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The mental checklist was long. Horace was exhausted just thinking about it.
But that also might’ve been the fact he’d been awake and constantly on his feet for nineteen hours.
Though he supposed that was what came with being the only competent builder on the server. The others (ahem… Parrot) could barely manage an end stone hut, while he could create cities at the drop of a hat. That came with responsibilities!
He sighed as he set down another shulker box, feeling the physical wear from carrying things around all day in his strained muscles. Thankfully there was only one more floor of the castle to handle. He’d already spent hours building the thing, but somehow the decorating and furnishing was becoming the most tedious part.
It didn’t help that his head was starting to really hurt, and his hands were getting increasingly uncoordinated as time went on. He assumed it was just exhaustion—he’d rest once the castle was finished—which wasn’t something unfamiliar to him. For a moment he considered handing off the last few jobs to another member of his team, but then remembered that he’d let them leave hours ago thinking the decorating would be an easy, quick job. It was now evident that he had been entirely wrong.
He quickly distracted himself with the hanging of two more paintings. They complimented the bright, open space nicely. He was trying to decide whether blue or green would work best for the carpet when he heard footsteps behind him.
“Hello, Horace,” Parrot greeted. “I see things are coming along well.”
“Yeah,” Horace agreed, turning to face the avian. “I’m almost done with this floor. I think I’ll do a bit more work on the garden afterwards. It’s basically done, I just want to make sure my team did it justice.”
Parrot hummed. “That sounds like a plan. Er… this place is amazing, Horace. It’s so impressive how quick you can build something so beautiful.”
Horace felt himself blushing. “Ah, it’s really nothing. My team did most of the work. I’m just one person.”
“Sure, but who planned the build and coordinated an entire team of builders?” Parrot put his hand on Horace’s shoulder, pausing a second at whatever expression was painted on Horace’s face. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. Though… how long have you been up?”
“Not too long,” Horace said quickly. “I think since… around seven, maybe?”
Parrot’s eyes narrowed. “It’s almost two in the morning.”
“So?”
“That’s a long time.”
“I’m fine.”
“Really?”
“Really!”
Parrot pressed his lips into a thin line. “I just don’t want you to overextend yourself.”
Horace shrugged. “You wanted the castle done, I’m gonna get the castle done. I’m a builder, I’m used to it. Besides, you’re still awake.”
Parrot scoffed lightheartedly. “Yeah… but that’s different. You’ve been up for… what? Twenty hours?”
“Nineteen,” Horace corrected.
“Nineteen,” Parrot accepted. “That’s a while.”
“I’m almost done.”
"D’alright, whatever you say.” Parrot glanced around, taking in the room, before turning towards the hall. “I’m going to look around a bit. Just yell if you need me.”
“I wooon’t,” Horace called after him, giving a small wave.
Horace watched him disappear around the corner before letting out a breath.
The moment Parrot was gone, his shoulders slumped.
He wasn't lying, exactly. He was almost done.
The problem was that “almost done” had somehow meant three more hours of work for the past six hours.
He turned back toward the half-furnished room and squinted at the pile of carpet in his inventory.
Blue?
Green?
Green, probably.
No, blue.
Green.
Blue.
The colors seemed to blur together unpleasantly. He blinked hard and rubbed at one eye.
Maybe he'd just leave it for tomorrow.
The thought barely formed before he dismissed it. Tomorrow would be busy. There were always things to do tomorrow. Better to finish it now while he was already here.
Why had this become the hardest decision he'd made all day?
Horace blinked slowly.
Then again.
The room seemed to sway slightly around him.
“...Okay.”
Maybe Parrot had a point.
Just a little one.
His head was pounding now, a dull ache behind his eyes that made every lantern seem too bright. He rubbed at his face and forced himself forward.
One carpet.
Then the next.
Then a few flower pots by the window.
Easy.
His hands fumbled placing one of them.
The pot clattered to the floor.
Horace stared at it for several seconds before remembering he was supposed to pick it back up.
Right.
Focus.
The castle.
The castle wasn't done.
He still had—
The garden.
Carpets.
The throne room banners.
The—
His train of thought abruptly derailed.
The floor tilted.
Horace grabbed the nearest wall.
“Oh.”
That wasn't good.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
The dizziness passed after a moment, leaving him nauseous and unsteady.
Definitely exhaustion.
He just needed to finish.
He pushed away from the wall and took two determined steps forward.
A third.
A fourth.
The room spun again.
This time it didn't stop.
The hallway stretched strangely in front of him.
The lantern light blurred.
Horace reached for a table.
Missed.
His knee hit the floor first.
Then his shoulder.
The impact echoed through the castle with a loud thunk.
For a moment he just stayed there.
His brain felt wrapped in wool.
Some distant part of him recognized that collapsing was probably bad.
The rest of him was significantly more concerned with the fact that the floor was unexpectedly comfortable.
Footsteps.
Fast ones.
“Horace?”
Parrot's voice echoed somewhere down the hall.
Horace attempted to answer.
