#Double life fic

[birrdies]

you awake?

some art for a boat boys au im working on… its hard to describe what exactly it is, but its based on the show ‘WAYNE’ if any of you have seen it.

Joel lost count of the days once they passed D.C. He should’ve kept a book or something—hell, he could’ve found a sharpie and scrawled some tallies on his palm— but it was hard track of time when all you really wanted was to outrun it. But as the sun set, slivers of a dreary dusk streaming in the windows, Joel was trapped in it. But this time, he didn’t mind so much.

Etho’s head was a dead weight on his shoulder. The rumble of the car engine kept lulling the both of them to sleep, but Joel fought. Just in case. Just to count the breaths against his collarbone. Those, he could count. Passing days didn’t matter anymore— this did. Here and now, the road ahead of them, did.

[tunastime]

if you’re still doing the comfort prompts, maybe knowing each other’s tells with boat boys or ranchers? :]

knowing each others' tells (681 words) (x)

Etho isn't used to the Relation being silent. It's the kind of quiet that holds tension in the hollows of it, one he's always been afraid to step too loudly into. He's used to sound, Joel rustling and pacing, talking to the air as they weaved plans, speaking to Etho from across the deck of the ship like he could hear him from below. But as Etho climbs the ladder and swings himself onto the deck, the ship is quiet, save for the steady thud of his pulse in one ear, and the quickening beat of Joel's behind his other ear. He runs his tongue over his teeth as he makes his way down into the belly of the ship. 

Joel is pacing where he usually does, making his track across the wooden floors like he might wear a dent into it. Etho watches the tight line of his shoulders for a beat, eyes tracking the huff of his breathing as he folds his arms over his chest. It takes a moment of surveying for Etho to make his conclusions, and by the time he's stepped forward, Joel has stopped to track him with his eyes. If they knew each other any less, if Etho were any less, strangely, fond of him, it might be scary, the way Joel freezes, dark eyes tracking his movements with a precision only known by predators hunting prey. Something could be said about persistence and hunger and teeth that could bite, but Etho isn't worried about Joel. He knows trapped animals well enough. So he picks his way around the room and starts to piece the problem together. 

"It was Scar, wasn't it?" Etho asks. He's not looking at Joel—he's busy digging through a chest, looking for the other axe he'd made. Joel makes some kind of choppy noise. "You had a good trap idea for later, said it too loud around Grian, and now you're worried Scar might try it just for fun and get them killed?"

"I'm not worried about Grian," Joel says. Joel lies. His voice squeaks. Etho stifles a laugh.

"Okay," he says. Joel makes another noise, and Etho ignores him. "Why don't we make the plan before they get to?"

"I thought you said traps were a waste of time,” Joel says pointedly, dragging his tongue over his teeth. He tries to contort his face into one of disbelief before Etho can catch the fact that Joel is into his plan whole-heartedly.

Etho holds up his hands, still not looking at him.

"I think you're misinterpreting."

“No,” Joel argues. “I’m pretty sure that’s what you said.”

When Etho looks over, there’s a light in Joel’s eye that Etho takes as his hint that he’s been successful in convincing him, despite attempting an argument. A tiny spark of excitement. That slight flicker of recognition, of understanding. Seeing a little of himself in Etho. A tell.

They sit together in the bright afternoon sun, mostly quiet, partially humming and nodding and pointing. Joel follows Etho’s rough sketches with his eyes, mouth curled down. It’s not in disregard, but quiet contemplation. Etho pauses halfway, listening to the double beating of hearts in his ears, waiting for any dissent from his partner. Joel doesn’t say anything, though. He shifts closer, folding his legs. The little shimmer of recognition and pride has grown flame-bright in Joel’s eyes as excitement and anticipation takes over. He feels the phantom tug of unclaimed emotions in his chest—Joel’s, not his—as Joel nods. Their hearts thump away excitedly in Etho’s ears, now in sync.

The only other time Etho sees that flicker of something in Joel's eyes is when he follows him through that nether portal. He feels Joel's grip on his hand grow to a fierce, painful thing as he turns, breath caught in his throat as he tries to shove them both back through. The words are muddled in Etho's memory, but the guilt is clear in his eyes. Guilt, fear, and that flicker.

Maybe it wasn’t just understanding.

Etho doesn’t forget that look for a long time.

[canarydarity]

(haha happy new year! Heres 6K words of DL ranchers fighting 🤩 [ao3]) dull&slow

There was no feeling like a respawn; it was like jumping off of a building with nothing below to catch you, only to discover you had in fact been fastened into a harness when the bungee cord snapped taut. Except, it also wasn’t like that at all, because the mechanics of respawning—regardless of permanence—did nothing to curb the feeling of death, the actual sensation of dying. All it really did was remove the relief that one might experience had death been final, for what is death but a merciful release from pain? 

Jimmy imagined that there were few things that could even begin to feel like what a respawn did—the simultaneous cracking of all your joints at once in a manner akin to a human glow stick; ice cream that had been left out on the counter to melt but was then shoved back into the freezer again after only making it to that indescribably viscous stage between solid and liquid; a jam in a paper shredder—the kind where half of the page is relieved and sticking out of the top, completely intact and fine, while the rest is in ribbons below, still warm to the touch at the recent dismemberment. 

