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Soooo...I'm back-

Enjoy!

Take My Tea With Formaldehyde

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Chapter 15: Feeling Lighthearted

(More beneath the cut)

It was like a breath of fresh air to discover that things could get easier. Maybe it shouldn’t surprise him. Maybe it should have been obvious that he didn’t have to live in this quiet sort of misery any more, but it still feels as though it took Mumbo by surprise. It surprised him that doing things was easier. That it was easier to exist and actually feel like a human.

Having a clean apartment felt like a restart. The same way it feels like a restart when you finally shower after being sick, as if cleaning out the dirt had also cleaned up his mind. Getting back into routines, going to work, and taking care of himself was strangely easy. As much as he felt relieved about how simple it was, it also bugged him slightly. Things had changed, and it barely felt like it.

Maybe that was for the better.

As the days passed, he discovered small things that were suddenly a lot more convenient. Like finding stuff in the flat. Before, he had to go through piles of belongings that seemed to appear out of nowhere, but now everything was where it was supposed to be.

It was easier to get the energy to do the dishes, when he only had a small amount to do. Same went for doing laundry.

He had stopped sleeping in front of the TV, and had moved back into his bedroom. No longer did the blue light keep him awake, no longer was it his only company and, somehow, falling asleep in a clean room went quicker than in a messy one.

It was most likely not just the clean flat that made him feel better. Sure, it had definitely helped a lot, and had made day to day life a lot less overwhelming, but other things had to have helped as well.

The thing that had probably helped the most, the thing that felt like it was going to make the biggest difference, was that Mumbo was finally getting a therapist. It had been a long time coming, when he really reflected on the way that his mental state had declined so dramatically over the past months, but he hadn’t been ready. Maybe he still wasn’t, not to take that step by himself, at least.

Luckily, he had Iskall.

Iskall hadn't nagged him or forced him to get one. But they gently reminded him that it was an option whenever the opportunity arose. They helped him look, when he finally started to consider it, and reminded him to take a break when searching for options became too overwhelming. It took a little bit, but, eventually, the pair found one that seemed right.

Mumbo thought that it was a bit funny, in a way, that just trying to get help could be overwhelming. It’s just odd really, he would chuckle, that your mind wants to fight against getting the help you need.

That strange urge to run and hide from the help he was seeking was the clearest when Mumbo almost backed out of the first appointment. His legs had felt like jello, knees shaking like he was wearing shorts in a snowstorm. He hadn't been able to wipe the sweat off his palms, and his stomach had made him feel like throwing up what little food he'd been able to eat that day.

It was frightening, he had realized as he bit on the inside of his cheek. Getting help felt terrifying.

Hell, what would happen if it didn't help? What if the therapist thought that he was being silly? What if it turned out that he actually didn't have any issues, and functioned perfectly well, and was just making up stuff for attention? He must be blowing it out of proportion, right?

He was stuck on the kitchen floor for a little while, trying to force himself to calm down. He had sat down in a corner of the kitchen, a cup of tea he'd been meaning to drink cooling on the counter, his phone in hand, held with a desperate grip.

Mumbo chewed nervously and frantically on the inside of his cheek as he tried his hardest to breathe. He tried to run through all the various breathing exercises that he’d been learning, but nothing seemed to work. By the time that he bit at his cheek hard enough to draw blood, he finally managed to unlock his phone to call Iskall.

“Hallo?” Their voice erupted from the speaker, crackly and warped. “Iskall speaking.”

This was stupid. Childish even, Iskall surely would think so too. Mumbo's mind was telling him to hang up, he shouldn't have called. How can a grown man not get himself to go to the scheduled appointment? He was utterly ridiculous.

“Hi,” he forced out, blinking back the tears that were surging forward at the awful weight of his thoughts. “Um, it's Mumbo, I'm really sorry for calling, but I'm kinda, sorta- uh- on the verge of a breakdown?” Mumbo tried to be proud of himself for pushing through the feeling of hang-up-god-dammit-you-are-being-ridiculous that was spreading rapidly through his body and mind, but it was too hard. Everything was just too hard.

“Oh-” Iskall replied after what was probably only a couple of seconds, but still managed to feel so sudden that Mumbo almost jumped out of his skin. From the concern in their voice, he could vividly picture an Iskall with furrowed brows and downturned lips, and his hands only shook harder at the knowledge that he was causing them such concern. “Are you… hm, is there anything I can do to help?”

Mumbo nodded, fully aware that they couldn't see him. It made him feel even more stupid. “Yeah, uh- this is stupid, I'm sorry, but could you please come over?” He gasped, his chest tight. “I mean you don't have to, especially not if you're busy, but it would make everything just a tiny bit easier. I'm really sorry, you don't have to, I'm just panicking, it's silly, sorry.”

He heard Iskall let out a small, kind laugh, something so reassuring that he could’ve melted right then and there. “Hey, don't apologize, I asked if I could help. I'm currently not doing anything too important either way, so…” They went silent for a second. “I should probably be able to be at your place in about uh, forty minutes, I think? Is that okay? I just have a few things to finish up before leaving.”

Relief flooded Mumbo, rushing through him like ocean waves, calming after a storm. "Yeah, yeah, that'd be fine."

"You sure? I could maybe get to your place sooner, but-"

"No no, it's fine. I can wait," Mumbo responded, breathing calmer.

“Okay, I'll be there in a bit then,” Iskall replied, their voice even and calm. “Bye for now.”

“Bye.”

If Mumbo had to be honest with himself, he absolutely hated waiting. It usually paralyzed him, left him in a terrible stasis of sitting around and overthinking every possibility. However, this time it almost felt nice to have some time to gather himself before Iskall showed up.

During the forty minutes he spent waiting, he spent five of those sitting on the kitchen floor. Then he spent ten minutes laying on the floor instead, when it got difficult to breathe again. It took him a while to be able to stand up, his legs still feeling far too weak to even try, and he had lost track of the time when he eventually managed to get to his feet.

He took it slow, breathed in and out carefully, and leant on the counter with a shaky step forward. It wasn’t much, but still, he felt just that little bit better.

Mumbo glanced at the clock as he put his, now cold, cup of tea in the microwave, silently setting the timer and watching the seconds count down. He breathed in time with that too, using the boxy numbers as a reference for each inhale.

He flinched again when it beeped, despite his eagle-eyed focus on the timer, before slowly pulling the steaming cup out from inside. The last few minutes before Iskall’s arrival were spent sitting at the table just cradling the warm cup. He still felt too anxious to be able to drink it, but just holding it and letting the warmth put feeling back into his fingers was relaxing.

Then finally, the doorbell rang. A wave of silence filled Mumbo's head, his mind calming down a lot more. He had company now, Iskall was right outside. They’d listen to his worries, they’d take care of him.

Still a bit shaky, Mumbo made his way to the front door.

Iskall ended up sitting at the table with Mumbo for a while, as Mumbo vented his anxiety about the appointment. They didn't judge him, nor tell him that his anxiety was irrational, even though it surely was, they just listened in silence.

“You know, you don't have to go to therapy if you don't want to,” they said when Mumbo eventually ran out of steam, slumping back into his seat like a marionette with its strings cut.

He couldn’t stop himself from staring wide-eyed at the other for a few long moments, just watching Iskall’s expression, trying to understand exactly what they thought of him. “I-I know,” Mumbo settled on eventually. “I just…it feels like it would help. Even though I'm worried that it might not, or that I'm just exaggerating how I'm feeling, I feel like I should try.”

Iskall hummed in understanding. “I see, well…if you want - just as a suggestion - I could go with you?” They leant back in their chair as they took a sip of their tea. “I'd wait outside, then we could go for a coffee afterwards, and you can decide then if you'd like to go to another appointment.”

They paused for a moment, giving Mumbo a breath to process what they were suggesting, before pushing on.

“That way, you’ve given it a go. You’ve felt what it's like, and you can properly figure out if it's for you.” They nodded confidently, setting their teacup down with a quiet clink. “Also, it’d give you the opportunity to see if the therapist we’ve found is right for you or not.”

Mumbo turned the words over in his mind with a thoughtful hum. It seemed like a good idea, really. It did, in fact, make him feel better about the entire thing, and suddenly he realized just how badly he had been craving that familiar company. He hadn't even realized that he had felt like he had to go, despite not being fully sure if he wanted to; the thought of having a familiar face there to wave him in felt like a godsend.

It was like everything was finally clicking into place, and Mumbo hadn’t even realized that he was smiling.

He grinned up at Iskall, the warmth of his own tea seeping pleasantly into his hands. “Yeah,” Mumbo said, and it sounded almost confident. “Yeah, that'd be amazing.”

In the end, his therapist turned out to be lovely. She had a certain calm, understanding energy about her that made Mumbo relax almost as soon as he stepped into her office.

The entire situation still felt a bit weird, definitely, but that weirdness wasn’t so uncomfortable anymore. Instead, it felt almost exciting. He was glad that he was trying something new.

It just felt nice to talk to someone who didn't know him, and therefore wouldn't say things to just please him. Someone who listened just to listen, without Mumbo feeling as if he was a burden for talking. It was a bit anxiety inducing, since it was his first time, but it felt like that anxiety would disappear in the future, and by the end of the session, Mumbo felt a lot lighter.

“So?” Iskall asked with a smile, as the pair of them walked out of the building together.

“I'll go back next week,” Mumbo replied. “It was a lot nicer than I thought. I think it might genuinely help me a lot.”

Iskall smiled, the sort of smile that spreads so uncontrollably across your lips until the corners of your mouth ache. “That's good to hear,” they said, and they looked so happy. They looked so glad. “Now, how about that coffee?”

Mumbo only laughed in response. It might've just been his head making things up, but some part of him was so certain that smile looked proud.

It felt nice, to make his friend proud.

Another thing that helped was knowing that he had people who cared about him. Yes, he had his siblings and Iskall, but he had other people as well. They had fallen to the wayside a little in the midst of everything that had happened, a fact that Mumbo couldn’t help but feel guilty for, but that hadn’t seemed to change much. In fact, it felt exactly the same as it did before when Tango messaged him to invite him to hang out.

He said that he was planning a small get together, and had wondered if Mumbo was interested in joining. It would be him, Mumbo, Impulse, as well as a few of Tango's other friends: Zedaph, Skizz, and Cub.

The first thing Mumbo felt was a shockwave of anxiety. He couldn't say no to such a kind offer, but what if they didn't want him there? What if they just invited him out of courtesy? It would be out of character, sure, but he couldn’t blame them for not wanting to spend time with him. Especially when he had been so absent for the past few months.

But… something about that didn’t feel right.

So Mumbo took a step back, just like his therapist had once recommended to him. He took a second to breathe, to drink some water and refresh himself before looking at the message again. And, this time, as he looked over the first text that had been sent between them in weeks, (a text that very clearly wasn’t trying to pressure him or force him into anything; a text that left his options open), Mumbo knew that it was genuine.

He was a little ashamed of the surprise he felt at that, but it felt like a step in the right direction either way. Mumbo hadn’t ever really thought about it, but in the back of his mind there was a constant feeling that people - his friends, his colleagues, everyone - disliked him.

Getting invited to something and pushing past that feeling… it suddenly meant a lot more. It felt nice to know that people wanted to see him. It felt nice to know that people cared about him. Even if they weren't close, and even if they weren't Gr-

He pushed that thought away, good mood suddenly soured.

He should probably reply to Tango.

Mumbo felt a bit awkward as he stood outside of Tango's apartment, one shaking finger hovering above the doorbell. He knew that they wouldn't mind him being there, since he had been invited, but the muffled laughter sounding from inside made his heart twist.

Anxiety crept up his spine, whispering horrible promises into his ears. He really didn’t want to ruin the joy inside the flat, and a part of him worried that he would, whilst another stubbornly argued against it. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there like that, paralyzed under the frozen grasp of his fear, in half a mind to just turn around and leave. It might’ve been hours, though that was incredibly unlikely.

He only managed to snap out of his anxious daze when his phone pinged, a sharp noise that rang in his ears like the most obnoxious of yelling. He shook out his sweaty hands and took a deep breath, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Iskall’s in the back of his mind, telling him that he wasn’t alone. That it was okay to be here, and that it was okay if he needed to leave early. He was taking this at his own pace, and that’s alright.

He was welcome here, Mumbo reminded himself as he pressed the doorbell. He was visiting his friends, and they would be happy to see him.

It only took a second for the door to open, as if Tango had run for it the moment that Mumbo rang. He was laughing as he opened the door, his cheeks red with a full, rosy sort of happiness, and he beamed as he saw Mumbo waiting there.

“Dude!” Tango exclaimed, throwing his arms out for a hug. “I'm so happy that you decided to join, come on inside!”

Mumbo smiled in response, leaning into his hold with a deep inhale, before the pair were walking further into the apartment.

Tango handed him a hanger out of nowhere, gesturing to a rail where Mumbo could leave his coat. “Feel free to just leave that there. There's snacks in the kitchen if you want any, and we’re just hanging out in the living room for now!” He explained, hands waving around all the while. Mumbo responded with a nod.

“Awesome. Now, I gotta make sure that–” A loud crash interrupted whatever he was saying, and Mumbo watched a little dazedly as Tango’s brows shot up like something straight out of a cartoon, and he yelled, “Zedaph! I swear to God, if you–”

Whatever else he was trying to say was lost to another echoing crash, before Tango was sprinting back down the hall without so much as a second glance. Laughter erupted as the man disappeared around the corner, and Mumbo took another deep breath at the sudden chaos.

Well, he found himself relaxing. Might as well grab some food.

The energy in the living room was comfortable and infectious. As soon as Mumbo had sat down on the couch, a bag of crisps tucked under his arm, he got pulled into playing a board game.

As it turned out, Cub had brought a friend along as well, and Tango quickly decided that it would work best if they played in three separate teams. On one team it was Tango and Zedaph, another was Impulse and Skizz, and Mumbo ended up on a team with Cub, and his friend, Scar.

The first few rounds went pretty well, with Scar showing himself to be particularly adept at scamming everyone else out of points, including his own teammates, somehow. They quickly ended up in the lead, whilst Tango and Zed were second, and Impulse and Skizz were last. Lighthearted bickering was quick to follow between the two losing teams, which quickly distracted them from the game.

Mumbo silently watched them, his heart yet again twinged as it reminded him of the dynamic he, Iskall, and Grian used to have. He missed it. He missed it a lot, actually. He wished he could somehow turn back time, to before-

“Don't mind them,” Cub cut through the mayhem suddenly, as if noticing how Mumbo started to get lost in his thoughts. “The four of them have been close since high school, so they're bound to get a bit distracted,” he explained with a sharp grin.

“I can tell, they all seem to share a brain cell,” Mumbo smiled.

Cub leant back with a hearty laugh, folding his arms across his chest. “Yeah, I suppose they do.”

Quiet fell between them then, but Mumbo found it wasn’t uncomfortable. He didn’t have any qualms with sitting back to watch the chaos unfold, and breaking the silence didn’t feel intimidating either. Something about that felt… new.

“How long have you known them?” Mumbo asked quickly, trying not to dwell on it as he turned to face Cub.

“Hm, not that long, really. I met Impulse in university, and he introduced me to Tango and Zed within a week. Apparently Zed was even on the same course as me, I had just never noticed until after I’d met him.” He shrugged. “Skizz showed up a little while later, since he lived in another city. So- not long. Scar, on the other hand…”

At that, Scar leaned into their conversation in a way that told Mumbo he thought he was being inconspicuous, like a cat who thinks you can’t see them because they’re moving slowly. He really wasn’t.

“I've known Impulse for a while!” He started. “Honestly, I can’t remember where we met. One second I didn't know him, and then, bam! I had known him for years.” He laughed, something buttery and pleasant. “He must've introduced me to the others as well, except for Skizz, I hadn't met him until now. Actually–”

As Scar kept talking, Mumbo found he couldn't help but to listen. Something about him was magnetizing, a sort of natural charisma that made him impossible to dislike. It was so reminiscent of- of-

“Well, anyway, that’s how we snuck a rooster into our final!” Scar concluded, before turning his attention to Mumbo. “Mumbo! A little birdy told me that you're a fan of Ariana?”

Apparently, at some point during Scar’s rambling, the others managed to drag Cub into their weird argument, leaving Scar and Mumbo to their conversation. He had barely noticed when it happened, but now he was cursing being left alone. It felt like his heart had stopped, blood rushing in his ears as the world around them fell deathly silent.

Memories of the Fridays spent on his couch, watching videos together with Grian clouded his mind like smoke. Memories of them laughing together, of them sitting in comfortable silence together.

“Uh, yes, I am,” Mumbo coughed, trying to get that smoke out of his lungs as quickly as he could. “I-I’ve been into her music for a while now, I've followed her for a few years. Which is honestly pretty funny, since my childhood friend, Iskall, is her manager. So, um, yeah.” He smiled awkwardly at Scar, clearing his throat again.

“Oh!” Scar exclaimed, something lighting up in his eyes, “I guess it really is a small world!” He laughed again, clapping his hands together excitedly.

Mumbo honestly felt a bit confused now. “What do you mean?” He asked.

“Oh, well, I know Iskall as well! I happen to be Ariana's bodyguard, actually,” he replied casually, as if he were talking about the weather. As if everyone worked with the most well-known celebrity in the country.

Mumbo's brain was absolutely whirring with the new information, as he filed through all the information that he knew about Ariana, (which, unsurprisingly, was quite a lot.)

“Oh!” He gasped as he recalled the name of Ariana’s head of security. “You're Scar Goodtimes?” He didn’t really mean to ask, but the question slipped out with such ease that Mumbo couldn’t even find it in himself to be ashamed.

“The one and only!” Scar said. “So you know my full name, but didn't recognise me?” He asked curiously.

Mumbo blushed. “Well, I’m rather face blind, if I’m honest… I always have been! I've seen photos of you, but you tend to be dressed in suits and sunglasses, so, uh, sorry. If you hadn't said anything I probably wouldn't have realized.”

“Ah, I see,” Scar nodded with a strict understanding. “That makes sense!”

They were quiet for a second as Mumbo processed the information, sifting through the things that he knew about Scar’s work in his mind. Then, he spoke again, “I, er, I hope you don't mind me asking, but… what is she like? I only know what Iskall’s told me, but they haven’t said much.”

Scar looked thoughtful, mulling over the question for a minute or two before he started, “Well, it's a bit hard to say! She's very sweet, and polite. One of the most humble celebrities I've worked with, that’s for sure, but other than that, I don't actually know much.” The man looked as if he was debating something then, so Mumbo stayed quiet, even as his words came to a stop.

“... She struggles a bit with her mental health from time to time,” Scar eventually seemed to decide on. “And she's a very private lady. The person who knows the most about her is definitely Iskall, and I don't know either of them that well, unfortunately.”

Mumbo nodded, the answer not coming as a surprise. “Well, thank you, anyway. I couldn’t help but to ask, I must admit that I'm rather curious about her.”

“Ah, no worries! I would've asked as well if the roles were reversed.” Scar replied with a smile. “Well, while I might not know much about Ariana, I certainly found out quite a lot about roosters. Let me tell you–”

Scar started talking again, and as Mumbo listened he found himself watching the rest of the group. He couldn't help but miss his own, the ones that were as close to him as these friends were to each other. He couldn't help but to miss Grian.

He felt an urge to text him, to ask him how he was doing, to beg him to please come over again, can we just talk?

Mumbo pushed the urge away as much as he could.

After his visit at Tango's, Mumbo found himself missing freshly cooked meals. Impulse had cooked up a feast later into the evening, a wide spread of vegetables and meats, all seasoned and baked to perfection, and even the thought of them now made his mouth water.

He’d been living off of instant ramen and frozen meals for too long, and it left his fridge and cabinets far too empty for comfort. Instead of being filled with food that he could actually use, it was filled with random jars he didn't remember buying, sauces he never used, pickled things, and random packets that looked a bit too suspicious. The vegetables he did have didn't look fresh at all, and also, where the hell did all these tubes come from?

He sighed heavily, desperately wanting to put off buying food to another day, since it was pouring outside. He would rather stay at home, drink some tea and watch whatever crap was on TV, but then his stomach growled again and he remembered Impulse’s cooking, and… damn it, he should go to the store.

After all, what would Iskall say if they saw his fridge now? What would they think? What would Gr-

Mumbo shook his head, snapping out of the train of thought. He didn't want to think about him, but ever since he was at Tango's, he had started to pop up in his head more and more. He sighed, waited for his mind to clear a bit. It hurt too much to think about him, about the things that he might say.

So, instead of thinking, Mumbo grabbed some reusable bags and sat down at the kitchen table. He very pointedly avoided looking at Grian’s seat as he made a list of the things he needed.

He read through the list a few times, double checked that he’d written tea down, and glanced through the cabinets one last time to see if he needed anything else.

When he couldn't find anything missing, Mumbo grabbed his coat, pulled on his boots, and started towards the store.

Half of the time, Mumbo found grocery shopping to be the most dull, boring and uninteresting thing on the planet, and at other times, he found it therapeutic to walk through the isles listening to music, crossing things off from the list.

This time, it was definitely the latter.

That was another one of those things that had made life a little bit better, to find joy in ordinary chores and mundane tasks. There was something pleasant about doing what he needed to, about taking care of himself, about being able to do small things that he would have previously dreaded with a smile.

Somehow, his motivation for cooking a decent meal didn’t disappear while he was out grocery shopping, and he even left with a solid meal plan scribbled down on the back of his shopping list. He walked out of the doors with two hefty bags and a pleasant lightness on his shoulders even so, and, in his good mood, Mumbo decided that he’d walk the nicer route home. It was longer, sure, but it let him wind through some lovely little side-streets and a vibrant park or two.

He stumbled on a cute bakery as he walked, a small, independent looking store with fresh bread lining the windows. The scent from the bakery was absolutely heavenly, and he couldn't stop himself from going back to it, just to buy some bread. Sure, he had bread he'd bought at the grocery store and buying more things only made the bags harder to carry, but bakery bread was always a lot better, so it was worth it.

So, Mumbo ended up with bags that were heavy, filled to the absolute brim with fresh vegetables and ripe fruits, as well as two loaves of freshly baked bread. He had to stop a few times on the walk home to let his arms relax, otherwise he'd end up with aching arms and his food would most definitely end up getting dropped on the street. Yet, it didn't change how content he felt.

Even if it was still raining, even if his arms ached, and even if he had started to long for a cup of hot tea. He still felt content.

Then, Mumbo turned the corner onto his street.

He was nearly home, he could see his apartment building from where he stood, but that did nothing to stop the grocery bags from clattering out of his loose grip. The bread fell out, its beautiful crust soaked in a puddle on the pavement, and the punnet of apples came loose, fruit rolling across the ground. All of those good things were ruined in an instant, all of the things that he had been looking forward to were nothing more than a smushed pile against gray concrete.

But none of that mattered, and Mumbo wasn’t watching as eggs smashed and vegetables bruised. Instead, he was slack, staring straight ahead with weak, shaking hands.

Because right across the street, on the familiar, uneven doorstep of Mumbo’s apartment block, stood Grian.

He was rocking back and forth on his heels, his back turned to the street. Even so, Mumbo could see that he was twisting his hands anxiously, picking at the skin around his nails. It was almost picturesque, the way that he stood there on the empty side of the street, as if everyone had cleared out to give the two of them this moment - though, realistically, most people were probably just inside because of the rain.

Mumbo couldn’t care about the loss of his groceries as he blinked owlishly at Grian, frozen in place. He couldn't really believe his eyes as he took in every detail of the man’s silhouette, trying to convince himself that it wasn't just his imagination; that Grian was actually there.

He stared at him as he glanced up towards the window of Mumbo's flat, as he flitted between pacing or just tapping his foot, seemingly unaware of everything around him. He looked like he was deep in thought, as if he was trying to decide whether he should leave or not. Everytime that he steeled himself, spine straightening and hands curling into fists, he’d crumble, and go back to just standing outside the building, rocking back and forth.

Grian looked significantly better than the last time Mumbo saw him. His hair was in better shape, trimmed and washed, albeit wet from the rain. He wondered what style Grian usually let it sit in now, he wondered if that had changed, since they last saw each other so many weeks ago. His clothes looked clean, he was standing straighter, and he seemed to have put effort into what he was wearing.

All in all, he looked good. He looked better, so much better. If it wasn't for the pacing, Mumbo would've assumed that Grian was doing well.

It could have been hours that Mumbo stood there, glued to the pavement with watering, blinkless eyes, before Grian finally made up his mind on what he was going to do. He watched with horror as Grian turned around, walking in the opposite direction.

He hadn't seen Mumbo, hadn't noticed him.

He had decided to leave.

Mumbo’s heart dropped from his throat to his toes, fluttering with the desperate pace of a hummingbird, and yet, he couldn't move. He was frozen in place, deafening pulse hammering in his ears. He had to move! He had to!

It wasn't until a passerby walked into him, too busy looking at the groceries littering the ground, that Mumbo moved. In that moment he didn't care about the bread, he didn’t care about making himself a good, fresh meal, or the fact that there was traffic on the road. He didn't care if he ran into someone. He didn’t care if he made a fool of himself.

All he could care about was stopping Grian from leaving. He had to stop him from leaving.

His heart was yelling at him that if he didn't stop Grian from leaving, then this would be the last time he ever saw him. That they'd be stuck in this godawful limbo forever, neither of them ever gaining the strength to try and fix things between them. In those few seconds, where all he could see was the retreating outline of Grian’s rain-soaked hair, he was certain that was true.

It was true for both of them, but he could fix it. Right now, he could fix it.

That's why Mumbo ran out into the road without a second thought, throwing himself straight out into traffic, and only narrowly avoiding getting hit by a car. The driver slammed on their horn and rolled down the window to yell curses at him for his recklessness, but he could barely hear it.

Mumbo could only sprint as fast as he could, legs pumping under him like he was possessed. Adrenaline and fear and longing all melted together into some dangerous potion in his gut, he only cared about stopping Grian, he–

He didn't stop running until he caught up to Grian, his fingers first just brushing against the sleeve of his jacket as he remained just out of reach. In that split second, it was like Grian was nothing but a figment of his imagination, a shadow haunting him as he slipped through quivering fingers. It was only a moment, but the surge of absolute terror that rushed through him at that gave Mumbo a boost like nothing else.

Before he really knew what was happening, he had managed to grab Grian with a far sharper grip, long fingers tangling around his arm like a vice. He watched, tense and slightly lightheaded, as Grian yelled in response, spinning around like a whip as he tried to yank himself away.

His expression was sour, his eyelashes wet, as he seemed about ready to scream at whatever stranger had grabbed him until they let go.

Mumbo watched the exact instant that he realized who it was that was holding onto him.

Grian’s angry expression faded rapidly, first settling into a look of pure disbelief, before a hint of relief and happiness coloured his face. A smile was next, small and barely-there but still present enough to send fireworks shooting through Mumbo’s chest. He looked as if couldn't believe his eyes at all.

