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“Have you greyed?”
Grian was half expecting to blink and it would disappear, a figment of his imagination, but it was still there, no matter how many times he rubbed his weary eyes—a visible grey streak through Mumbo’s hair.
“Have I?”
“Are you getting old?” Grian asks too quickly, even though he knows that it must be impossible; it has to be. He wasn’t meant to get old, not him-
He laughs as he runs his fingers through the obscene streak, eyes analysing his reflection in a shop window. “I do!” Why is he laughing? “Does it look good?” His friend asked so coyly, too joyously, facing him so that Grian could see everything he hadn’t seen before.
His brows furrowed, making a harsh line between them, his eyes squinted, and suddenly, Grian was acutely aware of his smile lines, their daunting presence now the only thing he could think about. Has he always had those? Has he been so naively oblivious? So stuck in his belief that somehow this time would be different, that he had made himself blind to his friend’s ageing?
He’s taking too long to respond. Mumbo is looking at him too closely, noting how wide his eyes have become, how he’s hiding shaking hands behind his back, say something, say something-
“Sure.”
And the moment passes, and joy replaces that dread so swiftly, he could almost pretend that nothing had happened at all. It’s just like how it always is: laughter, jokes, and that will be never-ending. He doesn’t have to think about it. He doesn’t, he doesn’t…
* * *
How old was Mumbo anyway?
Grian had always tried to steer away from the topic of age in fear of getting himself into a sticky situation, but now he was kicking himself. He had known him for such a long time, he would know if he was getting old, but then again, he had known Mumbo for a very, very long time…
How did ageing work? Everyone he has ever known has died over and over again with no repercussions; that was the greatness of the respawn mechanic—it made death such a trivial thing. Until it’s not.
He knows players who choose not to partake in respawning, opting to let their one death be it, and he has always commended them, even if he finds it dangerous. His cousin is one of those maniacs; he’s been doing it for years, becoming famous for how long he’s been clinging to life. But in the back of his mind, he worries. Because it’s so easy to applaud the stupid for their over-the-top display of strength, will, and bravery until one slip, one mishap, one mistake, and they are just gone. Forever.
It’s hard to understand how to feel about death when in one place he’s laughing about somebody accidentally slipping off a cliff and splatting the ground with their items like a crime scene, and the next he’s reminiscing over drinks to friends about someone they used to know, someone who fell and never came back to collect the stuff they left behind.
But Mumbo wasn’t one of them; he’s probably died more times than Grian has. So why?
He remembers the late Hermits before. How they greyed, then slowly but surely got weaker, sicker and one day, they disappear. They’re just… gone. Piles of candles where they used to be, melting into a mass of wax and burnt wicks.
It didn’t matter. Players lived to at least a hundred and started ageing way before that, maybe Mumbo was just an early oldie. They still had decades upon decades together.
That thought doesn’t comfort him as much as he wanted it to.
Decades felt like such a short amount of time in the grand scheme of things. He much preferred it when he didn’t have a looming countdown over his friend’s head. That crushing feeling as he looks around at the rest of everyone he’s ever cared about, and that short, so terribly short countdown is tick tick ticking down above them as they frolic through their lives with not a care in the world.
He shouldn’t care about it either. He still has so much time left with him, tenfold of what he has already gotten. It already feels like he’s known the man for centuries. Future Grian can worry about this. It isn’t his time to worry about it.
But the next time he sees Mumbo.
There is another grey streak.
He doesn’t say anything this time. For what is there to say? Bringing attention to it will only ruin his psyche beyond repair. But he watches, and he sees how exhausted Mumbo gets by things he never used to, how he’s slowed when once he was so full of energy, how before his eyes he is rotting rapidly, to flesh, to organ, to bone, to dust-
Grian gives a half-hearted excuse before he leaves, unable to bear to see his friend like this anymore.
* * *
He had a plan.
As much as he has ever had a plan before. A loose string of ideas and what he wants to happen as the end goal, hoping he can hop through enough hoops, and shimmy his way through obstacles to get what he deserves. And it’s worked, most of the time at least. But with this, he thought he’d get more time. At least a year to figure out how to keep Mumbo with him.
He thought, sometime between everything else he does, he could spend a minute just looking into a way for a player to live longer, to reverse the process, to keep him alive at least for a century more or more, and he would find a miracle. A potion, an amulet, or a surgery to keep Mumbo alive, hanging out with him forever. But there isn’t. If there were, then players would be using it. Not that that answer satisfies him, though.
