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Somewhere in the labyrinth that had become Mumbo's house, the door creaked open. "Hello, Mumbo! Sorry I'm late, there was—wow. This place looks… different." Scar's voice echoed through the narrow hatches and stairwells, up to the cramped room Mumbo was using as his temporary living space.
Mumbo dog-eared the page of his book and set it on the windowsill. The pot on his stovetop was simmering away happily, as it had been for the past few hours. He gave it a quick stir, disturbing the spices and quartered apples that had sunk to the bottom, then descended the ladder near the entrance of the room, weaving his way through the mess of wood and netherrack to his front door.
Scar was waiting for him. His hair poked out at odd angles, mussed up by the helmet he had tucked under one arm. His other arm was occupied holding his cane, which he'd decorated with blue and orange trim before the beginning of the season. He gazed around the disaster zone that was Mumbo's entryway: the trapdoors clinging to every wall, the clutter of blocks around the room, the leaves sprouting from a young tree that valiantly attempted to dig its roots deeper into the floor.
"Hi, Scar. I assume you didn't get the memo about my interior either." Mumbo beckoned him further into the base. With tentative steps, Scar picked his way across the room, careful not to snag the dangling straps of his trousers on anything.
"There was a memo about your base?" Scar asked, tilting his head to the side. "I mean, you've certainly done… something… to the place. Are you going for abstract art this season, or…?"
"No! Goodness, no." Mumbo sputtered out a laugh. "A few people took it upon themselves to decorate while I was taking a nap. It's not staying like this." He looked at the two identical ladders leading up to the next story. "For one, I can't even navigate it."
Scar sighed. "That's a relief. I didn't want to hurt your feelings, but this is absolutely hideous."
"Bold words from the man living in a monster's stomach."
"I—you know, that's fair." Scar perked up, glancing around the room. "What's that smell, by the way?"
"Right, the cider! Come up, I can strain you out a cup." Hours sitting in the same room as the bubbling pot of spices had numbed Mumbo to the scent of it, but as he climbed what he was mostly sure was the right ladder, he was hit by a wall of cinnamon and cloves. He'd yet to install heating in the house, the server too mild to have need of it most of the year, but the aroma of the spices seemed to warm him from the inside out.
Holding Scar's cane while his partner climbed up after him, Mumbo led them back to the small room he'd carved out of the chaos. Against the window on the far wall was his bed, sheets tousled from where he'd been sat reading moments earlier. A pile of chests and barrels crowded the walls. A few of these were covered in unwashed mugs or concept sketches, substituting for an actual desk. In the corner was a small sink and the stove.
To give them slightly more space, Mumbo shut the door behind Scar. "Make yourself at home, if you can."
"Oh, this is cozy!" Scar exclaimed. He wasted no time in kicking off his boots and hopping onto Mumbo's bed. "You won't believe the stress I've had today, Mumby. I need some R&R. And to watch Doc's beloved redstone get swept away in a flood. Preferably in the opposite order, but I'm not picky."
They discussed their days and the various happenings on the server as Mumbo set to work straining the cider. Despite how close they lived, it was all too easy to miss server news, the lack of elytra making travel a chore. Etho's rabbit-donkey hybrids could only do so much. (Mumbo hadn't been aware they were crossbred with rabbits, but Scar insisted that's what Etho had said. He hoped it was all marketing. The mental image was rather disturbing.)
With the strained solids set aside to make apple sauce later, Mumbo scrubbed out his two mugs and poured out the apple cider. Twin swirls of steam rose from their mugs. He handed Scar his mug, which had a chipped design of a cat on it, and settled into the bed beside him. The cider was almost too hot to drink, each sip threatening to burn his tongue, but he swallowed it down anyway, relishing in the warmth and calm away from the hectic early days of the server.
"It'd be nice if I had a juicer. Wouldn't have to live with my rubbish straining." He leaned into Scar's side, the thick fabric of his jacket solid against him. "You don't happen to have one, do you?"
"Mumbo, I don't even have iron tools," Scar said with a choked laugh. "You'll have to wait a bit longer for the niche kitchen appliances."
"I can dream."