And that was only the physical aspect—the violent draw of your subconscious from the brink of death to perfect health mid-panic was something else entirely. It never got any easier, no matter how many times he did it (and Jimmy did it a lot). 

This was their second respawn, but it was different in the way that it happened unlike it did the first time: together. It was new but not unexpected to shoot up in bed at the ranch, cows mooing to his left and moonlight peaking through the window to his right. Jimmy heaved some breaths in and out; logically, he knew he was fine, but his body remembered the vertigo of falling. 

Tango was next to him, still lying back in their small bed staring at the ceiling. 

For a few beats, they were quiet, they caught their breath. The buzz of the cicadas outside was heavy in a way, droning alongside the cacophony of cows and the muted clucks of chickens from below ground. 

When his eyes began to itch and dry out from staring at nothing and his heaving sounded more like huffing, Jimmy broke the silence first. 

“I was leanin’ over the edge…why was I leaning over the edge?” His words were incredulous and barely there, only formed enough to actually get them out of his mouth but not any further. Had Tango not been right next to him, he probably wouldn’t have heard. 

Tango sat up, “Jim, hey–hey!” One of Tango’s hands reached behind Jimmy and settled on his shoulder, the other moved across himself to settle on Jimmy’s arm. “It’s okay! It’s only our second life, it was bound to happen sooner or la—”

Jimmy blinked out of his daze to realize Tango was soothing him; It was not shocking in the way it hadn’t happened before—it had actually, in fact, happened quite often—but in the way it was happening now. the combination of noises pushing in all around the ranch, having just lived through dying, again, and Tango’s warmth that he would’ve appreciated any other time, made it all immediately too much. Tango was soothing him—Tango misunderstood. 

It was instinct to throw Tango’s arm off of him, to scatter, to stand and create distance, and had Jimmy been in the right state of mind he would’ve explained that and apologized, but Tango’s shocked offense was the last thing he was focusing on. 

“No, you—why was I leaning over the edge?” 

It was the only thought that had run through his head since he’d woken up and stopped feeling like an egg mid-scramble. Not worry about being on red life, not concern about having been the one to return the favor of killing Tango this time, not upset that things were shaping up like they always did. 

Tango wasn’t necessarily wrong to assume that that’s where Jimmy’s thoughts had gone, as that’s usually where they would have. But this was not Jimmy when he was anxious, when he was guilty; This was Jimmy when he was mad.

He was pacing, but he wasn’t aware when it had started. He was just—he couldn’t stop thinking about fish. Or—no, not fish, parasites; there was this parasite he’d heard about that matures in the eye of a fish but reproduces in the belly of a bird. Jimmy had heard this and thought what a stupid, impossible thing—and he’d thought he had shit luck.  

That was until he’d heard the rest. Under control of the parasite, infected fish swim closer and closer to the surface of the water, leading it to be spotted and picked up by a bird; the parasite ends up where it needed to be all along, and that damned stupid fish is what gets it there. It doesn’t know what it’s doing, it’s not choosing to swim near the surface—by that point, the parasite is choosing for it—but it’s still— 

It just—

The fish gets itself eaten, essentially. The scariest part, Jimmy thought, was that he wasn’t sure the fish even knew. Was it aware it had been infected? Or was it swimming up and up and up and thinking what the fuck am I doing? Was it resting precariously below the surface, watching in fear as the birds circle, knowing all it had to do to avoid being eaten was swim the fuck back down, but for some reason, it just couldn’t?

Jimmy just—why was he leaning over the edge? His hands were wrapped around his stomach, griping his sides, hard. His teeth were grinding together, or he was biting his lip, or he was mumbling nonsense that even he didn’t know what meant. 

The floorboards of the ranch creaked and groaned with his pacing, and Tango remained watching from the bed, his face still painted in confusion. 

A noise—something caught between a whine and a grumble—worked its way out of Jimmy's throat, and more words came with it.  

“I saw them with their bows and arrows out—Joel, Etho, Scott—and I—” He shook his head. “We’d have been fine if I just didn’t peak my head over!” 

Jimmy turned back to Tango and pointed at him; Tango blinked, but the accusation delivered wasn’t for him. “And they weren’t even shooting at Grian, at—why weren’t they shooting at anyone else?”

Tango shook his head a little, opened his mouth to reply, but Jimmy wasn’t done. “I don’t understand—I don’t—” he grabbed at his hair and pulled; he bit into his lip again, not stopping when it started to hurt even though he knew Tango must’ve felt the ghost of it too. Jimmy rocked in place, “I even thought it. I thought ‘what are you leaning over the edge for, idiot!’ And then!” 

Jimmy spun, but no form of movement could match the direction of his thoughts, the restlessness of his mind. He felt like he was malfunctioning, every action begun and then subsequently aborted in favor of another; as if he could stop it all if he could just get himself to feel physically how he felt mentally, equilibrium a sort of saving grace. 

Jimmy hit himself in the head once like he could knock things back into place, fix whatever was loose in there–get the paper to start shredding again; in pieces, maybe, things would be okay. There was a call behind him of stop that, hey, none of that! and the bed creaked as Tango finally made the move to stand. 