In a second, the happiness faded and his face crumpled like a child, something young and helpless and pained overtaking every inch of his expression. He looked sadder and more regretful than Mumbo had ever seen him, his mouth moving wordlessly as he stared up at the taller man.

Up close, Mumbo’s only thought was that he was glad Grian was truly doing better. With relief, he could see that Grian was wearing a small amount of makeup to highlight his features. It was polished, carefully placed and vibrant, but didn't hide the fact that he still had bags beneath his eyes. He still looked tired, a sleeplessness that may as well have been etched into his very bones, but the dark circles were so much less apparent than before.

Then, finally, Grian managed to croak, “Mumbo?” He said shakily, and Mumbo had never heard his name sound like an oath before. He had never heard someone call for him like they had been thinking of him for weeks, like they had been practicing holding the shape of his name on their tongue.

He could do nothing but stare, taking in every detail of the man’s face as the pair of them stood together, stuck in place. Mumbo’s tight, shaking grip stayed on Grian’s arm, his mind blank as he tried to think of a single word that would be a reply good enough for something as terrifying and profound as Grian’s own.

But he couldn’t; couldn’t do anything but gape as he spotted a half-smoked cigarette between Grian's fingers. He seemed to have forgotten it, unlit due to the rain, the smell only slightly present. How long had Grian been pacing? How long had he been out in the rain?

“Mumbo, listen, I–” Grian inhaled, about to continue, but was promptly cut off by Mumbo pulling him into a tight hug.

Grian gasped, and for a split second Mumbo was terrified that Grian wouldn't hug back, that he would resist, push Mumbo away, and leave. That this would be it, he would watch as Grian retreated away from him, and they would have forever missed their chance.

He could feel as Grian trembled. He didn't want to let go. He couldn't let go.

Then, he felt a pair of hands hovering over his back. At first they were careful, landing lightly on his soaking wet coat, but quickly they turned desperate. Those hands felt searching against him, grabbing fistfuls of as much fabric as they could reach, like whatever Grian could hold would stay with him forever. Like Mumbo would leave if Grian didn’t hold on tightly enough.

Mumbo barely registered that the other was crying, the tears blending with the rain, smudged into every other droplet that was already coating his shoulder.

"I'm sorry,” Grian sobbed, burying his head in Mumbo's shoulder. “I'm so sorry."

There were tears on Mumbo’s cheeks too as he pulled Grian as close as he could, burying his nose in damp, blond hair.

“It's okay, I'm here. It's okay," he reassured, and he wasn’t quite sure who he was talking to as he said it. It didn’t matter, they both heard it.

Neither wanted to let go, as they stood there in the pouring rain. Neither could bring themself to.

#grumbo #grian #mumbo jumbo #hermitblr #hermitcraft #ariana griande #take my tea with formaldehyde (grumbo fic)#tmtwf #grumbo fanfic

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logosbot-tm-fics · 1 year

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Take My Tea With Formaldehyde Masterpost

Summary:

Mumbo has a crush on Ariana Griande.

It's easy to see just how enamoured he is with her, forever keeping an eye on tour dates and music drops. She's unattainable - a growing celebrity who is finally beginning to secure her place in the spotlight - but that fact does little to quell the butterflies in his stomach at the very thought of her.

And really, it should be harmless.

It would be, if it wasn't for the fact that Mumbo is also head-over-heels in love with his best friend.

It would be, if his best friend wasn't changing. Withdrawing.

So then, the question becomes this: what's going on with Grian?

Ao3 Link: Take My Tea With Formaldehyde

Individual chapters

•Chapter 14

•Chapter 13

•Chapter 12

•Chapter 11

•Chapter 10

•Chapter 9

•Chapter 8

•Chapter 7

•Chapter 6

•Chapter 5

•Chapter 4

•Chapter 3

•Chapter 2

•Chapter 1

#masterpost #grian #mumbo jumbo #grumbo #ariana griande #take my tea with formaldehyde (grumbo fic)#tmtwf

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logosbot-tm-fics · 1 year

Text

Hi everyone! Sorry for the wait,, but...I sorta got stuck on this chapter.

Which is why my (previous beta-reader now) co-writer wrote this chapter instead

Anyway, hope yall enjoy :)

Take My Tea With Formaldehyde

[Start] [<Previous] [Next>]

Chapter 14: Taxidermy Fingerprints

(More beneath the cut)

Mumbo felt as though his lack of sleep was finally beginning to creep up on him as the pair walked side-by-side through the silent city.

He had no idea how long it had been, no idea whether they’d been talking for a few minutes or a few hours, but his legs were starting to ache with every step. They kept moving, kept walking down the snow-filled pavements, under the dim, flickering street lights.

Somehow, Mumbo wasn’t as cold as he probably should have been without a jacket – warmed by the activity, but also by good conversation. Every second felt… familiar. It felt easy. There was something comfortable about the way that the stranger spoke, something that made it simple for the pair of them to never run out of things to say. It was nice, to have someone to talk to, to know that he was being heard. He felt more like a person talking to the stranger than he had in days.

For once, Mumbo didn’t feel like a bother.

The sun was beginning to peer over the horizon when they finally stopped, the stranger suddenly stopping in their tracks until Mumbo realised that they were no longer beside him, turning back to glance at them.

They smiled at him softly, something kind in their eyes as Mumbo met their gaze. “I suppose this is where I gotta drop you off,” they said.

“What?” Mumbo blinked at them confusedly. They had been cryptic all this time, avoiding personal questions and dodging details, but this seemed like a strange change of pace, even for them. “What do you mean?”

The stranger didn't reply, they just nodded their head towards a building across the street. Mumbo’s eyes followed the movement hesitantly, a little unsettled by the vague answer, until he noticed that they were stopped in front of a tall block of flats. Mumbo’s block of flats, to be more specific.

"Oh," he said, once he realised where they were, feeling just a little bit stupid. He hadn't noticed that they had walked all the way back to his house, traversing all the way through the city to arrive in the ever-familiar area. He realised until they were stopped right outside of his front door.

The stranger laughed, gesturing for him to follow them as they started to cross the silent street. He did after a moment, shaking himself out of his confused stupor and scurrying to catch up. It was only after they set foot on the other side of the road that Mumbo was struck with a realisation, his steps stuttering as he reeled with it.

… How did the stranger know where he lived?

It sent a chill down his spine, echoing in his thoughts as he stared at the stranger, speechless and dumbfounded. He wasn’t necessarily afraid, the stranger had been far too compassionate and helpful for him to fear them, but it was undeniably concerning that they had somehow managed to lead him back to his own home without him ever telling them where he lived.

He gaped for a few long moments, trying to find his words as the stranger stared back at him passively, an almost amused flicker in their eyes.

"H-How did you-" Mumbo’s words trailed off as the stranger interrupted him with a shrug, something casual and nonchalant.

"I'm just good at guessing,” they replied as if it was a completely logical explanation. “This felt like the right place."

That was… the least convincing argument Mumbo had ever heard, but he wasn’t about to tell them that. Instead, he settled for just gawking at them strangely, like they were a puzzle for him to figure out how to solve. In some ways, they probably were.

It was silent between them for a few long moments, something uncharacteristically stilted in comparison to the easy conversation of just a few moments prior, and Mumbo assumed that the stranger was waiting for him to gather his thoughts and reply. When he didn’t, they sighed, stretching a gloved hand out towards him.

“This is goodbye, then,” they said, as he awkwardly met their grasp.

“I- yeah…” He wanted to say something, to somehow formulate how much their conversation had meant to him. To express how much they had helped him.

“Thank you,” Mumbo settled on, grasping onto their hand for a second too long and giving them a small smile. “I needed this, you- thank you.”

The stranger mirrored his expression, tightening their grip on his hand as the corners of their mask rose, the fabric wrinkling over the bridge of their nose.

“I’m glad I could help,” they nodded, squeezing Mumbo’s hand once more before finally letting go and turning to leave. “Bye, Mumbo.”

“Uh- goodbye,” Mumbo replied, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

He felt somewhat dazed, exhaustion and emotional drain finally catching up on him, draping weights over his shoulders. He stood still and watched as they walked away, eyes drawn to their retreating form for reasons that he couldn’t quite place. He watched, mesmerised, as they reached a hand into their pocket, pulling out the pack of cigarettes and an unfamiliar lighter, removing one from the pack and bringing it up to their lips. Surely they lit it, with the lighter that Mumbo hadn’t expected them to have, because the next thing he knew, there was smoke trailing behind them as they moved.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from them, there was something nagging him, something that just… didn’t sit right.

They- wait, did–

Did they call him by his name?

How did they- how did they know his name?

Another pang of white hot anxiety spiked through him, jolting in his lungs and plunging to the pits of his stomach. His eyes caught on the dim burning light of the cigarette between their fingers, the trail of smoke pluming above them as they walked away. They knew where he lived, and they knew his name, how- how did they–

“W-wait!” He called out, icy breath clouding around him. The stranger turned around at his cry, but they didn’t stop. They just kept moving, walking backwards with an almost inhuman grace. Mumbo needed to say something, he needed to say something now or never-

“What- what’s your name?” He stuttered, something pleading and charged behind each word.

The stranger simply smiled, pulling the lit cigarette up to their lips and taking a drag. “Doesn’t matter,” they called back, smoke billowing from their mouth. “Until next time!”

The wind blew, something sharp and cold and howling that had Mumbo squeezing his eyes shut, trying to avoid the snowflakes being thrown his way. “W-what do you mean ‘next time’?” He shouted, desperate to be heard against the lashing gales. “You–”

Mumbo opened his eyes as the noise of the wind lessened, as the stranger gave him no response. His gaze flicked helplessly around the quiet street, wild and aimless as he took in every streetlight and pavement tile.

The stranger was nowhere to be seen.

The lights of Mumbo’s bathroom were sterile and bright.

They felt cleansing, somehow - like bathing in them would wash away the evidence of his distress, of everything that had happened in the last few weeks. Staring in the mirror, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was just the lighting that made him look like this.

Better. Healthier.

The bags under his eyes were lighter, less bruised, and there wasn’t as much tension in his shoulders. He felt better rested than he had in ages, like he was refreshed in a way that needed more than just sleep. It was peaceful, comforting, to know that he still had this in him. He could still feel better, and the man in the mirror was only proof of that.

He thought back to the blurry reflection of himself that he had seen in the river, before his conversation with the stranger. He had seemed so exhausted then, in more ways than one. It was as though there was something riding on his back, something that made every step heavy and dragging; every breath a thousand times more difficult than it needed to be.

Looking in the mirror now, under the bright, revealing lights of his ever-familiar bathroom, Mumbo thinks that talking to the stranger was more helpful than he had realised, even then.

It had been a day or so since they had spoken, and in that time Mumbo had rested, he had taken some time to himself. Allowed himself to reset, to calm down.

Apparently, it had paid off.

Although… Jesus, when was the last time he had shaved?

Despite the new light in his eyes, the lack of tension in his shoulders, Mumbo couldn’t ignore the new scruff gracing his chin. He practically had a beard at this point, itchy, uneven hair that made him look almost alien, unfamiliar. His moustache was in the worst condition he’d ever seen it, his usually consistent routine having been forgotten for… who knows how long. It looked like a broom over his upper lip, like some sort of rodent had crawled onto his face and died. The unruly strands were almost brushing the seam of his lips, uncomfortable and scratchy in a way that he didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed before.

And- now that he was paying attention to the sensation, the way that his fringe hung over his eyes was also irritating. His hair was grown out, long past its usual, cropped style. He just… he hadn’t had the brain power to handle caring about his appearance recently, he hadn’t realised that it had gotten so far out of his control.

He needed to fix this, to try and make himself feel a little more like a person again. What was it that the stranger had recommended he do? Focus on himself? On being happier?

Somehow, it felt like this would be a good start.

It seemed inconsequential, but some small part of Mumbo felt as though this would help him do just that. Like making himself look as he used to would make him happier.

He wanted that. God, he wanted that.

He started slowly, plucking the facial hair grooming kit that Iskall had bought him a few years ago out of the drawer. He laid it on the counter, taking a moment to just stare at the black leather case, before nodding to himself, opening it.

The next hour or so was spent fixing himself up; trimming and shaping his moustache, cutting and combing his hair. Little by little, he started to look better.

He started to look like himself.

Something about it felt like a reset; like he was starting from scratch. Like he was trying again.

He wanted to try again. He needed to.

He didn’t want to live like this anymore.

The apartment was next, after Mumbo had finished tidying himself up.

He had changed clothes, stripped the old sheets from his bed and gathered the dirty laundry off of his bedroom floor. It felt like a start, a jolt of motivation shooting through him at the progress, but stepping out from his bedroom with unwashed fabrics cradled carefully in his arms only served to remind him how big of a task this would be.

There were dishes piled on the coffee table, old takeout boxes on the floor, and a thin sheet of dust seemed to cover every surface. How had this gotten so far out of his control? How had he ever lived in such a filthy place?

There was something uneasy crooning in his gut as he looked over the state of the apartment, it just seemed like such a massive task, he had no idea how he was going to do all of this by himself. He didn’t even know where to begin, the idea filling him with an uncomfortable feeling of stress– he wouldn’t get all of this done alone, Mumbo knew that. He knew that he would spend the whole day just staring at it, working himself up over where to begin, and then he’d just give up.

He thought back to the conversation with the stranger, to the advice that they had given him. They had reminded him of something that he really shouldn’t have forgotten – there are other people who care about him too. Other people who would surely drop everything if he called them.

It brought a smile to his lips, and Mumbo found himself shakily reaching for his phone.

< You > Hi :)

(14:22)

< Critter Queen! > Mumbo!

(14:24)

< Critter Queen! > You okay? Haven’t heard from you in a while

(14:24)

< You > I’m alright :D

(14:25)

< Critter Queen! > You sure? I spoke to iskall and they said you weren’t doing too well

(14:25)

< Critter Queen! > I’m here if you need me!

(14:25)

Mumbo paused for a second, unsure of how to answer. He knew that his sister wouldn’t push if he said he didn’t want to talk about it, but still. He wanted to at least try to be honest with her, even if it was a little humiliating to admit how much everything outside of the whole… Grian situation had gotten away from him.

< You > Things have been a bit hectic for me, really. I’m struggling to keep the apartment clean haha :D

(14:27)

< Critter Queen! > I’m not working today so i could come over and help you clean?

(14:28)

< Critter Queen! > Jimmy is hanging out at my place today so i’d force him to come along too lol

(14:28)

It brought a smile to his face, her willingness to come over and help. The idea of seeing Jimmy was nice too, he hadn’t been keeping in touch with either of his siblings as much as he normally would have, so seeing them both would give them a good opportunity to catch up.

It would be good for him. It would make him happy.

< You > That sounds nice

(14:29)

< You > You’re both welcome to pop over whenever! I’ll leave the front door unlocked :D

(14:29)

< Critter Queen! > Great :)

(14:30)

< Critter Queen! > we’ll be round soon!

(14:30)

And that was that.

“Lizzie!”

A shrill, shrieking voice was the first thing that Mumbo heard as his door opened, followed by bubbling laughter. There was a series of heavy footsteps, the clinking of keys landing in the dish by the door, before Jimmy called again, “It’s not funny!”

Clearly, Lizzie disagreed, as her laughter only grew.

The commotion drew Mumbo up from where he had slumped onto the couch, mindlessly playing a forgettable idle game on his phone. He peered through the living room doorway and into the hallway cautiously, just in case one of the others decided to throw something at him in true sibling fashion. Instead of having to suddenly duck out of the way, he was greeted with the sight of Jimmy trying fruitlessly to untie a tight knot in his scarf, which looked as though it had been forcefully tied around his throat.

“I’m just looking out for you! We can’t have you catching a cold,” Lizzie giggled, pulling his hat over his eyes before leaning down to untie her boots.

Jimmy fumbled for a moment, tugging at his scarf blindly, before stumbling backwards and falling into the closed door with a muffled ‘oof!’ There was a single moment of silence, before Mumbo and Lizzie both burst out laughing, watching him struggle on the ground.

His very miffed expression appeared to them as he finally managed to wrestle the layers off, looking considerably more ruffled than Mumbo assumed he was when he first arrived. His hair is a mess, sticking in every which direction, as he glared as Lizzie with lighthearted betrayal shining in his eyes.

Lizzie simply rolled her eyes, hanging up her coat and walking over to Mumbo, very pointedly ignoring Jimmy’s grabby hands to try and get someone to help him up.

“Uh- hi?” Mumbo questioned, trying not to laugh at Jimmy who seemingly melted into the floor at the rejection.

Their antics plastered an aching smile on his face, something wide and genuine that Mumbo hadn’t felt in a while. They were acting like their usual selves, but he had no doubt that they were trying to make him feel better in the process.

“Hey! It’s been a little while, huh?” Lizzie exclaimed. She pushed past him to glance around the living room quickly, scanning the mess that laid around them. “Gosh, you uh- you definitely weren’t kidding.”

Mumbo chuckled awkwardly as Jimmy finally stood up, casting a confused look at the now empty space on the hallway table before kicking off his own shoes and tossing his jacket to the floor. He hung his head in shame as he trudged past where Mumbo stood in the doorway, a pathetic, pitiful look about him that never failed to make Mumbo grin.

“Nice to see you both,” he said between chuckles, his heart warming at the familiarity of it all. Somehow, it almost felt like normalcy. Like the thing that he’d been missing for so long.

“Hi, Mumbo,” Jimmy sulked, elbowing Lizzie as he walked past. “I want you to know that I’m only here because she threatened me with bodily harm.”

“Suck it up, Jim,” Lizzie chastised, “We’re cleaners for the day!”

“Exactly, Jimmy,” Mumbo chortled at the exchange. “Don’t you want to help out your favourite sibling?”

“Neither of you are my favourite,” Jimmy interrupted Lizzie’s offended noise, flopping onto the couch dramatically.

Rolling his eyes, Mumbo tossed a dirty sock that had somehow ended up in the hallway at him. “C’mon, up,” he prodded. “We’re cleaning.”

Jimmy just groaned loudly, rolling onto his side with a heaving sigh. “Why can't you do this by yourself?” He whined.

The question lit a flicker of anxiety in his gut, something small but noticeable. It felt too sudden to expose his struggles, but he wanted to be honest. He wanted to ask for help.

“Oh, I- uh- it’s just- I…” He stammered, both of his siblings’ eyes flitting to him as his voice grew higher, avoiding eye contact with an awkward laugh. “I don’t know. It’s overwhelming?” Mumbo admitted, staring everywhere that wasn’t the two people in front of him. “I feel like I won’t get anything done, like I’ll just be stuck figuring out where to start.”

“Ah, that’s-” Lizzie responded in Jimmy’s place, something concerned behind her eyes, barely hidden from view. “That’s fair enough, Mumbo. It’s a big job, uh- it’s quite a tip in here, I’ll be honest.”

Mumbo chuckled, though it sounded slightly forced. Some small part of him was angry that he’d ruined the atmosphere, that he’d turned it into a bigger deal than it was. But… this was a big deal. It mattered to him. He’d lived in this messy, upturned house for weeks, and fixing it up felt like he’d be repairing a part of himself.

It was a big deal, and, thinking back on the stranger’s words, he didn’t want to downplay that. He wanted to give himself the time that he deserved.

“It’s demotivating, that’s what it is,” he said, honestly.

Lizzie gave a strained laugh, something worried and contemplative, and it was clear that she wanted to ask, to push. Quiet lulled between them for a few seconds, gentle yet obvious, starkly different from the easy banter of a few moments before.

“Mumbo, not that I mind helping out or anything-” Lizzie’s shoulders grew slightly tenser as she spoke, clearly choosing her words carefully as her gaze flicked around the messy apartment. “-but… how- how did you let it get this bad?”

“I- in my defence,” Mumbo coughed, rubbing the back of his neck with an awkward smile and avoiding eye contact. “I’ve- uh- I’ve had a rough couple of weeks.”

“Oh,” Jimmy stared up at him from the couch, pushing himself into a sitting position. “What happened?”

He opened his mouth to answer, mind running through a million possibilities of what he could say, of what he could reveal. Should he tell them everything, just like that? Or should he lie, to try to avoid worrying them; to try to protect himself from vulnerability? A small voice in his head whispered that he should be keeping Grian’s privacy in mind too, not saying a word as to keep his friend from being put in an uncomfortable position.

He tried his best to wave that voice away. Grian deserved privacy, but Mumbo deserved support at the same time.

Quiet reigned again, hanging in the room for a couple of long seconds. Mumbo wanted to jump into action, an uncomfortable energy rushing through him, something like dread and adrenaline mixing together into a frantic cocktail that only grew stronger with every moment that the silence persisted. He wanted to distract himself with something like- like making tea. Maybe he should offer to make them something to eat? Maybe-

In the end, he didn’t get a chance to respond, the nervous, restless expression that surely painted his features prompting Lizzie to jump in.

“Let’s get on with this first,” she said definitively, placing her hands on her hips and leaving no room for argument. “Then we can talk about it over some tea?”

Mumbo didn’t know how to respond past a nod, nerves still rushing through him as he tried to gather his thoughts, to consider how he was actually going to go about this, but his siblings didn't let the silence remain for long.

Lizzie wrestled Jimmy off of the couch, and he put on some music - something obscure, a little band that the others had never heard of. The three chattered easily, joked about everything and anything, and Mumbo was happy. They worked together well, despite the near constant stream of banter and play-fighting, and it made Mumbo feel strangely… light. As though a weight was being lifted from his chest.

It was chaotic, but it was fun, and Mumbo was undeniably glad that he asked them to help. It made everything so much more manageable. It felt less like the weight of the task would bury him.

He was glad they were there with him.

By the time the sun was setting, the digital clock in Mumbo’s kitchen informing the trio that it was already late evening, they were done. The apartment was almost spotless, cleaner than Mumbo thought it had been in years – as though it had just been furnished, or like he was trying to get his deposit back.

Now, Lizzie and Jimmy were talking loudly at the dining table as Mumbo made tea, comforted by the noise. He set it aside to seep, before leaning back on the counter, facing the others.

“-I’m just saying, Jim,” he heard Lizzie declare matter of factly, “That your track record with boyfriends isn’t anything to cheer at.”

“You- you’re literally single! All of your exes suck!” Jimmy sputtered, “You can’t lecture me on this!”

“They hated her because she spoke the truth…” Lizzie mumbled to herself, a smug smile on her lips. “You’ve just got one of those faces, y’know? Easy to bully-”

Jimmy reeled back dramatically, hand on his heart as his gaze flicked desperately to the other person in the room. “Mumbo- Mumbo she’s being mean to me!”

“Wha-” Mumbo shook his head. “Don’t drag me into this!”

“Mumbo!”

“Yeah! Don’t start complaining to him!” Lizzie exclaimed, ignoring Jimmy’s noise of protest. “Mumbo’s doing better than both of us anyway, getting his heart stolen by that pop star...” She chuckled, a dreamy, forced sigh passing her lips as she wiggled her eyebrows at Mumbo, as if to punctuate the words.

“Har-har,” Mumbo rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the jab about Ariana, averting his gaze from Lizzie’s batting lashes and goo-goo eyes.

He knew that his crush was common knowledge, that it wasn’t difficult to see, but she made him think too much of Grian for it to be fun anymore.

Lizzie giggled at him as he cleared his throat, perhaps taking his avoidance as embarrassment. “S-she’s right though, Jim, you’ve definitely got one of those faces.”

He turned back to the tea as he said it, straining the leaves and bringing a tray out of the cupboard, ready to load it with the cups and various additives that his fussy houseguests tended to enjoy. Jimmy turned to look at him as he did, a strange expression on his face that was difficult to identify, a barely there tension settled into his brow.

“Exactly!” Lizzie exclaimed, a soft oof escaping Jimmy as she elbowed him out of Mumbo’s view. “You make it easy.”

“One day you’ll find someone who’s immune to the temptation,” Mumbo said dramatically.

“Well… “

“Eventually.”

Lizzie hummed uncertainly. “Maybe.”

Mumbo brought the tray over to them with a laugh, placing it gently on the table before turning back to the kitchen to grab his own tea, which hadn’t fit on the overfull tray. The good-natured banter made him feel light, though the silence from Jimmy was… odd. Usually he would have been arguing and whining, complaining to whichever sibling hadn’t insulted him last.

Clearly, Lizzie had noticed too, kicking Jimmy under the table with an inquisitive tilt of her head. “You alright?”

There was something nervous in his expression, his jaw tight and brows drawn, and it set Mumbo’s heart racing as the younger man turned to look at him, stopping him in his tracks as he made his way to the table.

“Mumbo?” Jimmy’s tone was even, normal, but his words sounded hesitant nonetheless. “Where are all your photos? And the posters?”

“Oh.” Mumbo replied unintelligently, caught off guard by the sudden mention of the changes in his decor. His heart twinged as he considered the words, the thought of Grian creeping into his mind as he mulled over the question.

“Uhm-” he stumbled over his reply, gaze falling to the slowly cooling teacup between his palms. Steam rose from the cup steadily, dazedly, the liquid lying flat and undisturbed.

“We… had a fight,” he managed, pausing to take a steady breath. “A bad one.”

Even despite the weight that the words felt like they should carry, even despite the strike of lightning that he felt they were, the liquid in his cup remained calm. Staring at it, cradled carefully between his own two hands, felt a little bit like courage.

“Grian’s been- struggling, to put it lightly. I’ve been really worrying about him, he just won’t talk to me,” he shrugged. “Or, well- anyone, really.”

“Oh,” Lizzie said quietly, clearly processing the words. There was something compassionate in her tone, as if she truly understood. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s- uh- he’s been hurting me in the process of… whatever’s been going on. More than I think that he realised.” He sighed. The tea in his cup remained peaceful. Composed. “And everything just… blew up, a few weeks ago.”

Now that he had started, talking about it seemed almost… easy. Easier than Mumbo had thought it could ever be, even if figuring out the right words to say took a few moments longer than normal. His chest ached, and his leg bounced under the table, but he thought that it was more to do with missing his best friend than anything else. He just wanted to see him again, he just wanted Grian to make things right.

“Keeping all of the photos up felt… wrong, after everything. I was upset, and they just— seeing them wasn’t helping. So I took everything down.” He lifted the teacup to his lips, taking a long sip and basking in the flavour. “Everything is just, uh- they’re just in the attic, though.”

“Oh, Mumbo…” Jimmy seemed almost teary as he said it, a sort of misty sympathy clear in his eyes as a shaking finger traced the rim of his own mug. The action felt patient, encouraging, like the younger was pushing him along, urging him to keep going.

Mumbo knew that there would be no consequences if he stopped here, but he found that he didn’t want to. He wanted to tell them about this. Even though it made him miss his best friend, even if it made something akin to grief echo with every beat of his heart – he wanted to talk about it.

“I spoke to someone about it last night. A- uh, a friend,” he continued, breaking the uncomplaining quiet that had fallen between them. “They helped me realise how unhappy I was with him, so I’m- I’m trying to be better.” The thought of the stranger, of their guiding words, brought a smile to his lips.

