Work Text:
There were a lot of things Mumbo did not understand about people.
For example, Why do people like small talk? and Why do good people do bad things? and Why is society so obsessed with relationships?
But there was one question that he seemed to be asking himself every single day.
Why do people like walking so much?
There was a group of 8 Hermits gathered in the shopping district. Scar, Cub, Joe, Tango, Impulse, Gem, Joel, and himself. The meetup had been purely coincidental—just 8 Hermits going to the right place at the right time, but it had quickly devolved into easy conversation among friends. The talk ranged from Tango's cageyness about Decked Out 3 to a long-winded, fascinating explanation about astrophysics by Cub to a long discussion regarding whether or not orange was a bad color.
Blissfully, mercifully, the conversation was held with everyone sitting on a patch of grass near Skizz's mangrove shop, not just stood in a congregating circle in some random part of the shopping district. Like people usually seemed to do while chatting.
Another thing Mumbo did not understand about people.
And Mumbo was having a wonderful time! Like every season, people were always very caught up in their builds, so it was nice to just take a break and have a slow afternoon chatting with his fellow Hermits like the friends they were.
At least, until Tango had the worst idea Mumbo had ever heard.
"Guys, d'you wanna walk and talk for a minute, make a few loops around the district?"
Mumbo closed his eyes for a few seconds.
Oh, Mojang, why.
He'd been having such a good time.
Of course, of course, exactly as Mumbo had expected, everyone quickly agreed, barring some banter about who got the privilege of pushing Scar, because, according to the man himself, "his arms were tired from carrying the conversation all afternoon".
Plus from the hEDS, of course. Yeah, that might have something to do with it.
So it wasn't long before Mumbo was dragging himself to his feet, ignoring the way that, as usual, a slight gray haze filtered over everything in his vision.
And the way his head immediately felt full of static and air. Like his head could float off his neck, contradictory to the way the rest of his body felt like 1000-pound-lead.
And the way he definitively became more aware of his heartbeat as it began to beat faster and harder in his chest.
And the way he immediately felt like he was fighting with all his strength to stay upright. Even though the goal was accomplished, it was still a fight.
Of course, some Hermits did glance at him after a moment, as if remembering he might be a complication. They all knew about his POTS, to an extent—they knew it was a chronic illness that made hard to walk because whenever he stood, his heart rate rose like he'd just run a marathon, which, in short, did not feel good—but he… he knew they weren’t as perceptive of his chronic illness as Scar’s, because, well… Scar obviously used a mobility aid, and he did not.
Don't think like that, he scolded himself. These might just be the most supportive people in the universe. Stop being dramatic. He knew that if he ever called more attention to his POTS, the Hermits would instantly try do whatever they could to help him. It was his fault. And so was the POTS. He didn’t take care of himself enough. Didn’t drink enough water and stuff. So this was probably all his fault anyway.
Coincidentally, Joe was the first to ask, "You up for it, Mumbo?"
"Yeah, I'm good," he lied through his teeth.
Joe studied him for another moment, and Mumbo did all he could to keep smiling, don't let your knees buckle, don't break, don't break—
Joe turned back to where he'd been talking to Gem, seemingly accepting his answer. Mumbo tried not to blow out an obvious breath of relief.
Okay, it's fine, Mumbo thought, swallowing and wiping his sweaty palms on his pants. The Hermits grouped up and stepped into the shopping district's street.
I'm more tired than usual today, but I just need to steel myself. It's fine. Maybe if he told himself that over and over, it would become true?
The group began their walk, still chattering animatedly to each other. As he tried to smile at the right moment and look like he was paying attention, Mumbo's feet eventually found somewhat a rhythm. Even though he was still lightheaded and there was still barely visible gray static and his heart was still going and it was a little hard to breathe and his legs were heavy, it was manageable. For now. He could tell it would just get worse over time, but for the moment, he was fine.
"So, Mumbo, you said you were doing a story-themed base this season?" Impulse asked, since they'd ended up walking next to each other.
"Oh, yeah!" Mumbo grinned. Okay, maybe this would be fine. Maybe the conversation would distract him from his need to sit. It would be fine. Screw POTS! "So, I was thinking, I'd make an abandoned city—kind of an adjacent concept to your base last season, actually..."
It was not fine.
They'd gone 5 laps around the shopping district—a fact Mumbo was keenly aware of—and he was pretty sure he was dying.
Okay, maybe he wasn't dying—but Mojang, this was miserable.
The Hermits were having a conversation about peeking into Decked Out 3—or more accurately, Tango was scolding the Hermits for peeking into Decked Out 3, and every Hermit was denying it. It didn’t take long for the conversation to circle back to Mumbo.