It came out as an incoherent mumble.
The footsteps sped up.
“Horace?”
A hand landed on his shoulder.
The world shifted as someone rolled him carefully onto his back.
Parrot's face swam into focus above him.
For a second the avian looked genuinely alarmed.
Then annoyed.
Then alarmed again.
“Okay,” Parrot said. “That's not concerning at all.”
“‘M fine.”
The words came out slurred.
“Horace.”
“I am fine.”
“You are not fine.”
“A little tired.”
“A little tired?”
Horace considered.
“A medium amount tired. Still fine.”
Parrot stared at him.
“Right.”
“I am.”
“You are currently on the floor.”
“Temporary.”
“Horace.”
“Mm.”
“You passed out.”
“I didn't.”
“You absolutely did.”
Horace considered arguing further.
Unfortunately, that required thinking.
Thinking sounded difficult.
Instead he closed his eyes.
Immediately, Parrot snapped his fingers somewhere near his face.
“Nope. Don't do that.”
Horace groaned.
“You're very loud.”
“I am literally speaking.”
“Too loud.”
Parrot sighed heavily.
“Of course.”
Parrot pressed a hand against his forehead.
Horace flinched.
The hand felt nice and cool.
Unfortunately, that seemed to make Parrot even more concerned.
“Okay. Nope.”
“What?”
“We’re done here. No more building.”
“Nooooo,” Horace whined. “I’m not finished.”
“You have a fever.”
“Propaganda.”
There was a brief pause.
Then another sigh.
One that somehow sounded resigned.
“You're impossible, you know that?”
Horace hummed.
Parrot took that as agreement.
The next thing Horace knew, the floor disappeared beneath him.
His eyes flew open.
“Wha—”
Parrot had picked him up. Completely. And very easily.
As though carrying a half conscious builder around at two in the morning was a perfectly normal activity.
Horace immediately protested.
Or at least attempted to.
What came out was:
“Nuh.”
“Excellent argument.”
“I can walk.”
“Can you?”
“...Maybe.”
Parrot raised an eyebrow.
Horace glared weakly.
Parrot continued walking.
The castle ceiling drifted past overhead.
The rhythmic motion should not have been comfortable.
Unfortunately, it was.
Horace hated that.
He also hated that his eyelids suddenly weighed approximately fifty pounds each.
“Don't fall asleep yet,” Parrot said.
“‘M not.”
“You literally sound asleep.”
“I'm listening.”
“To what?”
“...”
Parrot snorted. “Thought so.”
The last thing Horace registered was the distant glow of a frog light and the steady beat of footsteps beneath him.
Then exhaustion finally won.
His head tipped back against Parrot and everything went dark.
.
Horace woke up to voices.
That was the first thing he noticed.
The second thing he noticed was that every single part of his body hurt.
The third thing he noticed was that he was definitely not in the castle anymore.
“...seriously, Parrot, how did you not notice sooner?”
“Because every time I asked if he was okay he said he was fine.”
“That's not evidence.”
“It is when you're running on three hours of sleep and trying to build a civilization.”
Horace groaned.
The voices immediately stopped.
“Oh, he’s awake.”
Wonderful.
Horace opened one eye.
Regret.
The light stabbed directly through his skull.
He shut the eye again.
A chair scraped across the floor.
A second later something cool pressed against his forehead.
He flinched.
“Still warm,” Parrot muttered.
“Warm?” Horace croaked.
“You had a fever."
Past tense.
Excellent.
That meant he could leave.
Horace opened both eyes this time. Slowly. The room swam for a moment before settling into focus.
Guest room. End city. One of the nicer ones.
Parrot was sitting beside the bed, arms crossed and looking approximately one minor inconvenience away from committing a crime. Across the room, one of Horace’s builders—he vaguely recognized them from the garden team—was leaning against the wall.
The moment they noticed him looking, they brightened.
“Hey! You’re alive.”
“Unfortunately.”
The builder snorted.
Parrot did not.
Parrot continued staring at him.
Horace stared back.
“...What?”
“What was that?”
Horace blinked. “What was what?”
“The passing out.”
“Oh.”
Parrot looked offended. “‘Oh’?”
“I got dizzy.”
“You got unconscious.”
“Briefly.”
“You hit the floor.”
“Technically.”
“Horace.”
The builder quietly backed toward the door. “Yeah, I'm gonna go.”
Neither of them acknowledged this.
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Parrot pointed accusingly. “You told me you were fine.”
“I thought I was.”
“You were running a fever.”
“I didn't know that.”
“You hadn't slept.”
“I was busy.”
“You could barely stand.”
“That happened later.”
Parrot made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a strangled scream.
Horace sank slightly lower beneath the blankets.
Maybe this conversation would go away if he stopped participating.
Unfortunately, Parrot seemed committed.
“Dude.”
Horace winced. “Don't ‘dude’ me.”
“Dude. Horace.”
“What?”
“I thought you died.”
The room went quiet.
Horace froze.
The irritation on Parrot's face flickered away so quickly Horace almost missed it.
