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Once again, Mugman finds himself surrounded by the chilled silence of the forest. The moon shines down softly onto his face, peeking through the forest canopy. The silence weighs heavy on his shoulders, but it’s simply just added weight to him as the life that normally permeates the forest is devoid of anything at all. The usual sound of the fauna amongst the leaves is missing, leaving a death-like void in its wake.
It’s late, stars dotting the sky like a canvas who’s been well-loved. They reflect off of porcelain and flicker, illuminating eyes that have been dulled with exhaustion. The pools of his irises almost seem to snuff out the light of the stars that hit them, lost into void and forgotten amongst the darkness.
…Oh, how Mugman wishes that those lights would stay around for once.
They are still on this journey, this death trap. The tombstones that await them draw nearer each day that passes, some sooner than others. That end approaches them all, yet they are all chained to this course, and there’s no way to go but forward.
A heavy sigh breaks that silence as it begins to crowd around Mugman, picking at his shabby, old gloves as his eyes slowly scan each tree and bush. Observing as leaves drift and break from their branches, falling down to the forest floor. Becoming one with the thousands of others that have fallen and settled on the dirt.
They’re destined to be crushed in the end, broken into a million pieces. Shattered after reaching the end of their path.
The mug reaches for a leaf as it falls, catching it in his palm. Fragile, delicate— millions upon millions of them littering the grass. Every single one is unique, despite all of them being leaves. Some are different shapes— lobed, simple, smooth, pointed, round, fuzzy— they’re all vastly different.
All it takes is a single clench of the fist for them to crumble into those thousands of tiny pieces. A single press of a boot for dozens to crackle, for that leaf’s presence to be no longer.
He lets the remains of the leaf drift and fall from between his fingers, eyes tracking every little bit as it merges into the darkness of the night. The stars seem to snuff themselves out for a moment, leaving the mug in void as the whispers of life vanish from his hands. Deathly silence falls once more, leaving Mugman alone in the overbearing nothingness that surrounds him.
Then, a crackle of those broken leaves that does not source from him. A step from behind that breaks through the silence like a cannon being shot, a church bell being rung. Mugman’s heart drops into his stomach as he turns around, stone-faced expression masking the genuine fear that shoots through him.
The stars seem to slowly light again in the sky as out from the darkness steps a familiar face. Gentle claws pull down on a branch as two pitch-black voids meet his gaze, the light reflecting from his inky face.
“…Mugs? What’re you doin’ out here?”
Bendy. Mugman didn’t know that the ink demon was still awake, although that… frankly does not surprise him. He hadn’t expected anybody to be awake, really, much less come and find him.
Leaves continue to fall after the bated breath that passed through the forest, movement continuing as everything is put into motion once again. Life returns minutely, a rush of… something passing over Mugman at the question. It comes out genuine, curious. Not pushy, not pitying, just… curious.
Silence is the only response from the mug for a long, stretching moment. His hands move to tug at his scarf, fidgeting with the tail of it just as he typically does, averting his gaze with a nervousness that he has not felt for a while.
He doesn’t know what to say in response. So much lingers just on his tongue, but none of it makes the jump off of his tongue and past his lips. His hands feel clammy, biting the inside of his cheek as the spotlight is put on him— a man who lacks that experience facing a man who’s only ever been on stage.
“Just… thinking,” he manages to squeeze out, turning away fully from his place on a dead log. A cold chill drifts through once more, whispers of wind crawling their way beneath Mugman’s scarf. Something normal, expected compared to the sudden lack of loneliness, of pure, uninterrupted silence. The forest seems alive again in the ink demon’s wake, and it’s new. It’s scary, even.
The mug stays put, frozen amongst a now moving, living, breathing forest, afraid to break his own familiarity in an ever-changing world, a canopy with returned life brought to it.
A second crunch of leaves and, for the first time, Bendy steps forward instead of back.
One, and then two. The crunching of leaves under the ink demon’s shoes, creating a path of flattened, crushed, dead vegetation. Time feels slowed, the wind halting with anticipation with every footfall that meets the soft dirt, with every joint that moves the ink demon’s legs forward. Two nerve-wracked hearts race in sync, terrified of breaking the calm that’s been established already.
And then, the ink demon is silently setting himself next to the mug, a space left in between the two of them that holds hesitancy in its breath. A bridge that both are silently scared to cross.
Mugman stares out into the nothingness of the oak and the maple and the birch that surrounds the two of them, continuing to move his hands rhythmically. Repetitive and predictable in nature, it’s calming. Comforting. Familiar. Any words he thinks of are trapped within his throat, caught to never be heard by another soul. Strangled into oblivion to join the crushed leaf litter covering the forests dirt, swallowed down out of overwhelming anxiety and fear.
No words crawl from either throat for a long time, cowering just before anything is able to spew out.
The silence is deafening to the ink demon, enveloping and crowding his form, while a familiar, welcoming feeling meets Mugman with the return of that death-like quietness.
“Y’don’t gotta tell me anythin’.” The words cut through the silence suddenly, a gunshot of sincerity that Mugman rarely receives. It crackles and pops, flying through his ribcage and settling deep into his bones. The mug glances over for a brief moment at Bendy settled just a few inches away, running his right thumb over his left hand.