“Mumbo, have you illegally peeked?” Tango accused, pointing a finger at Mumbo across the line of walking Hermits.
He did his best to force an innocent grin and held up his hands in surrender. It’s fine! They’ll probably stop soon.
Denial was a river. There was nothing he wanted to do more than let his legs give out. His head was filled with fuzz. His heart ached dully in his chest. Please, can I sit down?
Please?
“I would never!” Mumbo told Tango, keeping his fake grin plastered on his face. It felt fairly convincing, and Tango seemed to be convinced, however…
Mumbo caught Scar’s eye briefly. The man was studying him in blatant concern as the group walked along. Cub was still pushing Scar’s chair..
Mumbo looked away from the man’s green eyes as soon as could be considered normal. Crap.
Even if the other Hermits couldn’t tell when he was having a hard time, Scar would be able to. With hEDS, he’d be able to see the telltale signs of exhaustion that came from having a chronic illness. Slight, but there if you knew where to look.
Tight posture. Tight smiles. Overcompensating.
It was all his fault, anyways. If he drank as much water as he was supposed to (which was an unholy amount), wore his compression socks more, ate more salt, it would probably fix itself.
It wouldn’t. But that’s what the doctors always made it sound like.
Mumbo was not surprised at all when he heard his communicator ping.
He let out a long, steady breath through his nose. Dang it, Scar. He didn’t need this energy in his life right now! He was perfectly fine—he was trying so hard to keep the mask on, Scar didn’t need to pull it off!
Resignedly, he pulled his communicator out of his pocket, shooting a glare Scar’s way that the man pointedly avoided, whistling innocently. Whistling. Who did that?
Mumbo to GoodTimeWithScar Direct Messages
<GoodTimeWithScar> you good?
<Mumbo> I’m perfectly fine thanks
Scar’s response was quick.
<GoodTimeWithScar> you should sit down
<Mumbo> Easy for you to say
Scar’s snort was loud and could be heard by every Hermit. Everyone glanced at him in confusion before moving on.
<GoodTimeWithScar> wow, hit a man when hes down why dont you!
<GoodTimeWithScar> you dont look to good
Mumbo scowled furiously at the communicator. Actually, maybe this was good. It was a bit easier to fight the dryness in his throat and the immense strength it took to stay upright when he was focused on being mad at Scar. For trying to help him. Actually, no, it wasn’t helping at all. He still felt like he was going to die. He was sure at least 1 Hermit was outwardly observing him and Scar’s communicator battle, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
<Mumbo> I’m offended
<Mumbo> I’m not going to pass out
Yeah. That was the most obvious issue. But he didn’t pass out from POTS. Well, except for that one time. But that was just one time! Anyways, people automatically assumed that POTS made him faint. It did for some people, but not him. It just made him feel like crap.
He should probably shut up. Other people had it much worse. Scar used a cane sometimes, but he was currently in his wheelchair, for Mojang’s sake! Why did the man even care if he didn’t feel well? It could be so much worse for Mumbo. He was fine. Sometimes he was fine, so he should be fine.
<GoodTimeWithScar> ik, but mumbo im just tryig to help
<GoodTimeWithScar> you shold sit down
Mumbo bit his lip, feeling his resolve crack a bit. Sitting down did sound heavenly, of course. He felt so heavy…
<Mumbo> I don’t want them to worry
<GoodTimeWithScar> Mumbo Killsalot Jumbo if you dont go and tell everyone your leaving and go take a break right now ill
<GoodTimeWithScar> ill
<GoodTimeWithScar> uh
<GoodTimeWithScar> ill
<GoodTimeWithScar> tell grian!
<GoodTimeWithScar> you wouldnt want boht of us scolding you now would you?
<Mumbo> You wouldn't dare!
<GoodTimeWithScar> you better start sidling away from us mister!
<GoodTimeWithScar> go home!
Mumbo stifled a frustrated noise. Well, fine then! He would go, and he’d leave everyone to have fun without him.
<Mumbo> Fine!
<Mumbo> I’ll just leave you here with everyone else then!
<GoodTimeWithScar> oh welllll guess mumbo will have to take care of himself then aw dang it! whoopde doo
<GoodTimeWithScar> ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
What? How did Scar just have that emoticon on standby—Actually, wait. No, he wasn’t surprised, and that didn’t matter. Also, he felt like he was going to be sick. Had he mentioned that already?
<Mumbo> Scarrrrrrr!
<GoodTimeWithScar> mumboooooooo!
Okay… fine. He’d leave and go home. He felt sick anyways.
The moment the decision was made, he wanted to collapse with relief. Really, he had wanted to collapse the whole time and this was a decent excuse. He would get to sit. Or lay down. In his bed.
He happened to be on the edge of the group, so that made it easier.
