Archive of Our Own

The sun burnt Fit’s skin, and the sand sizzled beneath his feet.

Fit could have sworn that hell would have been colder than this place, especially since he already felt as though he were in hell, with heat shimmers becoming his everyday landscape. The few cacti scattered across the desert had become his source of water; their juice was not so terrible when you were dying of dehydration, and sporadic catches of rabbits and snakes made for decent meals once Fit figured out how to cook them.

Although it was never anywhere near heavenly, the island had spoiled him with all sorts of food, but Fit was allergic to nostalgia. Whenever a thought about the past rose in his mind, whether he was chewing on tasteless meat or letting his camel drink from his own flask, he would push it back where it came from, and deeper still. There was no time for sentiment or tears; he had to track down the Federation’s concealed base and uncover the secrets they had died to protect, those morons. 

The desert was eerily quiet, so quiet that Fit could hear crumbling rocks falling in distant canyons. He could hear them clatter and skitter, tumble and cascade down the giant tors, a far-off, threatening rain of stone that always got to him. There were no birds, nor any other sign of life in sight, and only burnt, spiky plants that had lost their green to the sun occasionally rustled their sharp, blade-like leaves in the rare wind.

Once dusk has overtaken the sky, it would become chilly again, and the dusty air would be finally breathable. At night, this desolate sandy prison was especially serene, and only then did Fit allow himself to stop and rest, spending the days on his feet or on the back of his new humped friend and nights beside a campfire. Besides, he could only relax under the moon, finally taking his desert scarf off and not worrying about the endless oven he was forced into that tried to bake him alive.

Fit learnt quickly that the desert always looked the same. By morning, the howling winds of the night had smoothed the dunes flat, and the man could not tell left from right, or up from down, when he woke. If he unwound the scarf from his face during the day, he would be met by air as arid as a draught from a furnace — something he had found out the hard way — while the sun hung high and merciless overhead and the sand stretched for miles in every direction, rising endlessly.

But despite his exhaustion, hunger, thirst, and the flickering fear he felt, Fit kept going. Day after day, he rode deeper and deeper into the desert, his late son’s goggles perched on his head and his late boyfriend’s rose tucked into an inside pocket made just for it. It sat right next to his heart. There were times when futility tried to consume him, to beat the last of his hope out of him, but he fought it back even when he felt he had no power left. Whatever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, the bold man told himself every day.

And when he finally saw a tall building with an antenna sticking out of it on the horizon, he thought he was hallucinating.

He was so close.

***

Pac rolled his eyes at one of Mike’s jokes and, pulling the warpstone from his pocket, quickly disappeared into thin air. The last thing he heard was Mike swearing at him, and when his feet landed in a forest, purple particles floating all around him, he could not help but smile at his friend’s angry messages. “Two can play that game,” was his only reply and, taking an axe out, he ambled over to the trees. Despite having free access to the Regime and their outstanding technology, the Brazilian still preferred to gather his resources ‘the old-fashioned way’. At least, that was what Fit had called it. But even if it was unnecessary in Tubbo’s opinion, as well as Ash’s and Haiper’s, Pac had found plenty of advantages in chopping the trees down on his own. Not only did it allow him to be alone with his thoughts — and give him a decent excuse to escape the loud North and the no less noisy Regime — but it also honestly felt faster than Tubbo’s machines. He would not tell Tubbo that, though. So, with a tool in his hand, he got to work.

It was a rather calm day on the island, and nothing major was happening. After the trial, people seemed to have calmed down, and everything had returned to normal — builds, machines, and the occasional prank. The Poles had been doing something in their caves all morning, and the Dutch were chilling at their café non-stop, trying to get anyone who came in drunk, while Pac, Mike, and Gabe had some decorating to do at their Vale do Portusil. The rustling of the canopies helped Pac to relax, and birds chirping here and there added to his elevated mood. Soon, he joined the birdsong and began to hum some lyrics quietly under his breath, just loud enough for himself to hear. It was some old Brazilian song that had played at the Favela once or twice, maybe thrice, but it had lodged itself in his mind anyway, a sweet reminder of a sour past. “Welcome to the Mato,” Pac repeated quietly over and over again, picking up the pace with his chopping. Slowly, more and more logs were shoved into his backpack, and Pac’s arm became more and more tired.

Pac breathed out sharply and flopped onto the ground, taking his backpack off. Now he had to rearrange everything and count how much he had of each thing, and whether it would actually be enough for what he had planned to build. “Um, dois, três,” he began, going through his stacks, when all of a sudden he got an uneasy feeling, as though someone had been watching him from the woods. The Brazilian looked up and scanned the surroundings quickly, but there was no one to be seen.

Pac shook his head. He had probably inhaled something weird when he was in the Dutch’s café earlier that morning, and now it was making his head feel funny. “Quatro, cinco, seis, sete,” he continued, but that worrying feeling remained. Pac stopped and chuckled to himself. What was he afraid of, anyway? He had sorted everything out with the North, and he had good relationships with the Regime now too, and the Federation had not been doing anything particularly unexpected lately. It was probably all in his head, the man concluded.

He stood up, preparing to leave, his backpack on his shoulders again, when he heard a soft crash of leaves. The bushes shuddered, branches scraping and twigs snapping against dark cloth as a figure in a dark cloak forced their way out. Pac’s first reaction was to draw his sword immediately and level it at the figure, the crackle of the bushes being the only warning he needed. But that person did not move, did not even flinch at it, even when Pac lowered the tip of his sword until it rested against their heart.