For just a second there was something else underneath.
Fear.
Raw and ugly and entirely out of place on someone like Parrot.
“I just…” Parrot rubbed at his face. “Bro, you scared me.”
Horace blinked.
The words landed strangely.
Parrot looked exhausted now.
Not annoyed.
Not angry.
Just tired.
“When I found you, I thought you'd hit your head or something,” he continued. “You weren't answering properly. You could barely keep your eyes open.”
“I did answer.”
“You made a pathetic noise.”
“Oh.”
“You were unconscious.”
“Right.”
Parrot rubbed both hands over his face. “You scared the hell out of me.”
The guilt hit Horace immediately.
Sharp and uncomfortable.
He looked down at the blanket. “...Sorry.”
Parrot paused.
Then sighed.
Some of the tension left his shoulders. “Yeah.”
A beat.
“Still mad at you.”
Horace frowned. “That's fair.”
“It is fair.”
Another pause.
“...You really thought you could just finish the castle and deal with this later?”
“Maybe.”
“Horace.”
“Okay, yes.”
“Why?”
The answer came immediately.
Because there was work to do.
Because everyone was counting on him.
Because he was the one who knew how to
make everything look right.
Because if he stopped, things slowed down.
Because—
Horace hesitated. “...I don't know.”
Parrot gave him a look that suggested he absolutely knew and was choosing not to say it.
Which was somehow worse.
“Well,” Parrot said eventually, standing from his chair, “good news.”
Horace did not trust that tone. “What good news?”
“You're banned from working.”
“What.”
“Doctor’s orders.”
“There is no doctor.”
“My orders, then.”
“Those aren't the same thing.”
“They are now.”
Parrot walked toward the door.
Horace sat upright immediately. Or attempted to.
The room spun. His stomach objected. He collapsed back into the pillows with a miserable groan.
Parrot didn’t even turn around. “Nice try.”
“The castle.”
“I don't care about the castle.”
“The city.”
“I don't care about the city.”
“The garden?”
Parrot finally looked back.
His expression softened.
Just slightly.
“Horace.”
The builder swallowed.
“I need to…” His voice cracked. “The castle, it's not—”
“Horace.”
Parrot crossed the room again.
This time when he spoke, his voice was quiet.
Firm.
“I don’t care about the castle.”
Horace looked away.
Parrot sat carefully on the edge of the bed.
“I care about you.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
Horace suddenly found the blanket extremely interesting.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Then Parrot reached over and tugged the blanket higher over Horace’s shoulders. An annoyingly parental gesture.
“I’ve got people finishing things up.”
“What?”
“You think I carried you all the way here and then left the entire civilization unattended?”
“...Maybe.”
“Rude.”
Horace felt some of the panic he'd been carrying finally begin to loosen. Just a little.
“The castle will survive.”
“It won't look right.”
“It looks amazing.”
“The carpets—”
“Nobody cares about the carpets.”
“I care about the carpets.”
Parrot pointed at him. “Sleep.”
“But—”
“Sleep.”
Horace opened his mouth. Parrot raised an eyebrow. Horace closed it again.
“Fine.”
“Good.”
Parrot settled back into the chair. Apparently he wasn’t leaving. Horace was too tired to question it.
The room felt warm.
Safe.
For the first time in nearly twenty-four hours, there was nothing demanding his attention.
No plans.
No deadlines.
No unfinished walls.
Just soft blankets and the quiet sound of someone nearby.
His eyes drifted shut.
He heard Parrot exhale.
“Finally.”
Horace managed a weak smile.
Then sleep dragged him under again before he could think about anything else.
.
Horace woke up feeling significantly worse. At first he wasn't entirely sure why. Then he opened his eyes.
The room tilted.
“Come on.”
His stomach immediately threatened mutiny.
Horace groaned and buried his face back into the pillow.
Bad idea.
Now his head hurt too.
Wonderful.
For several miserable minutes he remained perfectly still, hoping his body would eventually remember how to function.
It did not.
Instead, he became increasingly aware of two things.
One: he was far too warm.
Two: Parrot's chair was empty.
Horace blinked blearily toward the corner of the room.
Empty.
Huh.
That was... unexpected.
Parrot had looked prepared to personally fistfight anyone who attempted to let Horace out of bed.
Maybe he’d finally gone to sleep.
The thought was oddly relieving.
Parrot looked like he needed it.
Horace shifted beneath the blankets.
Instant regret.
The movement made his stomach lurch violently.
He froze.
“Nope.”
The room continued spinning anyway.
Great.
Just great.
A quiet knock sounded from somewhere beyond the door.
Horace didn’t answer. Mostly because speaking sounded difficult. The door opened regardless.
“Oh, you’re awake.”
Horace squinted toward the voice.
Wifies stepped into the room carrying a tray.
Unlike Parrot, who seemed permanently powered by caffeine and poorly thought out decisions, Wifies looked completely awake despite the ridiculous hour.
How he managed that remained one of Unstable’s great mysteries.