He had to clear his throat before he spoke again, a little choked up and certain that his words would break if he didn’t. “I’m trying to help myself.”

Lizzie looked proudly at him, her gaze soft and youthful. “I’m- I’m glad that they were there for you,” she stammered, biting her lip for a second before continuing, “We are too, you know that, right?”

“Yeah!” Jimmy nodded enthusiastically next to her, lifting his cup from the table with such force that the tea splashed around the rim, though didn’t spill past the lip. “We’re here for you, for anything at all, dude.”

Their care was so obvious that it brought a smile to his face. Mumbo was glad they were being so patient, that they were taking the time to listen to him. Everything about the day felt… healing, almost. Cleaning his apartment, seeing his siblings again, reaching out to the people who cared about him – it felt like the pieces were finally beginning to fall back into place. Like things might turn out okay, with the help of the people that he cared about.

The thought made his heart ache a little, an unwanted reminder that they weren’t all here. That Grian might not ever want to speak to him again. The smile falls from his lips, something melancholy and distant taking its place.

Even like this, he felt lonely. Even now, he craved the man that had hurt him so much.

“I miss him,” Mumbo admitted, without really thinking about it. “I miss him so, so much… is that stupid?”

“No,” Lizzie was quick to reply, certainty in her unwavering voice. “I’d be more worried if you didn’t, honestly.”

A heartbroken chuckle escaped him, something small and heavy. “I-I think I’d forgive him, y’know? If- if he apologised.” Mumbo avoided her eyes, staring at the spot he was used to Grian occupying as he took a sip of his tea. It felt as though it had grown a little cold. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been sat there. “I just want to talk to him again.”

There was a knowing, understanding look in Lizzie’s eyes as she nodded. “He’s your best friend, Mumbo. Even now.”

Jimmy reached across the table, placing his hand atop Mumbo’s own, pulling it away from where it was wrapped around his teacup. “You’ll figure it out, I know it,” he reassured. “He’ll apologise because - even though Grian is an ass sometimes - he cares about you, Mumbo. More than he’d ever admit.”

Mumbo huffed a laugh, slightly teary eyed at the words, at the comfort. It felt good knowing that they were both in his corner, that they were standing by his side. It was just… it was good to see them.

A deadpan voice cut in, “And if he ever hurts you again, just know that I’ll have his head.”

“Lizzie!”

Yeah, it was good.

#grian #mumbo jumbo #grumbo #ariana griande #tmtwf #take my tea with formaldehyde (grumbo fic)#hermitblr

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logosbot-tm-fics · 1 year

Text

Think this is the quickest update ever on this fic-

I-

Welp...enjoy!

Take My Tea With Formaldehyde

[Start] [<Previous] [Next>]

Chapter 13: Let Me Be The Void

(More beneath the cut)

Eventually, Iskall announced that they had to leave. It was slowly getting dark outside, they said, it’d be better to head home whilst there was still some light out.

If Mumbo was a little more honest with himself, if he was just a little braver, then perhaps he would've asked them to stay. Their presence had been very comforting, something to grasp onto and hold tight… he was scared that he'd dig himself into a hole if he was left alone. It felt like a risk, one that just wasn’t worth taking.

So he didn’t say anything, he didn’t do anything to stop them.

Instead, Mumbo just nodded in response and helped them clear the table. It was silent as the two of them did the dishes, passing plates and cutlery between themselves without a word.

It went fairly quickly, and soon enough Iskall stood in the entrance with their coat on. They hugged, said their goodnights, and just as Iskall was about to step through the door, they gasped. They turned around quickly to face Mumbo, a slightly awkward expression on their face.

"I forgot, but I've had these in my pocket for a little while..." They said, rummaging around in their coat for a moment before fishing some keys out of their pocket.

Mumbo recognised the keys instantly.

They were… they were the spare set that Mumbo had given Grian almost a year ago, now. He put out his hand slowly, letting Iskall pass them over without a word. Mumbo cradled the keys gently, as if they were something precious or delicate, and Iskall graciously didn’t say a word about the strangled expression he was sure had made its way onto his face.

The keys were heavily decorated, a handful of accessories and keyrings splayed out across the palm of his hand as he looked them over.

It was the small, pink, metal locket that caught Mumbo’s eyes first, glinting in the low, artificial light of the hallway. Gently, with shaky fingers, Mumbo slid his thumb nail into the clasp, clicking it open to reveal a photo of him and Grian stood side by side. Grian had his arm slung over Mumbo’s shoulder, and they looked to be in their late teens – it was familiar, and Mumbo knew that he had seen it recently. In fact, didn’t he have this exact same photo?

His mind went back to the box in his attic for a moment, the one that he knew he would be able to see the instant that he entered the room, the one that he knew contained—

He closed the locket quickly, trying to suppress the flinch that ran through him at the clicking noise it made as the clasp settled back into place. He could hear Iskall shuffle forward an inch at his movement, and for a moment the silence was heavier than it had been before.

Mumbo refocused back on the keys in his hand, raising his other to card through the various keychains as he tried to ignore Iskall’s slight, worried sigh.

The next his eyes caught on was a ‘G’, cheap looking and studded with fake rhinestones. Mumbo huffed a short laugh at the sight – it looked like the sort of thing that Grian would call tacky and proceed to treasure for the rest of his life. Mumbo wondered when he had gotten it, if it had been a gift, what had made him like it so much.

He moved on.

A fake feather hung from the keys next, it seemed to be made of silicone, something flexible and textured. It was coloured in the same way that a tropical parrot’s might be, a pattern of red, blue and yellow printed on it.

Next to it, hung a small metal microphone. Another keyring that he was sure he had never seen before.

Distantly, Mumbo wondered why he had never seen any of these things before. Why he was only seeing them now, after everything was said and done.

Really, the only reason he even recognised the key as his own was because of the leather tag mixed in with all the rest, labelled "spare key". He had put on it years ago, just so he wouldn't mix it up with his own.

He stared down at it for another long moment before Iskall finally cleared their throat, breaking the silence.

"He asked me to give it to you," Iskall said slowly, as if testing the waters, measuring how Mumbo would react. "I've had it for a little while."

Mumbo only nodded, unsure of what to feel. Everything was just… weird.

Though, he supposed that did explain why Iskall had suddenly gained the ability to enter Mumbo's apartment, which he perhaps should've noticed earlier.

"Thanks," Mumbo said eventually, the words slow and measured as he put the keychain into his own pocket. He gave Iskall a slightly strained smile. "I’ll… see you soon?" He asked.

It felt like his tongue was too big, like every word was lolling and uncontrolled. Weird.

"Yeah, you can’t get rid of me that easily,” they smiled back, something melancholy and small. "Bye, Mumbo."

They waved slightly, awkwardly, and then turned to walk away down the corridor.

"Bye," Mumbo heard himself say, shutting the door with a gentle grasp.

Mumbo walked into his living room distantly, flopping down on the grey couch.

The keychain felt heavy in his pocket, something stark and unquestionable, and he couldn't stand the idea of having it on him for any longer.

So he pulled it out, somewhat surprised that it wasn’t molten to the touch, studying it again.

It felt weirdly personal as he turned it over carefully in his palms. Like he was holding a piece of Grian's personality in his hands, a piece of his history. Like if he looked at it properly, if he looked at it closely enough, Mumbo would somehow understand him better.

He didn't know what to look for, he didn’t know how to distinguish between what was important and what was just decoration.

So instead, he focused his attention on questioning why it had been given to him. Why did he have it? Why exactly did Grian decide to give it back? At what point had he decided he should give it back?

After all, Iskall said that they had had it for a while.

Had Grian given it back because he had felt bad about being able to walk into the apartment at random? Did he feel as if he shouldn't have it anymore because it gave him direct access to Mumbo? Or did he give it back as a way to show that their friendship was over?

Mumbo hoped that it was one of the former. God, he hoped that it was the former.

The idea that Grian handed it over to Iskall – not even bothering to give it to Mumbo himself – as a way to tell him their friendship was over for good… well. Mumbo sincerely hoped that wasn’t the case. It would make everything feel like an absolute waste of time.

For a second, Mumbo thought about putting the keys into the box in the attic; hiding them away with the rest of the Grian-related stuff, but...

For some reason he didn't want to.

It felt wrong. So wrong that he was sure he would start crying if he even tried.

He sighed wearily, pulling himself up from the couch to pace around the living room. He needed to move, to keep himself busy, because… he really didn’t know what to do with the keychain. It didn't feel right to keep using it as spare keys.

So instead, he just put the keys on the top of a small table standing in his hall. Coincidentally, in the same spot where a photo of them used to be. Where a photo of them had been for years.

Ever since Mumbo had moved in.

He shook his head wildly, as if it would clear it of all the pressing questions.

He needed a distraction, he needed answers, he needed–

He needed some tea.

Getting tea wasn’t as automatic as it used to be, anymore.

Once, Mumbo had been able to carry out the whole process mindlessly, without a single mistake or stutter. Once, he had been able to make tea as easily as breathing, preparing multiple different blends at once for his friends waiting in the other room.

Now, his movements were shaky as he poured the boiling water into the dark blue, ceramic teapot. Now, he didn’t really like the feeling of being in the kitchen alone. Now, he tried his best to avoid it, to avoid the things that he had steadily begun to associate with it.

But–

He wanted tea.

Tea felt comforting, familiar, it was something stable and unchanging and he knew that he needed it. He knew that he needed something like that, something kind and routine. He knew that he had been missing it lately, especially since he had tried to hide away everything else in his apartment that truly provided him with joy, with contentment.

Tea felt comforting, even if the teapot was making him think of a birthday, many years ago now, when Gri–

He shook his head. No point in thinking of other things. Focus.

Set the timer.

Take out a mug.

Grian had given him the teapot, once upon a time. It felt like a faraway memory now, like something from a time long past, but really Mumbo had only been living in the flat for a few months by that point. He hadn’t had the time to go and buy one, so Grian showed up on his doorstep with a gorgeous, delicate teapot.

Mumbo remembered what he had said in that moment. He remembered the exact lilting of his tone, the different inflections and emphasis.

“Honestly,” he had said, “It’s frustrating me that you don’t have one, and I don’t even live here.” He had paused to laugh, fondness seeping into his words as he continued, “So I bought one.”

Mumbo shook his head again, blinking frantically as he tried to clear his mind. He didn’t want to be thinking about him, he didn’t. He didn’t.

Maybe it was the fact that he was making tea, maybe it was the fact that he was using that teapot, or maybe it was because he was all alone in the kitchen, but–-

He couldn't stop the sudden, urgent thought.

"I miss him,” Mumbo whispered to himself numbly. “I miss him so, so much."

The admittance felt like a lightning strike, like an unpredictable yet inevitable discovery. Everything just felt wrong without him, everything felt numb. He hurt, he hurt every moment that they existed like this, in their weird state of in-between. Of always going, of never arriving.

He had just wanted to be there for his friend, but apparently he couldn’t even do that right.

Mumbo felt his heart twist in his chest, wrapping around his lungs and coiling around his throat. He brought his hands up to his face to try and stop his tears from falling, wiping them from his cheeks as he shook.

He couldn’t stop them, he couldn’t stop any of them.

Everything just kept falling.

He sunk to the cold floor, his knees turned weak and shaky as he broke down. There were no sounds accompanying his wheezing breaths, his tears were silent as they streaked down his cheeks. Calm.

Like rain falling over a tranquil ocean. Like the first freezing step into all-embracing, numb waters.

Before long, the timer rang.

The tea was done.

It almost started to get better. Almost.

Mumbo managed to get himself out of bed, to pull together some food in the kitchen, to tug on some clothes that weren’t the same ones as the day before. Honestly, if he had to decide, he'd have much rather spent time sleeping, but… he had to get out of bed. He had to do something.

He couldn’t bring himself to drink tea in the kitchen. Not after everything that had happened in there, not after he had broken down making tea… not after the argument. He only really felt somewhat comfortable there if Iskall was with him, keeping him distracted and present, but even then it was still sometimes too much.

He did some of the work that had been building up from home, but he couldn’t get himself to return to work fully just yet. He felt like there was a dark cloud hanging above his head, like everything was just too much all of the time.

Eventually, it finally got too claustrophobic in his small flat, too enclosed and crushing. He needed to get out, to get some air. Something, anything but being in there for a single moment more.

When he finally got out of the house – dragging himself up and out had been challenging, even though he wanted to – it was already dark out. It was snowing, gentle flakes falling slowly to the ground. He slowly reached up, stretching out his stiff fingers and watching as the snowflakes fell into the palm of his hand.

They melted slowly, cold water puddling in his hand, sending a chill that cut right through him.

It felt surreal.

Everything did, like the world was nothing but a weird dream.

The yellow light from the streetlamps; the distant haziness of his thoughts; the silence of the sprawling city; the fresh, untouched snow; the emptiness of each street…

He walked slowly through the city, his gaze sweeping blankly back and forth over the desolate world. It was never this calm, this silent. He studied the buildings around him as intently as he could manage, taking in the repetitive decorations, the opaque black windows.

He ended up on a bridge, staring out over the inky black water.

Everything felt off, as if he wasn’t really in control of himself, as if he was nothing more than an emotionless puppet. His feet just walked, chose a direction and took him to some destination that he couldn’t pinpoint. He felt uninvolved in the process, as though everything that his body was doing wasn’t associated with his mind. As though he had no stake in whatever was going on.

The water rushing below him looked deep, the lights around him reflecting in it.

He stood there for a long while, snowflakes falling gently into his hair. It was peaceful, almost serene, but Mumbo’s mind remained full. Every thought was so overwhelming, screaming at him and shattering any semblance of calm he was trying to grasp onto. He felt like running away, like yelling into the inky night, but he couldn’t get himself to move.

Instead, he closed his eyes, and just… breathed. Slowly inhaling the cold air, letting it fill his lungs with a pleasant icy chill. He leant heavily against the railing, his hands clasped together tightly.

Everything was so incredibly lonely. He felt like the only person in the world, standing there on that bridge and praying for something to give.

It was odd, really. It’s not like he didn’t have plenty of people in his life, after all. He had his siblings, his friends, Iskall and–

He shook his head violently, ignoring the twinge of pain that it sent running up his neck.

He didn’t really have him anymore.

Even without the people that he knew, without the people that he was familiar and comfortable with- he lived in a city filled to the brim with individuals with lives and jobs and loved ones.

But, then again, Mumbo had heard people say that you would always feel lonely in a city.

It’s inherent, somewhat. There were people around you all the time, but they existed solely in the background of your life, just as you existed in the background of theirs. Everyone was a blank face, a nameless story. They were all just strangers passing each other on the street or standing next to each other on the subway.

There was no care. No community. No love to give or receive.

Most people were just forgettable background noise, nameless individuals that you would never have a reason to talk to. That you would never see again.

The city was too big for something like that.

Far too big.

Distantly, Mumbo wondered if you would ever even realise if you did see them again.

Such a weird, lonely world.

"Excuse me?" A voice suddenly sounded to Mumbo’s right, and he jerked back from the rail in surprise. He hadn’t noticed anyone approaching, hadn’t heard their footsteps or noticed their shadow, and Mumbo couldn’t deny just how much it had caught him off-guard. He turned his head to look at them after a moment, one hand on his chest as he tried to breathe slowly to calm his racing heart.

The stranger’s hair was just as white as the snow, shining brightly under the yellow light of the streetlamp. A mask covered the lower half of their face, and they wore a thick green winter jacket with a collar of thick white fur that only accentuated the mask’s presence. Somehow, despite being unable to make out most of their features, they managed to look apologetic for scaring Mumbo.

"Uh– I'm sorry for bothering you,” they began, awkwardly. “But I seem to have lost my lighter. Do you happen to have one?"

They held up an unlit cigarette, as if to explain why they asked.

Mumbo never had a lighter on him, he had no reason to, but his hands went to his pockets anyway. He was just about to shake his head, to say no and send the stranger on their way, when he noticed that there was an unfamiliar shape in his pocket.

To his surprise, further investigation revealed that it actually was a lighter. How… strange. Coincidental.

He pulled it slowly out of his pocket and studied it for a second, confused as to how it had ended up there. It looked fairly old, a weird, metallic silver with a faded and chipped green pattern soldered to the case. It looked used; well-loved.

Despite this, Mumbo had never seen the lighter before.

"Oh, uhm– yeah, I have a lighter," Mumbo replied, handing the lighter to the stranger with a strained smile.

Something in the stranger’s eyes lit up at the sight of it, however. As if they recognised it. As if they recognised it very, very, well.

Mumbo had never met this stranger before, he was certain of it. He would remember meeting a person with white hair who dressed as they did. He didn’t even know how the lighter had gotten into his pocket, so… how could the stranger recognise it?

Despite the questioning look that Mumbo shot them, they did not say a word about it.

"Thanks," the stranger said instead, as they took it from him. They smiled at him brightly, or… at least, Mumbo assumed they did. He could only see the creasing of their eyes and the shifting of their mask, but it seemed like a good enough indicator.

Instead of lighting their cigarette, the stranger flipped the lid open and closed for a few long seconds as they stared at Mumbo.

"Are you okay?" They asked after a moment.

"...Why- why are you asking?" Mumbo replied, slightly sceptical.

The stranger just shrugged. "You're dressed far too lightly for this weather, and you've been standing on this bridge for a while," they replied. "Thought you might need a friend."

"I…"

Mumbo hadn't even realised that he hadn't put on a coat, that he just walked out into the city without getting properly dressed. He didn't feel cold.

"Are you okay?" The stranger asked again, their tone concerned.

Mumbo felt reluctant at first, but then he sighed, relenting. He smiled sadly at the stranger before him, shaking his head.

"No,” he answered honestly. "I'm not. Everything has just been- it’s been a lot lately." He shrugged, as though the conversation was casual.

"I'm sorry to hear that…” The stranger sounded remorseful, slipping the cigarette back into its pack. They never lit it. "Do you want to talk about it, or…?"

Mumbo noted the strangeness of it, but he didn’t say anything. He just watched as the stranger put the pack of cigarettes into their pocket, playing with the lighter between their fingers.

Did he want to talk about it? He didn't know this person. He didn’t know them at all, and yet…

He didn't want to bother them though, but they did ask…maybe–

"It's okay,” Mumbo replied, looking back out over the water. “It's kinda… normal for me now."

The stranger was silent for a second, either waiting for Mumbo to continue or maybe they were just thinking about something. They slipped the pack of cigarettes back into their pocket, handing the lighter back to Mumbo.

Mumbo looked at it with a bit of confusion, taking the lighter from them hesitantly. "Weren't you going to smoke?" He asked.

The stranger leaned against the railing as well, facing away from the water and propping themself up on their elbows. "Mhm. Didn't seem like the right time."

That was– well. Honestly, Mumbo thought that it was nice of them to not smoke. He wasn’t sure he would've enjoyed it all that much.

"Even if it's normal for you now, it doesn’t seem like you’re having a very good time of it,” the stranger prompted him to go back to the previous topic. They shrugged, “I might be wrong, though."

"No, you’re– I mean… yeah. Yeah," Mumbo exhaled, feeling his shoulders fall. He hadn't realised how tense he had been. "You're not wrong,” he admitted. “It is hurting me."

The stranger waited patiently for Mumbo to continue.

"I– uh– I have this friend, and we've known each other for a very long time," Mumbo said, watching as the stranger nodded in reply. “My brother introduced us when we were teens, and since then we’ve been close. Really close. Uh– best friends, really.”

It felt like such a long time ago. Telling this story now, it was almost bittersweet.

“For a really long time,” Mumbo continued, “It… it felt like he was the only person who truly knew me, and that I was the only one who truly knew him.” He sighed, something heavy and exhausted. “And then– something happened, I suppose. About a year ago now. I, uh– I don’t really know what, or why, but he… changed.”

He brought one shaky hand up to his face, dragging it down his face and basking in the coldness of the touch. He was so tired, so drained.

He took a deep breath, focusing on the cold in his lungs before speaking again.

“I’ve tried my best to support him, I really have, but– he just… he started to destroy himself, completely, and I just wanted to talk about it, and… he- he didn’t.”

It felt as though he was scratching at fresh wounds, picking at raw skin. Every word burned like a forest fire, untamed and wild.

“I don't understand why he's so distant, why he's so set on destroying himself– why he doesn't just talk."

He felt as though he couldn’t stop now that he’d finally been prompted to just… let everything out. It was like a waterfall pouring from his mouth, like someone had opened the floodgates to let all of his frustrations surge out.

"It hurts.” His voice broke pathetically at the end of the word, but Mumbo ignored it. He couldn’t stop. “It- it hurts so much, and now– I think I've fucked everything up. I cornered him about it, tried to push him and all it did was cause a big argument."

Part of Mumbo wondered what made him trust this stranger, what made him feel as if he could just spill to him all of this private, personal information.

The other, louder part of Mumbo reminded him not to look the gift horse in the mouth. He needed this, even if it wasn’t necessarily right.

"We’ve- obviously we’ve bickered before, but never anything like this. Never.” Talking about it made it feel like Mumbo was breathing air for the first time in ages, like he'd been drowning and he just got pulled out of the water. “It went– badly, to say the least… I ended up kicking him out. I wouldn't be surprised if he hates me now."

When Mumbo looked over at the stranger, he was almost surprised to find that they were still there, still listening.

Their expression was contemplative as they pushed themself forward from the railing, starting to walk away. Mumbo felt his heart sink for a moment, before they looked over their shoulder and beckoned him to follow.

"I don't think he hates you," The stranger said earnestly, as soon as Mumbo caught up with them.

Mumbo’s pace stuttered, and he stumbled forward in a way that he would usually have been embarrassed by. Now, he was reeling far too desperately to be concerned with something like that, clinging onto the words of the person beside him. "What? But–"

"I don't think he hates you," the stranger said again, shrugging. "To me, it just sounds like he's got a lot of issues, and he’s taking that frustration at himself on you. Which, y’know, is incredibly unfair of him.” Their brows furrowed, their jaw set certainly. “He shouldn't be doing that."

"But– but I threw him out! I yelled at him! I-I–"

The stranger interrupted him easily. "You were well within your rights, doing that,” they said, as though they were trying to remind him of the fact. “You got fed up, and – well, I can't say that I know what happened during that argument – but I'm honestly not surprised.”

They paused in their pace for just a moment, the stranger turning to him and setting their hands on his shoulders, staring into his eyes. “Every person has a limit and he pushed you to yours. That’s human. Nothing more, nothing less."

They let go of him after a second, raising an eyebrow as if daring Mumbo to argue with them. When he didn’t, they spun on their heel and began to walk again, and left Mumbo jogging for a few paces to catch up.

"Besides,” they continued, casually, “What he's doing is hurting you, you said it yourself."

Mumbo was silent for a second as he walked next to the stranger.

"I don't know what to do," he admitted, his voice small. "I really don't. I can tell that he needs help, and we need to figure things out, but I-I just don’t know how."

"Maybe you shouldn't do anything," they responded, their tone flippant but serious. "You can't help him if he doesn't want you to. He won't let you."

There was another pause, before Mumbo whispered, desperately, "That terrifies me. It feels like I'm losing him."

The stranger looked at Mumbo, slowing their pace until the two of them were stopping again.

“Maybe you are,” they shrugged, “But you can't control that. Maybe something might change in the future, but… right now, you need to let go. You need to focus on yourself."

They sighed, running a gloved hand through their frost-covered hair. "You're so focused on him– on how he's feeling, what he's doing, what he needs, and you’re just… you’re forgetting that you need to take care of yourself, too."

Subconsciously, Mumbo had known that, but… hearing someone say it? Hearing someone with no loyalty to neither him nor Grian telling him that he needed to move on?

That was different.

It felt like being punched. Like waking up after being in deep sleep. Like a weight lifted off his shoulders.

"So,” the stranger prompted, “What do you want? What do you need?"

"I–"

What did he want?

"I want..." Mumbo paused, thinking about it for a second.

"I want to be okay,” Mumbo said, looking down at his hands. “I want to feel better, healthier. I don't want to worry anymore… I want to be happy."

The stranger smiled – or, Mumbo guessed that's what they did – and the expression felt proud.

"Then focus on that, focus on making yourself happier, and don't be afraid to ask for help,” they adjusted their mask, pulling it just a little further up the bridge of their nose. “I'm sure you have people that care about you, people who would help you if you asked. So… do what he doesn't, and ask for help. Get a therapist. Try.” Their gaze was steady, confident. “It will get better, even if it's difficult for now."

And somehow, that was exactly what Mumbo needed to hear. He smiled widely, not quite happy, more relieved.

"I'll try," he said.

The stranger’s eyes creased as their grin grew.

"Promise?" They asked.

"I promise," Mumbo said. "I promise I'll try."

The stranger nodded.

"Good," they replied, and the two kept walking.

Maybe Mumbo didn't need to feel so alone in this weird, lonely world.

#grian #mumbo jumbo #grumbo #hermitblr #hermitshipping #ariana griande #tmtwf #take my tea with formaldehyde (grumbo fic)#hermitcraft

23 notes · View notes

logosbot-tm-fics · 1 year

Text

CW!!! Implied suicidal thoughts!!!

Sorry for the wait lmao, hit a block and had to take a break, anyway!

Take My Tea With Formaldehyde

[Start] [<Previous] [Next>]

Chapter 12: While I Whittle My Bones

(More beneath cut)

Mumbo felt like tearing down the posters from the wall.

He stood in his bedroom, tears finally drying enough to be nothing more than discoloured tracks down his cheeks, and he was staring up at the posters on the walls. Ariana’s bright smile, her comforting eyes, everything that had been so sweet, so secure just a few hours before… it felt like they were taunting him. Mumbo wanted to scream, he wanted to sob and rage and rip them from the walls, careless of their condition, of the way that they would surely tear and crease.

He wanted to. God, he really, really wanted to.

It was so tempting just to throw out all of the CDs piled on top of his drawers, the merch stacked in his closet, the DVDs balanced in the corner. He wanted to toss them out of his bedroom window, he wanted to break them, to stomp them into the ground.

He needed them gone, all of them. He couldn't stand to look at them anymore. They felt mocking, like they were the reason why the argument even happened, as if–

He didn’t throw them out.

He couldn't bring himself to destroy anything, no matter how angry the mere sight of it made him. He tried, he stood paralysed in his room for hours at a time, staring at the posters on the walls, the discs on the shelves. He watched as the light of the room changed, as late afternoon turned to dusk, as everything was bathed in shadow.

He couldn’t even make himself reach up and touch them for a long while. Like he was scared they would fade away, like he was scared something would go wrong.

Instead, after taking the time to work up the nerve, Mumbo took down the posters gently. He rolled them up carefully, slipping them into cardboard tubes and tucking them safely into a box. He was methodical in his movements, slow and measured and cautious. He handled them like they were fragile, like they were poisonous, like they were one wrong move away from pouncing on him.

The box was the same one that he had used when he moved everything into there in the first place.

He hadn’t even had time to put it away, before it was being used again for the exact same thing.

