Archive of Our Own

There's something terrifying.

Something terrifying, in knowing you're all. Something terrifying, in being all-knowing. 

If the grass is really greener on the other side of the fence, then it must be flourishing where no man can reach. Someone will break those fences anyway, burn away the wood, and replace it with their footsteps only. 

There can be no trace, is what a foolish sinner would say.

Eventually, all snakes bite their own tails. If famished enough, if growing fangs hurt to display. They sink deeper into flesh than neccesary. All for just a little meal.

Isn't it fascinating? Isn't it weird? That under the arches the skies show are enemies, who are no bigger than ants? He wonders when they will chomp down on themselves, or how much it hurt when they already have.

Swirling, swirling are the clouds under his fingertips. There is no other, that can see this. On the ground are gasps, hands covering their mouths, as they stare at what Spoke creates.

A masterpiece, really. His fingers are the brush, conjuring the nightly horizon into something unobtainable. The world is his canvas, and the people are the paint.

They smudge, they protest, they smear on the textile. They're nothing more than embroidery, they're nothing more than patterns used recreationally. They move in circles, and expect to find an exit.

They're really stupid, if you ask him. 

Let him rephrase it, there's nothing terrifying about this.

There is only beauty, beauty in the agonisingly slow deaths, fervid bodies decaying already when the blood had just started to leak out.

There's beauty, in seeing how much more they tolerate. How much longer can they endure needles pricking their skin, if the needles were the rays of the sun, ready to burn them alive.

Well, alive is a strong word, anyway.

They no longer scream, as much as they used to. They tank the hits, and let cutthroat swords gash their necks, until there is no more skin left to preserve. It's grotesque, gorgeous, and probably another word starting with g.

It's really a shame, that they can never see just how wide his grin spreads from ear to ear. It's fun, it's entertaining! Come on, you can't seriously blame him for enjoying it!

And when the sun rests, leaning down with tired, droopy eyes, is when the moon puts it to slumber, and when he decides that daylight now a luxury. 

It'd be so nice, to cast the world into eternal darkness! Or maybe just a couple of days, enough to watch as hope trickles out of their useless hearts, way more than enough to watch them plummet straight to ground on their on accord. 

It'd be a punishment, then a blessing, when the dawn carries the Sun forever too. Or maybe just a couple of days, enough to watch as skepticalism is haunting the way they whisper to their friends, way more than enough to watch them lose trust in those that couldn't ever save themselves.

Ahhh, but these are desires that have to wait! First they need to know pure terror, and then it'll be possible understand why they're getting penalized. 

Hypocrites, they all are.

They are animals, vultures, forming blood-bonds on a whim to have something to drink up. Bodies are gauntlets and ribs forks, the world is the Gods' plate, and they're the seasoning. Trite greed, repeating and worsening as time slips from their grasp in the shape of hot sand.

They're sickening. How wonderful!

Encloaked by dread and dimness, the day is far still, the day where all confidence is drained from their body, aortic exhaustion. 

The day is way too far, way, way, way too far, agonisingly too far, it's something Spoke is reminded of as bile scrapes his throat again.

Doubling over, stomach lurching, right after he thought this was over for now. Awh man, this kinda sucks! 

It's degrading, a man with all the power in the world, on his knees with tears pricking his eyes painfully, throwing up for like the seventh time now. Not great! Not great, in the slightest! 

The hand planted on his back is the only thing of comfort, when gasping for air, sniffling disgustingly. Impossible to not gag too, when catching a whiff of the piling vomit, stomach churning again.

It's endearing in a way, stiff hair tied together at the back, to not get in the crossfire. His teammate did it wordlessly, honestly thought he would complain a lot more about it, considering the strands had already met some of his breakfast. Ew.

"Man, this— you should be doing one of your stupid challenges again, not babying me." I'm sorry, but that's cut off from the statement. 

It is very difficult to speak, feels like the more he says, the chance of him throwing up again triples. Parrot hums in response. "Bro, you're clearly sick, Spoke. You're my friend, I'm not gonna just let you suffer."

Would I? Would I let you?, the answer is the voidling gagging again, pressing his thumbs harder into the rim the side of the bucket. Yeah. I would.

"We can always do those tomorrow." Parrot continues, reassuring him while faintly rubbing his back. If I wouldn't, why does your hand feel so alien when it meets mine? "You know what they say, bro. There's always tomorrow."

