griefer anything after that little stunt. Looking back on it now, it’s almost embarrassing how quick he was to fall into the temptation to chomp on your hand. It wasn’t entirely his own thought to do so, so that’s a valid excuse, right?

It didn’t break skin... for the most part. It’s hard not to break skin with fangs. He didn’t... didn’t, uh... Okay, he definitely drew blood, there’s not any denying it at this point.

For as much pain there was to be seen in your grimace after that thoughtless action, you didn’t even react the way you should’ve. At least, not the way he’d expected. You’d simply clutched your hand, gave him one last grin (albeit shaky and for sure full of fatigue) and just straight up left.

No pointed words. No vague remarks, no icy threats, you didn’t even yell at him. Which, quite frankly, he’s starting to think he deserves at this point. A general sense of guilt keeps brewing in the back of his mind, it’s only a matter of time before somebody here says something to justify it.

There’s a brief memory that flashes by, of looking down at you from a height not naturally his. Of biting down, of sinking teeth into the flesh of your arm. The taste of iron swims on his tongue. No bite marks covered your arms, a detail that’s just now noticed. A first attack.

It didn’t feel like his own body. It likely wasn’t, he knew the consequences of stabbing himself, but he didn’t expect them to be that... uncontrollable. That’s the word.

Even after you’d just explained everything that happened, it’s already slipping his mind. ID1OT.

Is this truly his own body, even now? Half unusable and more-than-half crawling with vegetation? Potentially monstrous underneath the covering?

It’s better to not dwell on such a thing, for the sake of remaining sane.

And then there’s the aftermath, before everything gets hazy, at least. The feeling of your sword slashing through his foliage, of a striking pain that closely resembles the current one wreaking havoc on his body currently. Nothing else surfaces beyond that point, the memory already fading.

Griefer’s pretty sure you slashing at him was completely accidental. Not really. It’s a monumental struggle to even think of the word to call it – with this growing ache, it seems everything collapses in on itself.

And by that, he just means that whatever the hell was keeping him from being in unbearable agony earlier is starting to wear off. Which might have just been the adrenaline (it’s a little humiliating to call it terror) from seeing you there at his bedside, honestly. That itching from earlier slowly progresses into stinging all over, a million pinprick needles everywhere all at once.

You could have taken your chance to kill him then, too, right when he’s the weakest. But, a shred of logic tells him, somebody would’ve witnessed it eventually. Maybe you’ll just murder him later. Please, please, please please please, anything to get out of this.

Are you angered at how any of this went down? Irritated at all, annoyed in any capacity? You should be. It would at the very least provide a solid explanation for your sudden mood switches, from sunny tones to cold ones in the blink of an eye. But alas, there is no reason in sight for why you’re getting involved in familial affairs.

Possibly because you’re like, a hero or whatever, but damn.

He needs to apologize to Dad. As soon as possible. At this rate, if he could end up just rotting away right here with a little paper note that just had the words “so sorry luv u, F in the chat 4 me” written on it, something stupid like that, it’d be real nice. It should probably be more detailed than that but whatever, doesn’t matter, better than having to confront any of this.

Unfortunately, he’s probably not dying anytime soon, and you don’t seem too keen on killing him either. Even more unfortunate, your form of revenge seems to come in a silent form. Which naturally means you’re leaving Griefer to talk with Mayor Thaniyel. Alone.

His father, who was definitely gonna end up hearing one way or another about how his precious son bit somebody like a dog. His father, who upon squinting, Griefer notices him hobbling into the room.

Please no. Not now. But, as embarrassing as the whole situation is... it’s nice to see him again, without the thick haze of the Venomshank weighing his mind and actions.

On the other hand, there’s another person who enters right behind him. A doctor, he thinks, which makes this whole situation just the slightest bit less intimidating.

The Mayor opens a mouth to speak.

“Br–”

Yet, before a single word comes out, the doctor speaks.

“HELLO! I SEE YOU’RE AWAKE AGAIN!”

...Again?

A loud, booming voice envelops the room. It’s borderline deafening as they introduce themselves, tell him the time, and some other words that are immediately tuned out. He thinks he’s seen this person around Turitopulis a couple of times, a blurry face that he associates with jasmine tea and a shit ton of jitteriness.

It doesn’t even have that much caffeine...

It’s the afternoon, according to them. Sometime around there. It’s not entirely lost on him that around now is the time that Dad should be working, or relaxing, or doing anything else but having to take the previous time out of his day to visit the son that used him. The son that made at least one person suffer, that tried to kill someone (and himself, kind of?), the one that made a complete shift of personality in... in...

It’s hard to think back to the first instance, the first time Brad had even seen the Venomshank. His father had showed him up close one day, said he felt he should know its location, should anything happen. Something happened, alright, that’s for sure.

A few months ago? A year? When did he move out, it was somewhere around then, wasn’t it?

It hurts to think about. Yet he can’t stop turning it over in his mind as the doctor continues speaking, can’t stop the train of thought that distracts him the slightest bit from his other pains.

It was... it was a few days after it was brought to his knowledge. A few days. Everything in between that and him enacting the kidnapping on the mayor remains blurry. Perhaps that’s something to remember later, when he has more brain cells to actually use.

Stop thinking, somebody’s speaking to you.