The Hermits were reminiscing about Season 9 and things he couldn’t relate to, like the King Ren era and the Hermitcraft-Empires crossover. He tuned them out, but a lump rose to his throat. The thought of announcing to everyone, “Hey, guys! I’m going to leave now because I feel like I’m going to vomit and the world is all spinny!” did not sound appealing.
Maybe he could just… scootch away? Maybe no one would notice! Hermits were not usually very perceptive people. Well, unless it was one of the multiple Hermits that was incredibly perceptive.
Right. Uh, right. Scooching away. His heart was still going a million miles an hour. Every inch of him itched to just pull out a firework and rocket away as fast as his wings would take him.
One step away from Impulse. The Hermits were talking about the Permit Office of Season 10 now.
One more step. Impulse glanced at him.
5 more steps. He was on the side of the street now. Almost out of the woods!
“Mumbo, what are you doing?”
Mumbo froze and whipped his head around to see Gem, the asker of the question, along with the rest of the Hermits staring at him.
“Um,” he tried for a smile. Given the way a few of the Hermits’ eyes flickered with concern, it wasn’t convincing. “Leaving?”
“But we were having fuuuuuun—” Joel began to playfully gripe, before Scar’s voice cut in firmly.
“POTS.”
Everyone’s eyes darted to the scarred man.
“He’s leaving because he has POTS and walking is hard with POTS and I threatened him and forced him to home against his will so he can not feel bad,” Scar said, like it was simple.
Mumbo scowled furiously at the man. Tango quickly rushed to say, “Oh, sorry, man! We can go sit back down if you want!”
While that may have been a good idea about 4,000 steps ago, Mumbo was spent. Sitting and talking more sounded like a nightmare at this point. He didn’t even have a chance to express that before Scar cut in. “Nooooo, I think Mumbo should go take a break at home or I’m going to HotGuy him.”
Mumbo glared at him. Scar just crossed his arms and smiled. Mumbo quickly glanced away before any of the gratefulness that was starting to bubble up showed on his face. Given by Scar’s smirk, it did not go unnoticed.
Ugh. Mumbo really didn’t want to worry anyone. But sitting sounded—it sounded really great, actually—and—and
“Bye, everyone! Have fun with your walk-y thing!” Mumbo blurted. He turned, but he could feel that his face was already covered in relief before he’d fully looked away. Well, that might concern some of the Hermits. Oh well! He got to go sit!
He was in the sky before anyone could respond to him. His legs’ throbbing immediately became sharp and clear now that there was no weight on them. He could feel the blood in them now—probably—maybe he was just imagining it—but now it was just a sensation, not something that was pulling him down.
Mumbo felt like something was pulling him down.
Everything was fine.
Okay, is the mangrove planks or the netherrack lighter—which order do I put them in to make a gradient—
It was so hot. He took in a ragged breath that didn’t feel like it filled his lungs at all. He’d sat down for a while, but then that had begun to feel unproductive, so he’d gone out here. To build.
It was hell.
Do I put the reds closer to the oxidized copper for contrast, or closer to the unoxidized copper to create a rainbow effect?
His heart was pounding, but he’d lost his smart watch, the one that tracks his heart rate, so he can’t look down at it and see how fast his heart rate is. Which means, despite how fast it felt, he can’t really know if it’s really fast or if he just doesn’t feel good and is overinflating the hypothetical number in his head.
Should I swap out the cobble base for tuff bricks—but the tuff has a green undertone, do i want that—
Oh Mojang, spots in his vision, on top of the usual barely visible gray distortion that was always there. Spots didn’t always happen, though. They were whitish and left a small trail in their wake that quickly dissipated, sort of like little shooting stars. He was familiar with them, but again, not an everyday occurrence. Usually, he wouldn’t be like this from walking and working on his build for just a little bit—he’d just be uuncomfortable—but his legs were still throbbing from earlier and his dizzy brain was begging him to just go and sit back down.
It felt kind of pathetic, honestly. Here he was, with perfectly functioning legs that allowed him to walk, but it was just made so difficult by his stupid nerves refusing to push the blood to his brain and his stupid heart desperately trying to accommodate by going a million miles an hour. He could walk perfectly fine! Why did staying upright feel so hard? He didn’t have it as bad as Scar, or the thousands of other actually disabled people that weren’t just crying about some mild little chronic illness that made him feel like absolute crap a good amount of the time.
No, I think there’s enough green in the build already, any more and it will look oversaturated—
His throat felt like it hadn’t felt a single drop of moisture in weeks. Right. He should probably stop building. If he didn’t get this build done now, it felt like it would never get done, but…
Pausing and drinking water was probably the healthy and correct thing to do at this point, the thing no one would get mad at him for.