Whining, how the fuck does so much pain manage to fit inside his body?! Stinging from limb to limb, paired nicely with a nauseating cough.

Yeah, okay, smartass. Is what Spoke would reply with, if was not too occupied with yielding to the agony, curling into himself is no enough, it seems, no matter how tight do its arms wrap around itself.

It is,, bad, really bad. 

It shouldn't have these kinds of affects on a body, tearing from the inside. Difficult to decipher, each movment deep in bones creates an antilogy. Crawling around, sleeping sound and carving a home out for itself.

What bubbles in the raw throat is not just bile, it's sticky and sickly. Pricking and glitching, and making itself apparent. Irrecusable suffocating, and Spoke loathes every second that it must endure.

Spoke's been throwing up for the past hour.

It should be concerning, and it is! But the creature insists that it's completely a-okay, and keeps telling him to leave it alone. But Parrot is smarter than that, and he won't let Spoke wither away from this measly sickness.

He might just have to tuck his pride away for this, and ask someone, let it be an ally or a foe, for some kind of advice. Because Spoke is barely letting him close, he swears that it hissed at him once too. Did not know the voidling could do that.

Communication rare, the witty remarks replaced by heaving and a thirst for air. He doesn't even think that Spoke ate enough these past few days to still have something for his guts to reject. 

Pure white eyes, glowing through the night, are now dull and lifeless. The first sign was the star-shaped eye crackling, an outcry similiar to bones snapping.

It was a feature that really tied it all. The abyss below uniting lovingly, to form the body that belongs to his friend. The heavens give those colourful rainbows that wrap around as a parting gift, spiked hair styled like angelic wings.

If not all, then that mentioned gaze reflects back like the white of the sun when it welcomes all. Parrot wonders if he stares at them forever, does it ever turn blueish just like the luminary?

Spoke's made of the connection of all worlds, the star eye is only to bring the night closer with each second spent awake.

He's the closest thing to an angel. 

Though, some angels are vile, and violent, however versatile. They're no virtuous things, especially not Spoke, now laying on the floor.

Sight covered by its arm, the other firmly on its stomach, his teammate wincing, and crying out of pain. "Bro, what did you eat yesterday? What kind of stomach bug do you have?"

Mumbling something under his breath, before that's cut off by a sharp yelp, clutching his.... hand? No stomach ache makes your wrists hurt, not to Parrot's knowledge at least. Maybe it came with the lastest snapshot, or something.

Gasping for air, is when Parrot decides to get close to it again, despite its explicit wishes against it. 

He reaches for the wrist that the creature holds onto for dear life and— huh??

Electricity zaps the bird, when comes in contact with skin, reeling back in surprise and sudden pain. 

"I told you to stay away." 

The threat is clearer than anything it said before, a low growl accompanying it. It is enthralled by the wrist, not even sparing its teammate a glance, fixated on the way it,, what the fuck?

Parrot blinks faster than he ever had, the glitching is gone. Must be the lack of sleep, surely. Surely?

Spoke's painful expression is back to haunt, an achingly pathetic whine escapes his lips when their eyes lock. 

"Come here," he slams into the brunette’s body on command, nearly knocking them both to the ground. A startled squeal, and Parrot is steady again. It’s so easy to wrap an arm around the trembling figure.

He has done countless things. For this team, for Parrot. It's only fair the bird helps out, while this illness gnaws at him restlessly. 

"I'll find something to help you," Spoke's shaking his head, burried in the folds of the bird's clothes. Fist clenches in the fabric, clinging. "Even if it's the last thing I do."

To that, Spoke snorts, opening his hand for a moment. "What?"

"You're so corny, dude." Muffled, chopped up by hitching breath. It earns a laugh from the two, regardless. 

Easy to label it instinct, the way digits tangle in the creature's messy hair. It's natural for birds to preen their own flock, no? 

The air is of no sustainance, it strives to choke every prey, every person, everyone in the way. The air, up in the air, is an unamable cosmos reigning chaos upon sinners. 

An unnamable cosmos to all but one. This amalgamation, abomination, of stars and the space between them, is dear to a singular heart, if not to any other.

Or was, was dear. Really, if he could, he'd deny ever knowing it, ever holding its hand, ever looking it in the eyes.

I'll forgive you, he once thought. With broken wings, and a broken heart. I'll forgive you, he never finishes, trails off. Off the trail are memories coating everything like snow.