He’s spent days, weeks, months, who knew at this point, just roaming through bookshelves and asking outside of the Hermits’ domain for some kind of answer. Everything else was not important: base building, talking to friends, taking care of himself, a stupid suggestion when things have spiralled so quickly out of control. How could he just sit and do nothing? There must be something, anything-
“Hello, neighbour!” A cheerful tone calls out throughout the house, giving Grian no chance to fumble together all the scattered papers across his home, not that it mattered; none of it had any value. “I brought a gift for yo- Oh…”
Scar kneeled to his side as Grian pathetically lay over books, scrolls, essays, myths, anything, everything, like a corpse, eyes dead and bloodshot. A nurturing hand rested upon him, and when he looked up to his friend, his worried smile and the ticking clock above his head taunted him. Always counting down.
“What’s going on? Haven’t you seen you this stir crazy since the whole moon-crashing-down-on-us.” He tries and fails to laugh, sounding more like an exasperated sigh that quickly dies as his eyes linger on the pages below him, “It’s been a while since anybody has seen you, G. We’re getting worried…”
His friend picks up one of the books filled with coloured tabs and highlighted sentences, ‘How to Live Forever’. His smile falls, and a tired expression takes its place. He didn’t know which he preferred more when everything was hurting him.
“So… this is about Mumbo,” Scar says it so calmly, too calmly, how could he- how dare he-
“Of course it’s about him! He’s dying!” His words come out too fast, too sharp, too mean, “You’ve all been acting like everything is normal while every day he’s just- just withering away! What am I meant to do? Just sit around and wait? Just- ”
“Hey, hey, take it easy…” Hands tried to hold him, but he couldn’t-
“How can I possibly take it easy?!” He’s to his feet and now hopelessly prodding at Scar’s chest like it’ll do something - “Do you expect me to just do nothing?!”
“Yes,” Calloused hands hold him tighter, stopping him in place. His eyes are too sullen, too soft, too safe, “I do. Because- Listen to me, please. G, there is nothing you can do. And I know you won’t accept that, but trust me, if there was anything I- or- or anyone could do, we would.”
Grian hated everything he was saying, but found that all the fight within him had been stifled like a candle, smoke now just dissipating into the air. Body slumped into his friend’s arms, letting him hold him up, letting him take on some of the burdens on his back before they swallow him whole.
“This was going to happen no matter what.” Voice so sweet, but words so wrong. It wasn’t meant to happen to him, not meant to be so soon- “We are acting like everything is fine because we want him to believe that it is, he knows full well what’s happening and worrying won’t change it, time will tick on whether we want to or not. We’re not doing this because we don’t care, of course, we care.”
“I know…” Grian sniffled so pathetically, voice muffled in his friend’s shirt, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright… Just worried about you, we all have been. Even Mumbo. You should really go see him…” All Grian could do was nod, worried that if he spoke, then all his emotions could come out at once like a tidal wave. “And it will be okay, I know you don’t think that, but it will be.”
“How-” Too broken and shattered to be understood. Breathe. Breathe. Not yet . “How will it ever be okay?”
“Well.” Scar runs a hand through his hair, and it’s like he can hear the smile on his face, and there’s something so comforting about that. “Because in the end, when we all go, we will all be back together, no matter where we go after this.”
Oh.
Scar rubs shapes into his back, resting his chin on the top of his head, “I’m not afraid of death because I know you’ll meet me there. Any place with you in it will be okay to me.”
And all at once, those crashing feelings consume him, and it is impossible to stop those waves from escaping as hot, salty tears, as raspy gasps for air, as arms being wrapped around him before he slams into the floor, wanting to just pound his fist into the nearest surface and curse everything. His heart shattered at loneliness he hasn’t felt yet but the very existence of wandering any plane where his friends—his family —cannot follow is suffocating.
Scar holds him, and Grian knows that there is no way to explain why he’s so distraught, but right now, Scar is holding him, he’s breathing, he’s alive, they’re all still alive, and that’s all that matters.
* * *
What happens when the rest of his friends age and he doesn’t?
He hadn’t thought about it before. He hasn’t been alive long enough to have to; right now, in this moment, he looks exactly how he should. Yes, maybe a bit young, but not in a way that has made anybody suspicious, just a way to gloat about his good genes. But in ten years? Twenty? What then?
Would they question why he still looks the same way he did when they first met? How his skin stays free of the scars of time. How he’s managed to dance with death, dodging each grey hair and creaking joint. How long until they don’t believe his lies about potions and hair dye? How long until they find out who he really is?
Was this why all the other Watchers scorned him for keeping so close to players?
Obviously, he has disdain for their ideologies and morals, but maybe on this one single thing in this one specific time, they were right. There will come a day when he will have to leave and never see them again, so their image of him in their heads forever stays untainted. And that hurts . So much more than he ever thought it would, more than any other death in his life. That looming fact of everyone he sees, outworld and the ones he holds closest, they will all grow past him, move onto better things, and he will be here, hearing that constant ticking.
