TW: panic attack, non-graphic self harm, reckless behaviour, fear of drowning
This is like... a bit 5K of Pac and Philza actually bonding for once...
Fear claws into Pac's heart just as easily as his fingernails dig into his palms. There's nothing wrong, objectively there's nothing wrong, but he's been alone all day. It's not at all like working with Mike; he's been trying to decorate the Favela, but his breath keeps catching and his thoughts keep stopping.
He can hear the fountain beneath the warpstone, and he wants it to /stop/.
He knows anxiety now, he knows it, he knows this is what it is, and when Fit found the blood in Chume Labs and the empty graves he made him promise to call him if it happened again. It's happening now, Pac can feel it building, but there's nobody awake. He checks it again, and still it's only him.
So he does the thing he does next best. He holds his breath and he thinks of nothing and he builds. More trees, more ponds, more fountains - anything and everything he can think of. Give the Redeemer a sombrero, then think better of it half way through and take it down. Start returfing the football field, only to decide to put it back because making the goals muddy is just ugly. Hang up more banners, pull them down, add a bit to the fences, swap them for iron, then concrete.
Breathe in, breathe out, there's nothing wrong it's just anxiety.
(But it is wrong, everything is wrong, the back of his brain where Mike sits is empty, not just asleep but empty, torn away and - )
Mike's in the Order hospital, Pac reminds himself, and begins to walk that way.
( - and there are eyes at his back, ready to take him again and - )
Pac forgets to breathe. He drops to his knees in the middle of the street, and scrabbled his hands in the dirt.
Pac checks the communicator again. There's a few more people awake, but... No Fit, no Tubbo, no Mike, no Bagi or Forever... Of the handful of people, the one he knows best if Philza - and while he's happily looked after the man's children, and he's been quite happy to chat or fight together in the past... Philza Minecraft is a legend, and he's never really spoken much without Fit there as a buffer.
But the other option is staying here alone, and he promised Fit that if he started feeling like this again he'd ask someone for company.
He takes a deep breath, and sends a message.
You whisper to Ph1LzA: Can I visit?
As soon as he hits send, Pac slams it shut. He pushes it against his head, shuddering while curled up in a ball. He clings to the communicator, his link to the outside, so hard it leaves indents in his skin.
"It's okay," he whispers to himself. "It's okay, you're okay, there's nobody here to watch you."
It doesn't help; he tries it anyway.
The seconds drag on into minutes, and Pac's fears overwhelm even his attempts to comfort himself.
"You're okay, you're okay, you're safe," he promises himself, even as he claws at his knees, at his face, at his hair and at the floor - anything he can reach to force himself to remember his place.
He hums songs he loves, shuts his eyes and tries to dance along.
He slams hands over his mouth and freezes when he tries.
Too loud, too loud, they'll find you - quiet, quiet, quiet as a mouse and quieter still. Hide amongst the rats, and hope nobody spots you curled up there...
The communicator pings.
In a scramble Pac pulls the lid open, shaking fingers quickly clicking him through to the correct screen.
Ph1LzA whispers to you: sorry m8, missed the message
Ph1LzA whispers to you: still need something or you get it sorted?
What does Pac say? The loneliness is getting to him and the walls are caving in and he can feel something watching from inside his spine? That Mike is gone and he's remembering a /before/ he wants to forget, He can't say that, he really can't.
But what sounds like a normal response which might get him a conversation...
With shaking hands he types whatever comes to mind.
You whisper to Ph1LzA: I am just missing Fit
... Not that. That absolutely does not sound like a request for company.
This time Philza's reply does not take nearly as long, though still longer than anyone else Pac ever messages.
Ph1LzA whispers to you: yeah?
Ph1LzA whispers to you: you want some company? I can put down a sharestone
Pac's heart settles back into place - maybe slightly too high still, but far closer. He didn't mess it up too badly - maybe English is just like that - he didn't even have to ask again.
You whisper to Ph1LzA: please.
It's another minute or two for Pac's anxiety to build and him to cling to the communicator before he recieves a reply.
Ph1LzA whispers to you: red sharestone, name should be obvious
You whisper to Ph1LzA: obrigado
Ph1LzA whispers to you: you're good
There's definitely some emotion to reading those words; Pac pushes it aside, and grabs his warpstone. Moving to the main warpstone for the warehouse seems like too much, so he simply sends himself to spawn.
Only there does he pick himself up, activating the red sharestone. It takes a few scrolls to find the new option, but once he does it earns a small laugh. He selects it, and lets his body be pulled through space.
Where he arrives is cold, deep snow all around, and an icy ocean before him. Pac tugs his sleeves down over his hands, and looks around.
Whereever Philza is, he isn't immediately obvious.
"Philza?" he calls. "Felipe?"
There's a splash as Philza trident-jumps out of the ocean, his paraglider flipping open at the zenith and allowing him to drift safely down to the ice. Pac watches him drift down, the water dripping off him freezing as it falls.
"Hey," Philza calls, once back in voice range, arm moving as though to wave before suddenly remembering he needs to hold the paraglider. "Sorry about that; spotted another jelly and had to get it before it ran off."
Pac waves him off, "it's okay, it's okay, do you need any help?"
Philza squints at Pac a moment, and Pac squirms beneath it. After a moment, though, he just shrugs, "just hunting for rainbow jelly."
"Rainbow jelly?"
"Like the French use to make themselves all rainbow," Philza grins a bit. "You can use it to make glass like that, too. Chayanne wanted some, so..."
Pac thinks of the children, hurting and asleep and under the Federation's "care", the only guarantees of their safety the ability to visit, and the knowledge the Federation knows what is coming if harm comes for their children.
"For Chayanne?" He asks. "I'll help."
"Feel free to hang onto it - if you don't use it, he'll appreciate the gift when he wakes up."
When, not if, even if Pac can see Philza hesitates too.
