Chapter Text
It always came back to wheat fields and sunsets.
It was just past six on a summer evening, and the only thing Grian could hear was the rumble of a pick-up truck on dusty dirt roads. There was no one in the passenger seat; there hadn’t been anyone since he had left town nearly a week ago. The still smell of dust and expired air freshener lingered in the cabin, mixing with the faint smell of exhaust. Grian had rolled down the windows a few kilometers ago, letting the breeze drift in and twist his hair into a mess of curly knots.
The last stop on his trip had been nearly an hour ago at a tavern just down the road. He had lingered there for a touch too long, Grian thought. The slightly soggy crisps and burger had been a welcome distraction from the house that lay just above this hill. It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford the delay; no one knew Grian would be visiting this weekend, least of all Grian himself.
The last mile of road flew by like swallows rushing home. Grian pulled over to the side of the road, parking next to a teal and white van. He closed the door of his rusty old ford, soaking in the last remnants of warm sunlight. It was just as the lady in the tavern had said; right down the path, across the bridge. A few windmills stood near a tiered rustic building, surrounded by golden wheat. An unassuming complex, unfit for the sheer amount of anxiety it caused Grian.
Dry grass stretched up to brush his feet, leaving dust on the grey corduroy pants Mumbo had given him nearly six years ago. That same name was carved into the sign on the fence surrounding the farm. The same Mumbo that Grian had been avoiding for all this time.
Grian wrung his hands and brushed off the dirt. There was no use in post-poning it now. He picked his way down to the staircase, clambered up to the door, and looked around for the doorbell. Having found none, Grian searched the rest of the porch. On the left side of the door lay a strange device. Wires and coils twisted around a small button in the middle, with a blank label decorating the top, as if someone had placed it on before settling on a name and then promptly forgot the object existed. Grian grabbed it gently, pressing the middle button, before nearly dropping the device in a panic when a large clang erupted from the mess of wire. A thump emerged from inside the house, as if in response.
“Goodness!” A voice shrieked, before calling out. “I forgot about that. Come on in.”
Grian pushed open the door to a room coated in random knicknacks, boxes, and building materials. Every surface was covered with things, piled nearly as tall as the ceilings themselves. Moving boxes were shoved in between paint cans and plastic water bottles, all haphazardly tossed to the side of the room like one might plow out snow from their driveway. The air was slightly musty.
“No one uses the doorbell anyways, they all just barge in and—Grian?”
“Hey, Mumbo.”
He had gotten taller. It was the first thing Grian noticed. Still thin, but in more of a lithe way than the gangly knees of his youth. His skin had tanned slightly, sunkissed freckles replacing pale paper. And well–
“You finally grew that moustache,” Grian said, immediately flushing at the words. Mumbo burst out into a startled laugh.
“Yeah, it grew in…two? Two years ago. Just before I moved out of my parent’s flat. It took me ages to learn how to style it and everything though.” He smiled sheepishly, dropping the box he had been carrying on one of the piles. Grian heard the faint clicking of ceramics inside it as it settled. He leaned against the box.
“It suits you.”
“Thanks! Sorry about the mess, I haven’t quite–” Mumbo paused to shove a box out of the way, “–had the time to unpack everything. I only moved in a few months ago. The kitchen’s mostly clear, though. I’ll set on some tea if you want? Do you still like lavender?”
“Lavender is fine, thank you.” Grian smiled, sitting down at the bar stool and brushing some papers off to the side of the counter. His eyes followed Mumbo as the man rifled through cabinets and set the kettle on. His flannel shirt was tight against his skin, Grian noticed idly. It suited him far better than the uniform at Cherry Mount ever did. Although, he mused, Mumbo had the same forgetfulness he always did. It took him opening nearly every drawer in the kitchen to find his tea. Mumbo turned around to look at him, glancing over his scuffed outfit and landing on his face.
“Well, enough of that. Where have you been, mate?”
“Oh, around.” He waved, false disinterest coloring his thin voice. “I went to the city for a few years for college, and worked at the pier for a while. What about you?”
“I’ve been here for the last few months. It’s a bit rubbish, but I’m slowly fixing up the place. Managed to get those old windmills up and running a few weeks ago.” He nodded towards the windows. “The wiring was all wrong, but now that it's working I think it’s my favorite thing I’ve ever built.”
“You’ll have to be careful with that, it looks like you’re encroaching on Big Ron’s territory.”
Mumbo let out an amused huff of air, smiling slightly, and leaned back against the counter behind him. “I have, haven’t I? Can’t help myself, though, the man taught me everything I know. I have a few of his old builds out in the shop.”
“It’s nice of Ron to lend you them. How’s he doing? It’s been ages since I’ve seen him.”
Mumbo’s face closed off, suddenly looking tense. His eyes drifted away from Grian’s face as if the dread of matching his gaze was a weight too great to bear. His voice was thin, straining to grasp the words.