The room looked empty when he was done. The walls were bare, the surfaces lifeless. In the short amount of time the posters had been there, he had become so used to them. Eyes roving across the emptiness, Mumbo felt the upset crashing down on him once again.

It felt fitting.

With a shaky sigh, he hefted the box into his arms, moving to put it into the attic. He stopped after only a few steps, his eyes caught on the photo standing innocently on his bureau.

The image was unsuspecting, something unprofessional and blurry, ever so slightly out of focus. The frame was old and cracked, the cheap gold inlay beginning to rub away and the wood surrounding it bleached from the sun.

He was a lot younger in that picture. Freer.

It showed him – acne ridden and awkward, with only the barest hint of facial hair – and… and his best friend, at the time. Gr– his friend had his arm slung casually around Mumbo's neck as they beamed happily at the camera. Mumbo must've been about…18, at the time? The other man in the photo would have been 19, that meant.

They hadn’t known each other for long at the time, yet they still managed to act as though they'd been friends for their entire lives. They were familiar, perfect. Honestly, Mumbo can’t remember who started their friendship, but if he were to really consider it… it was probably the other. He had probably been the one to spark it, to befriend Mumbo. He had always been the more extroverted of the two.

Mumbo’s eyes began to burn as he stared at it, unblinkingly.

They were so young. So happy. What happened? When– when had that changed?

He shook his head, trying his best not to dwell on it, and, with a sigh, Mumbo stepped forward and placed it into the box robotically.

Another picture caught his eye soon after. And then another, and another. There were photos taken by Mumbo and some taken by him – images of Mumbo, drenched after a successful prank; of the other, asleep in the grass after a picnic. They surrounded the room, littering the drawers and walls, interspersed with images of other friends, of other loved ones.

Distantly, Mumbo wonders if he can even think of him like that anymore.

The pictures had become almost invasive now that he considered it. It felt like an intrusion, seeing all of the memories that were once happy, that had filled him with enough joy for him to prop them up around his house and pile them in his drawers.

There were a lot of photos of the two of them from when they were younger, more than Mumbo had ever really noticed despite the fact that he had put them into their picture frames. They both looked so present, not yet tired and weary from the stress of work or adult life. They were so involved with one another, their lives well and truly intertwined in a way that Mumbo hadn’t even noticed had been slipping away. It must have been years since they knew each other like they did back then.

Walking from his bedroom, Mumbo’s eyes caught on the photo frames hanging on the wall. Huh, he had… never really realised quite how many there were. He looked over them all slowly, gaze flicking from a picture of his parents, to his childhood dog, to Iskall, and then Gr– him.

It was a more recent photo this time, showing the pair of them on the beach, sitting together in the sand. Mumbo remembered that day, filled with relaxed banter and casual conversations, their feet in the sand and the wind in their hair. It felt tainted. He reached up and pulled the frame from the wall, sliding it into the box in his arms.

Moving towards the living room, he walked straight towards the polaroids hanging on a wall, pinned up in a way that he had once been so proud of. Some of the polaroids included other friends, but most were just the two of them. He'd never realised just how many they had taken together, even despite the fact that he had been present for every single one.

It took a while, much longer than he would want to admit, but eventually every single photo ever taken of the two of them, of him, ended up in the box. Mumbo was thorough, checking every room for painful reminders of the other. The pile he ended up with was almost overwhelming.

He didn’t want to see them, he wasn’t sure whether he would want to see them ever again. They made him feel so hurt, so angry. He double checked that every photo was in the box almost manically, looking at each of them over and over again.

When he was sure that they were all gone, he taped the box shut and brought it up to the attic. He shimmied it back as far into the small space as possible, pushing it past dust and cobwebs, leaving it behind boxes filled with holiday ornaments and old school awards.

He stepped away from it slowly, trying to ignore the way that the box peeked past all of his barricades. The way that he could still make it out, even as he began to climb down from the attic.

He didn't want to see the box. He didn't want to think about it.

He felt nauseous as he left, each step trembling and hesitant, as if there was something magnetising him towards all of the memories, as if it wasn’t truly put away, even though it was out of reach.

He didn’t know how better to hide it.

He didn’t know if he wanted to.

Mumbo was starting to think that he wasn't capable of feeling anything, anymore.

He was numb, he couldn’t really bring himself to care for anything at all. It was as if his heart had turned into a void, he felt devoid of emotions, something distant and encompassing buzzing through him, weighing him down. It was as if all of the care that he had once had, all of the time that he had once put into everything, had finally become too much. Like his mind now finally had had enough, too exhausted and overwhelmed to continue, and was instead sparing him from feeling, because it knew it would only hurt.

He just felt tired. As if the pull of gravity was too strong for him to fight.

That was probably why he just spent most of his days laying on the couch, staring into nothing. He felt heavy, really, really heavy, but at the same time he felt weightless as if his head was constantly sleeping and he wasn’t touching the ground and everything was static and–

He felt as if he was floating in something heavier than water, something more viscous and violent, just waiting to drown.

In all honesty he didn’t want to be awake, he just wanted to sleep, to slip into that inevitable bliss of not having to think, to feel. That’s all he wanted, sleep until he had the energy to be awake, to sleep until everything stopped being.

He had lost track of how many times he had called to work and said that he was sick. They believed him every time that he did, his reputation of rarely, if ever, being away from work helping him in a way he knew he should feel grateful for. He couldn’t stay away forever though, despite how much he wanted to do nothing but rest. Whenever he went to work, he ended up half asleep, exhausted from being around people and carrying out all of the necessary tasks, but as soon as he came home to rest, he just couldn’t.

His mind was far, far too loud. Yelling things he didn’t want to hear.

Logically, Mumbo knew that he wasn’t at fault. Logically, he knew that he hadn’t done anything wrong. He knew had just been trying to help. He knew that he hadn’t deserved anything of what the other had said to him.

Logically, Mumbo knew all of that.

However, his brain didn’t seem particularly concerned with the logistics of the matter at the moment. It hardly mattered just how certain he was of what he knew and what he didn’t, not when his mind was constantly reminding him of his shortcomings, screaming words and insults that hurt.

It didn’t matter how logical he wanted to be, when he found himself absentmindedly agreeing with those thoughts. The facts weren’t important, not when he conceded himself to the screaming that rang in his ears.

He felt strangely apathetic, almost detached from the insults, from his body, despite how much it all hurt.

It didn’t matter what Mumbo knew, what he was certain of, what was logical. Not when it all hurt so much.

Mumbo had called in sick to work once again, the day that Iskall came over.

He hadn't been expecting any company, and Iskall hadn't told him that they were going to show up. They just did.

When Mumbo heard the front door open, he first thought it was… him. Hell, he found himself kinda hoping that it was. Some small part of Mumbo wanted it to be him, desperately hoped that it would be him, appearing to try and fix things, to salvage them before they were too far gone. Mumbo wanted him to be there, if for nothing else than to prove that they weren’t done with each other. Even if it was bad, even if they did nothing but hurt each other again, it still meant that there was a chance.

God, he wanted there to be a chance, even despite it all.

But, realistically, Mumbo knew better than that.

He knew that it wasn't him, that it wouldn't be him for a long, long time. That maybe… maybe they’d never see each other again. Maybe everything was just too much, maybe something had broken between them that couldn’t ever be fixed.

He thought back to the photographs, to the countless polaroids and pictures scattered around his apartment, to the innocent happiness that their friendship once had. Mumbo wasn’t sure that they could ever be like that again.

But… he can’t help but entertain the idea. What if he walked in right now? What if it really was him at the door? What could they possibly say to each other?

The sound of Iskall hanging up their coat and taking off their shoes was familiar, it felt a little more like routine than Mumbo had experienced in days. He listened carefully as Iskall began to walk towards the bedroom door, the heavy, habitual pattern to their steps a clear indicator of their presence. Their footfalls always had been louder than… his.

If Mumbo felt more like himself, he might've wondered how Iskall got inside. Maybe, if he had more of his wits about him, he would have remembered that they didn't have their own key.

Instead, Mumbo didn't wonder. He didn’t think about anything more than the noise of Iskall’s movements. He didn’t try to get out of bed. He simply just stared straight forward at the now-blank wall, his eyes burning from his blinkless gaze.

He couldn’t bring himself to move a muscle even when he heard the bedroom door open. Even when he heard Iskall walk over to him, he still didn't move, he didn’t blink. The rise and fall of his chest was shallow, slow, controlled. He wished that the bed would open up into a hungry maw of pure void, that he'd fall into it and disappear.

He didn't want to be there. He didn't want to be anywhere.

He heard Iskall sigh beside him, but they didn't say anything, and Mumbo’s eyes remained glued straight ahead. They just sat down next to him on the bed, and gently brushed Mumbo's hair out of his face, tucking it delicately behind his ear.

"Bad day?" They asked softly.

Mumbo nodded his head, his neck complaining with the sudden unexpected motion, and he sunk further into the bed pathetically. The numbness that had taken over his entire body evaporated instantly, pulled apart and shattered into pieces as a lump grew in his throat, bulbous and heavy. He didn’t want to cry, not in front of Iskall.

"I– I’m sorry, I know you don't want to be checking up on me," Mumbo whispered, his voice tight and strained. He felt guilty that Iskall was taking time out of their hectic schedule to check on him, that the other felt the need to make sure he wasn’t wasting away.

It would have been his own fault if he was, that wasn’t Iskall’s responsibility. The guilt in his lungs threatened to swallow him whole. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying his best not to cry.

Iskall sighed again, seemingly ignorant to, or perhaps strategically ignoring, Mumbo’s internal spiral. They put a hand on Mumbo's blanketed shoulder, squeezing in a way that was comforting.

"Mumbo, I'm here because I want to help you," they said gently. "I know what I said in the past, and that wasn't fair to you. At all. I want to check on you and make sure that you're okay.” They sighed, pausing for a few moments, “And if you're not, then I'd like to help the best that I can, but… I'll only help if you want me to, okay?"

Mumbo thought about it for a second and then nodded. It sounded good, to have someone take care of him. He was so heavy, so overwhelmed, and even though there was guilt at such a suggestion, Mumbo knew that he wouldn’t be able to help himself. Not like this.

"Well, let's get you out of bed then, hm?" Iskall stood up with a dramatic groan, holding out their hands for Mumbo to take.

Mumbo didn't really want to leave his bed, he felt like a stone buried at the bottom of the ocean, unable to be picked up even by the rushing tide, but he knew he had to try. With a deep breath, he raised his own shaking hands to Iskall’s, letting himself be pulled out of bed.

"Well done!" Iskall said, smiling genuinely at Mumbo. "Now, I’m going to get started on some food, so maybe you could go take a shower? It will make you feel a lot better, I promise."

The floorboards beneath his feet were cold, and Mumbo shuffled against them uncomfortably. A warm shower sounded like a very, very good idea.

"Yeah,” he agreed, “Yeah… I– I probably should."

Iskall beamed, running their thumb over the back of his hand. "Great,” they nodded happily, “And then come to the kitchen when you're done, yeah?"

Mumbo just nodded in response. He didn't have the energy to reply.

His room was cold. He felt like he was made from ice.

He didn't cry.

The warm water from his shower ran down his body like rain, the steam rising from his skin and surrounding him with a stifling, suffocating air. He titled his head upwards, so that it would run down his face, and–

Mumbo began to cry. Painfully.

It felt like he'd been stabbed, run over by a train or shot in the chest. Everything hurt. It all hurt so much, it felt like it was killing him.

The argument hurt. Putting everything away hurt. Thinking about him for even a second hurt. It all hurt.

The shower washed away his tears, disguising them in the hot water, dragging them away into the drain. Little by little, he started to feel more like a person, and less like a pathetic grey blob of sadness.

He stood there for a while, basking in the way the water pelted against his back, the way that the steam made it feel like that was the only reason breathing was so hard, and eventually, he felt okayish. Mumbo stayed under the water until he stopped crying, soap and shampoo filling the air with a sweet scent, the conditioner making his hair smoother than it had been in days.

He stepped out of the shower eventually, wrapping a towel around himself. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

He looked… better. His hair wasn't messy anymore, his skin was slightly red from the hot water, and he didn't look as tired. There were no traces of tears left on his face. The dark circles under his eyes were still very much there, standing out starkly on his face as if to mock him. He traced them with his fingers, following their shape over and over like he could wipe them away.

Mumbo looked at himself for a little while, staring into his dull, murky eyes, before he began to pull on some clothes. They felt like soft cotton clouds against his skin, something soft and soothing, and he found himself wanting to go back to bed.

But… Iskall had said that they were going to make food, and even if Mumbo would rather do anything but eat, he still felt obligated to go to the kitchen. They had come out to check on him, after all. Surely he owed them this.

Mumbo dragged his feet as he walked through the flat, his steps slow and sluggish as the cold floors spat ice back into him, crawling up his body to freeze him once again. He was shivering, despite the hoodie that he had pulled on, but somehow zipping it felt like it was too much work.

Vaguely, he noticed the state of the flat. There were clothes on the floor, abandoned cutlery and plates and piles of takeout boxes. He hadn’t noticed how messy it was before. Like he just dropped everything on the floor and couldn’t get himself to pick it up.

The flat was bathed in a grey darkness, the sun strangely low for the time of year, only barely peeking through the windows. Mumbo wondered what time it was. He hadn’t had to think about it in so long.

His lamps had been turned on, two placed on opposite sides of the living room, and he couldn’t help but think that they didn’t light the space up enough. Even with them, everything remained dreary and dim.

And yet, the light in the kitchen felt far too bright, and the room felt claustrophobic despite not being that small. It felt uncomfortable, and suddenly Mumbo wanted to be anywhere but there.

Instead, he pulled out a chair from the table, the chair that was usually his, the one that Mumbo couldn’t remember picking up from the floor. Mumbo could almost see the argument replaying in front of him. Who said what, who did what, who–

He shook his head, instead focusing on Iskall, who was unpacking grocery bags in the kitchen. They must’ve realised he hadn’t bought food for himself in a little while. There was barely anything in the fridge.

They talked about…something, as they unpacked, shuffling naturally around the kitchen. Mumbo couldn’t really hear what they were saying, listening took too much effort, but he appreciated the background noise that it provided. He pulled out his phone from his pocket, absentmindedly scrolling through social media, occasionally giving Iskall a half-hearted hum.

He got stuck on Ariana’s page for a little while, scrolling through the new pictures and teasers that she had posted, before hovering his thumb over the unfollow button. He didn’t want to see posts from her or related to her popping up in his feed, she felt like a reminder, like a bad memory. He hit unfollow before he could talk himself out of it.

Then he got stuck on Gri– on his page, scrolling through years and years worth of photos. Mumbo was in a lot of them, somehow being the focus of a lot of photos despite few of the moments or events actually being about him. His thumb hovered over the unfollow button of that account too, but–

He closed out of the app. Mumbo didn’t want to know what would happen if he were to unfollow him.

Somehow, he ended up reading through their old messages instead. He had changed his name back to just “Grian” a few days ago, having a nickname felt… wrong. He didn’t want to think about–

“What are you doing?” Iskall asked concernedly as they placed a pan on the stove.

Mumbo shrugged. Some part of him didn’t want Iskall to know that he was reading through old conversations, he felt almost… ashamed of it. Like Iskall finding out was akin to a parent seeing you do something you knew you’d get in trouble for.

The meagre response didn’t make them any less worried, but instead of saying something, they simply peered over at his screen to see what he was doing.

“Nope,” they said, pulling the phone out of his weak grip, “That’s not healthy, Mumbo.” They slipped his phone into their jeans pocket, and strolled back over to the stove.

Mumbo wanted to protest, it felt unfair somehow, but he knew that it was probably for the best. Otherwise he would’ve kept digging himself further and further down into a hole. With nothing to do, he tried his best to tune into what they were saying instead.

"So, Ariana has been put on hia–" Iskall began, a topic chosen deliberately, probably aiming to engage Mumbo.

But… no. No, Mumbo didn't want to hear anything about her. Actually, he’d much rather hear about anything but her. Well, maybe except for–

"I'm sorry if this sounds rude, but could we talk about something else?" He interrupted quietly, fiddling with the strings to his hoodie.

Iskall seemed surprised. "But you–" Mumbo could see the realisation slowly setting in, something dawning over their expression as the gears turned in their mind. "Oh, so that's what it was about," they murmured, "That explains–"

Mumbo could hear the end of the sentence, even as Iskall cut themself off.

'That explains the missing posters.'

“Okay, let’s talk about…"

The room went silent as they thought. It wasn't a bad silence, not really, but it still made Mumbo rather uncomfortable. He felt bad about asking them to change the topic. Maybe he could have just sucked it up, maybe he should have just sat through it, maybe–

"As a child, I spent a fair amount of time in Denmark," they began, turning back to making the food. It smelled nice. Buttery, in the same way pancakes smell. "And something I began to wonder – like really really wonder – was why the hell are there so many doves in Denmark?!” They gestured wildly with the spatula in their hand, voice raising slightly, “Like seriously, picture it, you go outside, and there's doves everywhere – I’m not kidding– everywhere. You can't go five metres without a flock of doves follow–"

This seemed to be something they were strangely passionate about, and Mumbo realised that he didn't really mind the rant. It was meant as a distraction, and it was working fairly well.

He listened half heartedly as they ranted about the doves in Denmark, which quickly turned into a rant about how the differences between the Norwegian, Danish and Swedish were fairly big and that "We don't always understand each other, Mumbo!", and then the rant turned into how gorgeous the nature was in Norway, and then further into other topics surrounding the Nordic countries.

Honestly, the random ranting about topics Mumbo couldn't relate to let him relax for a second. They made him more comfortable in his kitchen. They made him think less of him.

Though, when the food was done, Mumbo's stomach churned. Eating dinner in his kitchen felt…wrong, too familiar and it was too close in time, he couldn't eat in there, he wouldn't be able to–

He stared at the bowl of soup Iskall had placed in front of him, before asking quietly, "Could we eat in the living room? This room is…too much."

Iskall tilted their head. "Of course, it's your apartment," they replied gently. "Take your bowl through, and I'll gather the rest."

Mumbo complied, holding the warm bowl in his hands. It warmed him up slightly, his fingers defrosting under his tight grip.

He sat down on the couch as Iskall placed down a tray on the table. It had a pot of tomato soup, something white in a small bowl, Iskall's bowl, and two cups of tea.

"Unfortunately, the soup I wanted to make doesn't exist here, so I just bought tomato soup instead," Iskall shrugged, sitting down in the other corner of the couch.

"What's that?" Mumbo asked, pointing at the small bowl.

"Just mozzarella that I cut up,” Iskall replied casually, "It tastes pretty good in tomato soup."

Mumbo nodded. "Weren't you making pancakes?" He asked, slightly confused. Sure he didn't mind the soup, not at all, but he had seen Iskall make the pancakes.

"It's Thursday, we can't have pancakes without eating soup first," Iskall replied, as if Mumbo's question made him confused.

"...What?"

Iskall was silent for a second. "...Is that– that's a Swedish thing, isn't it?"

Mumbo smiled slightly. "Yeah, um… yeah, that's a Swedish thing."

Iskall shrugged again. "Well, that does explain some things," they said, "Anyway, you wanna watch something?"

Mumbo looked up at the TV, tearing his eyes away from the bowl of soup still warming his hands. "Uh…" Did he want to watch something? And what would he want to watch? Every single idea he came up with felt like it would just make his mood worse, or it would make him think of Him, which he desperately wanted to avoid. "...Chicago?" He said, eventually.

It was really the only movie he could come up with, all of the others being bad options.

Iskall nodded, grabbing the remote from the table, "Chicago it is."

The two ate in silence, the movie playing quietly on the screen in front of them. Honestly, Mumbo had seen it so many times that he couldn't really care less about paying attention, but, as he chewed on the slightly melted mozzarella, he realised that somehow he felt…better.

Not okay by any means, but less like he wanted to crawl up and sink into the ground.

Maybe it was the fact that he actually got some decent food in him; maybe it was the shower. Maybe it was just the fact that Iskall was trying so hard to make Mumbo feel better without pressuring him.

Maybe it was even all three at once.

Maybe.

But… it was only at that moment, that moment where they were together, that he felt better.

Mumbo couldn’t help but wonder, later, when Iskall left, would he still be feeling okay?

Would he?

#grian #mumbo jumbo #grumbo #hermitshipping #ariana griande #tmtwf #take my tea with formaldehyde (grumbo fic)#hermitcraft

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logosbot-tm-fics · 1 year

Text

NEW CHAPTER FOR FORMALDEHYDE BC I DECIDED TO NOT LISTEN TO THE POLL

Enjoy!

Take My Tea With Formaldehyde

[Start] [<Previous] [Next>]

Chapter 8: Am I Pretty Now?

(More beneath the cut)

Mumbo felt rather pleased with himself. He had managed to get his hands on an Ariana Griande concert ticket. It hadn’t been his priority at all but he saw that the tickets had been released so he decided to buy one. He smiled to himself when he noticed that the tickets were sold for a rather affordable price as well, which meant that it didn’t feel like a waste of money. Instead it felt like a treat. Considering the fact that everything felt so confusing and messy lately, he felt like he really needed to give himself something.

The concert was, as always, great. Though it always felt weird that she had gone from a small artist to one of the most popular artists, if not the most popular. A part of him still thought of her as a small, unknown artist, even if he knew that wasn't the truth. It didn't really matter, her music was still great, and he still enjoyed the things she did.

But even if the show was great, Mumbo couldn't help but notice one thing. Ariana was moving her hands weirdly.

Or more accurately, she seemed to be struggling to move her hands normally. She struggled to use them, meaning that she either held the mic or not at all. Sure, she had an in-ear, but sometimes she used regular microphones. Not that Mumbo really knew why. It was odd to see her struggle, it looked as if she was hurt. As if she had someone hurt her hands.

Mumbo wasn’t the only one who noticed. He heard someone behind him whisper about it.

"Is she okay?" They said, tone worried. "She seems unable to use her hands."

"I don't know." Another person responded. "Her hands look hurt."

Mumbo had noticed that as well, they looked bruised, damaged. Wasn't it weird that both Grian and Ariana had hurt their hands? Rather odd coincidence. He shrugged it off, stuff like that happened.

He hoped Ariana was okay.

Later when Mumbo was scrolling through social media he saw a few posts writing about her damaged hands. Posts pointed out how she pulled her sleeves over knuckles in selfies she posted, or avoided putting photos of her hands in them.

Some posts had photos from the concert, with red circles around her hands. The comments were filled with concerned fans, or people saying that it probably wasn't a big deal.

Mumbo hoped she was okay.

Ariana is on TV, it's a talk show again. Her brown hair is slightly wavy, and she has a pink hair clip in it. She has rather soft makeup this time, just enough pink eyeshadow to bring out her dark brown eyes.

She seems to have a rather nice time, even if something seems to be making her anxious. She's fidgeting with her sleeve, smiling as she answers questions. Despite the anxiety she seems to be feeling, she actually looks relaxed.

The talkshow host, a woman with long blonde hair, looks kind and genuine. Her smile is so different from other people who have interviewed Ariana.

"I'm so sorry, and I hope you don’t mind me asking," The talk show host says, looking at the cards in her hand. They seem to be there mostly for support. She has asked a bunch of questions and has rarely looked at the cards. It seems as if she's actually interested in what Ariana is saying. "But a lot of people, myself included, have noticed that your hands seem to have been hurt somehow, what happened? You can pass on this question if you want." She offers kindly.

"No, it's okay, I've been getting quite a lot of questions myself." Ariana replied, smiling. "Well, I hurt them, to put it simply. "

"Pardon my curiosity, but how? Was it a dance accident or?" The interviewer asked.

Ariana laughed slightly, shaking her head. “I mean, a dance accident would make sense, but you don't really hurt yourself like that when dancing." She explained, resting her hands in her lap. "I also wish I could say it was for a good reason, but, this is a bit silly, I just hurt them whilst boxing."

"You box?" The host said, looking a bit surprised.

"Yeah, I do." Ariana smiled. "It's not something a lot of people know. It's my preferred form of working out.

“I see," The host said, her smile matching Ariana's. "But are your hands okay?”

“Ah, they’re better, I'll say that. It’s just a case of boxer’s knuckles. I’ve been to the doctor and I've gotten it treated, I'm just going to struggle to hold a microphone for a while.” Ariana shrugged it off casually.

“Oh, I see. I hope they get better.” The talkshow host said earnestly.

“Thank you.” Ariana smiled, and with that the conversation was over.

The interviewer then turned to the audience, to move on from the topic.“Now, let me introduce the world famous popstar and drag queen, Scottsune Miku!" She announced, gesturing towards a portion of the stage.

Scottsune Miku came out on stage. She greeted the host and Ariana with a genuine smile, before sitting down next to Ariana.

"Scottsune it's a pleasure to-"

Mumbo turned off the TV. Grian would be over soon.

To Mumbo, making tea was almost therapeutic. It helped him calm down, focus on the amount of tea leaves, how hot the water needed to be, and how long it needed to brew.

He made tea if he felt stressed, angry, sad, frustrated, or any negative emotion. If he felt bad, then there would be a pot filled with tea almost immediately.

This, however, was not one of those days.

This was one of those rare days when things seemed strangely fine. Grian was laying on Mumbo's couch, just watching videos on his phone, whilst Mumbo was in the kitchen making some tea for them.

Sure, there were awkward silences and a weird tension in the air even during the okay days, but they had become a lot more bearable. A lot nicer than the others.

It almost made Mumbo forget about the bad days.

Mumbo filled a plate with biscuits, and went out into the living room. He placed the tea, milk, honey, and biscuits on the table, before sitting down next to Grian on the couch.

As soon as Mumbo picked up his book to read, Grian put his head in Mumbo's lap. He often did that.

However, it took Mumbo a while to realise that he was playing with Grian's hair. He had just started doing it, and by god, was Grian's hair soft. It was also rather long. Not at all as well trimmed as it used to be. It used to reach just above his jaw, curling in such a way that it looked shorter…but now it was down by the nape of his neck.

It looked good.

Grian seemed very content with the fact that Mumbo was playing with his hair. His eyes were closed, and his hand rested on top of his phone that was laying on his chest. He seemed at peace. Calm. Relaxed, for once.

"Mumbo?" Grian asked, his eyes still closed.

"Mm?" Mumbo responded, trying to focus on the words in his book instead of how soft Grian's hair was. He was failing miserably.

"I feel like going out again." Grian says.

Mumbo nearly drops his book onto Grian's head in response. "What?"

He hadn't expected Grian to say that. It’s only been three weeks since the whole incident, and sure Grian's hands have healed, but…if Mumbo was honest, he didn't really feel all that comfortable going out. He didn't want that to happen again.

"I wanna go out again." Grian says, as if Mumbo hadn’t heard him. "I think it would be fun."

"You're sure?" Mumbo asks. "What if-"

"Mumbo, it will be fine." Grian cut him off, looking up at Mumbo. "I had fun, despite what happened. Besides, I don't want that to stop me from having fun and doing things I like." He sounded rather determined, and that convinced Mumbo.