The cobble block was starting to slip out of his hands. “Mumbo!” a familiar voice called from the air.
Mumbo definitely didn’t let an expletive fall softly from his lips.
He tucked the block back into his inventory and forced himself to stay upright. At least it’s not Scar. Scar would know more that I need to sit and stop me from working.
He looked up, squinting in the light as Grian dove to the spot next to him and flared his parrot wings out at the last second to stop himself from dying on the spot. Mumbo made a squeaky noise as Grian was suddenly in front of him, grinning widely. Mojang, how did that man always manage to just appear from nowhere?!
“Hi Mumbo!” he exclaimed, looking entirely too excited about life in general for how hot it was outside.
Grian stared at him for a few moments, and in those moments, Mumbo felt completely and utterly scrutinized. He was pretty sure he was manually blinking and breathing. It was certainly a manual ordeal to make his legs support him.
Grian then gave a resigned sigh, tucked his wings in, and grabbed Mumbo’s arm. “C’mon, buddy. Put the blocks away.”
Mumbo stiffened, caught off guard. Oh, not this again! He’d already taken a break of multiple hours today. He shouldn’t need more! “Wh-what?!”
“You need to sit.”
“You’re not Scar! You’re not supposed to be able to tell!” Mumbo shot back. Were those tears gathering in his eyes?
His legs were so heavy.
His head was full of static.
He was so tired.
Grian scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I’m your best friend. I don’t need to live it to see you’re exhausted. C’mon.”
All over again, Mumbo felt his resolve crack again.
“Okay,” he replied brokenly, dropping the cobblestone to the floor. He let his face drop from his fake I’m-fine-and-not-running-on-1%-and-so-able-bodied expression.
Grian’s brows shot up in alarm. Clearly, he’d been expecting a bit more of a fight. He recovered quickly, though.
“Alright… come with me,” he replied, worry lingering around the edges of his tone. Concern had been there at the start, but this was much more blatant.
Mumbo stumbled after Grian, and flew after him when he jumped off a cliff and soared in the direction of Mumbo’s house.
Normally, Mumbo would try to reel in his facial expressions if his chronic illness ever made him feel like he had a chronic illness.
Showing too much relief or pain would be detrimental to pretending everything was fine. Because he didn’t want people telling him what to do—or, or, it was fine. It was fine!
But today, his legs felt like they might fall off, and his ears were ringing a little, and his heart was pounding, and it was worse than usual but nothing he hadn't felt before, and he let his face drop as Grian urged him to sit down on his couch.
When Mumbo wasn't properly screwing his face into a smile, it didn't take long for Grian to study him in blatant concern as he stared despairingly at the opposite wall to him.
Grian plopped down next to him and immediately asked, "You good, dude?"
Mumbo's head was swimming. His heart was slowing down, his body desperately trying to calm down from its earlier stress now that he was finally, finally sitting. It was heavenly to not have to force his poor legs to support him anymore.
Right. Grian has asked a question. He should probably answer it. And try to like like he wasn't actively dying.
"I'm... fine," he managed after a moment. Grian did not look convinced. "Just needed to sit, that's all."
"So... I was right?" Grian teased, clearly trying to gauge the mood, but there was still so much clear worry there.
"Sure," Mumbo replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes. He couldn't quite hide his hint of a smile, though. With a sigh, he felt his adrenaline wean, and his eyes flutter shut.
"Mumbo..." Grian started nervously.
Mumbo opened his eyes and scowled. "Oh, come off it." Him and Grian had been best friends for years. Supposedly, he should be no stranger to this stuff. However, there was an unfortunate flaw in that line of thinking: Mumbo had been doing his best to not show when he didn't feel good for every single one of those years.
"I'm fine, mate. I feel like this all the time. I just already walked with the Hermits for an obscene amount of time today, so I'm more tired than usual."
Grian's eyebrows furrowed further. "What do you mean you feel like this all the time? You wouldn't go and neglect your health on me, would you, Mumbo Jumbo?"
Mumbo couldn't help it. He flinched. He knew Grian was just concerned for him, but...
Countless doctor's visits. Every time, the same test. Sit down, then stand up.
POTS symptoms could be helped by drinking more water, having more salt, wearing compression socks, doing little exercises, and sometimes, some medications could help. Sometimes. And it wasn't a cure. Rule #1 of POTS: There is no cure.
And he really tried to do everything right. Mojang, he wanted to.
But, Mojang.
He was So. Tired.
Existing was exhausting. Walking was exhausting. Building his base was exhausting. He wanted to drink enough water and do everything right. And Mojang, he tried. But he knew it could be better. He was supposed to drink an obscene amount of water every day.