There’s no way for a Watcher to die. Not that he looked. Not that he wants to. Just…
If he could…
Mumbo’s steps towards his grave have not wavered, haven’t slowed for even a moment, spiralling so out of control that every time they see each other, he’s a completely new person. Grian had been visiting a lot, nearly every day, just sitting by his side as he worked, making comments and suggestions, finding every little chance to talk. He doesn’t think about how their interactions are now numbered. He doesn’t wonder if they are in the hundreds or dozens. He doesn’t think about it-
“Does this look okay?” A voice interrupts the vicious picking Grian was doing to his fingers, claws at his skin until it breaks, crimson running down his finger- “It’s not too much, right?”
Eyes looked up, wiping away the blood on his sweater, only to find his vision berated by a mirage of colours and textures, “Too much? Way too much! You don’t have to use every block!”
“I knew it, I knew it when I was placing them down, I just-” He grumbles, running a wrinkled hand through his more grey than black hair, “Yeah, I’ll take some away, I keep on having to remind myself that simpler is better.”
“I wonder who told you that.” For the first time, a laughter rumbles in his throat, numbing the pain in his hands, “You don’t have to use every palette known to playerkind. You have all of next season to go all out.”
Mumbo paused.
He turns his head away. And barely audibly, hums.
Grian doesn’t like the way he purses his lips. And he doesn’t like the way that he clenches and unclenches his hands, shifting all his weight from one foot to the other, eyes avoiding his direction. Why wouldn’t he look at him?
“Hey… I-” Why isn’t he smiling anymore? Why did things have to change? “We… need to talk.”
“No.”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, like… a lot. I… I don’t think I’ll be there next season-”
“Please-”
“Grian, look at me.”
Warm hands cover his, a comforting presence hovers over him, and he makes the mistake of falling for that safety. He dares to look up into Mumbo’s eyes and instantly feels his own becoming wet, his body shaking, his deepest fears becoming transparent on his probably pathetic expression.
“I can’t come with you.”
His heart was cracking, breaking, shattering, a deep ache taking hold of his chest and leaving him feeling hollow, “But you can- It’s only a couple of months now, you have so much time-”
“Grian-”
“You can’t leave me.” Voice was beyond repair, and he finds out too late that he’s already crying, no way to stop the avalanche threatening to suffocate him. “Because if you go, everyone else will go and- I’ll be alone . Before you, I was so alone and- I can’t go back- I like being with you-” Tears are streaming down his face like a snotty child, vile sniffling noises making any argument he’s trying to make more a desperate plea. “Without you, I don’t know who I’ll be- You’ve always been there, always …” He tries to look into his friend’s eyes through the cloudiness and finds that they were just as damp. “I can’t do this on my own, Mumbo.”
The man tries to wipe away the wet lines upon his cheeks with his suit sleeve, but they quickly get replaced, “But you won’t be on your own, I’ll- I’ll still be here, in a way-”
“Oh, stop, please. You won’t be here, you’ll be gone and-”
Grian was now inconsolable, now left to sit on a nearby block as horrid, heaving, gasping for air, trying to escape him. A weight on his chest, lack of oxygen darkening his vision, and the overwhelming sense of dread refuse to let him calm down, because how could he possibly calm down?
Then, he feels a presence next to him, arms clinging around him as his ears are filled with the noise of matching sobbing. A head falls onto his shoulder, and he can feel the fast and fickle breath of his friend. All they could do was hold each other tight like a lifesaver in the waves of emotions that crashed around them. Grian’s brain, when it was once bombarded with the spinning thoughts of grief, now just repeated again and again ‘He’s here. He’s still alive. I’m not alone.’
His sweater sleeves are fully wet, but eventually, they stop crying. More because they ran out of tears to shed than because they were done, emotions still raw like an open wound.
Mumbo reaches over and holds his hand tight, “I haven’t told anybody this but… I’m scared, Grian.” He lets out a devastating, damp laugh, bordering more on a sob, “I’m so scared. I know I shouldn’t be, but…”
“Of course you can be scared, this is terrifying !” His own hands held on tighter as if he let go, the man would fall between his fingers forever, “We have no clue what’s going to happen and I… I want you to know that I’m going to be there for you until you-” Grian harshly swallowed, his lungs tangled in barbed wire as he tried not to break down again, “I’m going to make sure you’re not alone for the rest of your days.”
Mumbo lets out another wet laugh, his own attempt to keep his composure while wiping at his eyes, “Promise to visit me afterwards too?”
“...Yeah, I mean- I don’t know where you’ll be, but I’ll visit you every single day for… as long as I possibly can.” The words of ‘forever’ are thought of, but aren’t said. Even when the world collapses and the sea floods the land, Grian will take his remains to a refuge, so that even beyond life, they will still live close together, as they have done for years and years, and it all goes unspoken.