“I don’t understand,” Jimmy mumbled again. They were inside, but his hair still felt the wind ruffle through it as though he were at high altitude; his hands touched nothing, but he could grip the hardwood of the defense tower all the same, rough and splintering. Joel and Etho had stood so far below, looking up, each with a hand up to their eyes to shield them from the sun. Jimmy remembered every detail about that moment—Grian had been leaning over right next to him. “Stupid parasite and it—why weren’t they shooting at anyone else? All I had to do was not lean over…”

Jimmy startled when Tango spoke again, he’d forgotten for a moment he wasn’t alone. 

“I don’t follow—parasite? What pa—”

Right, he wasn’t alone. 

“Gosh, and I’ve killed you, too, we’re–we’re red!” Jimmy said, facing Tango again. “And we’re back to nothing, we’ve lost everything—the horns, they’d have taken them by now, surely.” The anger from before seeped back into his voice, and Tango kept his space; a part of Jimmy felt bad at that, but he mostly felt validated. The guilt would come later, his chest didn’t house the room to feel so many things at once. 

Though space didn’t mean Tango was willing to stay out of things completely. 

“Jimmy, just hold on, I can’t keep up.” Tango was clearly still thrown by the direction things had gone in—he’d been expecting to reassure, not pacify—but Jimmy didn’t have it in him to stop and explain. His hands out like he was corralling a feral animal, he said, “What are you even…? Slow down, alright.” 

And maybe that was the last straw—his soulmate, known for his rage, asking him to calm, to slow down; the stark contrast between the Tango standing in front of him—hands splayed, face confused but determined—and the Tango who’d needed to be restrained as the ranch smoldered behind them; the fact that it was Jimmy who was being looked at like a time bomb with not even 5 seconds left to spare. 

This time, the accusation was meant for Tango, and Jimmy watched him stumble a little in shock when he received it. He threw his hand out like he’d needed that extra strength to pull the question from him, like his throat wasn’t up for the challenge alone, like he had to prove this was something he wanted to start and start now.  

“Why aren’t you mad?”

Tango’s face wound up with disbelief. “What?” 

Jimmy’s voice wasn’t made to be raised, but he gave it his best effort. It hurt, in a way—his throat not used to the coarse delivery; it hurt more for the fact that he’d made Tango the object of its direction. 

“You’re sitting here, and you’re calm,” he spat. “And—and you’re telling ME to be calm! Me!” Jimmy huffed again at the ridiculousness of the entire situation. “Why aren’t you mad?”

This time as Jimmy spoke, Tango wound down; he visibly CTRL+ALT+DLT-ed, a total system shutdown reboot. His hands dropped back to his sides and he stood up straighter. His face reset until he was just blankly watching Jimmy sputter and steam. He was still in a way Tango rarely was.

Jimmy thought it was the most un-Tango-like thing he’d ever seen, and that just made things worse. 

“Because it was going to happen either way, I could’ve just as eas—” its delivery was flat, like Tango knew he was stepping off of a bear trap but onto a landmine; though he did it anyway, and in most circumstances, his dedication to the idea of if at first you don’t succeed! was something Jimmy found endearing. If it wasn’t clear enough already, this was not most circumstances. 

Jimmy made a noise of dissent. This wasn’t—

“No, not—that’s not what I meant.”

A few beats of silence. They argued with the awkward hesitation of two people who’d never fought before and therefore didn’t know the procedure; neither of them had had time to memorize their lines. Fight was something they didn’t do—partially because they hadn’t been together long enough to garner the need, and partially because they got along with a simplicity they hadn’t expected. There was a question in this lapse between one comment and the next, an are we really going to do this?  

Tango blinked at Jimmy. “You don’t mean why am I not mad at you?” 

It would’ve been an easy out if he had. A way to walk them back to familiar ground—the kind where Jimmy was apologetic and guilty and anxious and Tango was steady and reassuring and kind. 

He couldn’t lie and say that wasn’t part of it; he was a liability, and he would never be over Tango being his collateral damage. 

He looked away from Tango, “Well—”

“Jimmy…” Pity was such an ugly, regretful thing. 

“No! No—yes, that’s not what I mean.” And it really wasn’t—at least, not at first, not completely. That was the undertone that would drive all his decisions and thoughts and feelings, it’s true, but this was different. This was—they’d died, Jimmy killed them, and Tango wasn’t upset about it; moreover, Tango was docile, passive. He was—

“Then I don’t understand what you’re asking me.”

—resigned. 

Jimmy didn’t yet look back, because he knew it would be his turn to talk when he did. All that he had to explain lacked the rationale to be said aloud; simply put, he was mad because Tango wasn’t. 

“You’re gonna have to give me something to go off of here, Jim.”

Eyes still fixed resolutely on the wall, Jimmy repeated the only sentiment he really could express at the time. “You’re not mad…” He let the end trail off, embarrassed it was all he had to offer, knowing it was unfair to Tango, knowing a normal person would’ve been able to voice more; just another way Jimmy fell behind. 

“At?”

“At anything!” He was discovering that when he did yell, his voice got high, and he tended to cut off the ends of his words. They shortened, got sucked up into the emotion until they weren’t letters anymore but sounds. “You’re—I had to restrain you, practically, after Scar burned down the ranch! And I wasn’t there, but I heard about last life and I—”

He felt like his sentences were being recorded in takes; start and stop, start—stop, mark! He would sound so much better edited together. He needed a script, surely he’d be able to say the right words had someone else given them to him. He’d do it right then, he knew. Of course arguing, too, was something he wasn’t good at.