The two of them decided to go out the next day, since that was a Friday and neither would be at work on the Saturday.

Still, Mumbo couldn't help but feel as if something would go wrong.

This time, they go without Iskall. Somehow it feels like both of them want to go alone, for it to be just the two of them. Neither says it and neither suggests bringing Iskall. They just…understand.

In the line to the club, Grian looks giddy, almost like a child, excitedly bouncing in place. Mumbo smiles fondly. Maybe it was a good idea to go out, despite what happened last time. If he'd known that Grian would be this happy, he wouldn't have hesitated at all, and would have agreed immediately.

Surprisingly, the queue moves quickly, and they're inside sooner than expected. Grian grabs Mumbo's hand as soon as they step inside, dragging him out on the dance floor. Mumbo doesn't even get a chance to protest. Not that he minds.

Mumbo can't dance, not in the slightest. He moves awkwardly, or almost not at all. It doesn’t seem to matter. Grian just seems happy that Mumbo is dancing with him, even if he's far from graceful.

Unlike last time, Mumbo doesn't sit down to take a break, instead he just follows Grian's movements. The way Grian smiled when he realised Mumbo was still dancing with him successfully calmed down most worries Mumbo had.

He doesn't know how, but at some point he gets a drink and Grian gets one too. It takes a while for him to realise, but Grian is the one paying for his drinks.

"Grian-" Mumbo says, holding a gin and tonic in his hand. It must be his third one, and they haven't been out that long. "You know you don't have to pay for my drinks, right?"

Grian gestured vaguely, trying to brush off Mumbo's comment. "Don't worry about it," He slurred, his alcohol tolerance lower than Mumbo's. Not surprising, he was shorter after all. "I want to, besides I've got more than enough money."

Mumbo wondered what he meant by that, surely being an accountant couldn't pay that well. Though, maybe he worked for a good company?

"You're sure? I can pay for myself, if you-"

Grian cut him off, placing his hand on top of Mumbo's. The look he gave him was strangely intense and rather determined. "Mumbo. I seriously want to, and I have a fair amount of money that I don't really have use for. Let me pay for you."

"Oh-" Mumbo was a bit unsure of what to say, but he guessed that maybe he shouldn't question it. Grian seemed absolutely certain. "I-...thank you."

"My pleasure." Grian said, smiling a bit. He pulled away his hand and tilted his drink slightly at Mumbo. Mumbo silently wished Grian had let his hand stay.

Sometime after that brief conversation, Grian drags Mumbo back out onto the dance floor. As the time has passed, more people have entered the club, and they end up being very close to each other. Mumbo feels a warmth pool in his stomach at the proximity.

Despite them being at a club filled with people, it feels weirdly intimate.

Mumbo feels slightly dizzy, but in a good way. Almost as if he's floating. He has definitely drunk more than he thought. A lot more…and, what's the time? He hasn't checked his watch in a while.

Maybe he should, it might be a good idea-

His thoughts get cut off by Grian suddenly kissing him on the cheek. Mumbo gives him what he assumes is a questioning look, and Grian just shrugs in response.

"Felt like it." He said, casually, as if he always just randomly gives Mumbo kisses. Somehow, it actually feels fairly normal.

They still don't move off the dance floor. In reality, it would probably be next to impossible, there's far too many people around them. Neither really seems to want to sit down, and continue to dance…if you can call it that, it's more moving to the best of their ability on the crowded dance floor.

“Mumbo?” Grian whispered, the two so close together, that his voice could somehow be heard over the music and the people around them.

“Hmm?” Mumbo hummed, looking at Grian, who was looking at him with half-lidded eyes.

“Do you…” Grian began, stopping himself for a second, tilting his head to the side. The movement was a bit awkward, clumsy almost. “...Do you think I’m pretty?” He asked, smiling in a strangely shy way. He played with a lock of hair. If Mumbo was more sober he probably would have wondered why Grian looked like that.

Mumbo had difficulty processing the question, the alcohol making his brain work slower, worse than usual. “W..what?”He said in response, vaguely aware of the fact that he was standing up.

Grian leaned forward, so he could whisper into Mumbo’s ear. “Do you think I’m pretty?” He asked again, his lips centimetres away from Mumbo’s ear. Mumbo felt his breath on his neck.

When Mumbo finally managed to process the question he felt a smile break out on his face. He couldn’t stop it. He didn’t want to stop it.

He nodded in response. “Yes.” He said. “Yes, you’re very pretty.” He gently tucked a hair strand behind Grian’s ear, just so he could see him more clearly.

Grian looked surprised, his eyes wide, a faint blush on his face. Was it there because of the alcohol or-

“Really?” Grian breathed. “Am I prettier than Ariana?”

Mumbo felt his head spin, half wondering why Grian asked that. He barely realised that it was a rather strange question to ask. “Yes, always.” Mumbo replied, earnestly. “You’re the prettiest. Always the prettiest.” His words slurred together.

Grian seemed very pleased with that, and put his head against Mumbo’s chest. “The prettiest…” He whispered, a smile on his lips.

They lose track of time, and before they know it, it has to be after 2am. They have sat down at some point, Grian leaning against Mumbo. Mumbo thinks that some people have to think that they're a couple. He doesn't mind that. He wonders if Grian minds that, but realises that he'd have to ask if he wants to know.

They should probably leave. It's late and they should probably get home.

Mumbo asks if Grian wants to come to his place, and Grian nods silently, his arms tightly around Mumbo's body

They take a cab together, and start to giggle and laugh and neither knows why they're laughing. Grian holds Mumbo's hand tightly, as if he won't ever let go.

Mumbo doesn't want him to.

Mumbo and Grian half walked, half stumbled into Mumbo's apartment. Almost falling onto the floor in the hallway. The two of them were laughing drunkenly as they went inside, the type of laughter that bubbles in your stomach and is impossible to stop. The type that makes you laugh until your stomach hurts. They clung onto each other for support, which didn't exactly work. Neither was particularly stable.

Mumbo somehow managed to sit down on the stool in the hall and started to take off his shoes. He struggled but eventually got them off.

Grian laughed even harder when he saw how Mumbo almost failed at the simple action. Mumbo laughed as well, throwing his shoes at Grian. The shoes missed Grian completely, since Mumbo's already terrible aim seemed to have somehow gotten even worse, and Grian fell down on the floor, still laughing.

Grian clumsily pulled off his own shoes. He sat on the floor for a short while until Mumbo tried to help him stand up. Neither could seem to stop laughing, the happiness felt sticky and sweet, and it held them firmly in its grasp. Not that either could really complain. When was the last time they properly laughed together?

Grian somehow managed to stand up properly, smiling at Mumbo. Mumbo smiled back, and ended up looking directly into Grian's eyes. The laughing stopped, though not in a bad way. The air felt electric, and neither looked away.

Mumbo had known for a long while that Grian's eyes were blue, but oh. Oh, how they were beautiful. They were like an ocean, a gorgeous mix of blues. Earlier Mumbo would've assumed that they were just light blue, but now he wondered how he had ever missed the specks of midnight blue in them.

Grian breathed, his eyes stuck on Mumbo. Mumbo's lips felt dry. Grian licked his lips, as if they were dry. Mumbo noticed that Grian's chest was rising and falling slowly.

Grian leaned clumsily against Mumbo saying nothing. Grian then tilted his head to the side, a strange sort of curiosity and wonder in his eyes.

Mumbo mirrored his movements, not breaking eye contact. He couldn't. Even if he had wanted to, he wouldn't have been able to. He kinda…

Mumbo was unsure of who made the first move, who put their hand on the other's back, who breathed in before taking the plunge. Maybe they did it at the same time. Because suddenly, his body was once again pressed against Grian's, but this time they weren't dancing.

No, this time his lips were pressed against Grian's, as he felt Grian kiss him with a newfound hunger. As if he was starving, as if he couldn't keep himself back.

Mumbo slowly slid his hand up Grian's shirt, tracing his spine with his fingertips. He felt Grian gasp against his mouth, felt him tense up for a second before relaxing into Mumbo's touch.

A part of Mumbo knew he shouldn't be doing this– he knew he wouldn't be doing this if they weren’t so drunk. But they were. And they were too far gone to stop.

As if they would've wanted to stop.

Part of Mumbo was screaming at him, knowing that their friendship was too fragile for this, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care, not when Grian was holding on to him, refusing to let go.

He felt Grian's hands in his hair, and the last thing he could properly remember was Grian pulling them towards Mumbo's bedroom

#grian #mumbo jumbo #grumbo #hermitshipping #ariana griande #take my tea with formaldehyde (grumbo fic)#tmtwf #hermitcraft

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logosbot-tm-fics · 1 year

Text

CW/TW!!! Arguing!!!

Putting it there because I got hit with a wave of anxiety when writing this chapter. Please be cautious and do feel free to skip this chapter if it becomes to much.

Take My Tea With Formaldehyde

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Chapter 11: The Point Of Contention

(More beneath the cut)

The scene was far too familiar for comfort.

They were seated quietly around Mumbo’s kitchen table. They were eating a tense, tasteless dinner. Grian looked like he’d been to hell and back.

All things that had become sickeningly familiar.

Mumbo was worried.

Well— if Mumbo was honest with himself, worried couldn't even begin to describe how he felt. He was… terrified, really. He was scared that their friendship would soon fall apart, he was afraid that Grian was going to destroy himself completely. He was petrified that he would take the blame for it again.

It didn't take a genius to see that Grian was doing far from okay.

Part of Mumbo was bitter. A small, irritating part that he wanted to ignore, but that grew and grew in a way that he knew he couldn’t.

Mumbo had tried to make their friendship better, he had been there again and again to pick up the pieces, to wipe away Grian’s make-up, to take his scorn. He had done it so many times, taking on the blame for the anger and the upset that he was trying so desperately to avoid, and now? Now they had been sent back to square one; Grian seemingly doing everything in his power to destroy himself, all over a mistake.

Maybe that was simplifying it. Maybe there was more to it than that, maybe there were other things causing Grian to behave the way he did. But he didn’t say anything, so how was Mumbo to know?

He wished so badly that Grian would talk. He was starting to wish that less and less for Grian’s own benefit.

They sat at opposite sides of the table. Grian was on the side closest to the clock, the grating ticking of the gears the only sound in the room, resounding louder than it ever had. He would occasionally stab at his food with his fork, the gesture pointed and forceful, as if the meal had done something to personally offend him.

He didn't eat much of it, just pulled strips apart with his teeth.

It was an understatement, almost an injustice, to say that he didn't look well. He was thin, pale skin clinging like film to his bony wrists and arms, and Mumbo could make out a vast pathway of deep blue veins even from the other side of the table. There were heavy bags below his eyes, stark and black, hanging weightily below his blank gaze. He looked sick, like a corpse who had dug himself up and dragged himself to dinner. That’s what Mumbo couldn’t help but think, anyway.

Grian’s hair was darker than normal, messy and tangled, as if he didn't care for it. He was wearing a thick layer of make-up, pinks and oranges painted across his cheeks and eyes in a way that felt like a mask.

Like a failed attempt at concealing himself, or hiding from the world.

It must've rained at some point after Grian had put it on, the outer corners of his eyes dark from running mascara. Only rain could make it look like that.

Hm, or tears, Mumbo supposed.

It was difficult to tell, really. It very well could've been both.

Grian's nail polish was chipped, a sparkly, expensive-looking pink colour that clashed awfully with his sickly pale skin. His clothes stunk of alcohol, a clinging smell that never seemed to disappear. A smell that Mumbo had come to loathe more than anything.

He was wearing the same red sweater as always, the heavy knitted fabric an ever-present comfort. The only healthy comfort that Grian ever seemed to let himself indulge in. It wasn’t as prestinely kept as it had been over the last few months, wasn’t as spotless and treasured as normal. It looked dirty, stains and loose threads grabbing Mumbo’s attention and refusing to let it go. He was shifting in it awkwardly, like it was itchy. Like it didn’t fit in the same way that it used to.

Mumbo wondered when he had last washed it. He wondered if he ever took it off anymore, if he ever let himself be without the comfort that it clearly provided.

Probably not, if the smell of cigarettes was anything to go by.

Mumbo studied him quietly, not daring to break the silence that they always seemed to end up in. They didn't have anything to talk about, not anymore.

Mumbo knew what he had to do, but he'd much rather put it off for a bit longer.

He picked at his own food. It tasted bland and felt muddy. Like he was eating wet cement. A shudder crept down his spine.

It's weird how food you usually like can turn revolting under certain circumstances.

Normally, Mumbo would've loved the meal, digging in happily to one of his favourite dishes.

Normally, the company would be good, the room filled with laughs and banter as they ate.

Normally, the mood would be just as delightful, and the radio would be on with Ariana singing. It would usually end with them laughing at some of the lyrics, turning the songs into parodies.

Normally, Mumbo would've felt so happy that Grian was there. He would’ve been so happy that they were eating dinner together, and Grian would be happy as well, or he would at least seem content if he was having a bad day.

But this wasn't ‘normally’, it really wasn't. ‘Normally’ hadn't existed for ages.

The mood was awkward, weird, wrong, ever since Grian stepped through the door, grocery bag in hand.

Everything had been silent as they made the food together, uncertain of how the other was going to move, of where they should go, as to not bump into each other.

Nothing had been said, other than the stiff, "Hi", they had said as a greeting, and the occasional, "Excuse me”, they made food.

The whole thing felt as if Mumbo was slowly riding towards the peak of a rollercoaster. Getting further than further from the ground as the zenith approached, regrets piling up in his mind as they neared the crest, his heart beginning to thud faster and faster with anxiety. It made him feel weak in the knees, legs shaking like a newborn deer, stumbling along helplessly as he waited for the next inevitable fall.

He was certain they had been here before, a sick sense of déjà vu flooding him as he stared across the table at Grian’s exhausted, sickly form.

The air around them had been tense back then. Now, it was even worse.

Now, Grian's presence, that normally would've felt great, felt just like the cement on Mumbo’s plate. It was sticky and heavy, weighted with guilt. It tasted like fear, like the fear of speaking. Of breaking the uncomfortable, unnatural silence between them.

The very idea of speaking felt as if it would shatter the faux peace they had built. Actually saying the words that he wanted had Mumbo certain that the remaining tatters of their friendship would fall apart completely.

He knew, he knew, that speaking would be a mistake. He knew that it would ruin what they were so desperate to keep. He was fully aware of that.

And yet… he knew that not speaking wouldn’t fix anything either. He knew that it would let the guilt grow and grow until it was swallowing them whole, and that their friendship would be torn to shreds under the powerful clamping of its jaws.

He knew that speaking could save them. That there was a chance it could keep them from drowning.

That maybe, just maybe, everything might get better if they just spoke.

He tried his best to ignore how unlikely that was.

Maybe, their friendship was just destined to end badly. Maybe there was no real hope for them. Maybe they'd just keep hurting each other, over and over until they simply couldn’t anymore.

Maybe they were doomed. Maybe they always had been.

Could it get worse than this? Would it matter if it did? It hardly felt like they were friends anymore, simply sitting together in silence, spending time with each other more out of habit or obligation than desire. So, if everything went wrong from here – more wrong than it already was – did it matter?

Mumbo knew he had to speak. He didn’t want to find out if they were fated to fall apart like this, but there was a chance, tiny and almost unseeable, that talking could fix this– whatever this was. Making things worse… it wouldn’t change anything anyway.

There was nothing to lose, not really.

Even though he was terrified, he had to know if there was a way to change their ending, a way to make everything better instead of worse. He wanted to hope that this moment could change everything, that it could change the guilt and regret gnawing at him.

He needed to at least try. He needed answers to questions he didn't really want to ask. He still felt a need to know.

Mumbo felt almost nauseous as he considered the things that they needed to talk about. There was just so much, and he hardly knew where to begin.

Could he really ask Grian whether he had wanted to sleep with him? Whether Mumbo had taken advantage of him? He stifled a shudder at the thought. Why did Grian sleep with him? Did he just do it because he wanted to at the moment? Was there any chance that Grian actually liked–

He pinched himself as soon as the thought entered his mind, refusing to let himself dwell on it. Not caring to consider it for even a moment more.

He didn’t want to know the answers to a question like that.

He couldn’t stop his mind from wandering, though. Curious about their mistake. Guilty about the thing that ruined the fragile beginnings they had been building up again.

A distant part of him wondered whether Grian was just using him. Whether he just wanted to feel something and… saw Mumbo as the best opportunity. He wanted to believe that they had both wanted to. That they had both initiated it. He felt disgusting for even considering that maybe Grian hadn’t cared whether he wanted it, whether he was sober. The ugly guilt hanging low in his stomach rearing its head once again.

He didn’t want to think so badly of his friend. He… he would have wanted it either way. Even if Grian wasn’t concerned about that. Mumbo knew that he would have wanted it.

So… maybe they did it because both wanted to? Because Mumbo desperately wanted to feel Grian's hands on his skin, and Grian wanted to feel something other than the despair that constantly seemed to be clinging onto him?

Mumbo couldn't take it, there were no good answers, no correct ones. They needed to talk about this, to air it out and finally figure out how exactly they were hurting. Mumbo still didn't know how Grian was hurting. He felt nothing but guilt; an unbearable, itching feeling, eating him up from the inside like a parasite.

He couldn't take it anymore, the neverending silences grated his ears, the awkward pauses made his heart hurt. Every click of cutlery against plate, every tick of the clock on the wall, every sound that wasn’t from them clawed at his brain. He needed to say something.

He took a deep breath.

"Grian?"

The man’s head snapped up in an instant, staring at Mumbo in surprise. His grip tightened around the fork in his hand, knuckles turning white and fingers beginning to tremble in a way that Mumbo could only just see. He pulled it closer to his chest, reeling back slightly and his fingers remaining clamped around the fork like it was a life line.

Mumbo’s plate was almost empty, despite the fact that he had been playing with his food so much. Grian's, on the other hand, was almost full.

Mumbo looked at the other, eyes roaming over the blonde hair which hung down the sides of the face like curtains, the sweet curls that they used to lead into nothing but a tangle of knots and matts. The sick familiarity Mumbo felt looking at him was nauseating. He knew that this would end badly, and yet...

"Yes?" Grian's eyebrows furrowed, face reflecting the guilt Mumbo felt. He still had his fork in his hand, a piece of meat on it that would never be eaten.

Mumbo took another shaking inhale. There was no turning back now. He had to.

"We need to talk," he said hesitantly, breaking eye contact after a moment. He wouldn't be able to maintain it if he wanted to stay focused. His palms felt sweaty, his head spinning.

Grian pinned him with an odd look. "About what?" He asked, eying suspiciously.

Mumbo wiped his shaking hands on his pants, desperately trying to get himself under control, to figure out what it was he wanted to say. They are silent for a moment, before he whispers, "About us." His voice was shaky and unstable, "About you. About me– about what we did."

Grian shook his head in a fervent refusal, dropping his fork onto the plate with a shrill scraping noise. "No,” he said, voice firm as he pushed his chair out from the table, putting more distance between them. As if he was trying to get away from the man before him. “We don't."

Mumbo's heart twisted in his chest. "Grian..." he said, the words tinged with a watery desperation.

He wanted to convince him. He needed to convince him.

"Mumbo," Grian glared, his tone resounded like a warning. Like a parent one strike away from disciplining their child.

"Please,” he begged, “Can we just talk? This– this isn't healthy for you! It’s not healthy for either of us, Gri…"

The tension between them grew slowly. The ticking of the clock in the background felt like the ticking of a bomb. Like they were approaching an explosion.

Grian squinted at Mumbo, the bags beneath his eyes looking impossibly darker. "What is that supposed to mean?" he asked. It did not sound kind.

Everything fell silent, and Mumbo felt the need to wipe off his hands again. Something was starting to bubble in his stomach, sitting heavy like a stone, weighty and uncomfortable. It was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe, something coiling tightly around his lungs as he tried to choke in as many deep breaths as possible.

"It means– listen, I can see that you're not– not doing well. At all," he responded shakily, the words tinged with a slight breathlessness. Grian opened his mouth to respond, but Mumbo pushed on, needing to get the words out while he still could.

"You show up late, very late– you stay out drinking and smoking and God knows what else, and– and I can tell that what we did is eating you up from the inside, so–" Grian dropped the fork onto the plate, causing Mumbo to stop speaking, his words trailing off.

"It's eating me up?" He sounded sarcastic of all things, snarky and seething like he was looking down at Mumbo for being so, so stupid. So presumptuous to dare to be concerned. There was a disbelieving smile on his lips, and it made Mumbo feel… small. Like the world was closing in around him, like he was a moment away from being crushed. He felt his throat close up just a little bit more, breath turned rattling as he tried to hold Grian’s gaze.

"I’m not the one who brought this up, Mumbo," Grian said through his teeth, crossing his arms challengingly. "Honestly, it looks like you’re just bringing this up because you feel guilty."

No. No, no, no– this wasn't how it was supposed to go. They were supposed to talk, they were supposed to figure something out, anything but– but this!

Mumbo felt like any control he had in the situation was being snatched right out of his sweaty grip.

"Grian– no, that's not why–" He needed to get back on track, he needed to explain himself. His heart was pounding in his chest, blood rushing in his ears, everything felt warm and sickly as the guilt in his stomach and panic in his throat curdled. Fuck, this was going even worse than he thought that it would, he couldn't–

"Then why did you bring it up?" Grian interrogated, his tone bitter and harsh, but still sounding as if he truly couldn't understand. "You’re doing fine, I'm doing fine–"

"But we’re not!" Mumbo shouted, cutting him off suddenly. Grian’s eyes widened and he startled at the sudden outburst. "I can see that you're not fine, Grian! I’m not blind, someone who is fine wouldn't behave the way you do!"

"The way that I do?” he scoffed, voice dripping with poison. “What–"

"Jesus, Grian– it's not healthy for you to drink and smoke as much as you do! You've never behaved like this before, you’re so– you’re obviously doing it to hide from whatever is hurting you, and I know that it has something to do with what we did!” Mumbo couldn’t remember when he last yelled like this, if ever. His words shook with the force of his anger, the pain and guilt and panic boiling together into something like fury, as every little thing that had been hurting for the last months bubbled over.

“I brought it up, because we don't even talk anymore! Ever, about anything! I’m not asking you to spill your fucking guts to me, Grian– I don’t care about whatever secrets you’re letting take over your life!” There were tears in his eyes, his breath catching in his throat as he screamed. “I’m asking you to talk to me about what’s going on so that you stop hurting yourself! So that you stop hurting me!”

Grian laughed, and, oh, how Mumbo definitely hadn't missed that laugh. It was that same one from all those weeks ago. Just as mean, just as cruel. He felt like he was being mocked, like Grian was looking down his nose and sneering.

The smaller man’s expression had crumpled, something dark and bitter behind his gaze as he glared up at Mumbo through curled lashes. The smudges of mascara in the corners of his eyes looked just a little wetter, a little larger than they were before.

He is vicious when he speaks, the words pouring from his tongue with a razor sharp precision and the intent to hurt.

"You're telling me what’s healthy and what isn't?" He laughed again, the sound was something cold and dead on his lips. "God, Mumbo– you spend every day obsessed with some talentless pop star like a parasocial creep. You spend so much time talking about her like she’s your best friend, you’ve been to so many concerts that it’s frankly pitiful, you have so much merch and so many DVDs, and you still honestly think–"

Every word felt like a knife. Like something cold and sharp and slithering, creeping into his veins and making him heavy. Had Grian thought this the whole time? Had he hated every moment that Mumbo spent talking about her– every memory that Mumbo looked back on fondly?

She was his only comfort, really. And maybe it was sad, maybe it was strange and disgusting and whatever else Grian seemed to think, but— but he needed it. God, he needed something. Everything was such a fucking mess all the time and he needed something good.

Grian seemed to have something against her, something personal and vitriolic. Something that stunk like petrol and clung like smog, following him around and setting ablaze the moment that she was so much as referenced.

His heart was in his throat, his pulse drumming like rain.

"Why does it bother you so much?" Mumbo asked, trying his best to keep the hurt from worming into his tone. He just wanted to talk, he just wanted to understand.

Grian’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click, and they stared at each other in silence for a long moment. It felt like the world was holding its breath.

"What?"

"Why does it bother you so much?" Mumbo asked again, louder this time, steeling himself as his brows drew downwards.

"I just said why!” Grian cried, his voice high and shrill and frustrated. His words were beginning to sound more desperate than mean, like he was trying to cling on to the last threads of whatever righteous anger he thought he had held. “She's your sole focus– you’re obsessed with her!” He cried. “Do you even understand how creepy it is to wake up to her face on your walls? To hear you beg every week to watch those Godforsaken tapes again, for the millionth time?”

“You never had to agree to that! If you hated everything about me that much, you–!”

Mumbo’s clenched fists were shaking as Grian yelled, hot anger pulsing through him as the other simply spoke louder, projecting his voice over Mumbo’s to stop him from speaking. “She’s everywhere, and I hate her! You can't walk five minutes without seeing her face– you can't scroll through social media without seeing something about her, you can't turn on the radio without hearing her shitty songs, you can't turn on the fucking TV without seeing her– she's everywhere, all the fucking time!” He gestured wildly in the direction of Mumbo’s bedroom, his eyes aflame with something unidentifiable, “Including on your bedroom walls!"

"Why does it bother you so much!?" Mumbo shouted, matching the other’s volume. His throat hurt from all the yelling. "I'm still failing to see what she has to do with anything! People have posters, people like music– I'm allowed to enjoy things, Grian and–"

Grian cut Mumbo off again, "I’m so fucking sick of her! She gets on my nerves! Jesus fucking–"

"I’m asking you why, Grian–!" Mumbo shouted, standing up with such hurried impatience that his chair toppled backwards onto the ground. Every nerve of his body was alight, every strip of patience that he had been trying to cling to vanished as he was disregarded again and again. His pulse pounded in his ears, and he was sure that he had never felt so furious before.

Grian pushed his chair back further from where he was standing, both of them ignoring the noise as it scraped across the floor.

"Because I’m–" He was bristling, eyes hard and angry as he yelled. He leaned forwards on the table, propping himself up on tense, shaking arms, his voice echoing around them for a split second.

He cut himself off in an instant, face turning ashen.

The room turned silent, a stark, terrifying contrast to the loud, ringing voices overlapping just a moment before. They stood perfectly still on opposite sides. It felt impassable.

One of Grian's hands flew from the table to cover his mouth as he stared at the space between them blankly, and Mumbo could see him shake. Maybe it was from anger, maybe it was anxiety, Mumbo didn't know. Maybe it was a mix of both.

"Because– because you're what?" Mumbo asked, the words felt like nails on a chalkboard. Like fireworks in the middle of the night.

Grian was silent, staring down with furrowed eyebrows as he blinked furiously.

"Grian,” Mumbo begged, “Answer me!"

Grian just took a deep breath.

Mumbo didn't have the patience for this, they had been tiptoeing around issues for far too long. If Mumbo couldn't get Grian to understand that he was destroying himself, maybe he could at least get an answer to the things that had been weighing on him for so long.