“Grian, he, uh, he passed away last summer.”
Grian froze, thoughts like the static of the radio in his truck under an overpass, like the buzz of a refrigerator in the middle of the night, like the feeling when your ears won’t pop and your head feels underwater and sound can’t break through the barrier. He had known, in that objective, distant manner, that the years had come and gone and that the life he left behind in Cherry Mountain Row was long since lost to the confines of blurry memories. He knew that life moved on, regardless of who stayed and who left. But it was one thing to know and another to feel. He was suddenly struck with the fear that everything was gone; that nothing, not a single person, was there waiting for him. If he walked through the streets, would anyone know his name? Had he run so far away that the people he once loved were unobtainable? Finally, his mouth opened to spill out those empty words.
“I’m so sorry for your loss. That’s…I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.” Mumbo took a breath. He paused for a second, visibly considering whether to finish his sentence. Grian matched his hesitant eyes.
“It’s been rough without him. That’s part of why I moved out here, you know? I couldn’t keep working in that shop, haunted by his memory. This–” Mumbo gestured once again to the window, eyes soft. “--has been a good change of pace.”
“I imagine.”
They let the silence linger until the shrill call of the kettle went off. Mumbo pulled down a pair of mugs, dragging the conversation with it to the relative safety of weather and a thousand other mundanities. As they talked, Grian’s eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to his mug. It was obviously handmade; little geese decorated the brim and sides with white and blue splotches of clay forming a serene sky. The cup itself was a bit wonky, but well-cared for and used.
“You kept this?” Grian asked.
“Of course! It’s a lovely mug, and, well,” Mumbo wrung his hands, looking slightly pink, “it reminded me of you.”
“Gosh, I was like fourteen when I made that. I swear I’ve gotten better at pottery since then.”
“Oh yeah? You’ll have to show me sometime.” Mumbo suddenly smirked and leaned on to the counter. “I’m sure it’s better than that pink monstrosity you gave-”
“Hey! We swore not to speak of that again!”
“Whatever you say, man.”
By the time they had finished their tea, the sun had fully set behind the house. Grian made it as if he was going to leave, but Mumbo insisted on feeding him. Then, once dinner was done, a movie was suggested, and by then Mumbo reasoned it was far too late to drive back down to the tavern. He had a perfectly good guest room, albeit slightly covered in boxes. Grian had protested on every point, but secretly he was glad. He had more fun in the last few hours than the past year and half combined. And, well, if Mumbo insisted there was little he could do to turn him down. It had been four years; the least he could do was stay for the night.
–
Mumbo woke up as he always did; grumpy. There was a rooster that cawed outside his bedroom window every morning at dawn, one of the leftovers from the flocks that had flooded his farm a few years back. He was obnoxious in the way that all birds tended for, but, in the same way that he had begrudgingly accepted the scores of geese that flew overhead, Mumbo couldn’t help but keep the scraggly rooster.
He grabbed some jeans and a flannel shirt before following the faint sound of a tea kettle intermingling with off-tune humming. It was a strange noise, one he rarely heard in his home without coming from his own mouth. Of course, he usually lived alone; when he was home there was often little stopping the humming from becoming full-on belting. He walked down the hall, finding the source of the sound tucked behind the passageway to the kitchen.
Mumbo leaned against the kitchen door, smiling at Grian. He was still dressed in the t-shirt Mumbo gave him last night; it went just to his hips, covering all but the very bottom of his shorts. Mumbo’s eyes trailed his back for a second longer, lingering. The shirt had gathered slightly at his waist, drawing his eyes up the folds towards the base of his neck. There, soft light filtered in and pooled in the strands of his hair, turned golden in the morning light. Grian was holding the geese mug in his hand, with wafts of steam carrying the scent of lavender across the room. It was soft, Mumbo decided, in a way that he hadn’t felt in a minute. He could get used to this.
A timer went off, causing Grian to jump. Mumbo snorted.
“Need any help?”
Grian waved him off. He spun around, finding the oven mitts–far more quickly, Mumbo noted, that he himself could have found them–and pulled out a tray of blueberry muffins. Two muffins were dished up and promptly served.
“For you, my lord,” Grian said, bowing with a sarcastic lilt to his teeth. He looked rather like an elf. “I had to make my keep somehow.”
Mumbo took a bite, and then another. They were warm, with cinnamon sugar dusting the tops and blueberry juice folded into the batter itself, lightly staining it purple. Mumbo couldn’t help but finish the rest of the muffin. Grian wordlessly slid over another.
“For these, I’d let you stay forever.” Mumbo said, eyes wide. “I thought you couldn’t cook. I have never been happier to be wrong.”
“Well, it has been a minute since I’ve baked anything. Places to be, people to see. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, yeah. Still, you’ll have to make me some more.” He finished eating his second muffin and packed the rest away in the fridge. Grian’s eyes trailed the bag like a dachshund.