Birds of prey should not lie on the ground so undefeated. Should soar the heavens, claim it as their own, and do the impossible with glee. 

The ink which is the night sky is where it could be found, burried amongst stars that spit its name like a curse. Name that never stung worse on a tongue worth hundreds of lies. 

"Parrot, oh, Parrot."

Says the deified abhorrence that dares the puppet a body belonging to, to. To. To someone whose name he won't even say.

"Spoke, bro. You know I love you, but I won't carry you on my back."

The answer is a weak, complaining whine. Spoke's wing-like buns flatten, wrapping arms around his torso. Torso that's,, barely there, might it be mentioned, replaced by a withered exoskeleton. 

He really is a creature made up of everything, huh. "But Parrotttt, how am I supposed to move from one place to another, if you don't carry me?"

The protest comes out sounding a bit nasal, really putting his sick-state on display. "Just say you don't even love me dawg, I get it."

Panic sets in, as Spoke turns his gaze away. Defeated, hurt, and it works like magic on the poor bird's heart. "Okay— okay, fine, fine, whatever bro. I'll carry you. But only until we get to Pangi, then I'll put you down. Deal?"

Spoke, honest to God, giggles at that, like some highschool girl in all those teenage rom com movies. He's been spending too much time around Zam again. Great.

Consulting with the enemy is... an unexpected choice, one that Parrot surprised himself with too. But desperate situations, require desperate measures, and it's not every day that Spoke's ill like this.

Chuckling turns into a giggle, a few small quips with violence strapped to every sound. Every singsong-y, halfhearted apology is nothing compared to the tragedy, that is the emptiness of hapiness.

It's not joy, that, the brunett knows so well, with his fist clenched at the side.

These giggles turn into fullchest laughing, laughing like there's no care in the world, laughing at the misfortune of someone who dared to stick by.

It's sickening, how Spoke's snicker turns into misery, gasping for air to sustain this mockery, gasping for air. There's nothing funny about this. 

"What's so funny?"

"Parrot!" It's like a curse. "Parrot, my friend. Don't you get it?" Every syllable filled to the brim with breathy cackling. "Don't you get it?"

There's nothing to get. Spoke's clutching onto a gliching chest, still laughing. Still, still, still. There's no need for those ribs, for there's not a heart to safekeep.

It's very awkward, to show up an opponent's house, with a now asleep teammate on your back, and crazed questions.

Pangi is kinder than he expected, met with more sympathy than most people would even consider approaching this with. He's an honorable man, a kindhearted one and such. 

It's difficult to describe what exactly the pangolin could be thinking about, leaned back in the seat, with shades blocking his eyes.

The voidling is still unconscious, its head weighing down Parrot's shoulder. And with how uncomfortable this position must be for it, he's more than certain Spoke's waking up with an aching neck. 

Even in this state, his luminescent eyes squeeze in pain momentarily, before the whole face returns to a more relaxed expression. 

It's almost like Parrot can hear his own heart shattering, just looking at the unfortunate, ill kid. His teammate, his friend. The general of NPPP. 

Speaking of, he clears his throat. "I know we had our differences in the past, but I came here with an unusual request."

Pangi hums, head slightly shaking as his focus shifts from the creature on the couch, to Parrot again. "And is this request.... maybe related to your teammate here. Or am I mistaken?"

A sigh, a glance at Spoke. "You'd be correct to assume it's about him."

"You see," Instincts that scream at you to run. Avians are powerful animals of the sky, but not unkillable. "I have noticed that Spoke's been a little different lately. We've just been saying that he's sick, but it's. It's um—"

Slightly rolling his shoulder, Spoke doesn't even stir. It's terrifying. 

He usually tosses and turns in his sleep, something that Parrot knows first hand. Had learnt to block out the kicks to his stomach that he gets when they share a bed. 

But he's completely still. And probably very out of it, Parrot still keeps his voice down when continuing. "I think something's wrong with him."

"You think something's wrong with him?" Pangi recites louder, lips pursed. A new, faint smile, when he speaks again. "I mean, it's Spoke. What did you expect? He's never been 'normal' to begin with."

"Thanks for pointing that out, captain obvious." Rolling his eyes. "I've known him for years, bruh, obviously I'm aware. But this is.... different."