Jimmy gestured at Tango, “You’re not mad, at anything, you’re just standin’ here! We’re going to die and it’s like you don’t even…like you’re not upset.” The final clause came out dejected and unsure; it sounded like it belonged to a completely different conversation. If he were reading lines, he’d likely receive notes about consistency and remaining in character. It was hard to do that when he wasn’t sure who he was or was ever supposed to be.

Tango looked no less confused. “That’s how the game works, Jimmy—we’re all going to die at some point.”

“I know that, Tango, I know.” Jimmy bit his lip. “How are you just okay with it?”

Tango’s eyebrows raised in shock, the kind that spoke to his questioning the audacity of something. “Well, I’m not happy about it, bu—”

“You are, though.” 

Eyes narrow, frustration finally starting to seep in, Tango said: “No, I’m not.”

“You are!” This felt more tantrum than argument; more whining about not getting his way than making a point about having been wronged; he wasn’t really sure he had been wronged. At least, not by Tango. But he didn’t know how to rewind, he didn’t think there was a going back. 

“Damnit, Jimmy, I’m not. You think I want to lose this?” 

No, Jimmy didn’t—and that’s why he was so confused. 

“Then why aren’t you angry that’s what I don’t…” This line of questioning wasn’t going to work—he’d already discovered that again and again. He needed to figure out a different direction to head in. “Even now I’m yellin’ at you and you’re just there.”

“So now you’re mad because I’m not yelling at you?” Annoyance, frustration, irritation—they were close, but none of them were what Jimmy wanted. Or—not what he wanted but what he needed. People were mad at him far too often for him to crave it in this uncommon time when no one was, but he needed to know Tango was with him on this.

“No, Tango!” Jimmy whined.

“Well you’re not explaining anything, what am I supposed to think? That’s what it sounds like you’re saying to me!” His voice finally at an above-normal volume, Jimmy shrunk; reality wasn’t ever quite like expectation, was it? The simultaneous relief mixed with the guilt, and everything got worse; he thought maybe that’d been his goal all along, he could see it now that it had occurred. And yet, it wasn’t right; sure, Tango was mad—but he still didn’t get it. Tango kept rambling.

“You’re mad that I’m not mad, and you say it’s not about you, but then you’re also mad I’m not yelling at you—which I have yet to figure out, by the way, and—” 

Following Tango’s wild hand gestures, Jimmy’s eyes landed on their wall of chests, and he knew what he needed to do. He scooted past Tango, who turned to keep facing him, and started rooting around until he found what he was looking for. 

“Oh, and you’re ignoring me too, now, which is neat,” Tango said to his back.

He’d wrapped it in a bundle of spare wool hoping that bed made they wouldn’t need much else and Tango wouldn’t find it on accident, but he pulled it out now and turned back to face Tango gripping it in his hand.

His soulmate shut up immediately, his gaze first on Jimmy’s hand, and then up at his eyes. 

“Where did you get that.” The anger was finally there, but Jimmy didn’t immediately respond. “Why do you have that?”

The golden apple was cold in his hand, colder than he thought it should have been. It glowed slightly in the darkness of the ranch, a yellow hue that spread out in a dim radius; he had the bizarre thought that it would've made a good nightlight had it not been illegal. Jimmy had always been a bit scared of the dark (he’d been pleased, then, when the game had started and he found that his soulmate glowed just the same). He didn’t need the apple sitting on the lid of their chests to provide light—not so long as he had Tango; how ironic then that he only got both or none, that consuming—and therefore getting rid of—the apple would rid him of Tango, too. 

Jimmy didn’t want to be left alone in the dark, but that was sort of why he looked back at Tango and he said, “I think you should eat it.”

“No.” It was both a response and an expression of disbelief rolled into one; a no, this conversation is not happening, not now, and a no way in hell is that thing getting anywhere near my mouth. The stillness was back, but it was more dangerous this time; less resigned, more preparing to strike.

Jimmy repeated himself, lifting his arm and holding the apple between them as he did. “Tango, you should eat it.”

“No.” Tango shook his head. “Jimmy, I said no.” 

“Why not?”

“Why not?” A sardonic, humorless laugh made its way out of Tango, and Jimmy flinched at the sound; a broken echo of their usual selves. “This is a joke, right? There’s something here that I’m missing that makes this all super-happy-funny and we’ll laugh about it in 5 minutes.”

“I’m serious, Tango.”

His hands on his hips, Tango nodded at Jimmy as he said, “you are.” It was deceptively compliant, mockingly understanding. Jimmy was misled often enough in conversation to recognize when he was being set up, but he hadn’t quite yet learned the skill of letting things go; he walked again and again through a door labeled trap! which was how he knew he was doing it now. 

“Yes...” 

“Serious-serious, you’re seriously asking me why I don’t want to eat a golden apple.” Tango doubling down, Tango continuing to misunderstand, the fact that Jimmy couldn’t blame him for any of it, the feeling of everything at once, and the knowledge that all was out of his control; he felt his eyes well up with tears of frustration. 