With that confidence and the thought of their children, Pac doesn't even consider before throwing himself into the water. Behind him he hears the somewhat distorted sound of Philza laughing, and the man throwing himself in after.
Pac spots a couple of the comb jellies, and kicks off towards them. Philza seems to see another group, as he takes another route.
Hunting animals for their innards is one of the few times that sweeping edge is worth it on this island, and so Pac takes out his sword. It only takes a hit to take out the jellies, small as they are, and then Pac just has to scoop up their remains. From there he spots another - deeper - and swims after it. And another, and another - Pac loses himself to the chore, simply collecting jelly for the happiness of a child.
He thinks he's finally calmed down, when he spots another in a cave. Pac doesn't even think about it as he dives in after - but very quickly, it gets very dark.
Too dark.
He tries to ignore it, to push through and find the jelly even as memories start to loom and the dark closes in.
Breathe in, breathe out, remind yourself your helmet is in place and with that much Aqua Affinity you're fine.
It's not the underwater prison again, it's not, it's not.
Just find the jelly and get out...
On instinct he reaches out for Mike, and finds nothing.
Nothing.
Mike? What happened to Mike?
The most frustrating thing is always that he knows, he remembers, but in the dark and the wet and the unnatural silence it doesn't matter. His breathing picks up, and he twists and he turns, looking - screaming - for Mike.
Rationally, he knows he's lightheaded because hes hyperventilating. But in his heart, in his fear, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, it doesn't change anything because he's alone in the wet and the dark and he /can't do this anyone/.
He wants Mike, he wants Mike, he wants Fit and he wants Mike.
Where is Mike, why can't he reach him, where is he where is he why can't he feel him in his mind?!
He's screaming for them, he thinks, even as tears stream down his face and he twists in the water. By now he's helplessly lost, not even able to find the exit he cane in by. Whatever light there was is gone, and he doesn't even quite remember why he's here.
He twists and he fights, trying to fend off hands that aren't there - only to get his leg twisted up in the seaweed and somehow everything is even worse and worse and worse. He tugs and tugs, but the seaweed grasps tighter - he sees dark prison walls overlaying dark, broken caves, and he sobs as he realises he is going to die here.
He screams again and wonders how he still has air; something responds this time, and he begs it for bitter, screaming help.
A small light he cannot focus on, and hands find their way to his leg. In a panic he twists, kicks, fights - nothing, nothing, nothing can touch him - it's worse than the seaweed, to be grabbed by a hand.
"Shit, Pac," a familiar voice calls, an odd quality to it. "Fuck, I'm just cutting you out, Jesus mate no need to break my nose."
The words don't make sense, not entirely, but seconds later Pac finds his leg free - still entangled, but the seaweed cut from the floor, and he does his best to swim away.
Right from the seaweed and slamming into the cave wall.
Hands grab him again, and say something, and he fights them all the same. Seconds later he's being dragged and pulled and - oh, god, this is how he's going to die.
He goes to fight before remembering, actually, dieing might not be so bad actually... At worst he'll respawns, at best he'll be with Mike again.
It's just as that thought crosses his mind that his head breaks the surface of the ocean. Pac gasps for air and, by the time he's processed that, he's being hoisted and yanked up onto the ice.
He's frozen, he's freezing, but he shakes off the worst of the water and shudders as sunlight presses into his skin.
He's crying - sobbing even - on his hands and his knees, blind terror all about him as he struggles to breathe.
"Aw, mate, you could have said no if it was gonna fuck you up."
There's someone else here; Pac's eyes glance around, only to find Philza there. He can't tell if the man is a friend or a foe or just an acquaintance to be embarrassed around, but the man shrugs off his bag and opens his arms in a familiar gesture.
Pac falls into them, and hides. A hand finds his hair, and another his back, and something very dark curls around to protect him from icy wind. He does not cling back, just cries to the sound of slightly awkward comfort, sucking it in.
"You're okay," the words sound so much more believable coming from someone else. "You got out, I've got you, you're safe, you're okay."
The words are whispered into his skin, and they're not quite a balm but they are a promise and a kindness none the less; he is promised safety, and he knows the man around him can provide.
He just... Did not expect that provision to include himself, only friends of friends as they are.
Pac breathes, and it comes easier now - the air is cold, but between the darkness and Philza's chest he is safe. Slowly, slowly, as he remembers what limbs are Pac reaches out a shaking hand to the void.
It finds feathers; the darkness tenses, and then relaxes to his touch.
Pac, in turn, relaxes with it.
"You good?" Philza eventually asks from above.
"Sim," Pac replies, gathering himself a little more, hiding himself in a laugh. "Sorry, sorry, that was embarrassing."
"We've all been there mate," Fit's friend says.
The wings peel away, and Pac can see them properly - tattered edges and all. Sees how they droop, and the strain in Philza's shoulders as he uses his hands to fold them, and his backpack to keep them in pace.
"Shall we get somewhere warmer?" he asks, before Pac can comment. "I've got a treasure map to somewhere near that mesa you and Fit showed me, if you've still got the warp?"
"Are you sure?" Pac's hands shake as he checks his things.
"Eh, I'm pretty sure it's an iron dungeon," Philza replies, pulling out a map and squinting at it. "I was saving it to troll Etoiles with, but I could actually do with more iron. And someone to deal with mobs while I mine it. You, me, and some skellies - sound good?"
Pac isn't sure; he doesn't want to think, though, he does know that. Dungeons are supposed to be his and Fit's /thing/, one half the time someone intrudes on. The offer almost feels insulting, but...
But when Philza felt bad, they offered him a dungeon - he so clearly means to offer the same. Like for like, not pity but a trade.
"I want the tracks and redstone," Pac tries to sound steady, and knows he fails. "I'll save it for Mike when he returns."