...Oh, god, the Venomshank took him completely over so fast. It took him over, mind body and soul. Presented him with false prophecies, filled his head with unwanted chatter and... stop thinking about it stop thinking about it stop thinking about it stop thinking–

He squints. Dad’s looking at him with a funny expression, a really warm look in his eyes with a mouth that makes it seem like he just ate a lemon. It’d be funny if it wasn’t all so confusing. He doesn’t deserve this, any of this, doesn’t deserve to be taken care of by anyone.

There’s a bitter pang in his heart when he realizes he’s making the exact same expression back at him. Griefer doesn’t deserve his father.

“...WELL. THIS IS THE LONGEST YOU’VE STAYED AWAKE IN ONE SITTING, SO... I’D SAY YOU’RE DOING GOOD FOR NOW! DO YOU WANT ANY JASMINE TEA? IT’S GREAT, ONE OF MY FAVORITES!”

Holy shit. Please stop talking, he’s having an emotional moment completely inside his own head here. That’s an insane thought to have. Wow.

And yet, the promise of tea, of having some kind of hydration right now... If he was hydrated at all right now, just the thought of it alone would make his mouth water. But, currently, he’s pretty sure all the water in his body is slowly being sucked out via plant growth so that’s not an option.

Griefer coughs. “PL3ASE.”

“GREAT! BE RIGHT BACK!”

Immediately, they whip around and speed walk out the door; one would think that they’d slam it shut as they left, but no, they just gently closed it before the ‘tip-tap’ pitter-patter of footsteps rang down the hall outside. Now, it’s just him and his father.

Him. And his father. Alone.

They both stare. and keep staring. This, Griefer solemnly accepts, is it. This is the moment where his dad tells him that he wants nothing to do with him, the moment where all his worst thoughts are confirmed.

He tries to speak, tries to open his mouth, but fear overtakes him. It’s as if he’s been eternally silenced – an open mouth with no sound able to be poured out.

None of these fears are even logical, a single shred of logic in his brain calls back to the moment where you had explicitly told him that the mayor still loved him. There’s all the evidence right here that there’s still a care for him, weirdly enough. And yet, he prepares for the worst anyways, for scathing words to spill out of Dad’s mouth.

His dad starts to speak, completely unwatched by the doctor now that they were gone.

“...I... I see you’re still biting!”

What.

The silence seems to spur him on further. “I mean, of course, it’s not the first time you’ve bitten someone in this state, um–”

Griefer splutters, hard, each subsequent breath unpleasant in how they scrape out of his throat like nails on a chalkboard. Briefly, his father shoots him a concerned look before he replies.

“WH4T. THAT PUNK T0LD YOU? ABOUT TH4T?”

A nervous smile stretches Mayor Thaniyel’s face. “...Indeed!”

“AND. AND 1T’S NOT THE F1RST TIME. THAT THIS H4PPENED.”

“Well, only to a doctor, or two orthree but it’s not your fault! No, nono...”

Oh, this is far more embarrassing than being disowned. He groans. “TH4T’S EVEN WO0ORSE....”

Griefer supposes that yeah, it’d be rather obvious if someone walked into a room with no visible injuries and walked out with disheveled bandages (your fault) and a giant bleeding bite mark on their hand (again, your fault). But did you really have to say something about it?

Difficult. This whole situation is difficult beyond belief.

A sudden wave of blurriness creeps along his vision once more, and he tries to shake his head to ward it away. It doesn’t work. Finding an actual solution to this would be tiresome – he opts for just squinting once again. Is it just him, or is his father way closer to the bedside than he was before?

There’s a long stretch of silence. If Griefer focuses, he thinks he can hear the mayor’s breathing stop and stutter occasionally. It’s weird to be able to hear that without voices drowning everything out. Where did they even go?

“Did...” There’s an audible gulp. The air hangs heavy, all of a sudden. “...Do you remember any of the other times you woke up?”

He tries to think. It feels like squeezing water out of a stone.

“I D0N’T THINK 1 CAN.”

Dad sighs, whether out of relief or disappointment he doesn’t know.

Interesting. He makes the attempt to sit up, only succeeding after using his arms to push his upper half up. The lower half... still can’t move. Oh god. “D1D SOMETHING HAPPEN TH4T I'M F0RGETTING?”

“I– You just–” Griefer takes notice of the shininess that coats the mayor’s eyes, the clenching of his fists held in a prayer, and everything seems to pause in this moment. That stuttering breath from before transforms into a choked hiccup.

In a flash, it all changes, and there’s a trembling warmth that envelops his body, a face shoving itself by his shoulders. “I’m so sorry!”

A hug. This is... a hug. It’s rib shattering, and he’s pretty sure that he’s being squeezed so badly that he can’t breathe, but it’s a hug from his father, an apology that...

“WHY 4RE Y0U APOLOGIZING?”

Immediately, his fathers head snaps back to fix him with a miserable look, and Griefer feels he should just shut his mouth before anything else fucks this up. He raises a shaky hand to Dad’s back, and again the sobbing starts back up.

Hands squish at his cheeks, an affectionate habit of Dad’s that annoyed him before but now just brews confusion. “My baby, my baby boy, oh god– Are you alright?! I can’t believe you’re alive, you’re talking–”

Why isn’t he being yelled at? He should be.