“That’s what I just said...” Dejected, a clown waiting for the punchline—waiting for others to laugh at his expense; setting up joke after joke, forgetting what it was like to not provide the entertainment. 

“Well I just wanted to confirm before I informed you that that’s the stupidest question I’ve ever been asked in my entire life.” It was at this point that Jimmy let out a breath, and a tear fell with it. “Like, wow it’s almost an accomplishment how stupid that question is.”

“Tango…” He’d plead but he knew he didn’t have the right—not in this conversation of his own devising. It wouldn’t be a lie to say he didn’t know how they got here, but it wouldn’t be the truth either. 

“Really! I’d make you a ribbon to commemorate and everything if we had literally anything to our name at all.”

Catching the opportunity to jump back in, Jimmy took it. “Okay, that—that’s my point.” 

“That I haven't offered to make you a rib—” 

Jimmy cut Tango off again before he could stuff the conversation with more nonsense in defense. “That we have nothing—have had nothing since we started!” 

It was more than just luck—it was design. There came a point where chance ended, a place coincidence didn’t reach. Jimmy had dwelled long enough in the space between unlucky and doomed to know that one was cyclic, intermittent, while the other was ceaseless, fixed. Luck would come and go, but damnation? That kind of fate had been here since before all of them, and would remain long after. 

The subject was taboo, but there wasn’t a single person on this server who was unaware that Jimmy was ill-fated. They poked and prodded him about it, but any level of seriousness to the conversation was buried under veiled laughter and slightly glassy eyes; the kind of sheen to a stare that said even if they tried, they couldn’t know what it was they talked about. To everyone else, Jimmy’s “curse” was a bit they’d overindulged in; to Jimmy, it was a burden he wasn’t allowed to acknowledge. They didn’t let him. 

He’d thought maybe…Tango was being forced to share it; maybe something would click; maybe they’d let him have this for just a few weeks. 

Jimmy didn’t think he could get any more stupid. 

The sarcasm remained equipped, defenses high. “Well, I’m sorry that you think I’m not doing enough to provide for you, Jimmy, bu—”

Jimmy groaned again. “Tango can you be serious for 2 minutes! 2 minutes, please!” 

“No!” Tango was looking at him in a way he never did; a look that conveyed I cannot believe you, the underlying sentiment of dismissal that hurt more for it coming from the only person who’d ever really listened to him without reservation.“You know what, no, I cannot. If you’re going to start a ridiculous argument you’re going to get ridiculous responses—you don’t like it, too bad.”

Jimmy had been involved in a lot of ridiculous arguments before—it came with being a reactive person; he existed with defenses always already half-raised, on high alert for anything that might make him the center of negative attention. 

But this wasn’t one of them. The ranch, Tango, soulmates—they were easily the most valuable things he’d ever had—and that was why he couldn’t have them. He was going to lose it—he was already losing it; it never hurt so much when he was the only thing he had. “Gosh, dont you get it?! There’s nothing we can do—nothing! I’m gonna kill us, you understand?”

It felt good to say it out loud, to watch Tango blink in the face of such bluntness. Somehow his shock betrayed his lucidity, and proved to Jimmy what he’d feared all along: Tango felt it too. 

And that made him circle all the way back to the beginning of this stupid roundabout conversation. Maybe he didn’t know it in so many words, having less time to experience it than Jimmy did but Tango knew—their time was running out; running out in a way it didn’t for anyone else playing these games; running out in a way Jimmy had—until now—never before been allowed to acknowledge. Tango knew. 

And Tango wasn’t mad. 

“Ugh, this is—this is childish, is what it is! I don’t…I can’t believe this is happening. This is—it’s madness.” What did they bother going in circles for if they were just going to end up right where they’d started?

“You’re the one trying to force feed me a golden apple,” Tango grumbled, eyebrows raised and face mocking as he looked at the cows. A few of them were standing against the fence staring back, mooing insistently; a strange audience for a strange night. 

“Because I’m sick of it, Tango!” He was, once again, not the right recipient of this complaint, but what else was Jimmy to do? Seasons of grief built up in one desperate conversation, it was becoming more a list of grievances than a call to action. “Of all of it! Of the jokes, of losing, of—of not being in control of anything, of dying—and you—”

“Me?” Tango huffed, interrupting. “Wow, tell me how you really feel, Jim.”

Jimmy shook his head and looked down, a dismissal; his answer immediate and unhesitant. “No, that’s not what I—” 

Sick of Tango—it wasn’t possible, but he saw in his hands that he still clutched the golden apple, and he was reminded again of all the ways in which he was dangerous; of the ways in which he was the heavy rock tied around Tango’s ankle, sinking slowly despite all efforts. He closed his eyes, tight, hard enough to hurt, and swallowed the bile in his throat. “You know what, yeah. I am.”

He looked up again to look at Tango, forcing himself to look determined, sure. “Yes, I’m sick of you.”

“Jimmy…” There was a warning there, but following warnings was never Jimmy’s strong suit. 

“I am!” He didn’t think there was much of a chance Tango would believe him, but he loved Tango enough that he owed it to him to try. “I’m sick of you and how calm you’re being. We’re losing everything, again, always and you’re just standin’ around and I’m sick of it, Tango.” 

Tango refused to answer, and Jimmy knew to be any convincing at all, he had to commit. 