The conversation falls flat, Parrot observes their meeting place. It's a desolate, barely decorated room, with way little passion in those building bricks that would convince him this is a real base. Probably a decoy, smart man.

"Why come to me, then?" It's a valid question, arms crossed. "I don't know nearly as much about this guy, as you do. Both of us are aware of this, dude."

It's embarrassing to admit, wings twitch slightly. "I wasn't sure who else to go to."

"Aww, Parrot." It slips for a moment, then with an obnoxiously fake cough, he's back in his tough guy persona. "Alright, then. Tell me everything."

Devotees are nothing but mindless creatures.

They're easy to understand, they're easy to utilise. They're in need of a purpose, and the worst will do. Anything to patch up the gap in their soul, a gaping ache that will never truly leave them. 

But giving a purpose! Now that will make them believe that the gap is gone. In reality, the wound is akin to a ravine by that time, so easy to slot a blade in between. 

A purpose can be anything, if you're dedicated enough. Some will call it fate, some will mock it as destiny, Spoke calls it a chore. 

It's disgusting how they plead at its feet. But it's also kind of endearing in a way! Pathetic, violence-driven maniacs. They're fascinating, every mistep is fascinating. How fortunate that every step they take is a mistake. 

There's no real control room to be found. 

Is it such a crime to love to watch how Parrot runs around frantically, like a hamster on a wheel? Or a poisoned mouse in a maze, with no cheese in the trap? Really, Spoke could be listing comparisons all day.

Where? Where the fuck did he go?! 

Searching every nook, Hell, every cranny, shouting a well-known name from the roof tops. Outsiders would think he's scolding the boy again, with how loud he's being.

There are no traces, any hidden clues as to where Spoke could've went. One second he was limping besides Parrot, then he was gone the next. 

Fear is shuffling all sorts of scenarios in his mind, did the sickness get to him and he collapsed? Is he talking with someone? Did someone already spawnkill him? Is he banned?!

No, no, not enough time has passed for any catastrophes to occur. However, Spoke should not be alone when he's healthy even, let alone when he is barely aware of his surroundings!

This is bad, this is baddddd, really really bad. It was there when they crossed the bridge connecting spawn— fuck, Parrot really should've paid more attention to what it was doing. 

Aimlessly retracing his steps isn't getting him anywhere, he's right back at the bridge again. Gripping the railing does nothing, but stall success. 

Spoke can survive on its own if he really tried, but it's barely capable of even standing right now. Obediently following the sound of his teammate's voice once eyes start to drop, fatigue taking over.

When staring down, past these unstable railings, is an eerily stagnant water. It lacks the life it last preserved, grayish and so very still.

It isn't swaying against the shore lazily like it used to, no ripple in the water upon the smallest of impacts. It appears more like sewer-water than anything that could be of sustainance. 

It's dead. And Parrot prays on every star that this isn't some messed up sign from the universe. 

Spoke has to be somewhere.

And where Spoke is behind some fuckass building, fist curling around grass so painfully that his fingers might just break.

Fortunately, the tears make it impossible to see most of the vomit on the ground. Unfortunately, it doesn't prevent the stench in the slightest.

If he could, he'd interlock his two hands and beg God that no one finds him here, throwing up,,, black bile??

Not only is it oddly coloured, but it's glitching, and it's painful, and none of the things it probably should be. Fucking Ashswag. 

Spoke was careful, and Ash notably isn't. This is a fragile goal, and he's holding a comically large hammer behind his back when Spoke isn't looking. The guy's probably out living his life doing whatever, while he is suffering.

Another round of puking, he shouldn't be so harsh on Ash. If not for him, the voidling would be probably nowehere, stomach tosses and turns angrily— eugh, ew, weak arms struggle to hold up a trembling figure. 

Nausea plauges every little movement, and all he can do is scoot away, thud! down on his back. Massaging his forehead, as if it it's going to do something to ease this relentless headache. 

Surely, surely, if he squeezes his eyes so hard that it begins to sting, all this pain must go away if the world is no longer present in peripheral vision. 

This is worth it, is a reminder that should subside all harm, but fuck does it all feel pointless when he can barely move an inch. Inflammation's burning through every bit of this agonising existance, and holy shit is it making his body its bitch. 

All that could save Spoke is a knight in shining armour and a quick slash to end his suffering. He would be so easy to drop too, lacking any sort of protection or tools. 