“Hi,” Horace mumbled.
“Hi.”
Wifies nudged the door shut behind him with a foot and crossed the room.
The tray smelled suspiciously like soup.
Horace immediately decided he hated it.
Not because the soup had done anything wrong.
His stomach simply took one whiff and threatened violence.
Wifies noticed his expression. “...That bad?”
Horace groaned.
“I'll take that as a yes.”
He set the tray on a nearby table before crouching beside the bed.
A hand pressed lightly against Horace's forehead.
Immediately Wifies frowned.
“Oh.”
That was not the reaction Horace wanted.
“What?”
“You’re really warm.”
“Mm.”
“Were you this warm earlier?”
“I don’t know.”
A pause.
“...Fair.”
Horace squeezed his eyes shut. Everything hurt. Not horribly. Just enough to be deeply annoying.
His muscles ached.
His head pounded.
His stomach felt awful.
And every blanket somehow managed to be simultaneously too hot and not warm enough.
It wasn’t fair. He’d already passed out. Surely that should’ve been the end of the consequences.
Wifies sat carefully on the edge of the bed.
“Parrot said you'd probably wake up feeling worse.”
Horace cracked one eye open.
“He left?”
“He slept for like two hours.”
“That's not enough.”
“No kidding.”
Wifies smiled faintly. “He pretty much had to be dragged away.”
Horace looked down at the blanket. “Oh.”
“He was worried.”
The guilt returned immediately.
Wonderful.
Another thing to add to the list.
“I didn't mean to…”
“I know.”
Wifies’ voice was gentle.
That somehow made it worse.
“I just needed to finish everything.”
“You know, that’s exactly what Parrot said you’d say.”
Horace groaned. “Traitor.”
“I prefer ‘correct.’”
The teasing eased some of the tension sitting in Horace’s chest. Just enough for him to notice how miserable he actually felt.
That was unfortunate.
His stomach rolled again.
Worse this time.
Horace frowned.
The room suddenly felt too warm.
Too bright.
Too—
He swallowed.
Wifies immediately sat up straighter.
“Horace?”
The builder pressed a hand against his mouth.
“Oh.” The sympathy in Wifies' voice was immediate.
Horace did not appreciate it.
“Wifies.”
“Yeah?”
“I think my stomach is trying to kill me.”
“Yeah, that's about what I was afraid of.”
“...”
“...”
“Can we not tell Parrot?"
Wifies stared at him.
Then he laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.
The traitor.
Wifies reached over and adjusted one of the blankets where it had twisted around Horace’s arm.
The motion was absent-minded. Familiar. Comfortable. The kind of thing someone did when they genuinely cared.
“How much do you remember?” he asked.
“Passing out.”
“Mm.”
“Getting kidnapped.”
“You mean carried.”
“I was not consulted.”
“You were unconscious.”
“Exactly.”
Wifies laughed quietly. The sound eased some of the tension coiled in Horace’s chest.
Just a little.
For a minute neither of them spoke.
Then Horace’s stomach twisted again.
Sharply.
He immediately curled slightly inward.
Wifies noticed. Of course he did.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Stomach?”
Horace nodded miserably. “Yeah.”
Another pause.
“Do you think you can drink something?”
The answer was no.
Absolutely not.
Not even remotely.
Horace looked at the water sitting beside the bed.
His stomach churned. “...Maybe later.”
Wifies gave him a look. Not an annoyed one. Not even a disappointed one. Just concerned. Which was somehow much harder to argue with.
“How about a few sips?”
Horace sighed dramatically. “You sound like Parrot.”
“I've been informed that's a bad thing.”
“It is.”
“Drink the water.”
“You're both evil.”
“Drink the water.”
Horace glared. Wifies waited patiently.
Eventually Horace grabbed the glass.
He managed exactly three careful sips before setting it down again.
“There.”
“Happy?”
“Ecstatic.”
Horace rolled his eyes.
The motion immediately made him dizzy.
Mistake.
He groaned and dropped his forehead into the pillow.
Wifies snorted.
“Yeah, maybe don't do that.”
“I'm dying.”
“You have a fever.”
“Same thing.”
“Horace.”
“Okay, maybe not the same thing.”
The room fell quiet again. Outside, distant voices drifted through the city.
Builders. Workers. People moving around. Finishing things.
Without him.
The thought settled heavily in his stomach worse than the nausea.
Wifies must've noticed the change in his expression.
Because his voice softened. “Hey.”
Horace didn’t look up.
“The castle’s fine.”
Silence.
“The city's fine too.”
More silence.
“The garden looks amazing.”
“...The carpets.”
Wifies laughed. “The carpets are also fine.”
“You haven't seen them.”
“No.”
“What if they're terrible?”
“They're not terrible.”
“What if they are?”
“Then nobody will notice except you.”
Horace frowned into the pillow.
Unfortunately, Wifies was probably right.
That didn't mean he had to like it.
A cool hand settled briefly against his hair.
Just for a second.
“Get some rest, okay?”