“I DON’T KNOW– I...” He needs to apologize. Needs to say sorry, he needs to speak about everything that happened, the elephant in the room that continues to go unaddressed–

But he’s so warm. Warmer than he’s ever been. The hands squishing his face, the yellow sunlight that beams into the room. It’s hard to speak. Hard to breathe. He can feel water droplets hitting the foliage on his shoulders, and the realization strikes that it’s not really water at all, but rather tears.

Brad shudders.

“...IF... IF ANYTHING...” Trying to speak feels like wading through a dirty lake. He coughs, and a petal drifts out. Ugh. “...I SHOULD B3... THE ONE WHO’S S0RRY. I’M– I’M SORRY. SO SORRY.”

Perhaps he should conjure up a better apology later. There’s more to it, an explanation that dad deserves, but it’s worth it for the time being to have his father clutch him further, to be able to hold him back and not have a single other word said. Nothing else needs to be spoken now.

The mayor’s hiccuping slowly pans out into relaxed breaths with time. Wet tear marks stain the sleeves of his lime-green shirt – whoops. Griefer didn’t even realize he had cried, but the evidence stared him in the face. At one point, the doctor from before had actually walked back in, just to set the tea down and immediately scurry back out.

And in this moment, he doesn’t think he’s anywhere close to forgiveness, yes, but the stain on his soul feels the slightest bit lighter.

A step in the right direction.

Chapter Text

“You know, you look kinda funny without your jacket and cap. Kinda like one of those hairless cats, y’know?”

“WHAT. WH4T IN THE ####.”

Crossing your legs on the chair, you let out a considerate hum, as if realizing what you just said.

“Sorry, did I mumble to you again? Been trying to stop that habit since the last time.”

It seems that you did not, in fact, realize what you just said. Griefer stares at your dopey grin, studies the relaxed look on your face, and wonders how much time it’ll take for you to switch it into something that’ll set the record for Robloxia’s most terrifying expression. Absent-mindedly, you swirl the drink you hold in your hands around.

“NO, N0T THAT, WH- 3UGH, WHAT THE H3LL IS THAT SUPPOSED TO ME4N.” He shoots you a bewildered look. “YOU’V3 N3VER EVEN MUMBLED? EV3R? L4ST TIME? WHAT ARE YOU T4LKING ABOUT?”

For all your previous quietness, which he now misses dearly, you have a habit of speaking clearly, if anything. Before you first spoke to him, when he thought you might just be mute, he’d thought your voice would have come out scratchy if it did at all. It didn’t. Never did. It’s like you made a specific effort to talk clearly.

All of these incoherent and mashed up thoughts to say: why the hell do you talk like you’re both familiar old buddies? Why does he not completely despise it?

“You look bald.”

...

Nevermind, Griefer despises it.

Intriguing individual, you are.

“...YOU CAN’T JUST COM3 IN, LO0K ME D3AD IN THE 3YES FOR A SOL1D MINUTE AND A H4LF WITHOUT S4YING ANYTHING, AND THEN JUST ST4RT THE CONVERS4TION WITH TH1S.”

It's the dead of night.

Both of you are supposed to be sleeping. Ignoring the fact that he was going into an anxious death-spiral at possibly one in the morning, ignoring the fact that you just barged into his room with a million more tiny fresh scratches and bruises on your body than before, you should both be asleep and perfectly fine. Right?

Where were you even coming from?

“Woah, that’s the most you’ve spoken. Especially without hacking yourself to death in the middle of it.” And now, you’re just blatantly ignoring everything he just said. Lovely. You’re just so lovely. Not. “You feeling better, friend?”

“DID YOU H3AR M–”

You take a sip from your drink. Ice clatters around as you stir the straw. “I heard you. Answer my question. How are you feeling?” Ah, there’s the scary face. It took you all of forty six seconds. He counted.

...Wait, you called him a friend? Huh. Holy shit, you are so confusing to interact with.

It’s been about a week or so since the last emotion-filled moment with his father, ending in a warm goodbye for the night that only served to befuddle Griefer more than he already was. Still, the mayor continued to visit him every day.

The progress that’s been made is slow, but it’s still something nonetheless. The leaves covering his entire body have grown just the slightest bit more sparse, the itching having gone down in intensity. Doesn’t stop him from coughing up random leaves and flowers.

For as much as he thought the voices had permanently gone away, they hadn’t. It’s much better than it was before, at the very least, only a few here and there. There’s something odd when it comes to you though – the closer you come to him, the worse they get, to the point where right now they’re just the same as before.

Do you carry the Venomshank with you? Please no. PLE4SE HAVE IT, PLEASE, PL3ASE–

That thought needs to be cut off right then and there.

You’re back to your usual weird face, looking at him as if you’d find the answers to the secrets of the universe written somewhere on it.

Oh. He needs to reply. It slipped his mind entirely. What did you ask again? Ah, how he’s feeling.

Griefer feels...

“C0LD.”

You hum. “Yeah, same, but like, how’s the healing going. That’s what I meant.”

It’s rather warm in the room, really, he just said that because you stole his blanket. Which he would like back, you’re already bundled up in a shit ton of other clothes. The usual red hoodie, some cloak, a blue scarf... His eyes drift over to the sheath for your dagger by your side. A glint of icy blue shines in the moonlight, and somehow, Griefer’s not as angry as he should be.