“I’m sick of this place,” he gestured around the ranch, rebuilt since the fire but still nowhere near as advanced as the other bases on the server; they could try and try and try but they’d never reach that level; they couldn’t be allowed to have an actual chance. “and—and how we built it from nothing and it still didn’t matter. We weren’t even doing that bad, and we’re still losing, and I’m sick of that, too!” 

Tango standing still, Tango with his hands on his hips, Tango refusing to rise to the bait in Jimmy’s words. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe me? Fine, I’ll just keep going then.” He shrugged, undeterred, glancing around as if he wasn’t bothered—and his eyes landed on the cows in the corner, still watching them as if simply their being awake meant they’d be getting fed. Jimmy raised the arm with the golden apple, using it to point at them. “These stupid cows mooing all the time—the chickens—might as well just kill ‘em all now, 'cause they’re not going to matter either, are they? I’m over this place, and—and everyone else treating us like a joke.”

He looked back at Tango when he’d finished. “And I know you’re sick of it too, you are.”

“I’m not.” This, finally, was familiar ground—Jimmy projecting, Tango reassuring—but for once, Jimmy wished his anxiety proven right, he wished Tango would give in and admit that this wasn’t what he wanted—that Jimmy wasn’t what he wanted; not if it meant the absence of a fair chance.  

“You are, you have to be.” And it was somewhat like begging. Jimmy’s never begged someone to be sick of him before—he was usually pleading for the opposite; how backward, how wrong, everything in him screaming what are you doing?! No one else had ever treated him like Tango did. 

He sniffed once—as he was still crying—and kept listing things; the sort of fears it would kill him if Tango validated, but he said them anyway. If there was any chance it’d get Tango to eat the apple and be safe. 

“You’re sick of having to cater to me, right? Of having to answer a million questions and reassure.” Tango began to shake his head, but Jimmy ignored it and kept going, stepping closer to his soulmate. 

“And I bet you’re sick of losing, too. You don’t want to lose, Tango, not again, right?” It was a low blow, but Tango didn’t look hurt so much as he looked sad; he accepted Jimmy’s meanness as a product of his fear, and he curbed his offense to make room for the heartbreak. 

Figures that Jimmy starts a needless argument insulting Tango endlessly and was still the most pitied in the room. He didn’t know if it was a product of his selfishness or Tango’s altruism, but the effect remained the same. 

Within arms reach at last, Tango raised a hand but stopped it midway between them, unsure if breaching this distance was yet allowed. When Jimmy didn’t do anything about it, Tango lowered his hand until it rested on the front-facing part of Jimmy’s shoulder, eyebrows furrowed, not trusting that this was over.

Jimmy mirrored Tango with his own hand, feeling the warmth of Tango’s vest and above-average temperature below—the heat that’d been keeping him warm at night when they couldn’t splurge on extra blankets or were sleeping in a half-burned-down building or just because. He only allowed himself to feel it for a second before he pushed—not hard, but enough to make Tango take a step back, more because he wasn’t expecting it than due to force. 

“Come on,” Jimmy pled. “Fight back. Get mad, hit me.”

“I’m not going to hit you, Jimmy.”

Jimmy stepped forward and pushed again, both hands; not harder but more firm. “Fight back, Tango, come on.”

“No.” Tango’s face was scrunched together in the most vehement disagreement he could give, and, out of options—out of energy—Jimmy made another noise somewhere between a whine and a groan and raised his hands again, only for Tango to catch them this time and drag Jimmy closer; dropping his hands the second he was within holding distance, one of Tagno’s arms wrapped around him and the other cradled the back of Jimmy’s head as he pulled it down towards his shoulder. Their height difference made it difficult at first, but they’d been practicing for weeks. 

Jimmy went without protest, arms at Tango’s waist, screwing his eyes shut tight enough that he could almost pretend he didn’t hear the I’ve got you’s that he didn’t deserve but Tango was nonetheless whispering to the side of his head. He wanted to protest—or, no, he wanted to want to protest; to keep trying until Tango understood, until Jimmy screwed up enough that Tango got fed up and left the way anyone else would’ve done weeks ago, possibly just upon finding out they were paired. 

“You’re okay—we’re okay,” Tango said. “I’ve got you. We’re going to be okay,” hand steady on the back of Jimmy’s head, holding fast when he tried to shake it and express his opposition. Jimmy didn’t think that ‘okay’ had a place here, not for them, not anymore. 

They were on their last life now, he could feel the effects of being red thrumming through him, though they weren’t as much to blame for the damage he’d caused as he wished; this disaster, like most, was entirely Jimmy’s own. 

Still murmuring and offering reassurance, fingers of one hand still scratching through Jimmy’s hair, Tango used his other to gently pry the golden apple from Jimmy—no longer putting up a fight—and toss it away without looking until it rolled on the wood flooring through the gate of the cow pen. Jimmy watched, head still on Tango’s shoulder, as the cows shuffled around for the lobbed apple, mooing increasingly louder until, after a crunch or two, it was assumed no longer there. 

He felt more so than heard Tango clear his throat, the motion vibrating through Jimmy like a warning. “I am mad,” Tango whispered, voice only half-formed at the low volume. “I am,” he repeated, “don’t think I’m not.” His tone the kind of calm that only gave way to true anger. “But what can we do?”