Maybe a respawn would fix the mess in the code, a couple of respawns. Maybe his next destination should be enemy territory, or at Parrot's feet, begging the bird to ban him to release him from this nightmare.

And right on cue, footsteps alert a barely conscious man, eyes closed. Fucking finally, someone's here to kill him.

"Spoke?"

"Spoke, bro."

"Spoke!" 

Someone's frantically shaking him by the shoulder, and it's interrupting his self-fufilled death. A whine slips past unwilling lips. 

"Oh, thank God, bro. I thought you were—" This voice, ughh, it's so familiar, but it's so,, so difficult to focus with, "Nevermind."

What brings the the departed back to life is a sharp inhale, followed by choking coughs. There's— there's,, in its throat, in— 

Eyes shoot open, and the light is blinding, blinding is the acute pang shooting through his chest, right through a rapidly throbbing heart— guhh, fuck, there are arms holding a spasming body in place.

They're not restrictions, nor a threat, they hold it up out of kindness, or at least it hopes, panicked squawking as background noise.

Limbs ache, from ventricle to ventricle, each organ begs, and pleads, and screams, and it screams, is— is he screaming? Hot tears burn eyes, hot pain squeezing the blood of out a stilling heart, rapidly losing all it serves— 

He's a very particular person, Parrot. 

It's something Spoke knows by heart, an information locked deep within memories that he will forever keep in mind.

He's adventurous, persistent, and very, very stubborn. It's easy to lull him in with pinky promises of a challenge, one where he can aimlessly run around the entire world. He's fun to watch.

This quest wasn't meant to be solved, there was no path to take, all evidence were redherrings, all clues were laughstock. 

The control room was a myth, a tale meant to be passed around. 

There was no redemption for people, nor was there any hope left for these damned souls, it was all a hoax that Spoke spun to see them jog around panicked. But desperate disciples believe anything you throw at them, let it be a sword or a word.

It wasn't— it wasn't supposed to end like this.

There's something deeply, deeply wrong with Spoke. 

Bad habits don't just come and go, and unfortunately Parrot's way too familiar with how his teammate functions. A being of chaos, creating ruckus within the threads in the spindle that twirls the order of life. 

Wrapped up in the golden yarn, whirling, wrapped around his finger, presenting itself as a knot in the line. Spoke's smart, he knows what he is doing.

That being said, it most definitely was up to something it shouldn't have. All Parrot needs is a confession, and they can forget any of this even happened after it heals. 

"Spoke, be honest with me bro." Clearing his throat, confrontation is inevitable. "What have you been doing these past couple of days?"

He receives a hum from the boy covered in genuinely thousands of blankets. Spoke called it 'some kind of fucked up nest', and Parrot tried his best not to give any reaction. 

"What d'you mean?" Words slurred, delirious. Okay, maybe he won't be getting any clear answers. But he needs to know, he needs to. "I was— I was with Mapicc, bruh, you know this."

Eyes shut for a second, a deep exhale. "You told me you'll stop."

To that, it tries its best to sit up, despite the added weight. Head tilted, slow blinking, soft smile. "Stop what, my friend? What,, what are you talking about?"

There's more guilt, really. Guilt that he's even questioning Spoke's loyalty to its words, unfair to be accusing it of all these things when it is clearly unwell. 

"Spoke," A sorrowful frown. "Please."

"I'm telling you! I was with Mapicc, because he needed help with this, with like a stupid trap he was working on to kill Pangi." Doing all these big gestures with his hands, trying to demonstrate something abstract.

Pangi? Last he checked, Team Awesome would have no reason to go after the guy. "Why would he want to kill Pangi?"

"I don't know, man! He was yapping something about justice or whatever, I don't know, half of the things he says is background noise to me, you gotta understand." Sentence ended with a chuckle, laughter as punctuation. 

"Right."

"You can call Mapicc, if you don't believe me!" Spoke declares, nasal. "But I'm honestly offended that you'd even imply I'm lying."

It can't bear to look him in the eyes, it's the first sign of mortality. 

People feel culpability, feeling sorry is what motivates all their stupid, reckless actions. Gods don't.

A mass of desire is all black holes are. They don't die, they don't wither away in their sorrow, they want. And what they want is everything.

And what it wants is for a friend's Parrot's hands not to shake when he holds the hyperion. 

Phantom cold makes an idea freeze, white eyes no longer of the purity kind. They're stained. They're vibrant. They're guilty.