You’ve still got some nerve saying that you’re the one who’s cold, what with all those layers. Then again, maybe it’s true, and that would be the reason for them in the first place. That seems like the obvious reason as to why, but Griefer doesn’t care for logic as of now.

“THEN JU5T SAY TH4T? IT’S... IT’S GO1NG ALRIGHT.”

Despite everything about you that would suggest coldness, you flash a dazzlingly bright smile, warmer than fire itself. “That’s good. Glad that you’re starting to heal.”

It’s hard to look away from that expression, and that fact makes him just the slightest bit irritated.

“...MHM.”

And, yet again, confused. Disoriented. Whatever the word is, he can’t be bothered to think too hard on that, and he doesn’t want to. There’s something fuzzy there too from seeing a smile that isn’t threatening for once being aimed at his direction. Doesn’t matter.

He wasn’t lying, though – everything really is going alright. The physical therapy that he’s been put through is a little mind-numbing, but good news is that he’s not paralyzed from the waist down! Just temporarily immobilized. He thinks the relief he felt when the tea-obsessed doctor told him that was enough to qualm any of his worries for the next ten years.

It’s been... difficult to look at his body. Sooner or later, that blanket would’ve had to come off, and it did. It’s all plants. Everything. Thorns encasing his legs, leaves that flare around his ankles – recognizing himself as a living breathing person is... it’s...

He doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to think about the amount of times he’s tried painstakingly plucking each leaf off, one by one, until he couldn’t take it anymore.

Onto another topic! Before he loses his mind, please and thank you.

Might as well address the elephant in the room. He coughs, gaining your attention.

“SH0ULDN’T YOU B3 ASLEEP R1GHT NOW?” The question comes out more like a statement, but it’s clear enough anyways.

“Oh, for sure! I should most certainly be snoozing right this second. It’s way too late for either of us to be talking, y’know.” You prattle excitedly. Even in the dark, there’s a certain gleam in your eyes that he can still make out. Scary...

“SO WHY 4REN’T Y0U?” You’re going somewhere with this. He needs to steer this somewhere else. “Y0U CLEARLY NE3D YOUR BEAUTY SLEEP. NOT TH4T I THINK YOU G3T ANY TO BEGIN WITH, BUUUT...”

It’s a somewhat subtle yet completely unnecessary dig, considering that you don’t even look bad at all to him, but any semblance of power here would be nice. If anything, he’s just hoping you’ll leave. Kind of.

(The company is nice, but Griefer doesn’t dare to think or speak that aloud.)

You seriously don’t look like you get much sleep at all though, that aside. If the drink in your hands is some kind of energy drink, maybe that’d be a good thing. It fizzles and bubbles, a fucked up concoction dyed a dark brown. What the hell even is that?

And with that, he’s craving Witches Brew.

“...D’ya want some?”

What?

“HUH?” He squints at you, this time not entirely from his blurry vision, but rather out of pure confusion. “I- W4IT, DON’T JUST D0DGE THE QUESTION L1KE THAT!”

“Don’t care. Try some.” Excitedly, you shove it closer to his face. Clearly, you resolve to not answer no matter what, so no point in trying there for now.

He almost leans in to try a sip before realizing that hey, maybe drinking from something someone else drank from is a bad idea– and especially gross if it's you. And it’s then that Griefer decides, fuck it, and he hesitantly leans back in anyways.

He drinks just the tiniest bit of whatever bubbling bullshit is in there.

...

. . .

Griefer immediately spits it out.

“WHUH- WHHHUH TH3 FU–” A green-dyed hand slaps itself to his mouth as he processes the horrors he’s just experienced all within a fraction of a second. “WH4T IS TH4T?!”

Calmly, you reply, “Soda.”

“TAR FL4VORED?!”

“Nah, just every flavor in the store. It’s pretty sweet! Thought you liked sweet stuff.” As he sits (suffers) in silence just looking at you, you prattle on. “Y’know, judging from that cake comment from that one Woodsman, and the Witches Brew thing...”

For once in Griefer’s life, he’s keeping his big fat mouth shut for just one more moment. To soak it all in.

“EV3RY FLAVOR.” It’s not even a question. Just a shocked repetition of what you told him.

It is then that he takes one good look at you, and you’re smiling so wide it threatens to split your face in half. There’s way too much joy there for you to not be enjoying messing with him. He groans, moving his hand to his forehead in a facepalm.

“HOW D0 YOU 3VEN DR1NK THAT SHIT?” Whatever weird mixture of awe, confusion, and irritation there is brewing within him, it doesn’t come close to whatever the hell was in what he just tasted. “WITH A STR4IGHT FACE, T0O?”

You shrug, before somehow the smile grows even wider. Oh boy. “Dunno, the caffeine’s nice. Though, if it’s not sweet things you like, then maybe it’s sweet people?” Boop. You just booped him on the face, and Griefer is too perplexed by whatever the hell is going on here to do anything about it.

“Maybe I oughta change the way I interact with you if that’s so!”

“...” He stares at you, not for the first time and not the last for sure.

