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He watched as the fire rained down, and everything collapsed. It was almost beautiful, the way the reds and oranges mixed. Ironically, it looked as if it were a watercolor painting, melting under the water, destroying everything ever created. It was terrifying.
Birch needed to find a way out. The portal gun had at least one or two more uses in it; he’ll find a way to get Pine home. He took the stuffing syringe and used it on Pine as he watched the portal open. That must’ve been Pal…
“You’re going home, Conifer.”
“Not without you. If you die, I die. You’re coming with me!”
There was no doubt about it anymore; Birch was going to die. He just never thought it would be like this. But it didn't scare him, not at all. There was a sense of weightlessness to his realization. Calm. Acceptance.
Pine looked at him, then looked at the portal back to his dimension, then back to him. Birch knew exactly when he had connected the dots—“Birch, whatever you're doing, don't you dare.”—but by then it was too late. He had grabbed Pine and tossed him in, back to his home, back to where he belonged. At least he knew one of them was safe. At least one of them had a home to return to, a brother who missed him.
Birch heard Pine calling him, yelling and shouting for him as the portal closed. He barely got to say goodbye.
And then the portal closed.
Truly a blessing, in Birch’s opinion, that Pine was spared from watching him get struck by fire straight to his chest.
It hurt. It burned. It burned and burned as he felt it everywhere. He needs the syringe; he needs it now more than he ever did before.
Except he used the last one on someone who deserved it more.
This was fine. It wouldn’t have done much anyway, just prolonged the inevitable.
He could, however, still use the portal gun.
Birch aimed and shot.
And he landed someplace familiar.
“Birch!”
Conifer landed in comfort, landed in someone's arms. Pal. He… he was home. Just like what Birch said.
“Pal… Pal, we have to open it back up.” Conifer pleaded, begged. “Please, he’s— he's still in there. I need to get him!” He grabbed Pal’s shoulders like a lifeline.
Pal held Conifer's hands as he tried to calm him down the best he could. “Calm- calm down! Who’s still in there?”
“Birch! He's still in there, and I need to get him. He can't die out there!”
“Murray? Is that you?”
Birch heard that familiar voice, whether that was truly him or just some messed-up hallucination, he didn't know anymore. Still, something in Birch compelled him to reply.
“It's— it's me. I just… I just thought I’d drop by…” Birch slurred. He didn't know where to look; he didn't even know where the voice was coming from or if it was even real.
“... How come?”
“I… I don't know… I guess I just wanted to apologize.” Birch rasped out. “I'm sorry, sorry for leaving the way I did. I'm sorry for saying all those things to you…” He sobbed. Whether it was from the adrenaline draining out of him and leaving pain or whatever else, he didn't know. Not anymore.
“I was a–angry. I didn't- I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”
Birch heard shuffling from behind him. “Murray, I can smell the stuffing on you… What happened?”
Birch turned around, meeting The Count's concerned stare, watching as it twisted I to a horrified expression. “Count…” Birch stumbled his way towards his old love, The Count hurrying to catch him before he fell.
In a way, it reminded The Count of the first time by the doorway, where he’d helped Birch all those years ago. It wasn't the same, and actually seemed a bit cleaner than that first one, but it was still eerily reminiscent of it.
How ironic. And now here he was again with a vampire, bleeding out in front of him, but things were so different now. So very different.
“C–Count,” He whispered as The Count laid him down on the ground.
“I know it hurts, I’m sorry,” The Count whispered back, reaching for the edge of his shirt so he could get a proper look at the wound. “I’m gonna fix it, okay? You’ll be okay.”
“No,” Birch whispered, fumbling as he tried to grab The Count's wrists. “You— you can't help me anymore.”
The Count paused as he frowned at his former partner. “What? Of course, I could still help.”
Birch shook his head, a small cry escaping him when it jostled the stab wounds. “It’s worse. Worse than- than when I came before. I can feel it.”
Clenching his jaw, The Count tried to tell himself that Birch was just lying, and pushed his hands away so he could get a look for himself.
…oh.
“No, please, look at me. Let me help you…” The Count whispered, in horrified tears, “Murray, please. Let me help you. I- I can go get the sewing kit, you’ll be ok, I’ll sew you back up, please…”
He saw Birch search something within his eyes. Whatever it was—maybe the conviction, the truth in his eyes—he may have found it, because Birch nodded. It was the only sign he needed before he rushed out and up to get the sewing kit.