So every few months when he went to his cardiologist, they always said the same thing, frowning at the BPM on the screen that was the one of someone who had just been competing in MCC. Because, well. Aforementioned postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome, emphasis on the tachycardia.
"Well, even though we tried upping your water intake, it's still going up at least 30 beats per minute. Hm."
Still? Well, yeah! It had no cure! He was probably overacting. But what did the doctor expect? Why were they sort of implying it was his fault, or that drinking more water should've cured the POTS?
Also, they always acted like it was even something that needed to be cured right after telling him straight to his face that POTS was a heavily trendified thing that was made a much bigger deal than it really was. Could they just pick a lane?
Anyways, Mumbo knew Grian had 1000% pure good intentions, but he couldn't stop himself from blaming himself. And why would he? It was mostly his fault.
Grian wasn’t even trying to hide his concern now, but as he opened his mouth, Mumbo’s communicator pinged.
Now, call Mumbo a madman, but Mumbo had a distinct tone for every single person in his contacts. Did he remember them all? No. But he liked to know exactly what to expect from the moment he got pinged.
This was Scar’s ping.
Grian had spent enough time around him to recognize Scar’s ping sound from his communicator, even though he thought Mumbo’s system was absolutely ridiculous.
“Scar?” Grian asked, gaze darting the Mumbo’s communicator as he pulled it out of his pocket. It wasn’t really a question. Mumbo knew he knew who it was.
Thank Mojang for Grian’s goldfish-like attention span.
Mumbo hummed noncommittally in response, and opened his and Scar’s DMs for the second time that day.
He was not at all surprised at what he found there.
Mumbo to GoodTimeWithScar Direct Messages
<GoodTimeWithScar> are u takng a break, mumbo jumbo?
<Mumbo> Of course! Why wouldn’t I be?
<GoodTimeWithScar> because you never take care of yourself
Mojang, this again. Even besides stupid doctors, he it was exhausting. He knew, okay?!
<Mumbo> That’s real rich coming from you
It really was. Scar ran himself into the ground even harder than Mumbo.
Mojang, Mumbo really needed to stop complaining. Scar had it so much worse, didn’t he? He actually had to use mobility aids! Mumbo just fantasized about how much easier his life would be with them if he got to use them just when he needed them! He wouldn’t even need them all the time! How ungrateful was he!
<GoodTimeWithScar> takes one to know one :D
<GoodTimeWithScar> are you really taking a break?
<Mumbo> I actually am, thank you very much. Aren’t you proud?
<GoodTimeWithScar> depends, did you actually take a break or did someone see you and make you?
<Mumbo> Wait
Mumbo’s gaze slowly travelled up to Grian, who was just sitting there, colorful wings twitching in boredom as he waited for Mumbo to finish messaging Scar.
<Mumbo> Did you put Grian up to this?!
<GoodTimeWithScar> wahat?
<Mumbo> Stop making random aha references! This is serious!
<Mumbo> Grian came and made me stop building! Did you put him up to it!
It was at that point Mumbo was fully glaring at Grian in suspicion as the avian’s eyes darted between Mumbo and his communicator. His face was a mix of confusion and terror.
<GoodTimeWithScar> wait, he did?
<GoodTimeWithScar> shockingly, i did not put the g-man up to it
<Mumbo> I don’t believe you!
<GoodTimeWithScar> i swear!
Mumbo lowered the communicator and asked suspiciously, “Did Scar put you up to this?”
“What?”
“Telling me to go inside.”
Grian frowned at Mumbo’s communicator. “No?”
“You don’t seem sure,” Mumbo accused.
“I swear I didn’t!” Grian exclaimed.
Mumbo narrowed his eyes, searching for traces of dishonesty, but didn’t find any. He supposed Grian had probably just happened to stop by…
<Mumbo> I’m still sus
<GoodTimeWithScar> you mean sustanable
<Mumbo> I am suspicious and sustainable
<Mumbo> I am sus in all the ways
<Mumbo> But fine
<GoodTimeWithScar> so grian’s with you?
<Mumbo> Yeah?
<Mumbo> He’s probably going to pull out TNT soon for how bored he is waiting for me to finish messaging you
<GoodTimeWithScar> well we can’t have that!
<GoodTimeWithScar> gues i have to come over then
<GoodTimeWithScar> i’m so good at making him not blow things up
<Mumbo> Wait wait wait
<Mumbo> 1: That’s factually inaccurate, you’re the one who tells him to light the flint and steel
<Mumbo> 2: You’re not smooth buddy! What do you mean you’re just coming over?!
<GoodTimeWithScar> i’m on my way!
<GoodTimeWithScar> time to hang out with my buttercup freinds and force Mumbo to take care of himself
Mumbo scoffed, brows pinched as he stared at the communicator in surprise. A few seconds passed before Mumbo saw Scar’s speech bubble that indicated he was typing. The bubble disappeared and came back multiple times before the message was sent.