You stare back, before bursting out into raucous laughter, much too loud for the middle of the night. “Hah–! You’re so fun to mess with, Spawn above–”

“1S THERE SOM3THING 1’M NOT GETTING H3RE?” Weakly, he reaches out to shake you by the shoulders as rough as possible. “H3Y! PUNK! TELL ME? HELL0?!”

“Ah, ahah, no way that flew over your head – pfft – MY DRINK!” You made a desperate grab for your tilted over drink mid-laugh, successfully maneuvering it back upright before turning to face him with a blank expression as if nothing took place at all. Now he’s the one struggling to not laugh. “I’m flirting with you.”

“Y3AH, YEAH, GET YOUR DR1NK OUT OF H3RE ALREADY, GIMME MY BL4NKET BACK WHILE UR–” Mid-sentence, mid-shit-eating-grin, he chokes, “FL1RTING?”

Your shoulders shake with a poorly strained effort to not burst back out into a fit of giggles. “Yessir! Making you swoon for me.” Loudly, you proclaim, “You’ll tooootally forget about the whole shitty drink thing now, riiight?”

Currently, you’re in a very upbeat mood, not even a care in the world for whatever the hell you’re saying. And currently, Griefer has been shocked into a immobile stupor.

“...DUD3.”

“Just playing with you. I’m not being serious. Is that not evident? I thought it was.” He can’t see your face right now, as he’s resigned to staring at the ceiling, but he can hear ice clink around– you’re just stirring your drink to likely take another sip. “Oh, oh, forgot to mention, this thing has like... coffee, some redbull, I think there’s Bloxxy cola?–”

No wonder you’re so wired.

“I N33D SLEEP...” Not just because he does actually need it, but anything to distract himself from whatever you’re doing would be welcome. Griefer looks back to your tired face, stretched with manic glee. Crazed, even. “YOU NEED SL33P.”

“Mm, fair. Don’t think I’ve even slept in like...” You trail off. “Eh, can’t remember, but the grind never ends, baby!”

“RE4LLY SH0ULD’VE KILLED Y0U. IF 1 HAD KNOWN U W3RE LIKE THIS I W0ULD’VE LOCK3D IN AND TRIED H4RDER.”

“Heh, ‘locked in’. Didn’t think it carried back that far.”

Griefer deadpans. “1’M REALLY RESI5TING THE URGE TO STR4NGLE YOU.”

“...Oh Spawn, y’all don’t know the brainrot...”

“L1KE. RE4LLY, R3ALLY–” He coughs. If another petal or leaf comes out, he’s gonna lose it. “--RESISTING IT.”

He’s dead serious too. For as quiet as it is in his mind right now, there’s a little straggler of a voice that’s encouraging him to end you via two hundred methods listed out one by one. Granted, none of them are very convenient. Or helpful. He doesn’t really have access to an anvil to drop on your big stupid head. Nor does he have a piano.

“B3T YOU THINK UR SO0O0O FUNNY.”

“Kinda? It’s complicated.” You hum, shifting positions in the chair you sit in. Looks uncomfortable. Good. It’s been dragged closer, if the ear-grating screech the legs of it make as they slide across the floor are anything to go off of.

A moment passes. Multiple. Your face has completely dropped from before, and now it’s silent. A metaphorical clock ticks on, and crickets chirp somewhere in the world. The drink, the horrible beverage of pure malice and molasses is empty, he notices. Only half-melted ice.

And it is this miniscule detail that sets Griefer off into a crazed bout of laughter of his own.

“H4H!”

It’s ridiculous! It’s all so ridiculous. You’re charging in here at three in the morning, sleep deprived, pumped up on some mix of coffee, soda and an energy drink, spouting random shit at him in the hopes of entertainment. Why him, he doesn’t know, but it’s kinda funny.

Your unnerved face, funny. How in the world do you have the right to be unnerved right now?! It’s almost irritating.

A weight falls over him, over his face, putting a successful pause to his hysterics. You just plopped the blanket you stole from him back onto his body, covering him in the same way one would a birdcage. About time, but really?

Despite everything, Griefer isn’t mad. Somehow. Despite having to literally scramble his way out just to look at your stupid face forced into a neutral expression. He’s almost more mad at not being mad.

“WH4T DO Y0U GET OUTTA TH1S, HM?” The question is simple, laced with nothing but amusement. “1S IT LIKE, 3NTERTAINMENT? DISTRACTI0N? MIGHT AS W3LL TELL ME AT THIS P0INT.”

You blink. Once, twice, before snapping out of whatever daze you were in.

“A friend.”

Oh. That’s... surprisingly straightforward. He doesn’t even know if he’s surprised or not, in all honesty.

“JU5T CUZ UR FRIENDLESS D0ESN’T MEAN YOU C4N COME UP IN H3RE DO1NG ALL THAT.” He responds, a biting sneer held back in his tone.

Telamon above that was way meaner than he intended. Oh well. Maybe it’d get you to get out of here faster, he can deal with the guilt later.

You don’t even seem to grace him with an outward reaction, instead letting out a long yawn as you cross your arms over the blankets. No expression. Just you, laying your head down and saying nothing. No nothing. And that, truly, is frustrating.

...He does want you out of his sight, right?

Griefer finds that he’s much too late to mentally answer a concrete yes or no to that inquiry. Again, something to figure out later.