"Sure, I don't even know where to start with that shit," Philza takes Pac's hand, and leads him along a safe route over the ice. "If we go back to that haunted rock area, then glide back towards the mesa? I should be able to find us on the map from there."
Pac nods, placing his hand on the warpstone in advance. Philza's joins it, and together they warp away.
---
Thankfully it is dawn, and any monsters are gone this time - there's just the beautiful sunrise over the haunted sea. The sun is rising, not setting, but Pac waves to it anyway and hopes that, somewhere, Bobby can see.
Philza makes half a laugh as he finds his glider. Pac searches for his own, and tries not to remember the night on the cliff - him and Fit, him and Fit, but also Philza, laughing about cannons and resting in one another's arms, only for Philza to pull away first and let him and Fit be.
Pac instead thinks about friendship, and how Fit would abandon everything for Philza just as Pac would give it up for Mike, and how it seems that isn't limited to just them. Because Philza didn't send him home, just as Fit also kept close to an oddly behaving Mike. How it doesn't really matter, because in the end they both agree with where the other stands.
Pac instead thinks of nothing, and throws himself off a cliff after Philza.
For one glorious second he lets himself fall, before pulling out his own paraglider and following Philza down.
He lands on Philza's boat, and they drive it back to the mesa. It's filled with the sort of talk that means nothing, and with Philza humming tunes to the air. For a man who claims to be musically dead, he manages it well.
It's also noise, white noise to blur the absence in his mind.
"Here we are," Philza gets out first, and offers Pac a hand out. "We should be pretty close. These things are a bit of a nightmare to find, being underground, but I'm sure we'll manage."
To his surprise, Pac is passed the map while Philza puts away the boat. He has to turn it around to orientate himself, but once he has Philza gestures for him to lead the way. Philza puts himself on Pac's left - the side he holds the map, whilst his other has his scythe, shield turned out against the wild.
Pac tries to think of something to say, and what comes out is, "so did you go looking for a big cannon, or did you just stumble into it?"
The comment draws startled laughter from his companion as they walk, having to stop a moment to let him gather himself. "We knew we were going to see one, but we're exactly looking. You find them all over the coast in the UK, and I think some along the Thames too? A lot have been removed, but we like our old crap, so a couple of the old forts are still open."
"So you're saying you come from a land of many large cannons."
"Yes, Pac," Philza laughs again. "Yes, I do; don't you?"
"We have other large things instead," Pac tries to smile, but he knows it looks off. "Like diamonds."
"Diamonds?"
Pac can see Philza looking for the sex joke, and suddenly realises he doesn't actually want to explain what he meant. So instead he says, "quality over size. Even a big diamond is small."
That draws more laughter, "yeah okay mate; Fit's a lucky boy then."
That almost has Pac dropping the map he's holding as he chokes. Philza grabs him, holds him steady, gives him something to cling to with Mike and Fit and Richarlyson and Walter Bob all gone. Something there, some support, something to stop him choking on himself.
"Too much?" Philza's voice is gentler this time.
Pac nods, hiding his blush in his hands even as he leans on Philza.
"Alright," Philza says, handing him a bottle. "Drink some water, king, and we'll get this dungeon cleared. And no more dick jokes until Fit's also here to suffer. Maybe we could even come up with some new ones, just to tease him next time we all meet up."
Pac takes the bottle, hiding in his hood as he does as he's told. Philza takes the map and they continue to walk as he sips at it, hiding himself and his face in the bottle. Philza makes sure to stay in sight, keeping idle commentry going.
At this point, Pac is reasonably sure Philza knows something continues to be wrong - but then so did Fit and Pac when Philza had that strange... Maybe hallucination? Fit says it probably wasn't, and Pac trusts Fit, but whatever it was it was unsettling and strange.
Philza seems fine now, though; maybe one day Pac will be fine too.
It is about ten or fifteen minutes walk to the dungeon. There's nothing on the surface to mark it, just Philza squinting at the map, and passing it to Pac to check.
Once they agree, they dig; Philza calls 'race you!' and begins a staircase.
Pac lives for adrenaline; he starts digging straight down.
Somehow he doesn't hit lava.
He does end up falling from the top of the dungeon into a crevasse, fails to find either a water bucket or his paraglider, and breaks his leg. It's terrifying, and he's alone as he sees his death message flash up in chat but - maybe - it's okay. There's Aypierre laughing and Baghera offering help, and Philza on his black paraglider swooping in from the ceiling to assist.
"You good?" Philza asks as he pours a potion out over the wounds, his eyes almost glowing in the low light as Pac's bones knit together.
Pac leans forwards to check his prosthetic while his body heals, twitching only a little with the pain. The fall knocked a few screws loose and bent some of the metal out of shape, but it's an easy enough fix with a hammer and screwdriver. He'll check it over properly later, or maybe swap it for his spare until he has energy for it, but it'll hold for the day.
"All good," Pac confirms, as he pulls his jeans back down.
He can see Philza side-eyeing the prosthetic, and shifts; the man says nothing, however, just helps Pac up and types out an 'all good we're just dungeoning' to calm the global chat.
And then he looks at his map.
"You've got us near a corner," Philza turns his communicator to show Pac. "If we just start here and work around to the left, we shouldn't miss anything."
Pac nods, and pulls out his grapple. Together they pull themselves up and onto the ledge, and the dungeon begins.
It starts simple - Philza takes out a spawner, while Pac works on the skeletons, then they swap so Pac can loot the minetracks. Trading the mobs on and off, Pac cannot help but notice how Philza even when on mob duty prioritises looting, catching the attention of a swamp of skeletons and sending them on a chase over barrels as he smashes them open and grabs the contents. Only when he can carry no more does he start fighting, laughing as he does.
It's a nice laugh, that one.
He laughs too when Pac fights, hacking away at the iron blocks he claims to want. With every other hit there is a call of "good hit!" "nice one!" "you're doing good, Pac!", and Pac can feel himself starting to grin as well.