<GoodTimeWithScar> unless you don’t want me to
Mumbo sighed, resigned. Why was Scar so hard to say no to?
<Mumbo> Oh c’mon, of course you can come
<Mumbo> But give a man a warning first! Mojang!
<GoodTimeWithScar> well here’s your warning! :D
Mumbo could see Scar’s smirk as he typed that. Probably already flying over on his elytra. With no regard for the dangers of typing and flying at the same time.
He put down the communicator resignedly.
Addressing Grian’s raised eyebrow, he sighed, “Scar’s coming.”
Grian’s other eyebrow raised. “And are we mad or happy about that?”
Mumbo’s lips twitched slightly upwards at the we in that sentence.
“It’s fine, he’s just coming to scold me because I was supposed to take a break… after.”
“After what?”
“After…” Mumbo licked his lips nervously. “Um. After. Today?” Perhaps he could avoid it all?
Grian scowled at him. “What did you do to overwork yourself today?”
“Just a little walk with Hermits. It was fine!”
“Then why have you complained to me so many times about how much people like walking and how bad it makes you feel?”
At that point, Mumbo’s front door abruptly swung open.
Mumbo and Grian both stared in silence as Scar stumbled in, looking like he’d just had one hell of an elytra ride, and then clumsily shut the door behind him.
“Whoo!” he exclaimed, leaning on his cane and sighing as if exhausted. He finally absorbed what was going on in the room and processed the sight of Mumbo and Grian on the couch a few feet away.
“Friends!” He grinned mischievously and started towards the couch to sit.
“Dude, how did you get here so fast?” Grian asked, frowning as Scar plopped down on Mumbo’s left and leaned his cane against the couch.
“I was already in the shopping district,” Scar explained. He then raised his eyebrows at Grian. “So? Are about to lay into Mumbo so hard right now?”
“No,” Mumbo said at the exact same time that Grian sighed, “Yes.”
“Great!” Scar exclaimed with what was, in Mumbo’s opinion, quite a nasty grin, and him and Grian quickly shared a glance that communicated something Mumbo understood all too well.
We’re about to give him so much crap.
Grian stood up and started towards Mumbo’s kitchen, which was visible from where they sat.
“Where are you going?” Mumbo asked skeptically, eyebrows shooting up. Shoot, he was about to be in so much trouble.
Oh, this was ridiculous! He was a grown man, and usually it wasn’t this bad! He didn’t need to be scolded by his friends.
“Getting water. What snack do you want?”
Mumbo’s brain stuttered for a moment.
“W—What?”
Grian, familiar with his kitchen’s layout, grabbed a cup from the cabinet and walked over to the sink to fill it up.
“I’m getting you water,” Grian repeated dryly. His back was to Mumbo as he filled up the cup, and he had to speak up a bit to be heard over the sound of trickling water. “What snack do you want. Y’know, for salt. ‘Cause I’m guessing you barely ate today.”
“Oh, I’ll let you know you had an orange this morning.” Mumbo scoffed, a proud smirk playing at his lips. He hadn’t even wanted to, but he’d done it! He’d eaten a whole clementine this morning!
“Congratulations, but it’s 5 P.M. now. You need to eat.” He turned off the tap and walked over to Mumbo with the cup of water. Mumbo reluctantly took the cup when Grian handed it over to him.
“Fine,” Mumbo sighed reluctantly. He started at the translucent liquid in the cup for multiple seconds, but somehow, actually lifting the cup to his lift sounded like an ordeal.
“I’ll just get food myself.” He moved to stand.
He didn’t get to apply any of his weight to the ground before Scar’s and Grian’s arms were both in his way, hovering in the air and blocking him from getting up.
“Nope,” they both said at the exact same time.
“Hey!” Mumbo yelped, and attempted to push Grian and Scar’s arms out of the way so he could get up. Grian just stepped right in front of him, completely blocking his exit. Scar leaned even further over to block him further.
“Nope, mister!” Scar exclaimed. “You are not getting up right now! Grian will get you something to eat, and you’re going to stay right here with me.”
Mumbo’s brown eyes darted to Grian’s similarly colored ones, and Scar’s green ones. They were both hardened with resolve.
“Oh, c’mon!” Mumbo cried out. But when his friends didn’t move, he sighed and leaned back onto the soft wool of the couch. He narrowed his eyes at Scar and Grian’s matching smirks of victory.
Well, being prevented from getting up wasn’t exactly the worst crime his friends could commit against him.
“Glad we cleared that up!” Grian said with a cheeky grin. He turned back towards the kitchen, pointedly avoiding Mumbo’s scowl. “Now hurry up, whad’you want?”