But of course, he never shuts up, and so he’s talking again. “I– URGH. TH4T 1SN’T–” As he splutters and struggles for several moments to not sound soft as all hell, he finds himself wishing he could just up and leave without any issue. Curse it all. “Y’KN0W WHAT, ST4Y, JUST DON’T MAK3 ME DR1NK WH4TEVER THE HELL TH4T WAS 3V3R AGA1N–”

You’re dead asleep when he decides to look at you again.

You are. Dead asleep. In the middle of his half-hearted corrective rambling. Slumped over, already crashing down from your previous energetic state.

...

Yeah, he’s maybe a little jealous of your ability to just sleep so quickly for a moment, but that jealousy turns to concern for the shortest moment– and it is then that Griefer finally feels the anger he wanted this whole time. And you’re not even awake to experience it.

For a few minutes, or more, hell if he really knows, he sits there internally debating on whether or not to wake you back up. On one hand, it’s what you deserve for spouting your jargon at him, for everything. On the other hand...

...Well. On the other hand. There’s... Oh, who is he fooling, he doesn’t even have an excuse.

And yet, he still makes the decision to do nothing.

Yup. Nothing. Definitely not poking at your cheek, or shaking your arm just a little bit to test the waters. Nothing of the sort whatsoever.

Not letting that touch linger for just a moment, looking at the way your head leans into the warmth of his palm– something that he would’ve considered a sickening sight barely twenty minutes ago, but now gives him conflicted thoughts. It’s annoying, you’re annoying, this whole situation itself is a maddening experience.

With that, he still finds himself muttering an apology to dead, frigid air– to nobody but the you that wouldn’t hear it. He doesn’t quite want to think of the smug look you would give him when that would eventually be addressed, of the embarrassment of having to apologize in the first place to you, some random stranger with a poorly hidden savior complex.

Or at least, that’s what Griefer hopes is the reason for you continuing to bother with him like this, bitter as he’s been despite your never-ending patience.

He knows from the simple response you gave earlier that it’s not the reason at all.

‘A friend.’

...

He’s still a little angry, all things considered, but it’s not at you – and that is the worst part.

Chapter Text

You hate him.

You honestly, truthfully, deep down inside your heart, must hate him to be pulling this kind of shit now. There's no way anyone who truly tolerated him and wanted to be his friend would do... this. And rest assured, he hates you too. He thinks. Maybe. Really not sure at this point.

With your signature empty-brained smile, you lightly swing him back and forth, humming a short melody that Griefer doesn't care to listen to and pick apart for anything recognizable. His legs feel too lead-heavy to move, but he really wishes he could kick you in the face. Just get it over with, won't you?

The situation goes as follows: he falls (climbs) out of bed, completely and totally by accident (it was on purpose,) and remains stuck there for, what, a few minutes?

(It was twenty minutes.)

(He really didn't feel like going through the embarrassing procedure of asking for help and then having someone check up on him to discover Griefer, crowbar wielding Griefer, the Mayor's son Griefer, the 'successfully stole the Venomshank' Griefer laid out on the ground like somebody's grandfather who fell down the stairs.

(Simply inconvenient for all parties, yes?)

He's gonna pretend like this whole thing never happened.

Although, if there's one thing he does expect, it's for you to pop in at the worst time possible at the most random hour just to see him in this miserable state. And it does happen! By accident, unlike his prior mission to get up and walk around. With no currently functioning legs. He swears it made more sense twenty-nine minutes ago.

You spent three minutes -- and Brad counted almost every second since he was already counting at that point -- solemnly looking down at his pathetic state, and honestly? He wasn't sure if you were holding back laughter or processing the scene. Both, perhaps?

A deal was struck, at that very moment: let you pick him up, and never speak a word of this outside this room. Hah, as if Griefer would ever want to speak to you again outside of the lonely confines of his bed.

...

Something has gone very, very wrong with him. Now, he's finding the urge to apologize to you over thoughts. Stupid. Maybe the Venomshank jacked him up more than he thought.

But wasn't he like this before?

He's not sure. Maybe he fears the answer; just a little.

Anyways, point is, he gave you permission (begged you) to pick him up and help him avoid a very awkward encounter with the tea-doctor-nurse-thing. He did not give you permission to hold him there for a solid minute, arms hooked under his knees in a full bridal carry.

"Wow, you're surprisingly easy to pick up!" The words aren't truly meant as an insult. He knows that. And yet, he feels a little irritated regardless. In your grasp, he feels like nothing at all.

"YOU'RE GONN4 BE EASY T0 B3AT UP THE M1NUTE I GET MY H4NDS ON YOU!"

(He already has his hands on you, as a matter of fact. An arm is clinging around your neck as if you'd drop him at any given moment.)

(Brad would say the warmth of you is nice. But it isn't. Because it simply isn't there.)

(Are you secretly a giant sword-wielding popsicle?)

"You're free to try. I kinda need more experience, anyways." Uncharacteristically (it's really not) gentle, you set him back down on the bed. With how long he's been posted up in it, Griefer is pretty sure there's a Griefer-sized dent in it. "Hey, heyhey, loser pays Tix?"

He really shouldn't entertain this. When it comes to a response, he can never truly win.

"HELL N4W! 1 CAN LITERALLY H3AR THE CO1NS JINGLING IN UR P0CKETS." He mutters, lacking in the energy to speak louder. "YOU R ACTU4LLY SO GRE3DY."