Together they dance in a dungeon much easier than the one Phil joined Pac and Fit for, able to let loose without worrying for the giant magma cube around the corner. They keep an eye on each other, and watch their backs, and Fit's deep voice is so clearly missing between them without feeling like a void.
By the time it is finished, they are both laughing, bone-dust covering their clothes and their tools and the world in their hands. Philza gives Pac some of the iron, and they take his staircase - not Pac's hole - out.
They don't talk about what comes next, but neither of them reach for their warpstones. Instead Pac picks a direction and walks. Philza follows.
They find a hill a little way out, surrounded by flower fields but empty of them itself. Philza lights it up with his slingshot, despite it still being around midday, and Pac makes hot chocolate for them both. Pulls out chairs, too - blue and green - and places a coffee table between them.
He sits on the blue and Philza looks at the green and says, "are you sure I'm okay to sit there? I don't wanna intrude."
Pac looks at the chair - it was just habit, just what he carries - and curls up his toes. "It's fine," he can hear the sadness in his own voice. "Mike isn't here, he wouldn't mind."
"Do you mind?"
"I got it out for you."
"Alright, king," Philza finally takes the seat and the hot chocolate, leaning back into the cushions. After a bit he adds, "these are good chairs. Maybe I should invest in something better than mine."
"They're not expensive," Pac replies. "And they're comfy! I have one instead of a bed."
He wonders if he should have admitted that - he knows people worry - but in the crash of the panic attack and the fighting it's hard to keep his mouth shut.
Philza just laughs though, "yeah? I've been using one of those wooden ones. You know? Basic ones, just in a fancy wood."
"How do you not have splinters?!"
"I'm good with my hands - what else can I say?"
They both laugh at that one, a joke which actually lands. There's something comfortable and comforting about it. The laughter drifts into giggles, drifts into sips of hot chocolate - quiet and together. Pac makes a point of not watching as Philza gets himself comfortable, untangling his wings and stretching them... Not to full width, but wide.
It's only when one brushes his arm that Pac dares to ask "what happened?"
"Hm?" Philza looks up.
"To your wings?"
"Feds fucked them up when I arrived," Philza says it like its nothing, but there's bitter pain in his words. "By purgatory they'd healed up just enough to fly, but then carrying Tubbo through meteor strikes and radiation... I can't regret it, I /won't/ regret it, but they're fucked again. I can hold them up so it seems better, but they hurt worse than before."
Pac wants to say he's sorry, but he doesn't think it would be appreciated. Instead he says "thank you for saving Tubbo."
"I couldn't just leave him," Philza says. "He's my friend too, you know?"
"I know," Pac fiddles with his cup. "You're a good man, Felipe Minecraft. I'm not sure I'd do it."
"I think you would," Philza says, with more faith in Pac than he's ever had in himself. "If it came to it. You're also a good man, Pac - if you weren't, I wouldn't let you have Fit."
It's an admission neither of them acknowledge. Instead Pac flops, exhausted, against his chair. "I'd do it for Mike. I miss him."
"I can't imagine," Philza's wings stretch a little further, stroking against Pac's cheek. "But, I'm sure he'll heal. And once he does hold him close, okay? Because you never know when you'll loose him."
It's obvious, of course Pac will try to, but there's pain in Philza's voice, and Pac thinks of a memorial on a wall and a child living in the footsteps of a ghost, and maybe Philza can imagine better than he thinks he can.
Or maybe Philza means he can't imagine, because he knows.
"Did you love him?" Pac asks instead.
"He was my best friend."
Philza's voice breaks on the word, and Pac knows both that he has to stop, and that Philza knows just what it is Pac fears. Even if he calls it different, even if they didn't share one mind... Pac should not have asked.
"I'm sorry."
"You did nothing wrong; it hurts, but in hurting I remember him, you know?"
There's a long silence, in which Pac tries to know what to say, and Philza stares absently at soft clouds on the horizon. Even in Portuguese he would struggle, and Philza is certainly not looking to his translator.
Maybe Philza and Fit are not as Pac and Mike; Philza has already lost his Mike. Or, perhaps, both are true, and even if Pac looses his best friend, someone will be there to keep him whole.
It's a nice fantasy; he knows Philza's wound bleeds open even now.
"I have never been without Mike before this island," Pac eventually admits. "At least... I was seven when we met, he was five. I've heard his thoughts since I was ten, and the first time he ever fell silent was when I was put in that water prison."
"Shit," Philza closes his eyes as he swears, leaning back. "Earlier, with the water... You should have said something, Pac, I wouldn't have judged you. Fuck knows there's shit I can't do anymore."
"I didn't know it'd be that bad," Pac hesitates after those words. "It hasn't been before. Today is just... bad? I already felt bad."
"And you came to me for company, and I made it worse," Philza says. "I am so, so sorry mate - I didn't mean to, I just- It was for Chayanne."
"It was still better than being alone," Pac replies. "The second time our connection broke was when he was taken - I haven't heard him since. Even asleep, even unconscious, even when I was in a coma... We could still feel each other. Not now. It's lonely no, and it's been so long..."
"Pac..." Philza's voice catches. "You shouldn't have to make those choices... You shouldn't have to put up with my whims just not to be alone, mate, you should have just said; we could have gone to the dungeon, or the favela, worked on the train tracks... You didn't have to swim."
"Fit is gone, Mike is gone, Richas is gone," Pac twists his hands. "You were helping me. I wanted to help you - I wanted to do something for Chayanne too! He is a good egg."
"He is," Philza smiles softly, taking the distraction for what it is. "The best. But, king, are you going to be okay?"
"When am I not?" Pac asks, as he thinks of happy pills and his own blood trailing the floors of Chume Labs.