“Well, I won’t be going anywhere, unless you want to move all that ,” Mumbo lets out an airy laugh, hands gesturing to something that he somehow hadn’t given a proper look, and now that he had…
Grian almost couldn’t believe it. It was this mass of contraptions that had fans, lights, cables, and most bizarrely a monitor that showed a still image of his friend’s face. It was eerily similar to the robot they had made together so long ago, but bigger, and—covering Grumbot’s ears for this—better. And then Mumbo’s words finally registered in his head and-
He lets out a laugh. An honest and truthful laugh as he sighed out, “Of course… Of course, you made a robot.”
“I’m planning to put myself in there when you know… but… what if something goes wrong or- the system short circuits and it loses me and-” He lets out a strangled noise as frantic hands try to prevent another rainpour. “I’m just so worried…”
Grian takes both of his hands together into his own, forcing their eyes together. “I will make sure nothing happens, okay? I will be there every day to visit and make sure you are okay-”
“You can’t be there every day, one day you’ll be gone and-”
“Hey, hey- Look at me. Mumbo, I will be there..”
For a moment, everything was okay, the air finally breathable. Tree leaves bristled against one another, the sun continued to fall, and that ticking clock counted down but Grian didn’t pay it much mind, making sure to put all his attention to what was most important.
“...you promise?”
“I promise.”
* * *
Too soon, his hair is all white, not even grey any longer. Too soon, he struggles to take care of himself. Too soon, he can’t get out of bed.
He starts to rot. It was somehow more painful to watch him not want to do anything, to not want to eat, drink, talk and instead just stare at nothing then it was to watch him die. A different sort of pain, of hopelessness of wanting to do anything one can possibly do to make it better, to fix things, but he can't. It didn't matter how many sweet treats he brought, how many jokes and stories he told, gifts made, time spent together, Mumbo was rotting and getting worse by the day, wanting to do things but unable to do so by a body that hurt him and a brain that didn't function anymore. One day, he stopped reacting to anything at all. And that's when Grian knew that this was it. It was time.
Mumbo is soon surrounded by friends and family, barely even conscious but there is still hope that he can even register what’s going on so he knows he’s not alone. Taking turns telling stories and laughing as Grian just stared at his friend, trying to take every single detail and ingrain it into his brain so he never ever forgets how his face looks. His hands were wrinkled in Grian’s, barely even recognizable to the person he knew not even a few months before. Was it more merciful to remember the ghost before him or just like his mind to keep hold of the memory of who he used to be?
He wastes time just staring at their hands and he was the first to notice as Mumbo went limp. How cold his skin became, clammy and heartbeat becoming vacant.
And just like that, he was gone. The timer ran out.
* * *
The landscape had been harder to navigate the past couple of years.
The trees had outgrown the shore and had now overtaken many of the houses, moss covering the colourful pallets and roots crumbling most of the walls. He was lucky he could fly as trying to make any sort of path would soon be a fruitless endeavor, it was hard enough to get rid of any encroaching foliage from getting into places it shouldn’t. It was worth it though.
Grian let out a sigh, his shoulder slumping as he closed the compartment where all the wires were, screwing it back together. There had been some heavy rainfall as of late, the river now threatening to swallow the village whole but for now, they were okay. Figuring out how to move all this was for future Grian.
Stepping back, he looked up at the monitor, cracked and kept together with glue, tape, and hope. There was a storm and Joel’s city had crumbled. He didn’t realise how close they really were until it was too late. But he was going to make it right. He could fix him, he had to, even if the last hundred attempts hadn’t really gone to plan and each time he messed with his friend’s work, the more likely it was that he would mess it all up and lose him. He wished for a moment that Tango, Etho, or anybody was around to tell him what to do, to help him, but brushed off the thought, already hitting rock bottom and not needing another reason to dig further down.
Pleading eyes looked up at his friend, waiting for something, anything, and waited and waited…
There was nothing. Not a flicker. Not a spark.
Grian crumbled to the floor, crossed legged on jagged rocks, on overgrown grass full of weeds and flowers, near taller than himself. He wondered if he sat here forever if he’d eventually starve to death. He knew that it wouldn’t work but maybe if he tried once more, this time…
Suddenly, a light beamed through his shut eyes. Fluttering open, he was met with a sight he had resigned himself to only seeing in his dreams. His friend. Eyes squinted into a smile, matching Grian’s own, albeit less tears.
“Hey mate,” His voice was still as full of fondness as he remembered it being, and Grian closed his eyes tight enough, he could pretend that a voice box was speaking it, that Mumbo was right there next to him, still here. “I’m glad you’re still here to check on me.”
“Yeah… I’m glad too…”