“I’ll be back, please just hold on.”
He watched as The Count flew up the stairs, rushing to find the sewing kit.
Birch wasn’t going to pretend to be righteous. He knew he didn’t deserve to be saved.
A part of him deeply regretted it, sending him on a fruitless mission to retrieve something which would ultimately do nothing for his situation, losing the chance to look at The Count one last time. But he was not cruel; he couldn’t stand the thought of having The Count watch him die. Birch saw the look on his face, so broken and desperate. Helpless. How could anyone blame him?
Maybe it had been a few seconds, minutes, who knows, but Birch was running out of time, and he knew it.
He was going to die alone.
But this was for the best.
It was…
“I have the needle and thread, please just hold on.” The Count quickly knelt down next to Birch, pulling him closer.
There was no response
Everything felt colder. The hand he held moments ago was limp, and there was a quiet ringing in his ears as The Count glanced at Birch’s face.
Birch’s eyes were open, but they were… empty. He wasn't moving. He wasn't trying to say anything. He wasn't doing anything.
“Murray?” The Count whispered, his eyes stinging again. “Please, don't do this to me.”
Nothing. No response.
Birch had gone completely limp. It made The Count sick.
A vicious sob tore its way out of The Count as he grabbed Birch by the shoulder and began to gently nudge him awake. This couldn't be real. Birch wasn't gone. He was just unconscious. He had to be.
“Murray, please!” The Count cried, shaking him this time. “Wake up!”
It was raining outside. The Count could hear the raindrops pounding against the windows and creeping through the cracks. But the boundless cold came from something else entirely.
“Murray,” The name scratched his throat; he could barely hear himself speak. He tried again, putting as much strength in his words as there was left in him. “I love you.”
Wake up, The Count begged, pleaded, wished. Please wake up.
But he never did.
The Count looked down at the still puppet in his arms, as if only just now noticing the state of his past lover for the first time. Absently, mechanically, he reached out to wipe a streak of dirt from Birch’s cheek. His expression grew incensed as the stubborn dirt clung to Birch’s fur.
There was a light somewhere. The Count couldn't care less; all he cared about was Birch. He wasn't ready for the words of The Hand Reaper. He’ll fight it if he has to. He won't lose Birch. Not again.
But the words never came. Instead, a puppet who looked eerily similar to Birch came near.
That didn't matter. He was not touching Birch.
“Let go.” The puppet asked. “We need to fix him up.”
He staggered towards The Count, hands outstretched. The Count snapped up at the sudden motion, his eyes wide and furious.
“Get away from us,” He growled, pressing Birch closer to himself. The movement made Birch’s head loll to the side, allowing the other puppets to truly see his face in the night light for the first time. His breath hitched as he took a step back.
“Please… I- I can help.” He knelt as he showed a syringe, one The Count recognized from his time with Birch. “I can fix this. I can bring him back. Just let me help. I owe it to him, I can't lose him.”
The Count looked at him. It was like staring directly at the past. He saw Birch in him, the same green, the same face. But it wasn't him. His hands had four fingers, Birch–his love, his everything–had 5. Maybe that's why he felt compelled to trust him.
“We have to bring him to the portal; we have a good setup for him there. He’ll be safe, he’ll be ok.”
The Count found himself nodding. “How do you know him?”
“I'm… a friend. Conifer Pine.” Pine smiled. “We’ll bring him back.”
The rest of the world fell away.
And in its place, hope.
“That's why…” A single tear—the last of its kind, the last The Count could give—fell down his cheek, warm and light. “That’s why you aren't breaking down right now.”
“Oh.” Pine gave him a sad smile. “Believe me, I am completely losing it. I’ve just had more time to practice. Knowing I can do something doesn't do anything for the pain of watching it all unfold.”
Once everything settled, the two simply sat and stayed on guard.
“What was he like?”
Pine turned away from Birch and towards The Count.
“Murray. What was he like?” He asked once more, “I feel as though maybe you knew him better, longer. I would like to know what he is like.”
Pine turned the question over, treading the line between telling the truth and what he thinks he should say. There was not much overlap. Neither his nor Birch’s time in the portal were stories meant to bring comfort, not at a time like this—especially not at a time like this. It would take a lot more than a handful of conversations during a storm to comprehend what either of them had seen, had been through.