Philza gives him a distinctly unimpressed expression and, yeah, fair, "I'm serious, Pac; I don't have plans today if you just wanna chill somewhere. Here, my place, your place, the Favela... if the karaoke's working, we could steal a room? Hell, we can just keep heading outwards and find some more dungeons if you fancy violence instead."
"... Are you sure?"
"We're friends, aren't we?" Philza asks. "We don't get to hang out as often as we should - if you'd rather get some rest, I won't stop you. Just thought I'd offer."
"Karaoke then?" Pac suggests, if only for some structure to keep the anxiety from seeping back in.
"Sure. No promises I won't fall asleep on the couch, though."
Pac laughs. It is weaker, but it is more real. "No promises, no promises here either."
In time they do, of course, fall asleep on the couch - and that is where Fit will find them in the morning.
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💖 it's here, it's pink, it's sparkly, and full of fluff 💖
Hiiiiii and welcome to witness my attempt at an Olli/Allu Advent Calendar, in which I'll give you ~a cute little something~ about these two idiots in love almost every day until December 24! My plan is to use prompts from this list to either write a fic based on the prompt or just some good ol' delulu thoughts if all else fails. I cannot guarantee there'll be a post literally every day, but I'm really excited to try this out and I thank you for your support along the way in advance 💝
The biggest thanks and a million hugs go to one of my favourite human beings @kraeuterhexchen for making the adorable banner!! I mean helloooooo?? 😭 Go show them some love ❣️
For December 1, the prompt list is titled One True Pairing Moments, and the prompt I chose was 'calling just to hear their voice' 🥺 You can read the fic below, I hope you like it <3
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PS. Even though this is an advent calendar of sorts, I'm not planning on making this particularly Christmassy. I hope no one minds terribly!
~
Falling for Aleksi had, in a way, sneaked up on Olli, at least if he fooled himself a little. He could pretend he didn’t feel any different about the man than he did about, say, Joonas or Tommi, but that strategy only worked for so long – that is to say, approximately until Aleksi as much as smiled softly at him from across a room or bumped his shoulder into his jovially when walking down the street and Olli would feel his breath getting caught in his throat or stumble in his words, his tongue tangled like shoelaces, which was so unlike him as well and frustrated him to no end. It really took a special kind of fool to not only develop some level of feelings for a friend, a colleague, a bandmate for Christ’s sake, but also become so hopelessly enamored with him that you rolled awake in bed in the dead of night, grabbing your phone and tossing it back on the nightstand again and again because you couldn’t decide whether or not you should, on some erratic 2 o’clock impulse, call him to let him know he was the very reason for your insomnia.
Turning on his back, Olli groaned (only a little desperately) as he remembered losing himself in the lingering hug they had shared just before the arrivals lobby at the airport, inhaling Aleksi’s scent and wishing they wouldn’t have to go home just yet, even if Olli was more than ready to finally sleep in his own bed again. Ironically, ever since they had returned home from tour, Olli had spent night after sleepless night missing Aleksi terribly: his stupid jokes and playful banter that bordered on being flirtatious if Olli allowed himself the benefit of delusion; his quick, subtle smiles that probably meant nothing; his little touches Olli hoped meant something; his smell and his touch and the softness of his hair at the back of his neck, compared to which the blanket Olli was grasping in his fist was like sandpaper. (How he had come to know of the qualities of Aleksi’s hair in such detail, he preferred not to dwell on too much to save himself from the heartache, so let’s just leave it at ‘stressful, emotional week far away from home’ and ‘a little too much to drink’).
Above all, Olli missed Aleksi’s voice. He hadn’t even thought that was possible, until the other morning when Olli had woken up to a voice message Aleksi had left just hours earlier, rambling about a song idea he had gotten in the middle of the night – something he did from time to time – and Olli had spent the next several minutes replaying it over and over again as he had lied in bed procrastinating getting up and and instead closing his eyes to better imagine Aleksi lying there beside him, turned on his side to face Olli, talking to him sleepily like they often did when they shared a room on tour and were just too lazy to join others at breakfast. Much like the hug at the airport, Olli wished those moments would have lasted way longer than they did, often ending abruptly when either of their phones would go off with Santeri’s name on the screen, a passive-aggressive interruption to the soft, low tone of Aleksi’s early-morning thoughts. (Sometimes, when Olli was lucky enough, he had been blessed with the bliss of feeling the light touch of a fingertip tracing along his collarbone, cut short just as frustratingly by their well-meaning tour manager politely enquiring whether the two of them had plans of dragging themselves downstairs for some toast and coffee, or if they’d rather starve until lunchtime, for which he wasn’t at all sure they’d even have time that day.)
The lovesick idiot that he was, his thumb hovered over the ‘play’ button of Aleksi’s voice message, probably for the millionth time that week. The chest-carving hesitation turned into a heart flip when he noticed Aleksi was online.
Then Aleksi began to type, and Olli held his breath the entire time until a new message appeared in the thread, anticipation holding him by his throat.
You awake?
Olli exhaled and typed his affirmative reply, leaving out the reason why.
He blinked at the screen, waiting for Aleksi to ask him a random question that clearly couldn’t wait until morning, or perhaps talk about something related to another late-night Twitch stream (from what Olli had gathered, Aleksi had been doing a lot of those recently, and with his last remaining braincell Olli had managed to resist the temptation to watch every single one of them, because he knew that if he did, it would only dig his grave of pining and longing deeper, seeing Aleksi smile and giggle about but not being able to do that with him or snuggle up next to him when he was wearing that flannel Olli often used as a blanket in the tour bus). But instead of another text appearing on the screen, Olli’s phone began to vibrate in his hand, and it took him an embarrassingly long while to understand it was because Aleksi was calling him.
“Hi,” he sighed when he finally collected himself enough to speak. He prayed he’d be able to hear what Aleksi was going to say from the thumping heartbeat echoing in his ears.