Aaaand he's entertaining it anyways.

You hum out a note of disappointment, airy and fake. "Alright, alright, just quit mean mugging me. You're so grumpy, I swear."

Griefer raises a clawed hand to lightly pinch at the space between his eyes like a depressed and stressed 30-something year old man with a mortgage and child support to worry about. You are so... annoying.

"I H4VE EVERY R1GHT TO BE WHEN YOU'RE HERE. SHOULDN'T U BE LOOKING 4 SOME SWORDS, OR SOM3THING?"

Your expression drops, eyes drooping and mouth curling downwards. "Aww... Really trying my best here, you know."

Something in your voice shifts to genuinely be saddened. Immediately, he drops the hand, attention shifting in what might be concern if he thought hard enough about it. It's not. He despises you.

(It is. You're... well, you're not not welcome.)

"DUDE, DUDEDUDEDUD3, NOT L1KE TH4T-" The panic momentarily shows in his voice before you cut him off.

"...Trying my best to be sweeter since that's what you like, riiight?"

A grin slowly creeps onto your face.

...Are you talking about that other conversation from before? Thinking back to it, to your casual way of dropping what felt like a nuclear bomb at the time to him, he's pretty sure you are.

With all the patience in the world, you sway slightly from side-to-side as he processes the not-so-new information. It's an interesting motion -- something cute, like an idle animation in a video game. Perhaps you just don't like staying still, but either way, it'd be entrancing if he wasn't thinking about what you said.

Griefer's ears feel like they're burning. Anger or something else, he doesn't really care to know.

Oh. Are you play-flirting with him again?

....

Just as there's maybe something wrong with him, there's something wrong with you. He's absolutely, positively, 100% sure of it.

(There's definitely something wrong with him too, because he hasn't kicked you out yet even though he absolutely should. Every cell in his body filled with disdain towards you specifically should be urging him to tell you to get out.)

(But they're not. Perhaps they're on vacation, all of them, the lousy lot.)

...Maybe this is a good opportunity to fuck with you in return, though. Hah! That's something! Revenge flirting would be exactly the type of thing you wouldn't expect!

And so, Griefer thinks. For too long. You're both staring at each other as he tries to think of something relevant and not corny to say, something that doesn't actually come on too strong. Plausible deniability, or something like that.

"UH. SUR3. MAYBE I D0 L1KE IT." He deadpans, the words gradually coming out just a little awkward the more he thinks about it. "YUP. YOU'R3 REEEEAL SWE3T."

...

That was more than bad. That was awful.

And the more Griefer thinks, the more he realizes that was a completely and utterly stupid response. Fake-flirting back is absolutely not the play here -- that's just something that adds fuel to your ever-infinite innocent remarks that feel more like teasing at this rate.

...But it's kinda worth it, just to see the shocked and perplexed look on your face. Just to see the mask slip and crack for a split second, the humanity underneath, before you're beaming the sunniest smile he's ever seen directly at him.

Maybe it's just the plant features, but it feels nice for a second before his senses hit him. Photosyntheshit or whatever it was called.

"Woooow, for reals?!" You lean in slightly closer at his side, and for what it's worth, your usually empty eyes are full of light. "Maybe whatever I thought you said to me was just a weird dream."

...?

Oh?

"AND WH4T THE HELL COULD I H4VE SA1D TO MAKE U THINK 0N IT???" He's genuinely curious. Heh, your dreams have him? Maybe he's cooler than he thought.

You flip your hand in a noncommittal fashion. "Ah, I dunno. Something about me being 'friendless' which, y'know, ruder than I thought you'd be, so I'm probably imagining it!"

He thinks. And thinks. And keeps thinking, he doesn't have much brain power after conversating with you. Really, Griefer's struggling to remember what he said outwardly that was supposedly so rude you actually remembered--

“JU5T CUZ UR FRIENDLESS D0ESN’T MEAN YOU C4N COME UP IN H3RE DO1NG ALL THAT.” He responds, a biting sneer held back in his tone.

Ah. That. Followed by you snoozing. Directly on his bed. He never did get to know when exactly you left, he was too busy sleeping himself.

Griefer sweats.

"I'D N3VER SAY TH4T TO YOU, DUD3." He lies. "THAT'S SOME LO5ER SH1T." He responds in earnest.

Faintly, you gasp. "Oh, okay!" As any prior confusion clears, your expression is replaced with something a bit hopeful. Nervous. It's new. "Question, food for thought. Do you think we're friends, Griefer?"

Fuck.

As you look at him, a gleaming sense of anticipation shows in your expression. Well, he supposes he can't mess up now, long as he watches what he says. He doesn't hate you, after all, so long as he doesn't think too hard on your annoying habit of existing when he least hopes you'll be present.

"UH. NAH."

Telamon above, damn it all.

"..."

You stand by his side with a stone-cold face. All the excitement drained, all the emotion. Something sharp twists in his stomach, for whatever reason. It really shouldn't. Griefer's not scared of you.

He does what he can only do best when he's bedridden: counting the seconds that tick by as he waits for something to happen. Maybe he's waiting for you to leave. Maybe he's waiting for you to finally, rightfully, snap at him. Maybe he's waiting to see the limits of your patience.