There's nowhere to gash, it's a shame, nowehere to stab a carcas made up of stabwounds. Gods don't bleed, they are the blood.

Look at me, the Wormhole hears the blade whisper. Look at me, Spoke, it hears the blade yell.

It wasn't at all difficult to track down the demon, he was more than willing to meet in a open location once he heard the topic of the conversation will be a certain hybrid.

Besides, they're close allies, so he has nothing to worry about, Parrot will reassure him of that if necessary.

It's a beautiful day, the blue sky is a pretty shade of light blue. A couple of clouds scattered on the azure canvas, misteps of a brush. The Sun, the kindest daylight, warms the ground, and nurtures the outdoors.

Teammate eerily quiet, sitting on the stairs of a building at Spawn that he isn't quite sure who built. Head in hands, sniffling every once in a while, tail swishing against the stone bricks. Way too quiet.

Specks of dirt are tangled in its hair, doesn't even pick its head up, when Parrot reaches to get rid of them. 

Any other time he would make some witty remarks about how he can barely see his friend from under all this dirt, obscured by entwined nature. But right now, he dares not to interrupt this peaceful scene.

Spoke makes some muted noise that Parrot assumes to be of pain, when he tries scratching at a speck of grime stuck in curls. A faint apology, and he gives up on trying to get rid of it. 

Once they're back home, a hair wash will be mandatory. 

In the distance, up on the hill, spotting a silhouette, shadow reaching his arm up high to wave. Parrot waves back out of courtesy, but he's sure it can't be seen from that far away.

Wings tucked under armour, uncomfortably squirming against their enclosure. They will have to survive this encounter, and then they'll be let free again, best ignore the ache.

It only takes a couple of moments before Mapicc is standing right in front of them, and Spoke hops up from his spot to greet the fiend too. 

"Hi guys!" Holding a paw out that Spoke instantly takes the opportunity to high five, giggling way too happily for a man who acts like it's dying from this sickness.

No, nope, horrible thought. The bird's not going to start doubting its sickness out of all things, that one's pretty real. 

"Mapicc," Paired with a weak smile, Parrot's ready to cut to the chase. "I have some questions for you, good sir."

"Oh, I love questions. What's up?" Their tails are moving synchronised, how cute. But it's not relevant. 

"Spoke's saying that he was helping you trap Pangi yesterday. Is this true?" Parrot asks, shifting his weight from one leg to another.

It's so slight, but Mapicc's expression falls a bit panicky, glancing breifly to Parrot's left.

Parrot's left, where Spoke's standing. "Well, is it?"

"Um, uh yeah! Yeah, yeah, yeah! That's exactly what happened. That little rascal almost got out, but we got him good anyway!" Expression shifts seven hundred times, before it settles on a more natural grin. 

...Right.

"Huh. Why haven't I heard anything about it?" Pressing further, Parrot squints at the demon in front of him. 

Surely the pangolin would've mentioned something about it during their visit. It isn't something that he would be forced to keep silent.

"I gave Pangi his heart back to shut him up." He declares, this time with a more confident tone, the bird considers believing him. "Parrot, bro. Why are you so pressed about my business? Are you like, mad or something that I did this with Spoke, because he's your teammate? I didn't think it'd be such a big deal, honestly. The NPPP and Team Awesome are—"

"I am aware of that, bro. Yeah." A sigh, there's no use in prying, it'd be a waste of time. "Just, nevermind. Thank you for your honesty, Mapicc. Means a lot more than you can imagine, bro."

Mapicc's taller than both of them, and would be even taller if he didn't insists that he ruins his back completely by hunching all the time. 

Usually, extra hair would be tied up in the back for mobility, but now black strands sit on armoured shoulders. Parrot can't imagine a reality where Mapicc of all people was in a hurry.

"Oh, I can imagine alright. No problem at all my guy." These words roll off his tongue so easily.

He doesn't miss the last glance Mapicc throws to Spoke, met with a blank expression.

An empty mouth, no teeth, couldn't bite down if it tried. Wouldn't hurt if it did. The abyss does not harm, it takes.

And take everything it does, there's not enough to store everything it has ever taken. The abyss. The abyss, personified. The abyss, Spoke.

It's almost comforting. 

A home, but no warmth. 

Deities are made up from the nullity that stretches, the void. Spoke came from this mass of nothing too, but it isn't as welcoming as one would hope.