“Hi,” a soft voice said. “Sorry, I know it’s late…”
“No, not at all,” Olli hurried to say, “I mean, I wasn’t sleeping. Not even close, actually.” Part of him hoped Aleksi wouldn’t ask about it, but in some foolhardy way the possibility intrigued him.
Nothing much, he would have likely said anyway, but what would happen if he told Aleksi how it really was? That he squeezed his pillow imagining it was him instead, or wailed into it because something had reminded him of a moment-that-was-probably-not-a-Moment™ they had shared? What would Aleksi say if he knew Olli sometimes touched himself the way Aleksi had touched him That One Night they never talked about? The only obstacle between Olli and that knowledge was a bottomless ocean of cold sweat and cowardice, and Olli had never been a great swimmer.
“So, ummm…,” Olli said when Aleksi’s end stayed silent. “What’s up?”
A short breath of laughter sounded through the phone line.
“Honestly? I don’t know, I… It’s just been a… weird week, I guess.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, like… my head’s just been so full of… everything and… I’ve been so busy and kinda tense and… fuck, this is going to sound crazy,” Aleksi laughed that brief laugh again, although to Olli it didn’t sound particularly cheerful. Tired, more like. Strained, somehow. Not sad, but definitely a little troubled, and Olli intended to find out why.
“I’m all for crazy, you know.” Olli hoped his sorry attempt to lighten Aleksi’s mood would work, and so he smiled in relief when he heard Aleksi chuckle at his comment.
“I know,” Aleksi said softly, in that tone of voice that had Olli melt against his bedsheets. “So yeah, it’s been a rough week, but… in between all that stupid shit, I’ve been thinking a lot about… umm… well, the tour and– and… about you, for some reason,” (the troubled laugh made its return) “and… yeah. That’s sort of helped me a lot recently.”
Olli listened to the words carefully, not fully believing what he was hearing, yet clinging on to them until they were all but swirling around in his otherwise empty head like dry leaves in October wind.
“And tonight I just couldn’t fucking sleep for some reason and nothing I did seemed to help and so I thought I’d call you. And I’m–” If it hadn’t been dead silent otherwise, Olli wouldn’t have heard the shaky breath Aleksi paused to take, “I’m sorry I’m calling you at this hour and bothering you with this all but I guess I just… wanted to hear your voice. To see if that would help.”
“Does it?” Olli asked. Aleksi’s confession had made him clasp his blanket close to his chest, as if that would do anything about his rapidly beating heart.
“Yeah. It does. So maybe just… keep talking?”
Despite his mind living a life of its own, completely unfit to form a single coherent thought, for Aleksi’s sake Olli tried his best to think of something to say, but everything he came up with was something he was not ready to tell him quite yet.
“Uuummmm…” he said to buy himself some time, but while he waited for his useless brain and mouth to form any actual words, Aleksi spoke again.
“Fuck, I’m– I’m sorry, this is too weird, I shouldn’t have– I’ll let you go back to–”
“I miss you,” Olli blurted before Aleksi would hang up on him. He squeezed his eyes shut when Aleksi went silent, too silent for too long for it to mean any good.
The line stayed open, however, which Olli took as a positive sign, even if the seconds during which all Olli could hear was Aleksi's quiet breathing seemed endless.
“And I you,” Aleksi finally replied. “A little too much, probably, or at least that’s what it feels like,” he chuckled. Olli almost missed the quiet sniff that followed.
He had to steel himself for his next question.
“What do you mean?”
“Just… forget it.” Aleksi said quietly. Contrary to Aleksi’s request, Olli knew he was going to all but ‘forget it’ for the next 3-5 business days; mentally he booked all his evenings as well as most of his mornings and noons for pondering what exactly had been in Aleksi’s mind in that moment or why he had sounded so sombre, almost disappointed. He’d probably never come to any satisfactory conclusion about it though, at least not without a little help from Aleksi himself.
A ridiculous idea popped into his head, and before he could stop himself, the words flooded out of his mouth.
“Do you wanna come over some time? To hang out? When your schedule’s a little less tight, I mean.” He sucked on his lips and closed his eyes as he waited for Aleksi’s answer, ready to hang up the moment he’d decline the offer on some obvious and logical reason for why Aleksi couldn’t possibly make nor want to take a trip to the north to see him, such as ‘didn’t we just spend over two months on the road together?’ or ‘damn, buddy, I miss you alright but not quite that much, I’ve done enough sitting in public transportation for one year, thank you very much lol’ or ‘what about Rilla?’
“You could take Rilla with you, you know.” Olli hurried to say, just in case, the deranged part of his brain thinking there might be a chance Aleksi might be at least considering it.
“Oh! Well, umm… I actually might have time next week? If– if you’re actually being serious about this.”
Funny you should ask, Aleksi; I’ve actually never been more serious about anything in my entire life than I am about having you here with me so that I can hold you and be held by you and see your face when I wake up in the morning and say goodnight to your annoyingly cute face instead of via text message and maybe, if the stars are in position and the northern wind won’t discourage me too much, I might actually be brave enough to torment you with the knowledge of just how miserable I’ve been since we last saw each other.
“I think it would be cool,” he said, because he had a feeling what he wanted to say would’ve been a tad too much and sudden. “I mean, if you’re up for it, of course. I understand if you can’t make it though, I know you have all those side projects.”
“No, I think it might actually do me some good to get out of the capital area for change.” Then there was a muffled ‘ouch’, followed by a laugh that sounded much brighter than any of the other ones Olli had heard from Aleksi that night. “Sorry, correction, it might do us some good. Rilla just told me she’s most definitely coming too. Rilla, stop nibbling on my toes!”
Olli smiled tiredly at the mental image that was painted in his mind of Aleksi and Rilla cuddling in bed, both minding their own business from what it seemed while still minding each other as well, very much indeed.