Horace wanted to argue.
He really did.
There was probably something important he should be doing.
Something unfinished.
Something important.
A wave of exhaustion crashed over him so suddenly that the thought vanished entirely.
“Oh.”
Wifies smiled. “Yeah.”
Horace's eyes drifted shut.
The bed was warm.
The room was quiet.
And for once, someone else was handling things.
The last thing he heard before sleep dragged him back under was Wifies speaking softly from beside the bed.
“You’re allowed to stop, you know.”
Horace was already asleep before he could disagree.
.
Night came in fragments.
Horace surfaced slowly.
At first he wasn’t entirely sure what had woken him.
Then his stomach cramped.
Hard.
His eyes snapped open. “Come on.”
The room was dark now. Mostly.
A single lantern glowed dimly from the corner, casting long shadows across the walls. Wifies was still there, though he’d apparently lost his battle against sleep at some point. He was slumped sideways in the chair beside the bed, arms folded, breathing evenly.
Horace stared at the ceiling.
Another cramp twisted through his stomach.
Worse.
He swallowed and immediately regretted it.
The nausea that had mostly faded while he’d been asleep came rushing back with a vengeance.
“No.” His voice came out barely above a whisper.
The room tilted.
Not as badly as before.
Still enough.
Horace squeezed his eyes shut.
Maybe if he stayed perfectly still, his body would forget whatever terrible idea it was currently having.
A second passed.
Then another.
Then a third.
His stomach lurched violently.
“Absolutely not.”
That was significantly more concerning.
Horace sat up. Immediately, every instinct in his body informed him this had been a catastrophic decision.
The room spun.
His vision blurred.
His head pounded.
His stomach became approximately one hundred times worse.
Horace slapped a hand over his mouth.
The movement must have made some noise. Across the room, Wifies shifted.
"...Horace?"
Oh, perfect. Just perfect.
Wifies blinked awake. It took roughly two seconds for him to take in Horace's expression. “Oh.”
“Don’t.”
“I'm literally just saying—”
“Don’t.”
Wifies was already standing. “Okay.”
Horace appreciated that he didn't argue.
He appreciated it even more when Wifies immediately crossed the room and grabbed the trash bin beside the desk.
“Just in case.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah.”
The silence that followed was deeply awkward.
Mostly because Horace knew exactly what Wifies was expecting.
And unfortunately Wifies was probably correct.
Nothing happened.
For a moment.
Then another.
Horace exhaled shakily. “Maybe I'm okay.”
Wifies raised an eyebrow.
Horace glared weakly. “Don't.”
“I'm not saying anything.”
“You're thinking things.”
“I am.”
“Rude.”
The nausea rolled again.
Much stronger.
Horace immediately doubled over.
The trash bin appeared in front of him so quickly it was almost impressive.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Ow.”
“Yeah.”
Well. That was unfortunate.
Several deeply unpleasant minutes later, Horace was curled miserably against the pillows while Wifies handed him a glass of water.
The water tasted wrong.
Not bad.
Just wrong.
Everything felt wrong.
His skin was too hot. The blankets were too heavy. His head hurt. His stomach hurt. He wanted to sleep. He also never wanted to move again.
Wifies sat back down. “You alive?”
“No.”
“How unfortunate.”
Horace made a noise that was probably meant to be annoyed. It came out pathetic instead.
Wifies smiled.
The traitor.
“You should probably try sleeping again.”
“I was.”
“You know what I mean.”
Horace groaned. The effort made his head hurt more.
This was discrimination.
The room settled into quiet again.
Outside, distant voices echoed faintly through the city. Someone laughed. Someone else shouted something about banners.
Work. People were still working. Without him. The thought sat heavily in his chest.
Horace stared at the blanket.
Wifies noticed. Of course he did.
“You know they're okay, right?”
Horace didn't answer.
“The build team.”
Silence.
“The civilization.”
More silence.
“Parrot.”
That got a reaction. Barely.
Wifies sighed.
“You don't have to personally hold everything together.”
Horace picked at a loose thread in the blanket. “Somebody does.”
“Not always.”
“Usually.”
Wifies leaned back in the chair.
For a moment he didn't say anything.
Then: “Can I tell you something?”
Horace shrugged.
“You know what Parrot did after you passed out?”
That got his attention.
“A crime?”
“Several, probably.”
“Okay.”
“But before those.”
Horace waited.
Wifies rubbed the back of his neck. “He carried you halfway across the city yelling for help.”
“...What?”
“You heard me.”
Horace blinked. “Wifies.”
“I'm serious.”
“No he didn't.”
“He absolutely did.”
“Parrot?”
“Parrot.”
“The Parrot.”
“The very same.”
Horace stared.
That image refused to fit inside his brain.
Parrot didn’t yell for help. Parrot usually caused the situations people needed help with.
Wifies laughed quietly. “Yeah.”
"He hates asking for help."
"Correct."
Horace frowned. "Then why—"
"Because he was scared."
The words landed heavily.
Wifies’ expression softened.