“Do you have any plans for today? I thought I could show you round the pond later, and catch a few fish for dinner.”
“That sounds great, thanks.” Grian pushed away his mug, tapping the counter. “I’ll probably swing by Scar’s first. I haven’t seen him in ages.”
“Of course.”
—
Grian came back from Scar’s place feeling lighter than he had in ages. The man was always a delight to be around, and catching up had been nice. Still, when he crested the bridge towards Mumbo’s house all he felt was relief. It was strange how easy everything felt around Mumbo. There was none of the hesitancy he had felt when he first got to Scar’s, no feeling like a puzzle piece squished into a spot he no longer fit in. When he was with Mumbo, it was as if no time had passed at all.
He joined Mumbo down by the pond, where the man had already laid out an array of fishing rods and lures. He had strung some of them wrong, clearly rusty. Grian reached over to one, untying the improperly done knot and tying an arbor knot. This, Grian could do. Fishing was familiar; fishing with Mumbo doubly so.
They cast their rods near the edge of the reeds. Mumbo had mentioned that there was a school of salmon that liked to eat there around this time of day. The pond was a buzz with life soaking in the summer rays. Dragonflies flitted around the edge of the water, occasionally landing near the two of them. Grian had brought in a pack of Coca-Cola that they sipped on.
By dusk the fish were biting well. Mumbo had caught a larger salmon than Grian, much to Grian’s chagrin. They had put the fish for dinner in an ice box on the dock, and had turned gears from collecting food to dipping their feet on the edge of the dock. Mumbo’s shirt was still damp from when Grian pushed him in earlier. He made a pretty picture, white t-shirt clinging in all the right places and a face tinted rose. Of course, Grian couldn’t say anything about his encroaching sunburn; his face felt like it was in the running for the best cosplay of a cooked lobster.
“How's it been, living out here?”
Grian had moved to lay down on the dock, watching little waterbugs skip over the surface. They were particularly prone, he noticed, to chasing after each other. Mumbo pulled his knees up from the water, hugging them to his chest. His gaze was fixed tightly on the mountain’s, the water. Anywhere but Grian’s face.
“It’s been hard. I keep looking back for people.” He paused, visibly loosening his muscles and letting his legs drip back towards the pond. His voice came out softer. “Some days, I look up at the geese and the fields and think, man, I could live here forever. I could just spend my days in the workshop, waste my afternoons out on the dock. Life could be so easy. But…”
“But?” Grian nudged the man, forcing him to meet his eyes.
“Somedays,” Mumbo starts, wringing his hands. “It’s so lonely. I wake up and all I see is dying wheat. A world artificially full, with animals and fields and sunsets replacing the people I wished I was around. The worst part is, most of them aren’t dead. I could go around the corner and spend time at the tavern, or catch up with Scar, or take a hike with X, and still I would come back to an empty house. I used to think of moving out as some grand leap in maturity. Now, I’d do anything to go back into the nest.”
“If it means anything, I think you’ve been ready. You look more you out here than you ever did in Cherry Mountain. It suits you.”
“Yeah. I just wished it was on my terms, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“When Ron…passed. He left behind so many holes I didn’t know were there. So many people moved away, people that were staying just for him. Hell, I moved away. It gets to you, you know? There’s only so many times people can leave before you stop expecting them to stay when times get rough.”
“For what it's worth, I’m sorry for leaving the way I did.”
“Eh,” he said, forcing himself to smile. Grian felt slightly ill. “It’s not that big of a deal. You were just the first of many.”
They stayed out by the pond for about an hour before the receding light forced them back towards the house. Grian started dinner while Mumbo put away the fishing stuff and got aloe vera for their peeling skin. Light chatter followed them through the meal. This time Mumbo hardly had to ask the man about staying before Grian promised the next day to him. It was temporary, as is the nature of these sorts of things, but Mumbo’s responding grin made staying more than worth it. Still, one more question sat on Mumbo’s mind.
“When you do leave, where do you plan to go?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Not back to the city, for sure. Working on the pier was fun but they’ve had to cut down on workers. It is what it is.”
“Well, if you’re needing a place to stay, I could use an extra set of hands around the farm. Goodness knows there’s enough work for two.”
“I make no promises, but I can help out for the next week or so. Plenty of time to catch up to the people around here.”
Mumbo burst into a smile at that. Grian was struck with the song impression of a puppy, startling a snicker out of him. He lingered on that thought, sitting in the warmth of being wanted. His eyes lingered, making up excuses to bask in his company a little longer. At some point Mumbo found a deck of cards, trading idle conversation and new games. The hours grew long, far later than either of them would usually stay up, but neither of them really cared. It was small, but later Mumbo would look back and cite that day as the first time he didn’t feel alone.