“I’ll be sure to set up a bed for her in the guest room.”
“The guest room? Do you not know her at all? If she’s not getting the master bedroom, she’ll ruin all your rugs and most of your shoes. Probably also gossip about you to all the neighbourhood dogs. And she’s brutal.”
Olli held his stomach as he laughed, tears almost forming in the corners of his eyes. In his defence, it was late and he was finally becoming tired, thus too far gone to help himself, let alone feel embarrassed about being in stitches about something Aleksi had said that was only mildly amusing. (It wasn’t the first time that had happened either, and likely not the last time.)
“So yeah, ummm, I can take a look at some flight options for next week and let you know, alright? I’m gonna let you sleep now and… I should get some myself too.”
Olli wanted to tell Aleksi he’d love to stay up chatting until dawn, but the yawn he let out when he opened his mouth to speak implied Aleksi had a point.
“Yeah, let me know. And… thanks for calling, I… you have no idea how much I needed this tonight.”
That was as close to a confession as Olli was able to get as of now.
“Probably not half as much as I did.”
Olli chuckled at Aleksi’s response, mostly to hide his own agony.
If only you knew. If only I knew how to tell you.
It didn’t take long for Olli to doze off after they hung up, and when he woke up to the kids from next door having a snowball fight under his window in the morning, he noticed new messages from Aleksi, sent half an hour after their phone call had ended, complete with screen captions of airplane schedules.
Would these days work for you? I might be free all week actually 😇
Olli cuddled into his pillow while typing his reply, hoping it wouldn’t wake up Aleksi.
yeah I’m free as well. I’ll pick you two up from the airport 🖤
From then on, Olli started counting the days until he’d see Aleksi again.
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A new Lightbearer breathes his first panicked breaths, throwing the blanket off his resting place, and finds himself in a world that instead takes pity on him—Much to his displeasure.
But he’s been having strange dreams, and everyone warns him away from some strange… person? As more time goes on, and the warnings compound—he’s less and less sure of that notion, or if they even exist.
The brainworms said "what about Crow pre-Vanguard?? he was never in Spider's 'employ' in TFE!" and so here's some Salty Crow and the start of him being determined to figure out who killed him!
Mind: the divide is a time skip, to when Crow is out of the Dreaming City-- and this is the armor I use for the YW, since I don't give much detail. Anyway, Crow's Rez, "Bury Me Shallow":
— — —
“Who was buried up there?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I mean- No offense. Just… he seemed important.”
“...You don’t know?” The Corsair eyes him, wary.
“Know what?”
She takes a moment to study his face, though it’s shadowed by his hood and the sharp light behind him. It feels like she’s trying to flip through torn out pages and looks like she cut her fingers open on the shreds— He resists drawing any further in on himself.
“...Nevermind.” She scans his disheveled outfit, “You’re a Guardian?”
“Not sure what it means, but that seems to be the consensus,” he replies, mentally bristling at the judgmental tone. How can someone tell by just the clothing? Why would he be buried in this if it was that bad?
…Oh. Right. He was buried in it.
Well, maybe buried wasn’t the right word—There was just a blanket thrown over him, laying on some stone slab.
Not much of a burial. Could just be how the dead are treated, though.
“You haven’t spoken to any of your… lot, yet, either?” The corsair asks, some disdain in her words. He’s been hearing that tone a lot on the subject of Guardians, though not at him. If he’s one of them, shouldn’t she be disgusted by him, as well?
“Ah… no. I’ve seen some around, but haven’t gotten to speak to any. They seem awfully busy.” It’s not exactly a lie, but he hasn’t exactly tried to speak to them at all.
The thought of approaching one makes him nervous.
She snorts, “Busy is one way to put it.” There’s that resentment again.
He doesn’t think he will ever understand why. It seems the Guardians are trying to help, so why does almost everyone he talks to seem to hate them? Well, there have been a few Corsairs that seemed more thankful for the help, but… Most aren’t.
In the ensuing awkward silence, the Corsair seems to get a call in her helmet, turning away from him and murmuring into nothing. He can’t pick any of it up, though it sounds urgent, and she shoulders her rifle.
He can’t help but sigh quietly, knowing that meant no real conversations for another week or so.
She huffs after a few more moments, and sighs. “Well, I hate to cut this short, but the Crows’ feather falls that there’s enemy movement around.” She pauses, mouth pulling into a grimace, before continuing, “Your… abilities, might be… useful.”
“Oh.” She’s asking for his help, isn’t she? Even the Corsairs who didn’t mind Guardians hadn’t asked him to. He… hasn’t done this before—Helped from afar, sure, but not in the thick of it.
She eyes him, with some mix of anxiousness and detesting having asked. “Well, I’m… happy to help.” He smiles, despite the nervous knot in his gut. “Just lead the way.”
He swears there’s a glint of familiarity in her eyes as he says it, and she relaxes some before clearing her throat. “Let’s get going, then.”
— — —
“Sooo… Don’t remember nothin’?” The shadowed figure asks from the thick branch it’s laying on, a deep and modulated voice carrying just loud enough to reach him.
He has to crane his neck to see the ominous red glow of what he assumes is its eyes. “Uhm… no. Didn’t think I was meant to.”
“Yer Ghost tell you nothing, either?” The figure adjusts some, legs now dangling. Seems he’s interesting enough for its full attention.
“Was he supposed to?”
“...Guess not.” It drops down, not a sound leaving them as they right themself, and their face comes into view. Grey metal plates and red dots for eyes greet him. ”Any idea who ya are? Where ya woke up?”
“Looked like…a cathedral, I think.” He takes a half-step back, savouring his personal space, “He must’ve been highly respected. Did you know him?” The apparently metal man—not that he hasn’t heard of Exos (because he has, if only some), but hearing of and seeing are two different things—eyes him for a moment.