His words felt like they were breaking as he began to whisper, "Please, Gri–"

"You want an answer?” Grian’s voice sounded vile, like some dangerous concoction of vomit and alcohol. Like he was about to tear apart everything that Mumbo thought he knew. “Fine.”

He took a step back from the table, edging towards the wall. His eyes had darkened, and he was baring his teeth like a caged animal. He exhaled slowly, shakily.

"My answer is that you’re pathetic, Mumbo Jumbo. I think that you’re so fucking obsessed with someone that you don’t even know, because you’re pathetic and you’re lonely and you’re sad. That’s what I think.”

It felt like being shot, or as close to it as Mumbo could imagine.

He had been gearing up for a rebuttal, something to try and finally figure out what was making Grian act like this, but he could barely remember it now. He stumbled backwards, arms wrapping tightly around himself in a meagre excuse for a hug, as he stared ahead at the man who was supposed to be his best friend.

Pathetic?

Was that all Grian thought of him? Had he always thought of Mumbo that way?

He was–

"What?" Mumbo breathed, the words quiet and fragile. Tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision.

Grian seemed to have realised what he said, paleing slightly.

"Wait–" he said, something desperate in his voice, ringing like a plea. He sounded guilty. "Mumbo, I didn't mean– I would never, fuck– I'm sorry–" He rambled, desperately trying to take his words back.

He couldn't.

"You didn't mean to call me pathetic? It just happened to slip out?" Mumbo asked, blinking away the tears from his eyes to the best of his abilities, trying fruitlessly to make them disappear.

They hadn’t yet fallen. He didn't want Grian to see him cry. Not now.

"Mumbo–" Grian pleaded, moving around the table to take a step towards Mumbo."Mumbo, I didn’t mean– I–" He cut himself off, as if he was trying to think of something to make it better. To fix everything that he insisted on breaking, over and over again. "I'm sorry, I didn’t mean that, I'm–"

Mumbo shook his head, cutting him off in an instant. He didn't want to hear any apologies. He didn’t want to let Grian hurt him again. “Get out of my fucking house,” he commanded, words unwavering despite it all.

He felt so tired. He felt so done– he had been trying so hard to get Grian to take care of himself, and this was what he got? This was what Grian felt that he deserved?

Grian’s eyes went wide, a mascara-filled tear slipping down his cheek as he opened his mouth to speak again. As if he didn't want to listen. "Mumbo, listen, just–"

"Get out of my house.” He refused to let himself cry in front of this man. He refused to be vulnerable like that. “I don't want you here," his words were even. Calm. Numb.

He felt empty.

"I–" Grian began again, pushing like he always did. It wasn’t as charming as it had once been.

Mumbo raised a shaking hand, pointing towards the front door with an unflinching motion. "Leave," he repeated, face turned away from Grian.

Grian's expression was painted in disbelief, as if some part of him believed it was a joke. As if there was a chance that he could take everything back, and everything would just go back to how it was before.

He stared at Mumbo’s tense form for a long moment, searching for a sign that he was forgiven. That they were okay.

He didn’t seem to find anything, and then he was backing away, shrinking in on himself again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, before turning and striding out of the room.

It wasn't until the door to the apartment slammed shut that Mumbo’s legs gave out, crashing down to the floor as he caved in, every emotion from the last hour slamming into him like an icy gale.

It felt as if his world was ending, as if it had just ended. Like there was no way he could save it, that this was the end.

He couldn't stop the tears from falling then, curled up on the kitchen floor as sobs wracked his frame, with nothing for company but the food that would never be eaten and the questions that would never be answered.

#grian #mumbo jumbo #grumbo #take my tea with formaldehyde (grumbo fic)#tmtwf

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logosbot-tm-fics · 1 year

Text

Have another chapter... decided to post them in a different way

Take My Tea With Formaldehyde

[Start] [<Previous] [Next]

Chapter 9: Cover My Bones

(More beneath the cut)

Mumbo's head was pounding.

It throbbed with every breath he took, feeling like it was about to split open at any moment. The curtains in his room were still drawn, but the small rays of light that managed to creep around the thin fabric hurt his head. His bed was cold and hard beneath him, stiff as though he was laid on cement. The posters of Ariana smiled far too brightly at him. It felt mocking.

He sat up, desperately wishing for the painful headache to go away, and looked out over the room. There were piles of clothes strewn across his bedroom floor. Odd. Since when did he throw his clothes on the floor? He wore suits for heaven's sake, he always–

Wait.

Clothes. Not just his clothes, but someone else's as well. Clothes he definitely didn't own, but that were so familiar, just as familiar as his own bed. He blinked.

What happened the night before? What had–

It hit him like a truck.

The club. Them dancing. The alcohol. How they stumbled into his apartment. A pair of lips against his own, someone's hands on his body. His hands running along someone else’s skin.

He remembered it.

He remembered the feeling of tugging fingers in his hair, a mouth as hungry as he was, another body pressed against his.

A pair of lips that were so intoxicating. He couldn't get enough, craving more.

Oh god, what had they done?

He felt nausea boiling in his gut, a ticklish guilt crawling up his spine like a spider.

He wanted to undo it. He wanted to forget about it

As his eyes scanned over the room helplessly, they caught on his reflection in the floor-length mirror. He looked just as awful as he felt, eyes tired and bleary, hair dishevelled and skin pale.

And then– then he noticed the marks.

Fuck.

There were bruises littering his skin, staining his body in varying shades of pink and blue. The proof of what they had done was there, plain to see against a canvas of pale skin. He would be seeing them each time he looked in the mirror for days, until they eventually faded.

He sat in his bed for a while, just staring at himself, trying to fully comprehend what had happened.

There… was one thing missing from this scene. One thing that made Mumbo hope that it was actually just a bad dream, despite the marks telling him otherwise.

Grian wasn't there.

So then the question was, where was he? They had obviously gone to bed together, they had obviously–

But… Grian wasn't in the room, and Mumbo honestly couldn't blame him if he'd left. The thought of him hurrying away while Mumbo slept made his heart ache, a hot pain lancing through his chest.

It was… it was an absurd line of thinking, though. Logically, Mumbo knew that Grian's clothes on the floor meant that he was still somewhere in the apartment.

With a deep breath, he put his feet on the floor. The cold wood felt like ice, and a full-body shiver ran up him at the temperature. He grabbed his robe, tying it quickly around him, and hoped that it would give him some warmth as he tried his best to walk across the room without stepping on either of their clothes.

It didn't seem like they had minded yesterday.

He rummaged through his drawers for a new pair of boxers. Standing up felt awful. He wanted so badly to lay down again, and go back to sleep, but he needed to know where Grian had gone. Successfully fishing some clean boxers out of the drawer, he slipped them on, desperately wishing that he had some advil to clear his head.

The bedroom door was already half open, letting in cool air and cold light pass through the crack. The brightness hurt his eyes. He found himself squinting as he pushed the door open, traversing the hallway as he searched for the other presence that was surely still in his home.

He turned the corner to the living room and, there, on the couch, Grian sat.

Wrapped around him was a thick blanket, and he looked as horrible as Mumbo felt. If not worse. He was biting his nails, tearing them down to the nail beds. His expression was pained and anxious.

He looked sick.

He too had marks covering his body, marks that matched Mumbo's. Mumbo could tell it even at a distance, even though he could only really see Grian's neck.

He shut the door silently behind him, unsure of what to do. What could he do? Was there anything to say?

Mumbo opened his mouth to speak, to see if he could come up with something but… nothing. Nothing came out.

There was so much he wanted to do. He– he wanted to cry, he wanted to apologise, he wanted to undo what they had done. He knew he couldn’t, but God he wanted to.

He wanted to ask Grian if he knew why it had happened, but–

Mumbo couldn't speak. He felt as if he needed to, but couldn’t. So he ended up standing in the living room doorway, mouth hanging half-open as he desperately tried to find the words.

He hated the silence. It was thick and viscous like jelly, but felt fragile, as though it would crash and burn at the slightest prompting. It weighed heavily on them, Mumbo knew that they could both feel it.

Breaking it felt as if it would be a mistake.

Eventually, Mumbo sat down opposite Grian on the couch. His heart hammered like a drum, and the sound of blood rushed in his ears as his hands shook where they were laid in his lap.

He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to find some comfort, and Grian seemed to shrink in on himself even more. He looked like he was trying to disappear, to become so tightly wound that he simply vanished. He hadn’t stopped biting at his nails.

What had they done? Mumbo asked himself. Why?

"God," Mumbo breathed, quietly, running his fingers through his hair. Every moment that passed made him feel less and less sane, the anxiety building up to a point where it was painful, where it made him feel jittery. He wanted to throw up. Whether that was because of the amount of alcohol he had drank or because of his anxiety, he couldn’t be certain.

Grian whimpered at the words, finally pulling his hand away from his mouth to speak.

"I'm sorry," he whispered in response. His hands were clutching his arms with a white-knuckled grip, fingers digging into his skin. It looked as if he was trying to hug himself.

"Grian–" Mumbo began, wanting to say that Grian had done nothing wrong, that this was all his fault.

But… he couldn't.

He really couldn't.

He didn't know who was at fault. Or if it even was anyone’s fault at all. All he knew, the only thing that he was certain of, was that it had been a grave mistake.

Grian seemed to take the silence as anger or as Mumbo blaming him.

He stood up, the blanket still wrapped tightly around him like a cocoon that he was hiding in, and went back into Mumbo's room. He came back out a few tense, breathless minutes later, fully dressed.

Mumbo wanted to stop him from leaving, to get them to talk, but when he finally managed to stand up, Grian was already out of the door.

Mumbo didn't manage to stay standing for long, his head still screaming like he'd been hit by a truck. Somehow, he managed to get himself to the bathroom before the nausea got too bad.

It was almost a relief to throw up, he could imagine all of the bad things being ejected from him into the toilet bowl to be flushed away, no longer there for him to deal with. That didn’t happen, the anxiety and guilt still weighed heavy on him, but it was a nice thought nonetheless.

As he sat on the freezing tiles of the bathroom floor, head throbbing and stomach churning, all he could think was that he hoped that he was dreaming. The too-bright lights and the cold seeping into his bones made it far too clear that he wasn't.

Mumbo felt absolutely miserable.

Mumbo was laying on the couch in his living room, feeling shitty.

He still felt guilty. Really, really guilty.

It had been two days, and Grian and him hadn't talked about it at all, so really it was no wonder. The guilt was still overwhelming, curdling in his stomach every time he thought about it, but… it hadn’t really been his fault. Right?

It hadn't been anyone's fault, right?

Mumbo wasn’t sure he believed it. It felt like it was his fault. He hadn't been able to control his feelings for Grian. He'd fucked up badly. Really, really badly.

He didn't really want to move. He almost felt like he couldn't.

He just stared absentmindedly into the living room. It looked so empty without the merch that was now decorating Mumbo's bedroom. The room was bathed in a static grey light. It made it feel colder than it was.

Mumbo just laid on the couch, feeling nauseous. He didn’t want to move, and then his phone began to ring.

Loudly. Really, really loudly.

His chest felt tight when he read the name calling him.

Iskall.

Iskall was on the other end.

It felt as if his phone was yelling at him, screeching curses and insults as his ringtone rang shrilly around the room. It felt angry with him for what he'd done.

He wanted to run, to hide, to do anything but answer. Mumbo didn't want to answer at all.

He really didn’t, but he couldn’t ignore it.

He picked up the phone.

"Mumbo, what the hell have you done?" Iskall questioned as soon as Mumbo answered.

Mumbo felt confused, despite knowing what Iskall was asking about. "What?" he whispered in response.

"What have you done?" They sounded angry, almost hissing at Mumbo through the phone."Grian showed up drunk at my place last night, looking like absolute hell, with a neck covered in hickeys!” Their voice shook slightly, unstable under the weight of emotion. “I asked him what he'd been doing, all he said was your name. What have you done?"

God, Mumbo wished that it was all a bad dream. He wanted to take it back, he needed to. It was certainly his fault if Grian had reacted that badly. It had to be.

"We… I..." He tried to explain, voice cracking awkwardly with the words.

Iskal sighed, taking a deep, level breath as they obviously tried to calm themself down, "You know what, I'm coming over."

"What about Grian?" Mumbo asked, worried and quiet. Grian must still be at Iskall's place.

"He's fine. He's sleeping in my bed right now, he'll be fine," they replied, sounding a bit frustrated still. "I'll come over to you, and you better explain what happened."

They hung up immediately.

It only took about ten minutes for Iskall to show up at Mumbo's apartment, but it felt like hours. Mumbo couldn't get himself to move off the couch, feeling paralysed as his mind ran through every possibility of how it would go.

Would Iskall start to hate him? Would Iskall yell at him? Would Iskall cut off contact?

It all felt possible. Far too possible.

He had fucked up really really badly, he was sure of it.

When Iskall showed up, they stepped inside immediately, only bothering to take off their shoes, keeping their coat on.

They sat down next to Mumbo on the couch, crossing their arms. "Explain," Iskall said.

They sounded bitter. And Mumbo did as he was told.

He told them that Grian had wanted to go out, and Mumbo had been reluctant. He told them that they had drunk a fair amount of alcohol. That they'd danced together. That they eventually ended up at Mumbo's apartment.

"I… I guess it just kinda…" Mumbo cringed as he spoke, realising that it sounded bad, "Happened? I–"

Iskall apparently didn't like that last part, based on their expression.

"God, it just kinda happened? Things don't just happen, Mumbo," they cut him off snidely, sounding far from happy. "Fuck– this has to be the most stupid decision you've ever made. Both of you. Seriously, you're adults for fuck’s sake, you should know better than this!"

In all of their time knowing each other, this had to be the most frustrated Mumbo had heard Iskall be. Their words shook, each syllable choppy and filled with a venomous anger, and it made Mumbo feel small, as if he was being scolded like a child.

"You know what? The worst part of all of this is that I'm the one who has to take care of this. I have to make sure that both of you are okay, that you make better decisions, but Jesus Christ am I tired of it,” they jabbed a finger at him, pointing with stuttered, tense movements. “I am so, so tired of having to take care of shit that I have nothing to do with! I didn’t have a one night stand with my mentally unstable best friend when we were drunk, but you did, and now I have to clean up your mess! Sometimes you really are a spoon, Mumbo. Sometimes you're such a fucking idiot."

Every word felt like a stab wound. Like Iskall was driving a knife that had been there for a long time further and further into his heart. Mumbo felt like the world was ending, like everything was his fault.

He hadn't even noticed that he was crying, tears streaking down his cheeks and snot dripping from his nose. He felt pathetic. Idiotic. Iskall was right, and it only made him feel worse. He felt like the worst person to ever be.

He had really fucked up.

Something flashed in Iskall’s eyes, something akin to recognition, and they let out a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry. I..." Iskall ran a hand down their face, looking regretful. As if they didn't want to hurt Mumbo.

Mumbo simply looked down in shame, staring at his shaking hands as quiet sobs passed his lips while Iskall sat in silence, seemingly trying to collect their thoughts.

"I'm just so disappointed in you two,” they uttered, the words meek and pained. “It hurts me when you hurt. I want better for you, but I can't help in any way that really matters. I just want you to make better decisions," they explained.

They really did sound like a disappointed parent, exhausted and overworked. They placed their hand over Mumbo's where they were clasped in his lap, making Mumbo look up at them. Their expression was worried and defeated. They looked almost hopeless.

"Listen,” they spoke softly, “I love you, Mumbo, but that was a really bad decision. Could you please tell me why? Why did you do it?" They begged.

Mumbo didn't know how to respond.

He was scared. Scared to tell the truth. Scared to tell them how he felt about Grian. Scared to admit how that made him terrified that it was all his fault.

"Please tell me you didn't do it just because you could, please," Iskall begged, sounding a bit desperate.

"No!” Mumbo exclaimed, horrified that was something Iskall would even worry about, “I'd never..." He trailed off, eyes filling with tears once again as he tried desperately to find a way to not confess.

"I would never do that, it's just that..." Confessing might be the only thing he could do. He was hurting Iskall, even if he wasn’t meaning to, and he didn't want to hurt them more by lying to them.

Confessing might be the only way to handle this. Even if he really, really didn’t want to. Even if the very thought of it made him feel sick.

He took a deep breath, brushing the tears from his eyes with one shaky hand, "You know how I kinda have a crush on Ariana?"

Iskall blinked. They looked rather surprised by the question, confused as to how it was relevant at all. "Well yeah,” the answer, “It's been a bit difficult to ignore."

It was obvious they didn't know where this was going.

Mumbo cleared his throat, trying his best to get the words out, "Well, she's just like… a celebrity crush. Uhm– what if I told you that there was someone else that I really really liked?"

Mumbo winced, realising that it sounded rather awkward. Iskall tilted their head to the side, asking Mumbo silently to continue. He does.

"What if I told you that I've liked him for even longer than I’ve liked Ariana, and that I know I shouldn't like because it's not good for me, and– and who I know I should stay away from, but I can't?" Mumbo said, wrapping his arms around himself. Maybe it was meant to be a comfort, he honestly didn't know.

"You– you don't mean..." Iskall began, stopping themselves as they realised. Their eyes widened minutely. "Oh, Mumbo," they whispered. "Oh, that makes everything so much more complicated."

They looked sad for his sake, something like pity in their eyes as they covered their mouth with their hand, seeming deep in thought.

"I love him." Mumbo admitted, and something sat uncomfortably in his gut when he realised that was the first time he had ever voiced it. He looked off to the side, in the direction of the bedroom. Guilt boiled in his stomach. He continued, "It's killing me. I don't know what to do." His voice broke.

Iskall looked regretful, as if they really wanted to take back what they had said earlier. "Neither do I," they replied, words quiet and breathy. "I wish I could help."

Mumbo shrugged. "You shouldn't have to,” he whispered, wanting to hide.

Iskall wrapped their arms around Mumbo. "I know,” they said as Mumbo leaned into the hug. “Still, I wish I could." It was slightly awkward, Iskall was shorter than Mumbo, and they were hugging him from the side. Even so, it still felt comforting.

"I'm sorry for what I said earlier." Iskall said after a moment's silence.

"It's okay,” Mumbo replied. “I deserved it."

Iskall shook their head. "No, you didn't. Even if you both messed up, I still shouldn't have cursed at you. You're hurting, and you both deserve compassion. It doesn't matter if Grian is more or less stable than you are, you don't deserve to be treated like that," they said firmly, sounding like they truly believed it.

As much as Mumbo disagreed, he still let himself be comforted by Iskall. Mumbo should learn to deal with issues without Iskall always getting involved, but the way things were going, it still seemed as if there was a long way to go.

It was the middle of the night when Grian showed up. Mumbo at first thought someone was trying to break in, judging by the sound, but when he looked through the peephole and saw Grian failing at unlocking the door, he opened it.

"Oh," Grian said, sounding rather surprised. His expression looked exaggerated, almost cartoonish, as if he was trying his best to appear normal.

Judging by the way he swayed, Mumbo could tell that he definitely wasn't sober. That was concerning.

"Are you okay?" Mumbo asked, letting Grian inside.

"Yeah yeah,” He mumbled and, yeah, he was drunk. “I'm fine." He smelled of alcohol and cigarettes.

Mumbo's stomach turned, had Grian started smoking?

Grian stumbled clumsily into the apartment, and Mumbo put an arm out to help him stand up. Grian reacted as if he'd been burnt the moment that he made contact, pulling away immediately, losing his balance for just a second.

"Don't need help," he said.

"Oh,” Mumbo blanched, feeling ashamed. “Sorry." He pulled his hands back, unsure of what to do.

The situation felt strangely familiar, even though he'd never seen Grian in this state before.

Some part of him wanted Grian to leave, but he also felt scared that Grian would get hurt if he was alone. He didn’t protest as he followed Grian to the living room, watching as he curled up on the couch. He looked cold. Mumbo went to grab a blanket, and when he came back, Grian had already managed to fall asleep.

Mumbo sighed, draping the blanket over his sleeping form. He wanted to help, but he didn't know if he really should. He thought about moving Grian to the bedroom but… for one, he was sure it would make it worse because of the mistake, and two, he had his Ariana posters put up in there.

Those were certainly going to make everything worse.

It wasn't as if Mumbo hadn’t tried to help Grian feel better. The world knew that Mumbo had tried, Mumbo knew that he had tried. He had been doing whatever he could to keep Grian's mood up, and now it seemed as if he'd managed to ruin what he'd worked for.

Their mistake had ruined it.

Mumbo had taken down the posters from the living room. Mumbo had made sure that they watched movies instead. He and Iskall had tried to come up with ideas to keep Grian happy.

But everything was ruined by that one mistake.

Why else would Grian show up in the middle of the night? Why else would he show up drunk, one night at Iskall's house, and another at Mumbo's? Why else would he show up behaving like this if everything was still okay?

The déjà vu Mumbo felt was almost overwhelming. They'd already been there. This had already happened, and if Mumbo couldn't figure out a way to solve it, it was bound to continue.

Only this time, he was certain it was far worse.

Last time Grian showed up outside his apartment in the middle of the night, he hadn't been drunk.

#grian #hermitblr #mumbo jumbo #grumbo #hermitcraft #hermitshipping #ariana griande #take my tea with formaldehyde (grumbo fic)#tmtwf

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logosbot-tm-fics · 1 year

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What's this? A chapter? Only about a week later?

Who am I?

Also!!! Please read the notes and summaries. (They’re over on ao3 tho-)

Take My Tea With Formaldehyde

[Start] [<Previous] [Next>]

Chapter 7: Say My Name Like A Slur

(More beneath the cut)

It had been a while since Iskall had last been at Mumbo’s place.

They’d been far too busy, constantly trying to keep up with Ariana, and, more importantly, far too busy trying their best to keep their job. So far, it seemed to be rather stressful, because when they showed up they looked as if they hadn’t slept for weeks.

Even so, they were smiling, chattering as easily as always as the pair caught up. They seemed to be in an almost contagiously good mood, one which had Mumbo grinning along with their enthusiasm. Mumbo made tea as they spoke, Iskall leaning against the doorframe with a yawn as they watched his process. Once he was done, Mumbo piled their mugs, milk and the teapot onto a tray, and the pair began towards the living room.

“–more or less, I…” Iskall trailed off. They’d stopped in their tracks, staring surprisedly at the walls. “Mumbo?” They asked, eyes darting around.

“Yeah?” Mumbo responded, following them into the living room and setting the tray down on the coffee table.

“Where did your posters go?” They asked, their tone confused, as if the sudden lack of Ariana was shocking enough to be a cause for concern.

Mumbo hadn’t really expected Iskall to ask about them… but then again, they hadn’t been there in a rather long while.

“Oh, I took them down,” he said casually, shrugging.

“Why?” Iskall prodded, and well… Mumbo supposed that he could understand why they asked. He used to rant a lot about Ariana and the posters had been up since what felt like forever. It must appear pretty strange that the walls were blank.

“I–” He cut himself off, a bit unsure if the explanation for ‘why’ would make sense. “Grian has been acting weird lately,” he began, sitting down heavily on the couch and crossing his legs. “Which– yes, I know, it’s not unusual for him– but something about his behaviour has been… weirder than usual.“

He paused, trying to figure out how to explain the lack of posters without ranting or invading Grian’s privacy. “Uh– anyway, long story short, they seemed to make Grian uncomfortable, so I took them down.”

“Oh…” Iskall frowned, their brows furrowed. They were staring intently at one particular spot where a signed poster had once hung, a strange tension about their form.

Mumbo had been very proud of that poster, he knew that the both of them remembered that. In fact, he had almost cried when Iskall gave it to him, getting immediately teary-eyed at the sight of the signature. It read ‘To Mumbo, xo Ariana’, and he hadn’t stopped mentioning it for weeks afterwards.

“And you don't want them up?” They asked suddenly, crossing their arms.

“Well, yeah I do,” Mumbo said as a-matter-of-factly, “But I don't want Grian to be uncomfortable here, and I’d much rather take down the posters if it makes him feel better.”

Iskall hummed in response, something long and contemplative. The sound didn’t seem either supportive or unsupportive of Mumbo’s decision, it just was there to confirm that Iskall had heard what Mumbo had said.

“They’re in my room anyway,“ he jerked his head in the direction of his room. “I’m thinking about putting them up there.”

“Ah, okay, I see…” Iskall looked at Mumbo hesitantly, like there was something else that they wanted to say. They cleared their throat after a moment, “I– what do you mean when you say that Grian is acting… weird?“

“Oh, uh– I don’t really know how to explain it, he’s just acting… off," Mumbo stuttered, trying to figure out the best way to explain Grian's odd behaviour. "He’s- he’s not acting like himself, I’ve never seen him like this before. He just– it feels like he’s changed? Like he keeps changing? He did again after a conversation we ha–” Mumbo stopped himself.

Talking about the conversation didn't feel like a good idea. It had been about Iskall's identity, and telling Iskall that felt rude. The way Grian behaved probably didn't have anything to do with Iskall in reality, but the idea of forcing them to come out to Grian left a bitter taste in Mumbo's mouth. He thought that maybe, it was better left unsaid.

Iskall looked at Mumbo questioningly. "What conversation?" They asked.

"Can't really remember, actually," Mumbo lied, biting his tongue. "I've tried to, but I guess Grian's reaction just stuck with me more. He kinda… zoned out? Dropped a plate on the floor, and… honestly it seemed like he wasn't really aware of his surroundings at all.”

He tried desperately to swallow down the guilt of leaving out so many important parts. It was better if they didn’t know.

Iskall sat down on the couch next to him, leaning forward pouring some tea from the pot on the tray.

"Weird," they said, passing Mumbo the mug. "Very weird."

A week later, Mumbo and Iskall were talking about it again, as they hung out in Mumbo’s living room once again. They were discussing ways to make Grian happy, even if it was just for a short while, with both of them becoming increasingly concerned about the small man.

Sure, watching movies did work, but Mumbo knew that finding something else that worked would be good too. Besides, those moments where the two of them cuddled together on the couch and watched films felt too private, and Mumbo wanted to keep them that way. It was nothing that he had against Iskall, he just… enjoyed the time alone with Grian.

Which is how Mumbo and Iskall came up with the idea to take Grian out clubbing, somewhere fun where he could just let himself enjoy the moment. It felt like something to look forward to, so they hoped that it would serve as a good distraction. Iskall and Mumbo had gone out together a few times, but that was a long time ago. They had enjoyed it at the time, exploring the nightlife that their city had to offer and spending time together just letting loose so, both of them felt like it would be a good idea.

Grian needed something to make him happy, anything at all, and going out seemed like it would probably cheer him up, even if just a bit.

Even though Mumbo rarely went to clubs and often preferred to stay at home from time to time, the idea of going felt fun for him as well. Besides, it had been a while since Mumbo got out of the apartment. Any excuse to get out felt like a good excuse.

Grian, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy clubs. More than Iskall and Mumbo had expected. They brought up the idea to Grian when the three of them were all hanging out at Mumbo's place, and Grian immediately said yes.