“I don’t know!”
“Oh Mojang… C’mon, dude, give me something to work with.” He started rooting through Mumbo’s cabinets. “There’s pretzels, popcorn, cheese puffs… expired trail mix… or I could just give you salt by the spoonful to make sure you get enough…”
“Ugh…” Mumbo sighed, running his fingers through his hair. He didn’t really have much of an appetite, but he knew Grian wasn’t going to shut up until he got some salt in him. “Just… pretzel sticks. Please.” They were bland enough to not upset his taste buds, but still, they were pretzels. Everybody liked pretzels.
As Grian grabbed the bag and moved to put them in a bowl for him, Mumbo cleared his throat. “Look, guys, I really appreciate it, but—”
He was immediately resoundly shushed by everyone in the room.
“Mumbo, we’re going to help you. You need to take better care of yourself,” Scar told him, an underlying note of concern layering his voice.
That again. This time, Mumbo didn’t flinch, but he still felt like crap. Even though he knew that Scar meant literally nothing bad.
“…Sorry. I know it wouldn’t get this bad if I just—did it all right…” He twisted his fingers back and forth in his hands anxiously.
Grian came back with the bowl of pretzels. Mumbo mouthed thank you to him, and Grian sat down back where he had been. Mumbo forced himself to actually sip on the water.
“That’s not what I meant!” Scar replied, eyebrows shooting up. Mumbo glanced away to stare numbly downward at his bowl of pretzels, but when he glanced back up at Scar’s face next to him, guilt was etched into all the lines in his face, which made Mumbo feel the same in turn. “I didn’t mean—I—I’m not guilting you, Mumbo! I get it! I’m just—We’re just—We just want you to feel better. Oh, um, not that, you can’t feel bad, I just mean—”
“Scar,” Mumbo interrupted, staring at him.
“Mhm?” Scar smiled weakly, eyes crinkled.
“You seem pretty afraid of offending me for someone who’s also disabled,” Mumbo said mildly, sipping his water, but shooting Scar a smile to let him know it was fine and he was joking. “I know what you mean. And thanks, guys… sorry.” He wasn’t quite sure why he was apologizing this time. Probably for being such an inconvenience.
“Stop apologizing,” Grian groaned, rolling his eyes. “We just want to help. I don’t want you to feel like crap if I can help it.”
“But you’re doing a good job, Mumbo,” Scar added. Mumbo and Scar shared a quick glance of solidarity and Mumbo smiled weakly.
Thanks.
Grian sighed. “Mumbo, if you’re going to overwork yourself like this, and standing walking is so hard… why don’t you just get a cane or something? To, like, conserve energy and stuff?”
Mumbo froze.
His gaze darted to Grian, who was being completely genuine.
Mumbo wilted.
“I don’t need one,” he muttered, taking a bite of his pretzel. “It’s always uncomfortable, but it doesn’t feel like this often. It’s fine.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have to use it all the time, right? Just when you need it. And wouldn’t it make you feel less uncomfortable? Hypothetically?”
Oh dear. Mojang, Mumbo didn’t know how to explain this.
Look, he’d thought about it, okay? Of course he’d thought about it. And how much easier just a cane would make certain things. Like. Walking. And when he felt like this. Which, let it be known, was not all the time! If he didn’t do it too much, walking a little was… fine. Just tiring. And uncomfortable. But he was certainly surviving it! It wasn’t detrimental, more annoying.
It felt like a waste to get a cane or something when he knew he wouldn’t need it all the time. And, yes, he knew that was technically a stupid thought, and one of his closest friends was an ambulatory wheelchair user, and he knew he didn’t have to need a mobility aid all the time to benefit from it sometimes.
That didn’t make the—calling it what it was—internalized ableism—go away, though. Or the guilt at having a hard time when one of his closest friends was clearly more affected by his disability than he was.
If you could even call Mumbo’s whole deal a disability.
“I don’t want to,” Mumbo just opted stubbornly mutter.
“Why?” Scar asked. “I mean, I genuinely think it could help you. And I’m an expert!” He grinned, but it was soft and tentative. Not wanting to be too brash.
Multiple seconds of Mumbo trying to articulate his thoughts passed.
“I just… I don’t… I don’t even really think I’m considered disabled, just ‘having a chronic illness’, technically, and… I don’t know, it feels… ungrateful? I don’t know. I know that’s stupid, sorry,” Mumbo rambled nervously, resisting the urge to bring his arms up to cover himself.
“Mumbo, it doesn’t matter if you’re technically considered ‘disabled’. That’s just what they use to determine whether or not you get benefits and stuff. And of course they’re going to want to make that definition pretty tight to give the least amount of people benefits possible,” Scar logically responded, frowning worriedly.