Jimmy closed his eyes. He didn’t know. 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~

They’re in bed after, facing each other in the dark; Tango watching Jimmy, Jimmy watching their clasped hands between them. Tango’s thumb ran along the ridges and valleys of his knuckles, waiting for something, though he didn’t know what. In his mind, Jimmy was running through all he had to offer—the things he should say, the things he couldn’t voice—but what he kept getting stuck on was:

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” Tango said; not exasperated, not upset, just matter of fact. 

Jimmy raised his eyes to Tangos, shaking his head as much as he could while lying down, not willing to risk any more miscommunication, “I’m not sick of it here.” 

“I know, Jimmy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Shhh,” Tango pulled their joined hands until Jimmy scooted forward, head under Tango’s chin, all not forgotten but, at the moment, behind them. They were on their red life, after all—there were other things to worry about. 

Jimmy knew that the fact that Tango loved him shouldn’t be one of them, but when it was more than he wanted to live, it was. There was nothing he could do about it now. They would wake up in bed tomorrow and, maybe if they were lucky, the day after that—but there wouldn't be another respawn. They were out of time, out of options—this was it. 

Tango loved him, Tango wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t need to press his ear further into Tango’s chest to hear his heartbeat—not when it was an echo of his own—but he did it anyway and tried not to number the beats like a countdown, to assign them values and limitations. 

He squeezed Tango tighter, comfort disregarded; it was an offering where words had previously failed him, though there was no guarantee that his message would translate this way either. Physicality was another language Jimmy had never gained proficiency in—pretty much any method of communication verbal or non-verbal was—but he owed it to Tango to try. The trace of his fingers along Tango’s spine said I’m sorry, his breath on Tango’s chest whispered of how he’d spare Tango’s heart from his if he could; forehead to collarbone asked if things could still be normal tomorrow, since there was now a very real possibility that tomorrow was all they had. 

He didn’t bother interpreting the response, focus lost as Jimmy tried and failed not to drift away on the subliminal messaging of his own; that this was his loss, his failure, his fault. 

If he’d tried, maybe he’d have read the brush of Tango’s fingers through his hair as I don’t mind, the press of lips to the top of his head as reaffirming the deliberate choice being made—the decision to stay, to be a part of this. 

But he didn’t. Jimmy was stuck, and not at all like he had thought. Maybe he wasn’t the fish, maybe he was the parasite; the birds were circling and Jimmy could beg all he wanted, but Tango loved him. Tango wasn’t going to swim down. 

Tango wasn’t going anywhere.

[watcheraurora]

But For This? Absolutely

Actually writing the Ranchers on a ranch for once after my soul was consumed by the superhero/villain AU for so long. What a novel idea /s 4.5k words (Part 2)(Part 3)

—

A crash, a curse, and a yowling cat jarred Jimmy out of his thoughts where he'd been staring into the middle distance, finally taking a break. A speckled shape shot across the porch and disappeared into the wheat fields.

"Jimmyyyyy! Revenge got out again! He's heading for the gorge!" Tango shouted from inside.

Jimmy wriggled out of his over-shirt to free up his movements. "On it!" he called back. He ran from his spot on the porch's bench toward the stairs, unfurling his wings as he did. He hit the uncovered part of the porch and hurled himself into the air. The wind rushed through his hair and the sun beat down on his yellow wings and shoulders his tank top left exposed.

He soared low, catching glimpses of the black-and-tan cat running through the wheat and trying to keep track. The gorge was fast approaching. Parts of it were too narrow for Jimmy’s wings and the river at the bottom was fast enough that Revenge wouldn’t survive if he fell in. Meaning Jimmy had to catch the cat before he reached the gorge.

He swooped, arms extended and entire body battered by the wheat.

But he snatched Revenge by the middle and shot into the air before wheeling and heading back for the ranch house—or that was the plan.

Before he could roll, he caught sight of something. Across the gorge, a dark outpost loomed. The nearest neighbors to the ranch and not friendly folk in the slightest.

Partway down the gorge’s steep slope just below the outpost was a small shape.

Even from his distance, he could see the distinct shape of Avian wings. One of them broken.

Jimmy looked down at the cat screeching and thrashing to get free. “Alright. Alright. Calm down. Geez.” He completed his roll and plummeted back toward the house. Tango was waiting on the second floor balcony. Jimmy landed and set Revenge down inside before shutting the door to keep him in.

“If that thing wasn’t so good at catching mice I would have found a new home for that nightmare by now,” Tango grumbled. Jimmy chuckled.

“He’s not so bad.”

“Sure. Whatever you say buddy.” Tango held out Jimmy’s over-shirt.

Jimmy shook his head. “I saw something in the gorge. I’m gonna go investigate. Be right back.”

“Take it anyway. Might need it.”

Jimmy took the shirt and tied it around his waist. “Be back soon.”

Tango smiled fondly. “I know.”

Jimmy launched off the balcony, blowing Tango’s fire hair backward in sputters. He pinwheeled and sailed back toward the gorge.

The winged figure hadn’t moved. Jimmy spiraled and peered down. The wings were small. Caught between juvenile down and proper plumage.

Jimmy twisted into a sharp dive and plunged downward. He flared his wings out to brake and landed near the small figure.