Maybe he's waiting to get what he deserves.

Finally, you speak.

"For now, yeah."

What?

"#### DOES THAT MEAN?"

"Means we will be, eventually." You wave your hand, dismissive. "Depends on when you come around. Took like, a month last time."

Yeah, nope, nevermind, perhaps he's just a little scared. Just a teensy tiny bit. What in the fuck does that even mean?

And he asks so aloud: "WH4T DOES THAT M3AN?"

No comment. In the blink of an eye, you're back to the regular cheerful disposition. No anger, no annoyance directed his way. Just a look that subtly tells him: "I know something you don't."

But instead of gloating, you switch subjects as if nothing ever happened at all.

"You haven't been coughing for this entire conversation!" You remark, making a motion of counting on your fingers. "Haven't coughed up plant stuff, haven't choked in it, heck, even your breathing doesn't sound so asthmatic anymore!"

He. He sounded. Like what?

As he sits there, fully confounded (as seems to usually be the case whenever you're nearby) you seem to take that as a sign to continue filling the silence. "You're healing preeeetty good--"

"ARE Y0U MY DOCTOR OR SOM3THING?!" He snaps, fully at his own limit. "DO YOU JU5T COME HER3 TO CONFUSE TH3 SHIT 0UT OF EVERY0NE 4ND LEAVE?"

"I mean. No." You admit. "But I just wanna see you get better, yeah?"

Griefer groans, exasperated. He's really not sure what your hidden motive is here (besides befriending him) but he's not too keen on finding out. "YOU C4RE T00 MUCH ABOUT SOME RANDOM GUY YOU MET LIKE, A WE3K AGO."

"It's been like, at least three."

"NOT THE POINT--"

"Brad." Shit. "Are you normally this resistant to people trying to care for you?" Your tone drops back into something icy -- for a second, he can't tell if he's satisfied or terrified.

It's a question that has Griefer opening his mouth to answer with something snarky, before he finds himself actually reflecting on it. You, Dad, the weird tea guy. He's done nothing but pile up reasons to apologize.

And he's already apologized to his poor father, who still comes in to check up on the son that literally bit the hand that saved him. He's done nothing of the sort for you.

Griefer clacks his mouth shut. Perhaps, he feels guilty. But perhaps, he feels that this is something he'll tackle later when he has the mental capacity to actually do something about it without making it worse.

And perhaps, that is likely to be one of the smarter thoughts he's had.

A voice drenched in red-hot seething for everything around it tells him otherwise. That this whole thing is just a sham, a trick from you that has no real innocent intent. That you're gaining something.

That he's become weak. Soft. Vulnerable.

Internally, he strikes a bet with himself: by the end of this week (or month, knowing how likely he is to immediately fold), he'll either have rid himself of all attachment to you, or he'll give in to your friendly facade and see where it goes.

(And really, he knows from the start that he's losing this, but either way this is some kind of action. Better than doing nothing and losing everything.)

Internally, there's many thoughts rattling around inside his brain, and twice as many voices. Griefer swears you still have the Venomshank on your person. Externally, he sighs, and resigns himself to answering your question: is he really resisting help?

"I DUNN0, M4N. YOU'RE-- I DON'T-- URGH." He lightly pinches at the space between his eyes. "...I BAR3LY KNOW Y0U. YOU PUT PL4NTS 0N ME. AND I D0N'T EVEN KNOW UR NAME."

It takes every bit of willpower and sense in his body to not say 'username', for whatever stupid reason.

"R3ALLY DON'T WANNA OW3 YOU SOME RID1CULOUS SHIT, I GUESS?" It's a dumb response, yet it's truly the only reason he can think of in his brain as to why he's still being a little shit towards you, even when you've done more for him than any other previous friend has.

You hum a note of... something. He can't really tell what you're feeling with your mouth set in a straight line and eyes untelling of any outward emotion.

And all of a sudden, it's switched to contemplation. "If I can't be a friend, at least let me be your ally."

For a few pitiful moments, you look at Griefer, and it's possibly the closest thing to a genuine pleading expression he's seen yet.

"Deal?"

The whole situation is ringing in a sense of deja vu from your last deal to lift him off the ground. One day, he'll do the same for you. If he befriends you. Which he won't because he never loses bets with himself.

"..."

For a second, Brad pretends like he's actually considering your stupid deal, when in his head he already made up his mind. Out of guilt, out of desperation to save his ever-shrinking ego, it's really up for debate.

"D3AL."

Griefer offers a hand to shake on it with the most serious expression he can muster. In reality, it probably looks stupid, but that's fine. He can be stupid so long as you don't get upset here.

(And since when did he care about your feelings?)

In the end, that won't matter. He's not your buddy, and it'll be that way for the foreseeable future. Especially not while he's stuck in bed and unable to get out of talking to you.

And yet, he realizes that you're still not as bad as he thought at first. So long as you keep pretending to care, it isn't too awful.

Damn it.

Despite it all, you smile. There's a small crinkle under your eyes from the force of it -- genuine, real this time around.

Your hand is still ice-cold. A shiver runs through him, almost pleasant, with the contrast to his clammy skin.

"Thanks."

Is he truly deserving of such a thing?

The answer is his mind, for once, is not as clear-cut as he'd hoped it would be.