Really, Spoke wasn't sure why the void would even be warm. Hot, sizzling, separating meat from bone. It's no purgatory, no cleansing fire. 

It isn't even cold. Not freezing, not like how poems like the taunt. Those elegies lie, and Spoke lies in this absence. 

Somehow it's worse, than if Parrot stabbed him. 

Closing eyes does nothing, a mirror. No air to exhale, no sigh.

I'm sorry.

It doss not hear its confession.

I'm sorry.

An ebony vortex, made to swallow its avowal.

I'm sorry.

"Hm?" 

Rustling interrupted, back in the softest nest, Parrot looks up from the shulker he was rummaging through. "Did you need something?"

Short brown hair, eccentricly pretty feathers, start from green and bleed into blue. There's a red x connecting cheek to scalp, engraved in pale skin like a prophecy. A unique specimen, a loving friend.

Spoke doesn't feel bad. He shouldn't. He really, really shouldn't. And he won't. This is a stepping stone, building a neccesary bond. 

"Spoke, do you wanna see if health potions do anything, bro?" Out of the previously mentioned shulker, pulled a little vial, vibrant red fluid splashing against the glass when he shakes it slightly. 

There's no response.

When Parrot turns around, Spoke's just... staring.

Not at him, not entranced by the potion, but just in front of him, gaze uncannily still. Sitting crisscrossed on the bed, shoulders slumped, eyes not averting for a single second. 

"Spoke?" Not even peep, the room's starting to feel— suffocating is not the right word, but it's close enough.

Carefully approaching, it doesn't even look up when Parrot makes his way to its side. It has been really quiet these past few hours, but it would at least react in some way.

Hauntingly stagnant, placing a hand on its shoulder, doesn't react. Shaking its shoulder slightly, doesn't react, shaking its shoulder, doesn't react, shaking its shoulder, doesn't react, shaking its shoulder, doesn't react, shaking its shoulder, doesn't react.

"Spoke, what's—" Shaking its shoulder, doesn't react, is it even breathing? Shaking its shoulder, doesn't react, "What's going on? Are you—"

Rapidly glancing around the room, teammate staying unresponsive, something,, something has to work, people don't just shut down like this— 

Head shifts, then whole body follows, collapsing on the bed, a ragdoll, completely unresponsive, and, and oh, God.

Panic crawls from chest to throat, latching spikes from the inside, making Parrot's vision spin, he taps Spoke on the cheek, nothing. He slaps! Spoke on the cheek, nothing, he slaps it again, again, again, it doesn't respond, it doesn't repond, again, again, he doesn't want to keep hurting it, again, it doesn't respond, again, it doesn't, it doesn't, again,it'sdoesn- it doesn't, again, he shakes it, doesn'r respond,,doesn't again, unmoving and unresponsive—

Painful gasp, paired with coughing.

Thank God, a laugh of relief. 

Lungs burn to get more oxygen into its cages, Spoke Inhales sharp rapidly, greedily breathing it all in, quicker than the last, coughing fit matched. 

All his teammate can offer is a pat on the back, and pressing Spoke closer to his chest, talons intertwined lovingly with pitch-black hair.

The End is the dimension of the loneliest somber-shaded pillars, bridges across the destruction-born land.

It was founded from ruins, damage in its history like a birthright, desolate as far as the eye can see. It was set up for failure since any of this began. 

Through the gentle breeze, though he knows there shouldn't even be one, the softest melody of silence hurts ears. Static, and loud, how contradictory.

Everyone left.

Went home, or are off to find another. Wherever they are, they're not here. 

There's no such thing as time, when all Parrot can see are the beautifully blinking stars, a familiar void marveling back at him. 

The cold does nothing but cause harm to exposed wings, but he finds no space to care. Feathers can freeze, bones can crack.

At the edge, staring off the ledge, he watches the abyss in hopes of seeing his friend. 

A mock would be to say he's mourning, grief making his sight be unable to deter from the place Spoke jumped from. 

He's not dead, Parrot knows that.

Dangerously close to falling, one shove and comes a demise, palms pressed into the netherrack, anomaly after anomaly.

Everyone left, Parrot's staring down.

He won't jump, not again. 

He won't follow Spoke, not this time. 

Day and night, wiping tears from a tired eye. It's Mapicc who drags him out of the End.