They finished their cider and set their empty mugs on the windowsill behind them. Mumbo clearly hadn't realized how tired he was, because it was all too easy for Scar to nudge him to lie down, head resting in his lap. Scar's calloused fingers carded through his hair. He let his eyes drift shut, humming contentedly. After a couple of weeks of breaking his back gathering resources and breaking his brain trying to figure out how geese looked, it was nice to feel that ever-present tension leave his shoulders, body melting into the heat below him.
Scar's hand stilled. That in itself wasn't enough to drag Mumbo from the fuzzy-headed languor he'd wrapped himself in. No, what forced his eyes open was the gasp Scar gave.
"What?" he muttered, squinting at Scar's figure, backlit by the afternoon sun. Scar's face glowed with childlike glee, mouth pulled wide in an amazed smile that Mumbo associated with only his worst ideas.
"Nothing, nothing." Scar patted Mumbo's cheek condescendingly. "You can go back to sleep now."
"Come on, what is it?" Mumbo sat up, trying to rub the drowsiness from his eyes.
In lieu of an answer, Scar reached into Mumbo's hair. Mumbo felt a sharp pinch, and then Scar's hand retreated. Grasped between his index finger and thumb was a single gray hair, shining in the sunlight like fine silver filament.
He could do nothing but stare at it. He'd done his whole aging thing last season, but that was an experiment. A bit, not something permanent. He was one of the youngest Hermits. The baby of the server, as he hated to think of himself, for over a decade. He knew he'd grown older, more mature, but seeing the evidence of those years before him made it all feel so much more real.
This wouldn't do. "Do you think squid ink works as a hair dye?" he mused, eyes still unable to leave that infernal gray strand. He wasn't even thirty yet. He wasn't supposed to be old.
"No, Mumbo, don't dye it!" Scar flicked the hair away, taking both of Mumbo's hands in his. "You looked so good with gray hair. It'd be a crime to deprive me of that. I'd never forgive you."
Mumbo felt his cheeks grow warm. He wasn't unused to Scar's affections, but this… He didn't know where this earnestness came from. How could Scar imagine some future Mumbo, hair flecked with white, and not think of what else that meant, of how he'd be hurtling towards his inevitable doom, his talents slipping through his fingers like sand?
That felt too morbid. He averted his gaze. "But I like my hair now." Then, more quietly, "I like myself now. I'm not keen on becoming—washed up." He'd meant it as a joke, but he couldn't force the proper levity into his tone. After all, it wasn't a lie. He felt like he'd just hit his stride creatively, and already he was being reminded of how all his progress would inevitably be stolen away from him.
Scar, in a rare moment of solemnness, didn't speak immediately. Slowly, like he was mulling over the choice of each word, he said, "Getting older doesn't mean getting washed up, you know. You can still change. Improve. Learn new skills."
Yes, he knew that, but. "But—"
"Or are you saying I can't learn redstone now because I'm too old for it?" Mumbo looked up to see Scar flashing him a smile. He knew he had Mumbo backed into a corner.
The part of Mumbo's brain that liked to critique his builds endlessly, liked to tear himself down like it was a game and the goal was having a breakdown, helpfully chimed in that Scar was different. It wasn't clear how, because this part of his brain wasn't nearly logical enough for that, but different. He could expand his skill set. He could make things his own. Mumbo was only ever going to be a fraud, a cheap copycat of his more talented friends, destined to fall short in comparison.
Recently, though, he'd been trying to shut that part of himself up. He didn't want to think those things about himself. "You really mean it?" he asked, desperate for reassurance to anchor himself to.
Scar's gaze softened with an admiration Mumbo was only just learning how to receive. "Of course. Only a few years of focusing on building, and you're already better than me. Who knows what you'll be doing in another decade?"
"Don't sell yourself short, either." Mumbo squeezed Scar's hands. Scar's self-deprecating streak could be as bad as his, sometimes. He was just better at hiding it.
Scar shrugged, brushing the topic off. Then, leaning forward, he murmured, "Besides, old Mumbo was super hot. I was worried I'd be on death's doorstep before I got to see him again."
Mumbo laughed, scandalized. "Scar!" His further protests were muffled by a kiss that he melted into, letting Scar swallow up his every insecurity. If this was what getting older was like, maybe it wouldn't be all that bad.