Eventually, Pine shrugged. “Birch was Birch.”
The Count nodded as if he understood. Maybe he did. After all, Birch had lived his life for a while with him. He knew petty, stubborn Birch. He knew brave, bold, belligerent Birch. But he never saw the Birch he saw.
“He was…” Pine picked at the burnt edges of his lab coat. “He was something. He was cared about. That's all you need to know.
The Count tipped his head up to the blank ceiling above. “Thank you.”
A moment passed, two, before The Count asked once more, “What do you think death is like?”
“Why do you ask?”
“What if… what if The Hand Reaper wasn't as cruel to puppets as they’ve made them out to be?” For a moment, The Count was a child again—a child naive to the ways the world works.
“Death was never cruel nor evil,” Pines started, “It just is.”
Birch woke up with a pounding headache.
Blinking open his eyes, he was able to make out a blank ceiling and could feel soft sheets wrapped around him.
Everything ached. All his limbs felt sore, his head was throbbing, and even the act of opening his eyes was starting to exhaust him. It felt like he’d been run over by a car, but not just once. It felt like he’d gotten run over, and then the car reversed to run over him a second time, and then it drove forward again to hit him a third time as well—just for good measure.
Suffice to say, he felt like shit.
His mind was groggy as he tried to think back on what had happened.
He remembered the portal, the fire, the—
Oh.
Bolting upright in his bed, Birch hissed as the movement sent a huge spike of pain through his head, and squeezed his eyes shut as he brought his hands up to his temples.
“Birch?” A familiar voice said.
“... Leo?” Birch mumbled without thinking, keeping his eyes shut.
There was a beat of silence, and Birch could’ve sworn he heard Leo sniffle. Then,
“Hello, Dr. Birch.”
There were many things, Birch knew, that Leo could never do now. To have him even standing here before Birch speaking to him was an impossibility
Just let me stay in this lie, he begged, for one second more.
Suddenly, there was a warm hand wrapped around his wrist, and Birch blinked his eyes open once again to finally see his brother.
That's not his brother. Leo had died long ago. This must be Conifer’s brother, Pal. His brother was long gone.
“How are you feeling?” Pal asked, giving him a warm smile despite the clawing worry in his eyes.
Birch opened his mouth to answer, but paused when he remembered what else happened before he passed out.
The portal. Trying to do one last good thing for anyone. Finding his past lover.
That white-hot pain before the darkness. The Count’s voice calling him.
“Where's Conifer!?” Birch asked, ripping his hand out of Pal’s. “Is he ok!? Did he- I mean I- I thought that I-”
Birch took a shaky breath as he remembered what it was like to accept his demise.
“Where is he?” Birch asked, looking around his room and realizing he and Pal were the only people in it. “I-I need to see him.” He needed proof that his brother was alive.
Before Pal could start, Birch pushed the blankets back to try to climb out of bed. But when he put his feet on the ground, the minute he tried to shift his weight onto his legs, they started shaking so badly he couldn’t even find it in him to stand up.
“Fuck, why am I so weak?” Birch hissed, gritting his teeth as he tried to force his body to cooperate.
“You really over-exerted yourself,” Pal told him, standing up and pushing him back down onto the bed. “Don’t try to get up. Count can go get him.”
“I don’t-”
“Count!” Pal called out, cutting Birch off. “Can you c’mere?”
…Count..? The Count is here? His delirious train of thought was cut short by the hallway outside his door. Birch heard another door open. Then, there were shuffling footsteps, and The Count appeared in his doorway.
As soon as The Count saw Birch was awake, there was a drop in his shoulders, and something like relief flickered through his face. “Good to see you’re awake, Murray.”
And then he left. Birch wanted to say more, but maybe he wanted to see Conifer first.
The room was clean. It felt a little bit like a hospital, which he wouldn't expect for any room in Pine's home. He expected a bit more of a cozy feeling. Birch could see where the homeyness was supposed to be. His first guess was that they somehow cleared everything to use it for Birch. But none of that mattered. Instead, as soon as Pine met Birch’s familiar eyes, everything felt lighter.
Pine blinked, the realization sinking in.
