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The first thought in Mumbo’s head when he springs upwards in bed is: ‘Thank goodness that’s over.’ His heart is in his throat, breathing erratic from a night terror so vivid it felt like he was having a flashback. Then, when the panic subsides, he notices the dampness of his sheets.
He grips at his shirt, finding it a little sweaty, but not nearly as wet as his pants. The second thought he has is: ‘This cannot be happening.’
Flinging the blankets back, he’s met with soaked sheets, and dark spot on his pants that is only getting bigger. He tumbles out of bed, feet getting caught up in fabric as he goes, and ends up on the floor. Squeezing his eyes shut, he wills the whole situation away, because well, he’s a grown man.
Grown men don’t wet the bed after having bad dreams. That’s silly, right?
The horror Mumbo feels is seeping into shame, into embarrassment. Big emotions that are getting too heavy, making it harder for him to get up. He needs to clean up his mess. What if someone saw him like this?
Briefly, he remembers Scar kissing his cheek earlier that evening, telling him to reach out if he needed anything. Now, Mumbo knows Scar would never make fun of him for this, but just the thought of contacting anyone makes him feel sick. He was the one who insisted he could handle one night alone while Scar worked overnight.
It hits him, the fact that this bed also belongs to Scar, who could be back at any moment, and that he’s just wet it. That alone sends enough anxiety throughout his body to get him up.
He pulls at the bedding with clumsy hands, hoping to the gods above the pee hasn’t soaked through to the mattress. He finally gets it all off, and up into a bundle in his arms he can hardly see over. His steps towards the nearest bathroom are uncoordinatedly short, similar to a developing toddler.
The bedding is dropped into the tub. Mumbo stands there for a moment, chewing on his fingers, unable to think of what to do next. A whine builds up from his chest, scraping along the painful lump in his throat. His eyes are burning, tears blurring his vision as he looks around the room for some sort of clue.
Everything looks so much bigger than it is, like it’s towering over him. His eyes land on the detachable shower head. He bends over the tub to turn the water on, holding in a breath until it stutters out his mouth as big heave. He doesn’t know if the water should be warm or cold, or what soap to use, and he doesn’t really want to touch the dirty laundry.
Mumbo grabs the nearest bottle, only struggling with the lid for a moment before squeezing a more than necessary amount onto the bedding. He still doesn’t want to touch it. How is he meant to clean all this by himself, especially when he’s so little-
Tears spill over his cheeks, hot whereas the dampness of his pants has become unpleasantly cold. He needs a bath too, but now there’s stuff in the tub, and where’s the other nearest bathroom anyway?
He hiccups, humming through his discomfort. His stomach is starting to hurt, feeling queasy with nerves.
With quickly fading motor skills, Mumbo scrubs at the sheets.
✫
The sun is nearly up by the time Scar returns. His limbs are aching, joints protesting at every movement. The season is almost over, and a majority of the hermits are working day in and day out to get everything finished.
He drops a couple shulkers by the door, heading straight for the bed. A shower is probably a good idea, but he can’t muster the energy to tackle one. Mumbo can complain about dirty sheets all he wants. Scar is tired.
Just as he approaches the bed, ready to flop down onto it, he notices the lack of sheets, not the mention the lack of his lover.
A shot of fear makes its way down his spine. His eyes scan the room for any signs of Mumbo, only to find nothing. No nest hanging from the ceiling, which is probably more worrying than finding nothing at all.
His gaze lands on the bathroom door. There’s no light coming from the crack underneath, but that’s not all that concerning when you live with a vampire. What is concerning is sound of sloshing water.
Scar speed walks over, just barely remembering to knock before he opens the door. “Mumbo?” He pokes his head in, “You okay in there?”
The man himself is kneeling over the tub, breathing unevenly. He turns his head slowly at the sound of Scar’s voice, and- Oh no.
His face is flushed with tears, and horror is written all over it. Scar immediately comes to kneel beside him, “What happened?” He asks, but only gets a whine as Mumbo crumples into himself. He brings the other into a hug, pulling Mumbo’s face into his neck while he peers into the bathtub.
Soapy water, their bedding. Scar pulls away momentarily, confirming his growing suspicions. This… This is new. Something he’s been told about, but not experienced. The question he’s facing now is: ‘Was it regression or PTSD? Both?’
“Are you feeling small?” Almost frantic nods against his shoulder answer him. He takes a deep breath, then ushers Mumbo to stand up. Scar would pick him up if he wasn’t so exhausted, not the mention Mumbo is a tall guy no matter how regressed. “Let’s get you cleaned up, ‘kay?”
A hum. They hold hands on their way to the other bathroom. Scar directs Mumbo to sit on the closed toilet seat before starting the water up. He waits until it’s warm to plug the drain.
The tears have stopped, though Mumbo continues sniffling, wiping at red-rimmed eyes. Scar watches out the corner of his eye, trying to gauge how old Mumbo is feeling by his body language alone.
Tub filled, Scar turns the water off. “Can you speak?” A shake of the head, a noise made in the back of Mumbo’s throat that refuses to translate into words. “Alright. Can you undress yourself?”
Mumbo shrugs, then attempts to pull his shirt over his head. It gets stuck, and Scar huffs a laugh before helping the man take his clothes off. The humidity is uncomfortable, so Scar pushes him gently towards the bath until he slips into the steaming water.
Honestly, he could’ve done with a wipe down, but Mumbo likes the warmth, and who is Scar to deny him? He’s little, so Scar pours some soap in to make it a bubble bath.
After a couple minutes of splashing around, Mumbo goes still, or still as he can, and whispers so quietly Scar almost doesn’t hear him, “‘M sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Angel.”
“It was an accident. I had, had a…” He trails off. A nightmare, then.
Scar kisses his cheek. “Accidents happen. It’s okay.” Tears well up in his eyes, a slight pout to his lips. “I mean it, Mumbo. It wasn’t something you could’ve controlled.”
“But, I was big… Was’n even little.”
“That doesn’t matter. You’ve been through a lot, and sometimes that causes things that are out of your control. This was one of those things.” He tilts Mumbo’s head up just enough to see the tears building up. He uses his thumb to wipe them when they fall over, onto the man’s cheeks. “Let’s go to bed, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Scar gets Mumbo into some new pajamas, then sets about finding clean sheets for the bed. He’s so tired, exhausted in so many ways, but when they finally lay down, and Mumbo tucks himself into Scar, he can’t help but smile.
They sleep past noon.