He finds that the ex-performer is gazing up at the star-littered sky.
The small balls of light aren’t eaten by the voids that make up his eyes. Rather, they reflect, pooling atop the inky black and creating the swirl of a galaxy, life glowing and swirling within his irises. His presence manages to almost pass a bit of light to the mug himself, swallowing a thick lump in his throat.
He almost wouldn’t believe you if you told him that this man is approaching his granite-carved tombstone faster than any of the other rag-tag members of their group. Performing a delicate dance with death, every blot attack bringing him just that step closer to his last.
Mugman turns his head forward again as the ink demon moves to look towards him, sweaty hands clasped together with an iron grip, locking his sight on nothing yet everything at once. His expression is still, frozen in dulled serenity despite the anxiety that pulses through his every vein.
As he gazes at it, the ink demon can’t help but find his expression quite lovely.
With bated breath, Bendy inches ever so slightly closer, their arms brushing each other’s and sending static electricity rushing through the two of them. Mugman’s breath hitches ever so slightly, heart skipping a beat as the anxiety of unfamiliarity returns to him tenfold.
“..I just want’cha to know,”Bendy pauses, that tombstone silence returning to the air as he moves his own gaze to the dark nothingness of the forest. Quietly, the ink demon places a hand on the mug’s back, the air tensing as if a pause button has been pressed. A stop in everything around, but so unlike the silence that usually settles, Mugman’s body tensing with the unfamiliar touch.
“You aren’t alone, got me?”
His words drift barely audibly with the wind, voice just above a mere whisper, but they manage to come through loud and clear to the mug’s ears. Hearing words that are foreign to him, never told, never heard. Not until now. Not until Bendy.
No promises are made. Nothing is sworn upon. The concept of a promise weigh too heavy on souls that are already indebted to one another, representative of just another deal made with loopholes that will be found. All that he has is his words. His raw, heartfelt words.
Mugman finally looks towards Bendy, their eyes meeting in a way that both know is rarely maintained for either of them. Without words, something shifts, a soft, comforting smile on Bendy’s face. They shift just a little bit closer, maintaining that eye contact for a breath more until both of their heads turn towards the sky this time. The mugs’ lips upturn ever so slightly, and maybe the light doesn’t sink within his eyes this time, finding life amongst lifelessness.
He leans just a small but noticeable bit of weight onto Bendy as they sit, letting his hands fall slowly from his scarf.
The forest bursts with activity once more— the wind picks up again, leaves fall, and it’s living. Mugman can even hear the sound of an owl or two, the chitter of a squirrel, the sound of natural fauna. Everything is alive.
It’s new. It’s scary, even. But he isn’t alone right now for that change, for that unfamiliarity. The noise, the tentative silence amongst life, is less intimidating with the ink demon’s hand on his back.
Drip.
A droplet of water falls against his porcelain, rolling down his face. It’s chilled and surprising, sending a light shiver down his spine as he sits there. Then another hits his face, and another, and soon a light drizzle is hitting the two men, dampening their clothing quickly as they sit on the log despite the rain. A leaf drifts into Mugman’s palms, heavy from the droplets that have fallen onto its surface.
This time, it flees his hands unharmed, drifting with the still remaining breeze that passes by the two.
The forest fauna retreats once more as the weather begins to intensify into a steady rain, leaving them in silence once more. Stars flicker and die as clouds cover them up, and it’s clear that the forest’s canopy no longer will provide much protection from the oncoming downpour.
Silence passes, but it’s different this time. It’s comfortable in a new way, filled with content and safety.
“…We should head back,” the mug softly says, drifting through their shared quietness. The ink demon’s claw lingers on his back for a long moment, almost hesitant to move and break contact, but he finally shifts to stand, palms pressed against his knees.
Bendy pushes himself up from the dead log, tail swiping the leaf litter gently as he outstretches a hand to Mugman, to help him up. It’s an offering, an opportunity that the other man can choose to take or ignore. A step that’s optional, a decision left in the palm of Mugman’s hands for once.
Hand clasps claw, and Mugman stands next to the demon, eyes flickering up towards the oncoming storm clouds. There’s something in his expression that shifts— something softer, calmer, more alive as the seconds drift by. The rain doesn’t seem to bother him all that much.
Bendy and Mugman both hesitate under the darkened sky, stars tucked away beneath the clouds rolling in and the forest tucked away once more.
It awaits with bated breath, but of a different manner. A hopeful one.
Maybe those granite tombstones will wait just a little longer to have their names carved. Maybe Mugman can allow himself to have a sliver of hope for what feels like a death trap through and through.
He hasn’t allowed himself that feeble hope until now.
Bendy tugs, and Mugman follows, light and heavy footfalls paired together as they meld into the forest’s darkness towards their temporary campsite. Leaves fall from the canopy, quickly covering up the footprints left within the dirt, as if they’d never been there in the first place.
They return to the trail, but maybe there’s a light waiting for them at the end. Maybe there’s hope to grasp onto.
There’s no way to know, but the two can allow themselves that sliver of hope to dodge the fate that seems to await the entire group at the end of their quest.
For the first time, Mugman hopes.