He had seemed a little lighter for the rest of the evening, a little more excited by the prospect of another day.

When the night finally rolled around, Grian was almost vibrating with joy – his hands waving expressively whenever he spoke, bouncing rhythmically on his toes. It made Mumbo’s heart skip a beat, his stomach filling with butterflies. Grian's joy was just infectious, and he couldn’t stop a wide smile from painting itself across his lips.

Grian had even dressed up a bit, even though both of the others had just put on a pair of dark pants and an okayish looking shirt. Hell, Mumbo would say that he himself was a lot more dressed down than usual, since he dressed in suits most of the time.

Grian wore a black skirt that fell just above his knees, swaying with him every time he moved, and a sparkling red shirt that clung to his frame in all the right ways. Shining gemstone earrings decorated his ears, dangling from them and being cushioned in his fluffy hair, and his makeup was more glittery than Mumbo had ever seen. It was bold and bright, something eye-catching and almost professional in the way that the red eyeshadow followed the curves of his face, the sharp eyeliner accentuating his features. Even his shoes shone in the dim light as they walked to the club, the short heels clicking against the pavement as he danced along the street.

All in all, Mumbo thought that he looked very, very good.

At the club, Mumbo saw how Grian seemed to light up as soon as he stepped onto the dance floor. There was just something magnetising about him, something enchanting which commanded attention from all the eyes around the room. Sure, Mumbo had seen Grian dance before – after all, it was difficult to keep the man still on the best of days; whenever there was an opportunity for him to be twirling around the room, he took it – but he hadn't expected Grian to be that good.

Mumbo wasn’t much of a dancer at all, but the way that Grian moved left him bewitched, and before he had even realised that he was moving, Mumbo found himself on the dance floor.

It was a bit difficult to say whether or not he'd stepped onto the dance floor himself, or if it had been Grian who had dragged him out onto it, but Mumbo couldn't really find it in him to care either way. Seeing Grian that happy felt like a blessing, like a sign that things were going to get better.

Mumbo glanced over at Iskall, who just smiled at him and took a sip of their drink, when he felt Grian drape his arm over Mumbo's shoulder.

"Having fun?" Grian asked, smiling at him.

If Mumbo was more sober, perhaps he would have been a blushing, stuttering mess, but he was somewhat tipsy, so instead he put his hands on Grian's hips.

"Very fun," he replied, pulling Grian closer to him with a smile.

Grian laughed loudly, throwing his head back as the flashing club lights reflected off of his shining earrings, and put his other arm over Mumbo's shoulder. The two of them moved in sync on the dance floor, laughing and bumping into the waves of crowding bodies as they danced.

They were practically pressed against each other, the sea of people around them forcing them closer and closer, yet neither let go. It felt as if they were testing the waters, figuring how close they could get before one of them broke.

Mumbo glanced at Iskall again, and saw how they just smiled smugly back at Mumbo, raising their glass from where they sat. Mumbo smiled back, his heart about to escape from his chest.

When Mumbo went over to Iskall, just to take a break, he couldn't take his eyes off Grian.

He looked so natural dancing along to pop songs. It was one of Ariana’s songs playing, and she seemed to make him uncomfortable somehow, but… he'd never seen anyone else dance in the way that he did. Like he knew every thought behind every word, like the words were there just for him.

Iskall's smile had turned from smug to secretive as they also watched Grian dance.

God, how Mumbo wanted to know exactly what that smile meant. ~

They didn't leave the club until one in the morning, Mumbo and Grian saying goodbye to Iskall as they reached the crossroads between Iskall and Mumbo’s apartments. They all had work in the morning, and no one really felt like staying any longer and ending up completely exhausted, nor did they feel like ending up black out drunk or hungover.

Grian held a tight grip on Mumbo’s arm, giggling loudly as they walked, still a bit tipsy. They were going in the same direction, so going together only felt like the logical conclusion. Besides, Grian had seemed weirdly insistent on having Mumbo follow him to his apartment. Not that Mumbo complained. Quite the opposite in fact; he said yes without a second thought.

Mumbo tried his best at pushing down the butterflies that he felt whenever Grian touched him. Unfortunately for him, he wasn't totally sober, which made ignoring the giddiness at the other’s soft touches a lot easier said than done. At first the walk home had been pleasant, with Grian jokingly flirting with him, as Mumbo flirted back to the best of his abilities.

Had he drunk a little less, he might have worried about Grian finding out his feelings. But, like this, he didn’t see any harm in indulging for once, and Grian didn't seem to notice at all, just smiling or giggling at whatever Mumbo said.

The journey took a turn for the worse when they turned down a dim street, some hidden shortcut that apparently Grian was very familiar with. There were a pair of men sitting at the side of the road, empty bottles of beer between them as they spoke loudly, clearly drunk. It didn’t take them long to notice the others, what with Mumbo quietly trying his best to hurry Grian along. The moment that their presence seemed to register, they started to yell.

They aimed their catcalling towards Grian, whistling and yelling at him as he readjusted his skirt slightly. Mumbo wanted to confront them, to march over to them and give them a piece of his mind, but Grian just brushed it off.

He said that he was often mistaken for a girl, that he was used to it by now, and just continued walking past. He confided in Mumbo, his words slightly slurred, that he had never had it happen with someone passing as a guy next to him.

Mumbo felt, for a lack of a better word, disturbed.

They eventually realised that Grian wasn't a girl, and, at that point, the catcalling turned into slurs. They were hurled like knives towards the pair, all of them aimed at Grian, trying to strike him down. Grian looked uneasy as well by that point, and it did nothing to calm Mumbo.

Even so, Grian just wanted to keep walking, holding Mumbo's hand tighter by the second. Mumbo didn't feel opposed in the slightest. Even so, part of him wanted to confront the guys, yell at them for being absolute pathetic excuses for humans.

“Just ignore them,” Grian whispered, his head ducked low and something tense shining in his eyes. Mumbo nodded, tugging him just a little bit closer until they were walking practically as one.

It didn’t work. It didn’t do anything to deter the men, who took their silence as encouragement, continuing to scream slurs and insults and threats. Mumbo could feel tears in his eyes, but Grian didn’t say a word. They kept walking.

Then, their attention shifted. The men laughed loudly, nudging each other as they stood up, beginning to yell slurs and insults at Mumbo instead. It was as if to test how far they could go, as if to show just how much they could push them around. The noise was invasive, resounding through Mumbo’s ears as he tried his best not to cry, his grip on Grian’s hand weak and clammy.

Grian spun around at the first comment in Mumbo’s direction, fire burning behind his eyes as he yelled back at them, his words dripping with venom as his tongue lashed insult after insult.

Mumbo wanted to leave, to go home, to undo the fact that they had gone out to begin with. He wished they had stayed at home watching movies instead, he wished he was anywhere else.

But it was no use, there was no undoing those choices. There was no retreating from the situation they found themselves in; in the middle of a dim street late at night, with flickering streetlights and raised voices.

At some point, Grian dropped Mumbo’s sweaty hand and rushed over to the men. Mumbo tried desperately to recapture his grip, to pull him away and make them run as far as they could… but he failed, watching in horror as Grian ran towards them. He expected Grian to get hit, to immediately crash to the ground. He expected to have to call an ambulance, to watch his best friend being hurt.

Instead, he watched as Grian reeled back his first, punching one of the taller men in the nose. There was a violent crack as the hit connected, and Mumbo watched breathlessly as blood gushed over his lips, dripping from his chin. He must have been caught off guard, fooled by Grian’s short stature and unsuspecting form, because he reeled backwards, falling to the ground as if in slow motion.

Grian was yelling, screaming something at them with such visceral hatred that Mumbo could feel it chilling his veins. He spat and growled and clawed as the other man ran away, leaving his friend dazed on the ground.

Mumbo ran over to Grian, forcing him away from the scene before the guy gathered his bearings. Sure, he had definitely deserved it, but he didn’t want Grian to get hurt. He didn't want him and Grian to stay for longer. He didn't want the cops to show up and make the already miserable night worse.

So he dragged Grian away, listening helplessly as he began to sob, his knuckles bruised and bloody.

Somehow, they managed to get away without the cops showing up. Though, that could be because the guys didn't want to get caught either.

They really should've stayed at home.

It was silent as Mumbo put bandages on Grian's bruised knuckles. For once, they were in Grian's apartment – it had been closer to the bar, and going all the way to Mumbo's just… didn’t feel worth it.

When they stepped inside, Grian immediately let go of his vice-like grip on Mumbo's hand, throwing his bag across the room and kicking his shoes off as quickly as possible. Mumbo, on the other hand, took a moment to just take in his surroundings.

He hadn't been in the apartment in ages, and nothing much had changed but… despite that, it felt as if he was stepping into a stranger's home. The place felt off, as if someone had gone inside and moved everything just a centimetre to the left.

He shook his head, snapping out of his thoughts. He heard Grian rummage through the drawers and cabinets in the bathroom, silently cursing as his bruised hands brushed against things. Mumbo stared at the bright, fluorescent light from the bathroom, taking a deep breath before going in as well.

That's how they ended up with Grian sitting on the toilet lid with Mumbo knelt in front of him, gently washing Grian's knuckles with soap, water, and disinfectant. He heard Grian gasp when the disinfectant touched his hands, despite Mumbo’s gentle, careful touch.

"Sorry," Mumbo apologised, trying to ignore the nausea turning in the pit of his stomach as the cotton pad began to turn red.

Grian shrugged. "It's fine,” he mumbled, but his shaking voice betrayed him.

Grian's hands were delicate, and considering how soft they were he obviously tried to take care of them, even if his nails were bitten down and the pink polish was chipped. Somehow, it made Mumbo feel worse about the bruises. He knew it wasn't his fault, but he still wished he could make up for it somehow, make it better.

The electric buzz from the touch he felt made him feel sick, guilty. It was the wrong time to be thinking about that. Grian was hurt and yet his feelings distracted him.

"I hate people," Grian said, not louder than a whisper. He watched as Mumbo gently wrapped the bloodied knuckles with white bandages, he watched as scatters of blood began to soak through.

His face twisted into a pained smile.

"I absolutely hate people,” his voice broke, tears slowly forming in his eyes. “They're so mean, so cruel. And for what?” He sniffed wetly. “What's the point?”

Each word shook like an earthquake, mountains of unspoken emotion and build-up pain seeping through each one. His hands shook with them.

"I don't know,” Mumbo replied, holding Grian's hands in his as gently as he could, cradling them like the most precious of treasures. “I really don't."

"Why do they feel the need to destroy someone else's happiness?" Grian asked, as the tears began to fall.

Mumbo didn’t know what to say. He stayed silent as he wiped away Grian's tears.

Mumbo decided to sleep at Grian's place that night.

Going home felt rude, and Grian seemed to need the support. He had stared at his hands for a long time after Mumbo finished bandaging them, as if he was trying to will them into healing. Mumbo had managed to put everything away in the medicine cabinet by the time that he finally moved again, blinking down at his hands rapidly like he was trying to come back to himself. He gave up after that, sighing as he stood up from the cold bathroom corner and walked into his room to change out of his clothes.

When he had stepped back out, dressed in sweatpants and a red hoodie, he quietly asked if Mumbo could help him wash off the makeup. He held up his hands, as if to tell Mumbo why he couldn't do it himself. Of course Mumbo didn’t hesitate, and carefully helped Grian wash off the makeup.

Mumbo offered to cook food too, an offer which was met with a bittersweet smile and a quiet, "I'd like that."

The smile, somehow, made everything feel a little bit better, a little bit more comfortable, and after they had eaten, Mumbo noted that Grian's eyes had regained some of their shine.

They got ready for bed, and Mumbo set himself up on Grian’s couch with a pile of blankets. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but Mumbo still felt that it was better than going home. He wanted to be there for Grian. Leaving him alone felt like a bad idea.

Apparently, Grian shared much of the same sentiment, because it didn't take long for him to quietly emerge from his bedroom. He walked over to the couch and knelt down in front of it, shaking Mumbo slightly, just enough to see if he was awake.

Mumbo tiredly opened his eyes. "Grian?" He murmured, confused.

"Can I sleep with you on the couch? Just for the night?" Grian anxiously whispered, fidgeting with his hands. The bandages stopped a lot of his movements, creasing uncomfortably and pulling at his raw skin.

Mumbo sat up, one of the blankets falling to the floor as he moved. "You sure? You don't want to sleep in a proper bed instead?" He scratched the back of his neck, feeling far too tired for the conversation.

"I'm sure," Grian said quickly, maybe a bit too quickly, because then he added. "It feels too big, too empty. Uh- and besides, I've slept on couches before."

Mumbo didn't question why they didn't both just sleep in Grian's room, even though the couch could barely fit them both. He didn't question the explanation Grian had given.

Maybe he should've. It might've been a good idea.

Maybe it would've spared him a lot of pain later. Maybe he might’ve realised a few things.

Instead of telling Grian no, something he never seemed able to do, no matter how much he wanted to, he opened his arms and let Grian curl up beside him.

Maybe he should try to be better with boundaries. He couldn’t keep doing this; at one point or another he was bound to break. He should learn to say no, to ask questions, to stick up for himself.

It probably would have been better, but seeing Grian smile like he did in that moment, something that felt far too rare, always managed to break down his walls.

So instead, he shoved down the feelings bubbling in his chest, and he fell asleep like that, with his arms wrapped tightly around Grian.

#grian #hermitblr #mumbo jumbo #grumbo #ariana griande #hermitcraft #hermitshipping #take my tea with formaldehyde (grumbo fic)#tmtwf

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logosbot-tm-fics · 1 year

Text

* slams pot lids together *

NEW CHAPTER FUCKERS

Tw!!! This chapter includes someone using alcohol as a coping mechanism and a panic attack.

The panic attack starts at "Ariana flinched" and ends with "They seemed to be talking to her..."(Them being Iskall.

Hope you enjoy!!!

Take My Tea With Formaldehyde

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Chapter 10: But The Show Must Go On

(More beneath the cut)

Grian was getting worse again.

His well-being had been snowballing rapidly, spiralling downhill at a pace that Mumbo didn’t know was even possible.

It was hard to watch, somehow harder than everything else that has come beforehand, and Mumbo couldn’t help but think that every time he sees Grian, it felt like watching a car crash.

Or a storm swell.

Or a building fall apart piece by piece.

As if there were mountains of debris raining down around him every moment that they spent in each other’s company.

Grian would show up late – and sure, that wasn’t new. That was something that had happened before, over and over again, but… back then that would be all there was to it. He would just show up late, despaired and crying, and Mumbo would try to comfort him.

This time, though, this time was different. Now, he would show up smelling like alcohol and cigarettes. Now, he would show up smelling like guilt.

It was probably the same guilt that Mumbo felt.

He would show up at Mumbo's apartment in the middle of the night, staggering clumsily into the living room, each time collapsing prone on the couch. The days that he showed up were more random than ever – sometimes there would be days between his sudden appearances, and sometimes it would be a week or two.

Sometimes, it had been so long without seeing him that Mumbo had begun to think – hope, maybe – that it had finally stopped.

It never did.

Mumbo would slowly pull himself out of bed whenever Grian showed up, exhaustedly making his way to the living room and draping a blanket over him. Before, the blanket had been one of the pretty throws decorating Mumbo’s bedroom, but now, with Grian showing up so frequently and randomly, it had begun to remain permanently in the living room now.

(There was some small part of Mumbo which was bitter about that fact; that he was sacrificing something for Grian once again.)

No matter when Grian showed up, no matter what state he was in, Mumbo would try his best to help. Sometimes, he would succeed in getting Grian to sleep in the bed instead, giving up his own space and sleeping on the couch.

Grian would usually look as if he felt better in the morning when he slept there.

Almost every time, Grian would fall asleep with his clothes on. Mumbo would carefully remove his jacket, his earrings, anything that might make him uncomfortable or wake him up. He did his best to be cautious, to move slowly and avoid disturbing the sleeping man.

He felt guilty each time either way.

In the morning, he'd see Grian stumble towards the bathroom, his eyes squinting against the bright sunlight. He would watch from a distance as Grian washed off his makeup, sometimes ruined by dirt or glitter. Always ruined by streaks of tears.

There were times when Mumbo managed to get Grian to change into softer clothes, coaxing him into a t-shirt and sweatpants like a frightened, feral animal. Those times, Mumbo would be able to wash off Grian's makeup too, using a feather-light touch to wipe away layers of mascara and foundation and all sorts of other things that he didn’t even know the names of. He would be careful, delicate, trying his best to avoid accidentally hurting Grian.

(Again.)

Grian would always try to reject Mumbo’s help, pushing him away weakly until he couldn’t anymore, until Mumbo’s perseverance got him to just give up, silently accepting the help.

And Mumbo just… he hated it.

He hated watching Grian struggle. He hated seeing him so weak and helpless. He hated the alcohol, the cigarettes, the guilt. He hated how commonplace it all had become.

As if Grian showing up drunk on his doorstep was normal. As if spending all of those nights caring for him was okay.

Somehow, the mornings after were always worse than the nights.

He'd often find Grian sitting at the kitchen table in the chair that he always used, his hands curled tightly around a cold cup of tea. He would be staring ahead blankly, gaze distant and clouded, the twisted expression on his face looking as though he had just found out someone had passed. As if he was being punished for existing.

Grian's hair never looked as soft anymore, the bags beneath his eyes seemed permanent, and he’d just spend hours staring vacantly into the tea that must have been poured ages ago, like he was begging it to help him.

Like he was hoping that it could change things.

He always looked like a wreck.

Mumbo would join him, silently sitting down at the other end of the table with his own cup of tea – one much warmer and fresher than Grian’s own. Conversation between them was non-existent.

They were either too afraid to speak, or they didn't know how to anymore.

Mumbo didn't know which one he would rather want it to be.

Some part of him knew that taking down the posters in his bedroom would probably make things slightly better, but… he just couldn't get himself to do that. They were one of the few things that could make him happy at the moment, so he pretended to ignore that fact. He just couldn’t take them down, not even for Grian’s sake.

Distantly, he wished that Grian would ask him to take them down. He didn’t know if he would, in all honesty, but at least it might get them to talk.

He- he should really stop hoping for that. For things to get better. It was pointless, he should know that by now. Nothing ever seemed to get better, it felt like they were trapped, like they didn't know how to break out of the cycle they were in.

Mumbo so desperately wanted to travel back in time. Back to before they’d made the mistakes that they had, back to those days when they were happy. When there were no awkward silences, no drunk Grian to take care off, and no guilt reminding them of what they did. To when they would just hang out and just watch stupid shit on the TV.

It felt like he was trapped in a never-ending nightmare. He felt like he was drowning.

He wished that it would just end.

But it didn't.

And frankly, Mumbo was getting tired.

Iskall ended up coming over a few days later.

Mumbo was a bit surprised to see them, they usually inform Mumbo that they're on their way but–

This time they just showed up. He wasn’t expecting them, he hadn’t had a clue who was knocking on the door until he opened it.

"Oh!" Mumbo said when he saw who it was, "Uh- hi?"

Iskall seemed a bit awkward, something which was weirdly unfamiliar. "Hi," they replied, and Mumbo decided that awkwardness didn’t suit them.

He opened his mouth to ask why they were there, but Iskall continued before he could. "Look…I'm really sorry for the way I behaved," they started, "I was just so worried about Grian, but… I realise that's no excuse for my behaviour towards you."

Mumbo’s eyes widened minutely, his heart beginning to pound in his chest. What?

"It's– it’s okay, uh… I–" Mumbo stuttered, trying to figure out how to respond, how to accept the apology.

Iskall, however, shook their head.

"I don't think it is, Mumbo. I should've heard you out before getting pissed off," they replied, their tone earnest. "That's why I want to give you this–" they pulled out something from their coat pocket, a crumpled white envelope with nothing written on the front. "–as an apology," they conclude.

They handed the letter over insistently, pushing it into Mumbo’s grip. Mumbo stared down at it for a long moment, confused. What is..?

"Open it, and you'll find out," Iskall said, as if they could read Mumbo's mind, a small smile forming on their lips. They had their hands in their pockets, looking significantly less awkward now that the envelope had been handed over.

Mumbo nodded in response, trying to open the letter there, but his fingers shook with badly-suppressed nerves, so he paused after a moment. He looked up at Iskall and stepped to the side, vaguely gesturing for Iskall to step inside, before walking away to the bedroom to get a letter opener. He heard Iskall close the door behind them.

It took him a second to remember where he put his letter opener, but when he did, he went quickly to open the letter. The noise of the blade slicing through the envelope was almost deafening, like the entire world was holding its breath as the contents of the letter were revealed.

It felt like a kick in the stomach when he sees what’s inside. It almost felt like a joke.

There, innocently sat in the confines of the pure white envelope, was a ticket.

More specifically, a pink, glittery ticket to one of Ariana’s shows. He looked at the date printed on it, and it’s only two days away.

Mumbo couldn’t believe his eyes. He wondered if he was dreaming, gaze scanning the decorative paper over and over again, but no. That was a ticket. It was real. Nothing changed as he stared at it. It said the same thing.

God– it must've been next to impossible to get it.

Mumbo didn’t even notice that Iskall had walked into his bedroom, not until they spoke.

"You're welcome," they drawled from where they were leaning against the doorframe, a pleased smile on their lips. "I figured that it was the best way to apologise for what I said."

Mumbo stared at them in disbelief, "You– you didn't have to, dude. I've already forgiven you."

Iskall shrugged, waving their hand in the air like it was no big deal, "And I wanted to apologise properly."

"This must've been incredibly difficult to get, even though you’re her manager. How did–"

"Mumbo," Iskall cut him off firmly, levelling him with an even look. "Don't worry about it, really."

Mumbo stopped talking and looked down at the ticket again.

"I…" He ran his thumb along the edge of it, still trying to comprehend that it's real. "Thank you."

Iskall smiled, tilting their head ever so slightly to the side. Their smile was wide and knowing, stretched languidly across their lips, but it just… didn't quite reach their eyes. Mumbo tried to ignore the voice in his head screaming that they never look as happy as they used to anymore.

"Of course," they said, as if they'd keep giving Mumbo tickets as apologies.

Maybe they would if they could, and a part of Mumbo briefly wonders if he'd forgive them each time.

"Of course," they repeated, their hands going back into their coat pockets. "I'd–"

This time it's Mumbo's turn to cut Iskall off, striding forward easily to pull them into a hug. It felt familiar. The whole situation felt very, very familiar.

"You really didn't have to, I still want you to know that," he mumbled into their hair. "But I appreciate it, thank you."

Iskall inhaled, as if they're about to speak again, but doesn't. Instead they just hugged Mumbo back, wrapping their arms tightly around his waist, and for a second everything felt okay.

It really is too bad that they can’t stay that way forever.

It really is too bad.

Mumbo didn’t feel as excited as he usually did before a concert.

Everything felt so rushed, the two days before the show a distracted blur that he simply couldn’t keep track of. He just didn’t have the time to get excited as he usually would, but still – it felt like a welcome distraction.

It’s strange, when he actually stopped to consider it. He felt like he needed this, like this break from the real world was going to stop everything from boiling over, somehow. Everything was so much, so exhausting and overwhelming, and he just– he needed some time away from it all. He needed some time to focus on something, anything, but Grian.

The show was going well, with an impressive entrance, never-before seen costumes and brand new choreography – it was running smoothly and impressively, like always. Everything on the stage was impressive, but… Ariana seemed a little tired. It was like her usual pep toned down to account for the lethargy with which she was moving, bags still visible under her eyes despite the caked-on makeup and Mumbo’s own distance from the stage.

She still managed to keep that famous smile on her face, singing beautifully and dancing along in the fun, upbeat style that her shows were known for, and the crowd seemed to be having a good time! Mumbo was having fun as well, swaying to the music as bodies danced around him in the standing-room, and he found himself almost forgetting what he’s been so worried about.

Almost. The bitter feeling in the pit of his stomach continued to linger.

Then things started to go downhill.

The shift was slow at first, Ariana beginning to make minor mistakes as the music progressed. They were only small stumbles, instances that would be totally fine if it was just one or two missed beats, three or four missed steps.

It started with her messing up a note, her voice breaking halfway through, turning pitchy and off-key. It wasn’t a big deal, not at all – these things happen after all, that’s just show business – but it seemed to make her mood shift nonetheless.

She tripped over her own feet slightly, stumbling in her tall platform heels in a way that is starkly uncharacteristic, but she seemed to recover quickly, trying her best to cover it up.

Then she messed up another note. She seemed self conscious, the colour draining from her skin and her grip tightening on the microphone. Little by little, people started to notice, and then they started to whisper.

"Is she alright?" someone said.

"Something seems wrong?" another person asked.

"I wonder if it might have to do with what happened to her hands…" a third speculated, sounding a lot more curious than the other two, who had just seemed worried.

Ariana looked so… wrong, up there on the stage. As if she wasn't meant to be there. Something about her made Mumbo think of a deer in the headlights, something about the way that her legs shook, her free hand falling limp at her side. She looked almost paralysed.

It also made him think of Grian. He shook his head, trying to dispel the idea.

There was no point in thinking about Grian now.

Mumbo watched, aghast, as Ariana looked down at the ground, seemingly trying to collect herself in the middle of a slow song. Honestly, it just looked as if she didn't want to be there at all.

Mumbo could just about make out that she was mumbling something to herself. It looked paced, practised. Maybe she was counting. Maybe she was trying to use that ever-familiar counting technique to calm anxiety.

With the way that her lips trembled, Mumbo was almost certain that was the case.

She breathed evenly during an instrumental pause, counting and tapping her long nails against her thigh, clearly desperate in her attempts to calm down. Despite her attempts, Mumbo stared in horror as tears slowly started to roll down her cheeks.

She looked up at the crowd as a part of the song where she was supposed to be singing began again, just smiling blankly as everything slowed down. Mumbo felt as though he was in a freeze-frame, the crowd slowed in their dancing, it was as though the entire world held its breath.

No one dared to move. Everyone waited for whatever would come next.

Just as quickly as the smile appeared on her lips, clearly forced as she tried to dry her tears, it vanished.

Ariana was staring in Mumbo’s direction. It was as though she was– like she was starting directly into him. Into his eyes. Into his soul.

Maybe she wasn’t, maybe that was his fanboy brain taking over, but–

But Mumbo is almost certain that they were staring at each other, and that their eye contact was somehow responsible for what happened next.

Ariana flinched.

It was barely noticeable if you weren't looking for it, but all eyes were on her, and so Mumbo knows that everyone saw it.

Her eyes started to scan the crowd, as if she was trying to find something, or someone. As if she was checking that her eyes weren’t deceiving her.

The music continued to play in the background. The words continued to go unsung.

She backed away from the microphone stand with a dizzying stumble, everyone in the crowd watching as it fell to the ground with a clang. She backed up until she was walking into one of her dancers, the pair reeling for a second before they managed to stand her upright. The dancer looked at Ariana with great concern, their mouth opening to say something that no one else could hear.