Birch was here, sitting in front of him, looking a little worse for wear, but alive.
He walked closer, holding Birch by his shoulders as if he’d start floating away if he let go. Pine’s breath hitched as he pulled Birch closer, pulling him into a hug. It worked. Birch was here; he was alive.
Birch’s arms were tight around him as Pine sobbed, a million emotions flooding into him. There was so much washing over him at once. His fear, his grief, his relief, his anger.
Suddenly overcome with white-hot rage, Pine pulled back from the hug, facing Birch with tear-streaked cheeks.
“Are you-”
Before Birch could finish that sentence, Pine brought his hand up and slapped Birch across the face as hard as he could.
An odd squeak echoed through the room. There were a few beats of silence after Birch’s head snapped to the side.
Then,
“Yeah, I think I deserved that,” Birch muttered.
“You’re such an idiot!” Pine yelled, the relief and anger swirling inside of him to create a strange mix of emotions that he could barely process. “I can’t believe you pushed me in before I could try and help you!”
Sighing, Birch lifted his head back up, not dropping his arms from where they were still wrapped around Pine. “I… I don’t really have a good excuse for that.”
“Yeah, you don’t!” Pine hissed, more hot tears streaming down his face. “We talked about this, Birch! You aren’t a martyr!”
“I know, and it was a stupid thing for me to do,” Birch said as Pine pulled him closer, resting his head on the older puppet’s shoulder.
Pine curled closer to Birch, hiding his face in his sweater as the mental image of Birch’s dead body just kept flashing in his mind.
“You’re such an idiot,” Pine repeated, his voice muffled by fabric.
“I am, I know,”
Pine wiped the remaining tears as he began. “If I’m being honest, I saw what you were planning way before you pushed me in.”
“You did?” Pine didn’t know whether Birch sounded more impressed or indignant.
He let out a sigh, “You weren’t exactly being subtle. Sorry to say, but you’re getting a bit predictable.” Pine opened his lab coat, revealing a handful of syringes inside, “You being in a completely different dimension made it harder, but I wasn’t just gonna let you die.”
“I hate this,” Birch declared. “I hate every aspect of this, and would like to quit and become a humble gardener far from here.”
Pine stared at him, giving him two seconds to follow through on his word. “Are you done?” Pine said. “Because in case you haven't noticed, there are other people who would like to chew you out for your terrible self-preservation skills.”
“I regret ever meeting you.”
Pine snorted as he let go, “You say that as if it isn't your dry humor that rubbed off on me.”
Birch softly pushed him away, letting out a small snort as he did so, feeling lighter than he had before. Pine got off the bed and met The Count’s gaze. “Well, I’ll let you both talk things out.”
Birch felt like he would rather have stayed dead than have this conversation.
“What you said then,” The Count started, “Was that true? Or was it merely delirium?”
Birch turned away.
“I was running away from the very start.” Birch began, “Not once did I ever face my problems. Maybe some part of me thought that clinging to some so-called noble cause or sense of justice would’ve fixed things, fixed me.” He looked up at The Count and saw the years he missed out on, the years he could’ve spent without wasting away in his own guilt and hatred.
“But what came of it?” He choked out. “I expected my meaningless death, but I survived, I lived, and I felt alone. Because that’s all I’ve been. A root cause for all the pain, a creature who can’t seem to love without exploiting. Someone who knew suffering and could only inflict the same. A pitiful soul who never understood what it meant to love or be loved.”
Birch shuddered, “And I thought you and I were in the same situation. You weren’t much different from me. Everything about you, the twisted morals, they were similar to me. And when you changed…” His voice felt stuck, like the words falling out were all clogged in his throat and refused to leave. Birch swallowed, “I think I felt something I couldn’t describe.”
He let out a tired, humorless laugh, “I don’t know anymore. Looking back, I shouldn’t have said those things about you all those years ago. I didn’t think you cared enough for me, but please let me say this.”
He sat up straight, properly facing The Count, seeing him fully for the first time in years.
“I’m sorry, and thank you for everything.”
And that… that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
A sob tore out of his throat, and The Count lunged for his old lover, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in his warm shoulder. Birch hesitated for a second, just a second, before he tugged him close, and although Birch knew Pine was still behind the door, watching this all go down, he couldn’t bring it in himself to care.
Birch was ok. He’ll be fine.