“Not personally, but knew of ‘im. An’way, strict Vanguard policy n all, can’t tell ya much.” The exo turns on his heel and starts walking, waving a hand for him to follow.
“...Riight.” He peers around the trees and rocky terrain before deciding to go along with it. “Actually, what’s with that? A few people have told me that already.”
“S’posedly, knowing obscures judgment… or som’thin along those lines. Never bothered to listen ver’ much. Got better things to do than listen to some raving mad Warlock’s lecture.”
“And… I’m supposed to be a… a Hunter?”
“Look it to me. Cape, dirty look,”—Dirty? Now that’s rude—“Things like that. Got that stature, too, and the slouch.”
“Ah. You’re…”—Brutal—“forthcoming.”
“You asked. An’way, got a name for yerself yet? Like to keep track of who I meet.”
A name. His Ghost talked about those; he had seemed excited to pick them.
“...No, not yet.”
“Could give ya some suggestions, if ya like. Though, you’d prob’ly like to do that wit yer Ghost, rather than a stranger.”
“Yeah… he’s been nagging me about it. Seems important to him.”
“Might wanna get on wit it, then! Unhappy Ghost makes a’ unhappy Guardian, y’know. In the meantime, got a preference? Any topics in partic’ you like? Might wanna fly with ‘ose.”
He thinks for a moment, and the black feather on the Hunter’s hood catches his eye. “Well… What’s yours? Might give me some ideas,” he shrugs.
“Rancher!” The other Hunter announces, wholly confident.
“Rancher,” he deadpans back, deciding that whatever he picked would have to be better than that.
“Yuep.” He opts not to question how the Exo popped the P without lips. “M’ Ghost, Iridant, wouldn’t let me jus’ keep Hunter.”
“You were going to name yourself Hunter?”
“Well, it was before I knew ‘bout the Vanguard an’ their classes thing! Iri took ‘er sweet time telling me, an’ I knew I liked huntin’, so…”
The first statement gives him pause.
Are there… are there Guardians outside of the Vanguard? Well, are not all Ghosts with the Vanguard, at least?
“Huh.”
So it’s not just him, then. Maybe Rancher’s Ghost kept him away from the Vanguard for awhile for the same reason his Ghost does… Whatever that reason is, anyway.
As the pair come up on an uphill, littered with stone piles and boulders, Rancher kicks some gravel rocks aside. “Soo, heh, how long ‘ave you been up ‘n about?”
He eyes the patch of gravel for a moment, watching them resettle, “Not too long. Spent some months in the Dreaming City, but only been out here for a few weeks, I think.”
“Ahh, so yer a new Newlight, then! Yeah. Yeah! I imagine those Awoken’re a bit weird, ey?” A barking, modulated laugh brings his gaze back up, finding Rancher to be stood at the top of some larger boulder at the top of the hill now, “How’s that place, an’way? ‘aven’t had the chance to go quite yet.”
Weird was one way to put the Corsairs. So much disdain for Guardians, and yet they seemed fine with him—among other things. “Well, it’s… It’s pretty, when you aren’t under fire.” He could paint pictures of that sky, but… What were the pale things called? Scorn? “The uh… the ones with crossbows were trouble.”
Rancher laughs, again—now more entertained, rather than antagonistic, “Ooooh, big man too good for Taken? The ozone smell don’t bother you? Might jus’ be a’ Exo thing, that, but I ‘ear it makes some a bit nauseous.”
The memory of spinning around, mid combat, to be met with a Taken Knight towering over him moments before waking up—with a few Corsairs gathered around him—springs to the front of his mind. He opts to hum in agreement rather than debate it, climbing up on another slab across from the other Hunter.
The hill below drops-off into what looks to be a patched together base of sorts, old enough to have a dusting of moss and vines over it, but recently lived in and the vines cut back over computer panels and exits.
He catches Rancher stretching (though, he doubts Exos have any need to do so) out the corner of his eye as the other Hunter sighs, “Ahhh, ‘ere’s my stop.”
“Your… stop?” Despite the lived-in look to the base, he can’t see any proof of the occupants anywhere nearby. Or was Rancher here to reclaim it? He had heard Hunters were largely meant to be scouts. Supposedly.
“Yuep!” The Exo pops the end, again. “Got an op to run out ‘ere. That base down there? ‘posed to hold some pests, an’ I’m on exterminator duty!”
And there goes the scout theory. If he went to the Vanguard, would he be put on these missions, too?
“Ooh,” Rancher stops and turns back, “‘fore I go—Careful if you see a Hunter in red an—ahh, no, that’s… That’s not specific at all. Hm.”
He’s heard this warning before. No one ever tells him why, or what that Hunter did, just to stay far away. Every. Time. Other than the vague warnings, he’s not even sure what he’s looking out for.
And it doesn’t help that “red and black Hunter” is a good seventy percent of Hunters he’s seen.
“Why? What did they do?” He tries to put force into his voice, but Rancher skips over the question.
“Just- ah. Complicated. I’ll send yer Ghost a picture, heh?” Rancher’s Ghost—a foil-textured, pink colored, and green eyed… mini Servitor?—appeared with a series of trills. “You’ll want to avoid–” The Ghost projected an image, “–that one.”
He could barely study the figure before there was a blast followed by the sound of Pikes somewhere nearby, to which both Rancher and his Ghost snapped to attention, projection fading.
“Ah!” Rancher sounded excited as his Ghost dematerialized, “That’s my que! Pleasure t’ meet ya, blueberry, but I gotta run.”
“Wh- Blue–? Hold on, what does that—” but the other Hunter is already plowing through the woods on a still-materializing sparrow, giving him one last wave, “—mean…”
He sighs, but can’t help but stare, dumbfounded, after Rancher, yet—
One thing stuck in his mind; That single, holographic, orange eye.
The same one in his dreams.
What happened to his past life?
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