“Who are you, and what were you spying on me for?” Pac hissed, frowning, enraged. He could not see the person’s face beneath a large hood and a mask. His jaw tightened, and his heart raced at an unhealthy speed. When they had first arrived on Quesadilla Island, Pac would always have chosen flight over fight, but times had changed since then. Now, if he needed to die protecting his old and new friends, he would do so, so he tightened his grip on his sword even more.

At that, the person held their hands out in a friendly gesture and then carefully, very, very slowly, reached an arm up to pull the hood down. Pac’s eyes widened, and then went flat.

“Fitchi?...”

***

Fit had been wandering through the forest for hours when he heard singing coming from a nearby meadow, and once he saw who it was, his heart sank. For a moment, he could only stare, his brain refusing to make sense of what his eyes were seeing, as though they had made some crucial mistake. Or perhaps it was just some uncanny glitch in reality — a bad joke from his demented imagination, giving a ghost flesh and bone. He blinked, waiting for the image to erase itself from his sight, but Pac remained there, on the ground, digging through the things in his backpack. Then, without even thinking about it, he stepped out of the forest. His legs were not listening to him; they were moving on their own, leading him to his dead boyfriend, who, in a very lively manner, jumped up as soon as he appeared and pressed the tip of his sword against Fit’s chest. Fit’s chest tightened so much it hurt. The face he had carefully buried in the deepest parts of his mind was suddenly there, right in front of him, and he could see the feral fear in Pac’s eyes.

Fit thought he had forgotten how to breathe. Nothing mattered any more: the portal, the feds, him being on this weird new land; he did not care. The world collapsed until there was only Pac standing in front of him, alive, in the same blue hoodie with the yellow monster on it that Fit remembered so clearly, and Fit could not help but smile as months of pain washed over his face. He had mourned Pac. He had cried over his grave. He had seen him in dreams, had heard him behind him when he was travelling, until the grief itself had started to eat him from the inside. Pac blinked rapidly as his mind fought to put everything in order and make sense of the situation. The sword in Pac’s hand suddenly felt like a useless lead weight, and he dropped it, allowing Fit to come closer now. He was paralysed, studying Fit’s changed face as if he had not seen him in years. His American boyfriend seemed so different now. He had a beard now, and even more scars than Pac remembered, and Fit’s eyes were different too.

Bringing a hand up to him, Fit gently cupped Pac’s cheek and brushed it lightly with his thumb. His movements were very slow, calculated, as though he were a predator trying not to scare away his prey, but Pac just stood there, frozen, confused, leaning into the gentle touches by instinct. He did not know what else to do when Fit, his Fit, the most stoic man Pac had known, was standing in front of him like this. Fit’s devastation, torment, and hollow anguish all slammed together in a giant swirl of gnawing sorrow, and he could not hold it in any more. He let out a quiet sob, tears starting to stream down his face, his chest hitching as he chuckled to himself at how absurd it all was.

“Fitchi, what happened?” Pac tried to ask as carefully as he could, still not moving away from Fit’s hand gently stroking his face. He was beginning to worry, with countless questions rushing through his head, but this one seemed the most logical to ask first. Fit’s eyes studied Pac, piercing through him, as though Fit had seen a ghost. Taking a deep breath, Fit tried to collect himself, although he did not think he would be able to stop the tears any time soon. Pac’s voice sounded so real, and his skin was so warm and so soft to the touch, and his lips looked so healthy and pink again. Just like in Fit’s memories, he thought. Pulling Pac even closer and closing the remaining distance between them, Fit swallowed Pac’s surprised gasp like water. Every movement, every sound Pac made, sent shivers down the older man’s spine.

“You’re as beautiful as the day I lost you...” was all Fit could utter before leaning in slowly, giving Pac every chance to pull away.
“Fit?” the Brazilian breathed, the question lingering in his tone. His voice was much quieter now, his eyes still full of worry. Fit’s breath mingled with Pac’s as they stood there, frozen in the moment, forgetting where they were and why. Fit’s heart raced as he waited for Pac’s reaction, hoping desperately that he wanted the same thing he did.

And then, almost simultaneously, their lips crashed together.

It was a searing, desperate kiss that stole the breath from both their lungs at once. Fit kissed Pac like a starved man, like he was trying to devour him whole, as though if he stopped, Pac would be gone again. There was so much sorrow in it, too much for the kiss to be gentle or sweet, or anything close to normal. It was not just the sadness of the past few days mixed into it; it was grief that had lasted for months, fuelling Fit to move fast and with an almost painful intensity, his tongue delving into Pac’s mouth, claiming every inch of it, tasting every corner, trying to recall how it used to feel. One hand moved to grip Pac’s hair, while the other squeezed his torso, pulling him impossibly closer. Fit wanted to merge with Pac. He kissed Pac with all his love, and Pac clung to Fit’s broad shoulders for support, still responding to Fit’s pace with his lips. Their kiss tasted of dust and salt; Pac could feel Fit’s tears on his lips, and only when they both became breathless and started panting did they pull away.

“Fitchi, so what happened?” Pac asked again, wrapping his hands around Fit’s neck and receiving kisses all over his face.

“We’ll figure this out.” Fit melted into Pac’s hug.