“Plus, do you think you’re able-bodied?” Grian added.
Mumbo froze. His brain always lagged when put on the spot. “Uh—I—Um—” he panicked. Mojang, say something! Answer the question!
“Mumbo!” Grian interjected with a laugh. “Calm down, it’s not an interview question!”
When Grian laughed, so did Scar, and then Mumbo felt himself doing the same.
The mood slightly lightened, Grian shook his head with a smile and said, “I just mean, I wouldn’t consider you able-bodied. Like, if able-bodied means… being physically able to go to war, you’re definitely not there, dude. Which you could, if you want to, say makes you disabled. Theoretically.”
Mumbo scoffed. “Hey! I would be great at war! I definitely wouldn’t pass out or anything.”
“I’m sure, buddy,” Grian grinned, patting his shoulder patronizingly. Mumbo tried to fight a matching grin, but failed miserably.
“Do you think a mobility aid would help? Honestly?” Scar asked carefully, breaking the moment.
Mumbo glanced away with a frown. He couldn’t deny it, could he?
“Exactly.”
“I know,” Mumbo mumbled. “It’s just… hard. Oh yeah, and like, what if the Hermits see me have a mobility aid all the sudden and think I’m faking it because I didn’t have one before—”
“Mumbo,” Scar cut in incredulously, giving him a deadpan stare. “Mumbo, I’m on the server. Do you really think they would think that?”
“…No?” Mumbo guessed, then sighed. “Look, I know. It’s silly. I just… I don’t know. It’s just hard, and… I’m tired,” he admitted reluctantly, face falling. “I love what I’m doing right now, but I’m just… so, so tired.”
“Mecore,” Scar said instantly.
Mumbo and Grian both snorted. “Shut up,” the latter giggled, reaching over Mumbo to shove Scar slightly in the arm, who also giggled.
“What Scar means is, we’re sorry about that… and don’t overwork yourself… um, we’re here for you, and… uh… we’re such good friends that are here for you… and stuff…”
Mumbo laughed. “I appreciate the sentiment, but that was very bad,” he accused.
“Was not!” Grian laughed.
“Seriously, Mumbo. If you’re having a hard time, we can help you, okay?” Scar asked softly. “If I’m not the one in the trenches at the time.”
“Okaaaaaay, I get it,” Mumbo groaned. Feelings. Those were hard. He felt a lot of them, but sharing them? That was another thing entirely. Not that Grian or Scar seemed to have nearly as much of a problem with it.
Grian yawned and stretched, extending his parrot wings to their full length. He let them stay relaxed and laid the right one limply over the rest of the length of the couch. He draped the left one across the backs of Mumbo and Scar.
“It would be such a shame if you guys preened my wings and then we all took a nap. Y’know, for Mumbo’s benefit, of course,” Grian suggested nonchalantly. Or at least, he probably thought it was totally nonchalant.
Scar just laughed. Mumbo sighed and ran a hand through his hair, a smile tugging at his lips.
Wing preening was pretty much the highest form of trust in avians. Only one’s best of best friends were allowed to preen—and that list was often called flock. Grian’s, as far as Mumbo was aware, consisted of himself, Scar, Gem, Jimmy, Pearl, and Joel. He also knew Impulse and Skizz were close to being on that list, but he wasn’t sure if they were officially flock or not.
For Grian to suggest they preen his wings now meant he was feeling currently fond of them, to a degree. Preening put avians into an instinctive state, sleepy and loopy and affectionate.
“Oh, fine,” Mumbo sighed, exasperated.
The world felt a bit lighter with his 2 best friends by his side, anyways.
So Mumbo settled on the left side of Grian, and Scar on the right, and they preened Grian’s wings together. It didn’t take long for Grian to go limp underneath them, sleepily chirping whenever they smoothed over a particularly rough patch of feathers. Scar kept reminding Mumbo to keep drinking his water. The pretzels were quickly abandoned, though.
And if a couple weeks later, Mumbo finally relented and ended up accepting a wooden cane that Scar had carved just for him, that was nobody’s business but his own. The Buttercup’s conversation definitely hadn’t helped him at all.
And he was going to continue to deny the fact that although he didn’t use it all the time, when he did use it, it helped.
However, there was one fact he couldn’t deny.
The fact that not only were the Hermits happy for him, every single Hermit had lovingly carved their initials into it, along with multiple heart and star details, by the end of the first week.
They’d all expressed how they were sorry if they hadn’t known he was struggling earlier. Mumbo quickly shut that down—they couldn’t have known—but he would be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel nice.
And so, with his friends, his electrolytes, his salty snacks, his compression socks, and occasionally, his cane by his side, he felt just a little more ready to face the world.
For the first time in a long time.