It hardly mattered, as Ariana ripped herself out of their grip in an instant, staggering away from them.

She was hyperventilating, her chest heaving under the heavy, decorative garb that she was dressed in, and the noise of her rattling breaths echoed ruthlessly through the microphone taped to her cheek. She sunk to the ground, shoulders shaking as she wrapped her arms around herself, sharp acrylic nails digging into her skin.

She looked so small.

Too small for the big stage and the flashing lights. Too small for the crowd. For the clamouring masses of adoring fans, the faceless faces screaming for her to perform. For the show to go on.

She looked unfamiliar in the vastness of the stage, of the crowd, of the glittering costumes and hired dancers. Of the thousands of people there for her.

She looked like a child.

A child who had been dragged onto that godforsaken stage, who had a microphone thrust into their hands and a song plastered to their shoulder.

A child who just wanted to find their mom. To find someone to comfort them. To just go home.

Suddenly, Iskall was on the stage, sprinting over to her with a pace that Mumbo had never seen them take before. The dancers glanced around worriedly as Iskall said something in a too-loud whisper about getting tech to turn off her microphone. One of the dancers rushed off stage, following the instruction.

The crowd watched with rapt fascination as Iskall took off their jacket, and Mumbo watched with horror as they wrapped it around Ariana’s shoulders. They knelt in front of her, broad form purposefully transformed into a shield as they stayed with their back firmly towards the audience. Mumbo couldn’t see her face anymore, couldn’t see the way that she choked on every inhale, couldn't see the tears as they spilled down her cheeks and ruined her makeup.

They seemed to be talking to her, the face-mic seeming to have finally been turned off, and Mumbo could just about make out the way that Ariana nodded. The remaining dancers seemed to want to help, but Iskall gestured sternly at them to leave, commanding the situation flawlessly.

Iskall sat with Ariana until a security guard was jogging onto the stage, moving towards the apron of the stage and telling people to remain calm whilst the situation was being taken care of.

The crowd doesn’t seem pleased.

Soon, Ariana was being led off stage by Iskall, a comforting hand pressing into the small of her back and guiding her towards the wings. The stage was still for a long moment, before Iskall returned.

"We’re sorry to inform you–" Iskall said, holding their hand against their ear as they spoke to the audience. They didn’t seem to enjoy being on the stage. Far from it, in fact. "–that we will unfortunately be cancelling tonight’s show."

And then there was uproar. There were yells and screams, some demanding their money back, others insulting the management, or even Ariana herself.

"They can’t be serious… that’s so unfair," someone behind Mumbo said, their tone bitter. "We paid for a show, we should get one. They can't just– just cancel in the middle of it."

Mumbo heard a few mutters of agreement below the outraged screams from all around him. He felt sick.

Iskall continued to speak, despite the yelling. "Ariana isn’t fit for performance currently, but we assure you all that we will sort everything out and look into refunds or replacement tickets. We’re very sorry.” Their tone is placating, but Mumbo knows them far too well to mistake it as regret.

Mumbo knows, even if the rest of the crowd doesn’t, that they’re rattling off a spiel which sounded as though it was company-approved. Their words were quick and hurried, impersonal despite being soothing, and Mumbo knew that they were mostly worried for Ariana, itching to get off the stage to check on her.

They cleared their throat awkwardly, and nodded. It only took a few seconds longer and they were gone, walking hastily off the stage.

The crowd around Mumbo began to surge forwards, pushing and shouting as more security ran out to the front, trying to hold everyone back. He barely tried to fight the shoving, simply moving numbly with the crowd as they began to be filtered out of the auditorium, trying desperately to understand why it happened.

Somehow, it felt like it was his fault.

Eventually, Mumbo reached the doors of the venue, caught up in the stream of people. There were so many voices around him, swathes of angry mutters and displeased insults, paired with the occasional word of concern.

A few people seemed worried, and it calmed the nausea in his stomach just a little. They whispered about how hope that Ariana will be okay, how they hope that she’ll be taken care of.

Those are the few people that left without any complaints. Those are the small groups that seemed to actually care for Ariana’s wellbeing.

He was so glad that some of them cared. He cared too.

At that moment, he wanted more than anything else for Ariana to be okay.

He, like those few others, was so worried. He was so confused. And, unlike those caring few, he was so guilty.

He left the venue certain of just one thing: Ariana had broken down because she had looked Mumbo in the eyes.

If things were different, Mumbo would've spent a lot more time thinking about the show. He would’ve wondered what happened to those who attended, to those who paid for their seats. He would've tried his best to find out if Ariana was okay. He would've sent messages to Iskall, asking if she was doing any better.

But he didn’t.

In fact, his mind was so preoccupied that he almost forgot about it. He can remember what happened, sure, and he still wants to know if it actually did have something to do with him, but–

The whole event was pushed quickly into the back of his mind.

He was far more worried about Grian.

He’s begun to show up even later than before, always appearing like a ghost, without a single word of warning. At first, it was around midnight – a little late, but something Mumbo could work with, nonetheless.

But then he began to show up at 3am. And then at 4am. And then at 5am– on a day that he knew Mumbo would be waking up for work only one hour later.

It was confounding, heart-wrenching, to watch as Grian actively tried to destroy himself. Mumbo couldn’t stand it– he couldn’t stand the tension, the uncertainty, the not knowing what’s going on with his own best friend.

It was as though he was driving himself insane, with the way that he was constantly begging for answers and digging his claws into any of the meagre, pathetic scraps that were tossed his way. It was as though he was a stray animal, constantly returning to the hand that starves, but doesn’t kill.

Coming back because he knew that there would be something for him there, even if it was barely anything at all.

Coming back because seeing Grian’s tired, blank face was better than nothing.

They didn’t speak much anymore.

Sure, there were still times when they did eat dinner together, or times when Grian seemed to be feeling okayish and they could watch a movie or something, but…

They would never talk.

Never.

Not even about the most mundane things – they would just sit in silence, as if that somehow meant that everything between them, everything that had happened over these long few months was just fine. As if that somehow could replace the conversations they used to have.

Each time they sat at the table, Mumbo felt like screaming.

Each time Grian showed up late, Mumbo wished that he could get Grian to understand, make Grian see that he had to at least try.

Each time he woke up to see Grian in his apartment, he wished that he could just turn back time.

The desperation felt as if it was gnawing on his bones.

Mumbo was so tired of it all, he was so tired of the fact that this wasn’t the first time they'd been there. He was so, so tired, and he needed desperately for something to change.

He had realised something, as he let quiet nights suffocate him, as he let Grian in through the front door over and over again.

Mumbo had realised something.

He knew that there was only one way to change the way things had become. To get out of the situation they're in.

They had to talk about what they did.

They had to talk about how Grian needs help, how Grian needed to realise that he needs help.

The conversation could go two ways, realistically: it could make things better, or it could make things worse. There was no in between, no room to move – of that, Mumbo was certain.

Grian might listen to Mumbo, or he might not.

Mumbo knew that they had to have the conversation, not just for Grian's sake, but for his own as well, and he felt terrified.

He didn’t want to lose Grian, but he couldn’t keep doing this.

This wasn’t healthy. Not for him, not for Grian.

He didn’t want to have the conversation.

He really didn’t.

But then he heard someone opening the door, and he realised that he had to. Before it was too late.

Maybe it already was.

#grian #mumbo jumbo #grumbo #hermitshipping #ariana griande #take my tea with formaldehyde (grumbo fic)#tmtwf

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logosbot-tm-fics · 1 year

Text

Jesus christ this took far too long holy hell. Anyway, new chapter is posted, feel free to check it out. (ps. the tags have changed a bit, and it will apply to future chapters.)

Take My Tea With Formaldehyde

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Chapter 6: Feeling Light Headed

(More beneath the cut)

"– so, Ariana, you have a reputation of being the very best at avoiding the paparazzi– and it certainly seems to be true! I just have to ask; how do you do it?" The talk show host asked, leaning against the table in front of him and flashing a dazzling, perfect smile.

Ariana laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder in a practised manner. "Oh, let's just say that I have a few tricks," she replied, a mischievous smile on her face.

The talk show host raised his eyebrows exaggeratedly, giving him an expression like a cartoon character. "A few tricks?” He inquired, a strained smile on his face. Everything about him seemed fake; ingenuine and rehearsed. “Could I… maybe hear some of them?"

Ariana laughed again, shaking her head as she leaned back. "Unfortunately not,” she giggled, “If I tell you, then the paparazzi will know how to find me!"

She tilted her head innocently to the side, reaching across the table to pat the host on the hand, "But maybe I can tell you in the break."

The audience cheered, as if they'd get to hear anything at all.

"Oh, that does sound promising!" The host exclaimed cheerfully, moving his hand away from Ariana's. "Now, I recently heard that your new album is–"

Grian had fallen into a downward spiral again.

At this point, it was something Mumbo could see clear as day. If you were to ask him, he’d sit you down and point out all the little things. He’d point out the way that Grian started to put a lot less effort into his clothes, and he could see how Grian's makeup was becoming gradually messy.

Part of him felt disappointed, he'd hoped that after their conversation things would change for the better, that Grian would actually try.

But… the other half wasn't surprised. It seemed like they were stuck in a loop, that Grian would always fall back down.

If Mumbo was completely honest, he wasn't exactly sure what had triggered the sudden decline. Sure, he hadn’t known before either, but he felt like he should know this time. After all, he had been there for the beginning.

He knew that this sudden spiral had happened after a conversation in his kitchen that had happened just a few days before. He knew that it must have something to do with that.

After all, it was the very next day that Grian began behaving strangely.

As Mumbo tried to recall the details of the conversation, he couldn’t stop himself from being scared. He was so frightened, almost terrified that it was his fault. That Grian was doing badly again all because of him.

He couldn’t remember what they had been talking about, not really. All he could really remember was seeing Grian's expression flickering through emotions – a flash of surprise which turned quickly to confusion, then to something akin to realisation.

He couldn’t remember what he had said– God, how he wished that he could remember. The more he thought about it, the more frustrated he got. It had to have been something he'd said. What else could it have been? It had to have been his fault.

He remembered that Grian had been doing the dishes, promptly dropping the plate that he'd been holding as Mumbo said something to him. He'd seemingly not even realised that he'd dropped it, not until it was crashing against the kitchen floor, shattering into shards that flew around the room like daggers.

Slowly, Grian’s face had dawned into something vacant, the realisation of… something sinking in as they stood facing each other silently. Grian stared down at the shards on the floor blankly, a hint of…concern, perhaps, painted on his features.

That's what Mumbo thought it might have been, but really he couldn't tell.

Before Mumbo could break the silence, Grian had spoken hoarsely.

"I have to go,” he murmured. “I have things to do."

His voice was somehow monotone and uncomfortable all at once, something strained and carefully blank as he grabbed his coat. He then left Mumbo's apartment, not even bothering to text Mumbo about why he left.

Mumbo was far too used to feeling confused, to being left behind like that. He had stood in the kitchen for a while, uselessly staring down at the shattered plate, as if it held all the answers he didn't have.

Eventually, he managed to pull his gaze away from it. He grabbed a brush and dustpan, kneeling down to clean up the pieces of the plate, trying his best to avoid getting hurt.

Whatever the conversation had been, the effects that it had on Grian were stark. Slowly, Mumbo started to notice changes in his behaviour. They happened little by little, but were piling up enough that they felt shocking and out of character. They felt drastic, even if, to an outsider, they perhaps weren't.

Sure, Grian had experimented a lot with fashion, with wearing things against the norm, like makeup and skirts. But… it felt different now. As if the clothes served some other purpose. As if they held more meaning than Mumbo could ever understand.

It was as if he was trying to express something he wasn’t yet saying, like he was trying to subtly hint at those around him without uttering a single word.

Most days, Grian wore a skirt or makeup. He dressed up a little, put a little more time into his appearance.

Some days, he wore neither, content with something more casual and typical.

Other days were the ones that stood out most to Mumbo, however. His clothes weren’t necessarily too different, they weren’t extreme or eye-catching, but instead… they seemed like a camouflage. Like a shield. Those days, the clothes that Grian wore had nothing to do with whatever it was that he was trying to express. Instead, they seemed as if he was trying to desperately hide. On those days, Grian wore hoodies. He always seemed so uncomfortable, so closed up, and so deep within his mind.

Mumbo almost wanted to say that Grian appeared scared, yet it just didn’t seem right.

Those days, Mumbo constantly tried his best to keep Grian out of his head. He tried to distract him in every way he could think of – making way too much tea, starting up his Wii to play Mario Kart, asking if Grian wanted to stay over for dinner.

He’d only once made the mistake of playing one of Ariana’s shows. It had definitely been a mistake. Something about it had caused Grian to close up even more, he had pulled up his knees and played with the strings to the hoodie, eyes foggy as he looked pointedly away from the screen.

Mumbo had turned the TV off immediately.

Since that day, he’d never, not even once, tried to use them as a distraction again.

Even so, he’d seen that pained reaction from the other a few times. On a couple of more notable occasions, Mumbo had been watching the shows when Grian had entered the apartment, and his discomfort was immediate. Grian looked pained, nauseous even, and excused himself to use the bathroom straight away. Whenever he was done – something that could take mere moments or twenty minutes – Grian would step out of the bathroom, and the TV would always have been switched to a movie.

It happened too often for comfort, Grian walking in on Mumbo rewatching the concerts and becoming distressed. He didn’t want that, he didn’t want his apartment to stop being somewhere safe, so Mumbo stopped watching the videos.

He didn't want Grian to show up when they were on, he didn’t want Grian to be upset by them. This meant that instead of enjoying the shows together, they had started to watch movies on Fridays.

And whenever Grian was having an off day, Mumbo would let him pick the film.

Mumbo was at Impulse's place for a casual hangout.

Originally the plan was for Tango to join them as well, but he'd gotten preoccupied so, well, it was just the two of them.

It didn't matter much. Whilst Mumbo did enjoy meeting Tango as well, he was significantly closer with Impulse and he sometimes got exhausted when hanging out with more than one person at the time. Besides, it wasn’t like there wouldn’t be other opportunities for the three of them to hang out at a later date.

It felt nice to be actually talking to someone, Mumbo couldn’t help but think.

Iskall had been far too busy lately, presumably as they tried to not get fired, and Grian was difficult to talk to, pulling away and hardly responding in conversation.

Grian just didn't say much anymore, and Mumbo couldn't really talk about his concerns to him.

As he explained this to Impulse, venting his frustration at not understanding why Grian behaved the way he did, Impulse asked, "So… he's been acting really weird, lately?"

"Yeah, he’s been– off? Odd? I don’t know, and I just– I can't wrap my head around why," Mumbo stuttered, trying to put everything into words as best he could.

It felt nice to talk to Impulse, as if he was talking to an older brother he never had.

"I mean, I hate to say it, but isn't strange just… his normal?" Impulse shrugged, making a curious noise.

Mumbo bit his lip. "No– I mean… yes, it is, but not like this,” he sighed weakly. “It’s never been like this before. Everything is just– it's far too wrong."

Impulse looked thoughtful, thinking for a moment before he responded, "Maybe you just should try to ask him, Mumbo. Try to figure it out that way, rather than trying to detective your way to the answer."

It was a frustrating suggestion, one which Mumbo tried to rationalise as best he could – it’s not like Impulse knew just how frigid things were between them, it’s not like he had seen the same side to Grian than Mumbo had recently. Really, Mumbo knew that asking for advice wouldn't change anything, but it was all just… so much to bear on his own.

"I would, if I could,” he started, trying to keep his tone steady. “Believe me, I’ve tried. He'd just say that he's fine, and force the conversation to move on– he’s trying to avoid talking about it like I’ve never seen before."

"Then I really have no advice to give," Impulse stared at him sympathetically. "Maybe you should just wait instead? I mean, it seems like the only option."

"Yeah. You're probably right," Mumbo replied, his mind whirring at the lack of conclusion. He had no idea what to do, and nor did anyone else. It just seemed like there… wasn’t an answer. Like there wasn’t a way for them to move past this without it blowing up in their faces.

As much as Mumbo hated it, Impulse was right. He couldn't really do much other than wait.

Wait and see if Grian would say something.

Just like that, the topic was dropped, and their conversation moved on.

Mumbo woke up in cold sweat, his chest heaving.

Something had woken him, something big– it was as if a very important puzzle piece suddenly had fallen into place. All because of one thing.

He remembered the conversation.

He remembered what it was about, what he had said, and yet he still struggled to understand.

They'd been in Mumbo's kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. Mumbo had been putting the leftovers into plastic containers, throwing away what couldn't be saved. Grian had been doing the dishes.

The domesticity had felt so normal. It was the most normal anything had been between them in ages. It felt light, like a deep breath of fresh air.

"So, I met up with Iskall a few weeks ago," Mumbo mentioned, as Grian was scrubbing a plate. He'd been scrubbing it for a while, and the food still didn't want to come off, "And they told me that–"

"Wait, they? Who's they?" He asked, turning to face Mumbo with a confused look on his face, the sponge and plate still in hand.

"Oh, I just mean Iskall. They told me that they're using those pronouns now," Mumbo shrugged.

"Oh," Grian said, eyebrows furrowed as if it was the first time he was hearing of this.

Mumbo paused, the reaction being different than what he'd expected, "They hadn’t told you yet?" He asked cautiously. He'd just assumed that Iskall had, it wasn’t the sort of thing that they would hide. In fact, they were usually open with those things.

"No, h-they haven't told me. I–" Grian's eyebrows were still furrowed. His face was scrunched, as if he was trying to force himself to remember if they had told him or not "–at least I'm pretty sure that they haven't…"

"Odd,” Mumbo responded carefully. “Maybe they just forgot."

Though Mumbo couldn't lie, that didn't really feel like Iskall. Iskall was so comfortable around people, and would immediately tell someone something. They rarely, if ever forgot to update the people around them on life events in general – nevermind something as important as this. There had to be another reason.

"Yeah. Maybe," Grian responded, but it didn't seem like he really believed that explanation either. Even so, he didn't comment further.

"Well… maybe just, instead of asking them, it might be better to wait until they tell you?" Mumbo said, beginning to put the stack of containers into the fridge.

When Grian nodded in reply, Mumbo felt relieved. He didn't know what else to say. It was silent for a second, and the topic was dropped. No point in talking more about it.

"So, anyway..." Mumbo started, slightly awkwardly as he tried to steer the conversation back to the original topic. He waited a second, and when Grian didn't make a move to stop him, he continued. "... They said that–" Mumbo kept talking, but as the conversation went on, he couldn't help but notice Grian's change in behaviour.

The air in the room felt weird, and Grian went from giving full replies to just answering with simple, one-word answers. He seemed to be lost in thought, zoning out completely to the goings on around him.

He scrubbed at the plate in his hands absentmindedly. It definitely had to be clean by that point.

Mumbo wondered what was going through his mind, what had changed in that short time, but every possibility led him nowhere. He couldn’t figure it out.

Then suddenly, he watched as Grian's face morphed to surprise, then confusion, before settling on realisation.

He didn't say anything. Grian didn't even seem to realise that he'd backed away from the sink. He didn't seem to notice that he had dropped the plate.

Not until it smashed against the floor.

Mumbo stared in shock at the broken plate, at the shards that were spread on the floor.

"Grian?" He carefully asked, but there was no response.

Grian's expression had yet again changed, transforming into something absent and vacant. He stared wordlessly at the shards, something dark and unrecognisable passing behind his eyes.

A few seconds passed, and then Grian spoke. "I… I have to leave," he said, his voice strangely montone as he backed away from the broken plate, stepping over the scattered shards carelessly, "I just remembered that I have something to do."

He backed quickly out of the kitchen, grabbed his coat and bag on the way, and fled out of the front door just as suddenly as everything that had happened before.

It wasn't until the door slammed shut behind him that Mumbo realised he had actually left. He– what? What had just happened? Why did things like this keep happening?

Mumbo stood in the kitchen alone for a few long minutes, contemplating the shards on the floor, wondering if they knew any of the answers that he was looking for. He sighed, deciding to clean up the pieces of the plate, and left to grab the dustpan and brush.

As he cleaned up the shards, he didn't even think about the conversation, too focused on the aftermath instead.

Now, awake in the middle of the night, Mumbo realised that maybe he should've tried to focus on their conversation, on the things that they had said in the lead up to such a disaster.

Mumbo sat upright in bed for a while, calming his pulse as he tried to understand why such a simple conversation had brought out such a big reaction. How it had changed Grian's behaviour.

The fact that Iskall hadn't yet come out to Grian had clearly been a bother, but for what reason? Mumbo couldn't say.

Something about Iskall, about their coming out, had somehow triggered something for Grian. It had somehow changed Grian's perception of something else.

Mumbo couldn't understand what it was. It seemed so unrelated, so detached from their actual conversation, like whatever Grian’s revelation was didn't actually have anything to do with Iskall. Instead, it seemed connected to Grian's idea of himself.

Even if the reaction had come after Mumbo had used different pronouns for Iskall, a part of him doubted that it actually had to do with that in any way. The reaction had taken a while, and the conversation had changed paths.

Maybe it had to do with the fact that Mumbo spoke about Ariana? That would explain why Grian seemed uncomfortable whenever he saw her- it explained something more than the "Iskall explanation" could, at least.

Mumbo bit his nails, trying to figure it out. Some things linked up, whilst others just didn't, and half of it just made no sense at all. He felt as if he was holding onto the puzzle piece that would make everything make sense, but the rest of the pieces had been hidden from view. This piece alone didn't make sense to him, he couldn’t put everything together when there was no puzzle to construct.

He sighed, checking the time.

3AM

He really should get back to sleep, he had work in the morning and he didn't want to show up feeling exhausted.

… There was something else that he had to do first.

He got out of bed, pulled his dressing gown over his pyjamas, and shuffled tiredly to the living room. He looked at the posters of Ariana that were on the walls, the CDs with her music in the cabinet, the DVDs with recordings of her shows on the shelf.

Slowly, his actions hindered by the comfortable pull of sleep, Mumbo began to remove the posters. He took them down one at a time, making sure to carefully roll up each one, before moving on to the next. Then, he began to remove the CDs from the cabinet, and lastly he gathered the DVDs from the shelf.

Everything was put in a pile in the centre of the couch, which Mumbo looked over for a second, before he began moving everything into his bedroom. It took a while to move it all, many stumbling trips made back and forth as he transported each item like it was made of gold. He put everything away in his room, hanging the posters on the walls and displaying the disc boxes on his dresser, and when it was finally done, Mumbo felt good.

He hadn't really considered doing this before, but it felt like a step in the right direction. If Grian reacted badly to Ariana's shows, then surely he didn't feel entirely comfortable around the posters. Sure, he hadn't said anything about the decor, but he also hadn't said anything about the shows, and Mumbo could tell that those were bothering him.

It was a small accommodation, but it made Mumbo glad to know that he was doing everything that he could to help.

The next time Grian came over, it was a bad day.

He had his baggy red hoodie on, the one with sleeves so long that you couldn’t see his fingers and a torso so oversized that you could barely make out his form. He said nothing as he stepped into the apartment, silently kicking off his shoes with a distant look in his eyes. Mumbo looked up from where he was sitting as Grian entered the kitchen. He'd been working on some stuff for work, and hadn't been expecting anyone to come over.

Oh well, he couldn’t really complain.

"Hey,” he greeted. “Want some tea?"

Grian scratched his neck. "Uh- sure," he said awkwardly.

Mumbo grabbed a red mug from the cupboard, one which Grian had used many times in the past, and poured some of the tea that he had already prepared for himself into it. Then, he added some honey and milk, handing it to Grian, who took it with a smile. The smile became just a little wider as Grian took a sip, and Mumbo could feel his heart pounding at the sight.

“I didn't know you were coming over,” Mumbo started, his tone conversational. “if I had, I would've made that flower tea you like instead."

Grian's face gained a bit more colour at Mumbo's words. He looked happier, more content, even if he still seemed to not feel the best.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Mumbo grinned in response. "I was working, but since you're here, I might as well take a break," Mumbo said, grabbing his own tea cup and starting towards the living room. "Any ideas what we could do?"

"Uh… we could– we could watch Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind? I haven't really seen it in a while, I’ve been meaning to rewatch it, and yeah it's kinda sad, but–"

Grian's voice stuttered in his throat when they stepped into the room.

The furniture was still there, but it was the first time Grian saw it without the Ariana Griande merch in a long, long while. He looked at Mumbo as if he was asking where everything had gone, his mouth opening and closing like he didn’t have the words.

"Oh, I just felt like it was getting cluttered," Mumbo waved him off. He didn't want Grian to know the actual reason, just in case he was wrong. "Anyway– what were you saying? Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind?"

He looked over his shoulder at the lack of a response, curious as to why Grian had fallen silent, and the sight stopped him dead in his tracks.

Grian wasn't listening to a word that had been said. Instead, he was looking slowly around the room, tears welled in his eyes. Mumbo’s heart panged in his chest as worries began to flood his mind. Had he done the wrong thing? Should he have kept the posters up? Would've that been better?

"Grian?" Mumbo asked carefully, "Are you okay?"

"What?" Grian said, half absentmindedly as he finally looked back towards Mumbo. "Oh- yeah, fine. Just fine."

He cleared his throat, blinking rapidly to clear the tears from his eyes as his left hand batted the air, as if trying to wave away the fact that he'd been staring. "Yes, I– I want to watch that movie. Please."

Mumbo didn't believe him for a second, but there was more life shining in Grian’s eyes than he had seen all day, so he decided to not push it further. Grian looked a lot more comfortable, suddenly fitting easily into the surroundings like he belonged there, so Mumbo guessed that removing the posters and stuff had been the right move. He smiled to himself softly, a warm pride sitting in his chest.

They sat down together on the couch, their knees knocking together as Mumbo reached for the remote, the pair of them chatting all the while. After Mumbo had found the movie, settling into the comfortable couch pillows, Grian leaned over, pressing himself into Mumbo’s side.

Soon, Grian began to try to move Mumbo's arm. "What are you doing?" Mumbo laughed, as Grian struggled to lift it.

"Shut up," he pouted.

Mumbo casually lifted his arm, putting it around Grian's shoulders. "Better?" He asked.

"Significantly," Grian smiled, taking Mumbo's hand in his.

Mumbo smiled back, trying to relax. He hoped that the heat blooming in his cheeks wasn’t noticeable… goodness, he hoped that Grian couldn’t feel the racing of his heartbeat.

Sure, it had stung to take down all the posters. Sure, he didn't really like the fact that he had to hide away the things that made him happy. But when he looked at Grian – his small, hoodie-swamped frame curled up and tucked into Mumbo’s side, seeming content despite the fact that he still didn't seem entirely comfortable – it felt worth it.

Mumbo knew that he'd give Grian the whole world, if it meant that Grian would be happy.

And, well, who's to say that it's anything good?

#yes this is a repost #couldn’t edit the old post #grian #hermitblr #mumbo jumbo #grumbo #hermitcraft #hermitshipping #ariana griande #take my tea with formaldehyde (grumbo fic)#tmtwf

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