"He thought something was seriously wrong."
Horace looked away.
Immediately.
The guilt returned like it had installed permanent residence somewhere in his chest.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
The room went quiet. Horace suddenly felt very small.
Very tired.
Very stupid.
Wifies watched him for a moment. Then sighed. “You know what the worst part is?”
“What?”
“He's definitely going to be nice about it tomorrow.”
Horace groaned.
“See?”
“That's worse.”
“I know.”
“If he's mad, I can deal with that.”
“I know.”
“If he's worried—”
“I know.”
Horace buried his face in the pillow.
Wifies laughed. A quiet, fond sort of laugh. "You're impossible."
"Parrot said that too."
"Parrot's right."
Silence settled over the room again.
This time it wasn't uncomfortable.
Just tired.
The kind of silence that happened late at night when there was nothing left to do except wait for morning.
Horace’s eyes felt heavy.
His fever had apparently decided sleep was now mandatory.
Wifies noticed immediately. “Getting tired?”
“No.”
“Horace.”
“Maybe.”
“There he is.”
Horace wanted to roll his eyes. Instead he yawned, which was significantly less threatening.
Wifies looked unbearably pleased. “Go to sleep.”
“Bossy.”
“Learned from Parrot.”
“Evil.”
“Sleep.”
Horace sighed.
His stomach still hurt. His head still hurt. Everything still hurt.
But Wifies was there.
The city was fine. The castle was fine. The carpets were probably fine. Maybe. Probably.
His eyes drifted shut.
The last thing he heard before exhaustion pulled him under again was Wifies speaking softly into the quiet room.
“You don't have to earn people worrying about you, you know.”
Horace was asleep before the words could fully settle, which was probably for the best.
.
Sleep didn’t come properly.
That was the first thing Horace became aware of.
He’d fallen asleep. He knew he had. But now he seemed stuck somewhere unpleasantly between asleep and awake, drifting through fragments of consciousness that never lasted long enough to become real rest.
The blankets were too hot.
No, too cold.
No, both somehow.
Horace frowned weakly into his pillow.
His thoughts felt slow and disconnected. Every time he managed to focus on one, it drifted away again before he could do anything with it.
At some point he became aware of voices.
“...still asleep?”
“Mostly.”
Wifies.
Another voice answered.
“He’s definitely warmer.”
Parrot.
Horace tried to open his eyes.
They made it halfway before deciding that was enough effort for one day.
The room appeared briefly as a blur of purple walls and soft lantern light before disappearing again.
“Hey.”
A hand brushed lightly through his hair.
Wifies.
“There he is.”
Horace made a noise. It wasn’t a particularly useful noise.
“See?” Parrot said immediately. “That’s exactly what he was doing yesterday.”
“I’m pretty sure he's asleep.”
“No, he’s doing the weird mumble thing.”
Horace considered informing them that he could hear every word they were saying.
Unfortunately, that required speaking.
He settled for another incoherent sound.
“See?”
“Oh, wow. Riveting conversation.”
Someone snorted.
A cool hand pressed against Horace’s forehead.
The relief was immediate.
He leaned into it without thinking.
The room went quiet.
“...Okay, that's a little concerning.”
Horace frowned.
Concerning?
He felt fine.
Well.
Not fine.
Bad.
But not concerning.
There was a difference.
He opened one eye.
Parrot was sitting beside the bed again. Apparently he’d returned at some point. Wifies stood nearby with his arms folded.
Both of them looked worried.
That couldn’t be right.
Horace tried to tell them so.
What came out was: “Hnngh.”
Parrot stared.
Wifies immediately looked away and laughed.
“Stop laughing at him.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m laughing with him.”
Horace felt reasonably certain nobody was laughing with him.
He let his eye close again.
The room tilted unpleasantly.
Somewhere nearby, fabric rustled.
Then fingers slid carefully through his hair.
Slow.
Gentle.
The motion was familiar enough that some of the tension in Horace’s shoulders loosened automatically.
“There you go,” Wifies murmured.
Horace made another sleepy noise.
He hated how comforting that was.
A moment later he heard Parrot sigh.
“He’s burning up.”
“He does have a fever.”
“Not a fever. A furnace.”
“I don’t think that’s medically accurate.”
“You know what I mean.”
The hand in Horace's hair never stopped moving.
Careful strokes.
Slow enough that he didn't have to think.
The guilt he’d been carrying all day surfaced again.
Heavy.
Unpleasant.
He forced his eyes open.
Parrot noticed immediately. “What?”
Horace swallowed.
His throat hurt.
Everything hurt.
“...Sorry.”
Both of them froze.
“For what?” Wifies asked quietly.
Horace stared at the blanket.
The words felt embarrassingly difficult.
“Making everyone worry.”
Silence.
Then the mattress dipped. A second later Parrot sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Dude.”
Horace winced automatically. That tone never meant anything good.
“Dude,” Parrot repeated. “You passed out after staying awake for basically an entire day.”
Horace looked away.
“You got sick.”
Silence.
“You didn't do that on purpose.”
More silence.
“You know that, right?”
Horace picked at a loose thread in the blanket.
Because logically?
Yeah.
Obviously.
But another part of him remembered the unfinished carpets.
The banners.
The garden.
The hundred tiny details that someone else had probably fixed because he couldn't.
“I was supposed to finish everything.”
The confession came out barely above a whisper.
For a second nobody spoke.
Then Wifies’ hand moved from his hair to the back of his neck.
Warm.
Steady.
“Horace.”
The builder squeezed his eyes shut.
“The civilization got built.”
“...”
“The castle got finished.”
“...”
“The garden looks incredible.”
“...”
“And absolutely nobody is upset with you.”
Horace’s throat tightened.
Because the stupid thing was that he knew they meant it.
That somehow made it worse.
Parrot sighed.
A long one.
The kind people made when they were trying very hard not to say something mean.
“Can I tell you something?”
Horace nodded weakly.
“When I asked you to help build all this?”
Another nod.
“I wasn't thinking, ‘Wow, if Horace doesn't personally place every flower pot we're doomed.’”
Despite everything, a laugh escaped him.
Tiny.
Broken by exhaustion.
But still a laugh.
“There it is,” Wifies said softly.
Parrot pointed immediately. “See? That's an actual response.”
“Congratulations.”
“I’m making progress.”
“You are not.”
Horace listened to them bicker.
The sound washed over him comfortably.
Safe.
Neither of them seemed in a hurry to leave.
Neither of them seemed annoyed that he was sick.
Neither of them seemed angry that he’d failed to finish everything himself.
For the first time all day, the knot in his chest loosened. Just a little.
The hand in his hair continued its slow rhythm.
His fever-heavy thoughts began drifting again.
The voices grew softer.
Farther away.
The last thing he heard before sleep finally pulled him under was Parrot speaking quietly from somewhere beside him.
“Next time, we're forcing him to take breaks.”
Wifies laughed.
“Good luck with that.”
“Fair point.”
.
Parrot sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Finally, he’s asleep.”
Wifies turned to him. “Go get some rest.”
“What?”
“You look exhausted.”
“I'm fine.”
A pause.
Then Wifies snorted.
“Wow. Wonder where Horace learned that one.”
.
“Why are you vertical?” Was the first thing Parrot asked when he walked in.
Horace blinked. He had managed to sit up on his own before running out of energy. “...I woke up.”
Something in Parrot’s expression loosened seeing that the builder seemed relatively coherent.
“You feeling better?” Parrot set a tray down on the table beside him.
Horace hesitated.
Considered deflecting.
Considered joking.
“...A bit.”
Small. Hesitant. Barely there.
That seemed to appease Parrot. He sat on the edge of the bed, careful hands guiding over a small bowl.
“You should eat,” Parrot said softly. It was soup. “Can you try?”
Horace swallowed, taking the bowl from him. “...Yeah.”
The first bite was… well. Not very noteworthy. He couldn’t taste much.
But the warmth felt nice.
“What time is it?” He asked. He couldn’t stand the silence now that he was awake enough to process it.
“You’re sick. Time isn’t real.”
“That’s really helpful.”
“You’re welcome.”
Horace had another spoonful. He’d expected the soup to just make him nauseous again. Somehow it did the opposite.
Parrot watched him carefully like he was expecting something to go wrong. When Horace eventually set the bowl down, having eaten just under half, he seemed satisfied.
Horace flinched at Parrot’s hand on his forehead.
“Huh,” Parrot hummed. “No fever.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
“Rude.”
Parrot rolled his eyes, though his lips tugged up fondly. “Whatever. Drink.”
A cup of water was pressed into Horace’s hands. “If I don’t?”
“Grounded.”
“Wow.” Horace sipped slowly. “I liked Wifies better.”
Parrot gasped. “Rude!”
Horace grinned. Parrot’s offended expression melted at that.
Horace still didn’t feel good under any means.
But he could think without his thoughts slipping away from him.
He could move without agonizing pain.
He wasn’t struck with the urge to vomit with every swallow.
That meant progress. And progress meant he could start working again.
“Now that you’re awake,” Parrot began. Horace didn’t like his tone. “I think we need to set some rules.”
“I don’t need rules,” Horace protested. “I’m not a kid.”
“You’re not,” Parrot agreed. “But you also worked yourself unconscious thirty-six hours ago. So I think there’s room to negotiate.”
Horace opened his mouth and immediately closed it. Because what could he say? It was an accident? It wouldn’t happen again? Parrot obviously wasn’t having it.
“You’re taking on less.” Parrot paused. “I’m making sure of it.”
“How would you know?” Horace asked, fully intending to just lie.
“I’ll check with your team. I’ll tell them to watch you more closely."
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“That is violating.”
“That is precautionary."
“Same thing.”
“Not.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Parrot didn’t falter.
“And,” he went on. “You’re going to tell us when you need breaks. You’re not going to wait until you physically cannot function.”
“It’s only happened once—”
“That’s a lie.”
“How would you know?”
“You remember that builder I was talking to when you first woke?”
“Vaguely.”
“Well.” Parrot crossed his legs, looking far too pleased with himself. “They gave me some interesting information. Apparently, it is not, in fact, the first time this has happened.”
Horace cringed. “Not… on this scale.”
He could recall multiple other instances where similar events had occurred.
The Wonders.
Wemmbu’s civilization.
Wemmbu’s civilization again after the initial destruction.
“That was different,” he argued weakly. “I wasn’t sick.”
“You were exhausted,” Parrot said gently. His frustrated tone was gone. “You still are. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”
“...I had things to finish.”
“You’re more important than the work you do.”
“...I had things you wanted me to finish.”
“That’s true, I wanted you to finish them.” Parrot sighed. “But I would’ve much rather found an incomplete castle than you unconscious.”
Horace looked away. “Sorry.”
“Don’t say sorry.”
“Sorry.”
“What did I just say?”
“I—” Horace cut himself off, then smiled weakly. “Sorry.”
That earned him a pillow to the face.
“Dumbass,” he heard Parrot mumble under his breath.
Horace fidgeted with his sleeves. “I am sorry.”
“I know you are.”
“Really.”
Parrot leaned back on his hands. “It’s okay. The castle is done. The garden is fine. The square is busy.”
“That’s good.”
Still Horace couldn’t help the worry that brought along. What if it didn’t look right? What if there had been mistakes? What if the plans had been off?
Parrot noticed. “Hey.”
Silence.
He tried again. “Would you feel better if we went out and saw it?”
“…Yeah.”
“Alright.” Parrot stood. “Think you can stand?”
Horace’s eyes glittered. “Maybe.”
Parrot offered his hand. Horace took it, carefully getting to his feet.
The world spun for a moment before settling. He was expectedly weak, but despite his initial apprehensions, nothing terrible happened. He didn’t fall. His head felt fine. He didn’t get nauseous.
Maybe he was actually okay.
“You okay?” Parrot asked gently.
“Yeah.” Horace gave him a sly grin. “I’m fine.”
“I want to force you back to bed just for saying that.”
Horace genuinely, properly laughed for the first time in what felt like days. “The flashbacks are crazy.”
Parrot sighed. Loudly. “I liked you better when you were sick.”
Horace gasped. “Rude. Wifies was a better caretaker anyway.”
“I’m deeply hurt.”
They both gave each other deadpan looks before breaking out into smiles.
“Well, come on. We don’t have time to waste,” Horace said.
“You are never going to change.”
“I am not.”
.
“Hey, Horace!” Kenadian gave Horace a small wave as they walked by.
“Hi,” Horace said gingerly. Dol9hin and Fantst, who were talking across the courtyard, looked in his direction and shot them pleasant smiles.
“See?” Parrot elbowed him. “People are getting on just fine. They love this place, dude.”
Horace smiled at the ground. “I suppose.”
Parrot guided him down the streets of the civilization. Horace tried his best to spot any imperfections or incomplete buildings, but he came up with nothing.
“Stop analyzing everything,” Parrot scolded lightly. “Your builders did great. They didn’t forget anything.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Don’t you trust your team?”
“Of course I do.”
Parrot raised an eyebrow.
Horace paused. “Ah.”
Parrot stopped walking. Horace nearly bumped into him before stopping himself.
“And here we are.” Parrot made a big gesture. They were in front of the castle. “Brings back memories.”
Horace squinted. The windows were polished. The spires were finished. The flowerbeds were laid. He couldn’t find a single obvious imperfection to point out.
But there was one thing he had to be sure of.
“...are the carpets okay?”
Parrot blinked.
Then he laughed. Very loudly.
“Oh my god,” he wheezed, wiping away a tear. It was very dramatic. “Of course that’s what you care about.”
“I have priorities.”
“You have a problem.”
“Same thing.”
“Not.”
Parrot sighed. Horace looked at the castle again.
“Um.” He hesitated. “Are they, though?”
Parrot turned to him, disbelief and something like affection fighting for dominance in his expression.
“Yes, Horace. The carpets are fine.”
“Good.”
A cold breeze blew through the air. Horace hugged his jacket tighter around himself.
“Horace, I’m…” Parrot ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get mad at you. I was just scared. It wasn’t fair to get upset when you were so sick.”
Horace’s throat tightened. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let my pride get in the way of the civilization.”
“Dang. Guess we both fucked up.”
Horace giggled. “Guess we did.”
Both their heads snapped towards the garden at the sound of a voice. Two, actually; Wifies and Dean.
“Yo!” Wifies was waving them over. “There’s invis players circling the island.”
Dean nodded. “What he said.”
Parrot sighed, exasperated, and nudged Horace. “Come on. Up for a little investigating, or are you gonna pass out again?”
"No promises."
Parrot rolled his eyes but didn't protest, dragging Horace along to join the others.
The city was bustling. The castle was finished. And, most of all, they were ok.
(for now)