The child was lying in a crumpled heap on a ledge. Long hair tangled around the head. Jimmy couldn’t tell if the hair was blond or what for how dirty it was. The wings, too, were filthy. Feathers were clumped and a dull grey-tan that might have once been white. The child wore a torn shirt and shorts and was missing a shoe. Clutched in one hand was a ragged ravager plushie.

Jimmy approached slowly. “Are you alright?”

No response. Not even a shuffle. He finally noticed a small trickle of blood on the ledge.

He sprung into action. He wrapped the child's broken wing gently in his over-shirt and scooped them up. He hurled himself back into the sky, careful to hold their wings in such a way that he wouldn't crush bone or feathers, but so that they also wouldn't increase drag or get any more injured.

Tango was still waiting on the balcony when Jimmy returned. Revenge was having zoomies inside, visible through the windows and balcony door.

Tango's eyes widened as Jimmy rotated his body so he could land. "Tha—tha—tha—that's a child," he said.

Jimmy nodded. "One of their wings is broken. They were below the outpost on a ledge in the gorge."

"Oh my—" Tango breathed, unable to even complete the sentence. "What do we do?"

"I can reset the broken wing bone. Splint it. After that, maybe we do what we can to clean them up? I know how to clean wings. That hair is a disaster, and there's dirt everywhere. I just... I couldn't leave them there."

"No, no. I wouldn't have either. Let's get started, then." Tango reached out and brushed the hair away from the face, so they both could see. The child couldn't have been older than seven. Gender was more difficult to tell with children, but if Jimmy had to guess, he'd probably say they looked more girlish.

Tango opened the balcony door, snatched Revenge, and held the door open so Jimmy could carry the child inside. Revenge got put in his crate—temporarily—and the humanoids left their bedroom to go to the washroom.

"I'm going to clean the wings first," Jimmy said. "I don't want to reset the bone wrong and cause an infection due to dirty feathers."

Tango nodded, already filling a small bucket with water and grabbing a bar of soap. Jimmy set the child down in the bathtub so he could wash their wings a little easier, making sure they were lying securely on their side.

Tango passed him a sponge and his—freshly cleaned—preening brush. "Thanks," he said. Tango nodded.

Jimmy cleaned the child's wings methodically and slowly with the bucket and the soap and the sponge. The brush would be for later. He did his best not to jar the break, but the child didn't seem to react to anything. They were still alive—Tango obsessively checked for breathing every few minutes—but deeply unconscious.

Gunk, dirt, and dust washed off between the child's feathers with every pass of the sponge, washing down the drain. The icky grey gradually turned to white. Pristine and slightly shimmery. "Look how pretty these are," Jimmy whispered, admiring the feathers.

Tango didn't say anything, but a small smile appeared on his face. While he kept checking for breathing, he started to wash and tidy the child's hair as delicately as he could.

Before long, Jimmy had cleaned the mess off the child's wings and preened them both with oil from their preening glands and his brush. Once they were as cleaned as they could be, he carefully probed around the break. Grian had drilled wing care into his head when he first grew his, so even though Jimmy wasn't really medically trained, he knew how to care for a busted wing.

"I'm so sorry, kiddo," he whispered.

He reset the wing.

The child's eyes flew open and a scream filled the washroom.

"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay!" Jimmy said, reaching to rub the child's spine right between their wings—a calming spot for most Avians. "Tango, can you grab—"

"On it." Tango rushed out of the washroom.

The child was panting, eyes wide. They were deep blue. The child's hair, now that it had been cleaned and brushed by Tango, was as white as their wings.

Tango returned with sticks and string. "Here, here," he said.

Jimmy quickly constructed a splint for the broken wing. "There you go. You're okay. It's okay. My name's Jimmy. What's yours?" He gave the child a soft smile.

They blinked at him. "S... Skye," they said.

"Okay, Skye. Nice to meet you. Do your grownups use she, he, they, or something else for you?"

"Sh... she. B... but I... I don't have grownups anymore. Just... just the pillagers." She shuddered. "And the cage."

Tango's hair burst into flame. "I'm burning that damn outpost down," he muttered. "Keeping a child in a cage?"

"Not now Tango. You're scaring her," Jimmy whispered, watching the way Skye gasped and shrunk away from Tango.

Tango took a deep breath, the fire of his hair slowly burning down until it was just hair again. Jimmy kept comfortingly rubbing Skye's spine.

"It's okay. He's friendly. He won't hurt you. This is Tango. He's just mad that the pillagers put you in a cage," Jimmy said comfortingly. Tango gave the girl a small smile. "See? He's nice."

Skye shivered, wrapping her arms around herself and rubbing them.

"We're not going to hurt you, kiddo," Jimmy said. "We just want to help you. See? I'm like you." He unfurled his wings a tiny bit, flapping them a little to make the feathers flutter. Skye's deep blue eyes watched his wings. She almost smiled. "Can Tango help that little cut on your forehead?"

She eyed Tango warily. Then looked back at Jimmy. Then back to Tango. Then nodded.

Tango slowly extended his hand, thumb raised. He rested the pad of his thumb against the little cut. Yellow-gold magic swirled around his thumb and when he pulled away, the cut had scarred over. "Better?"

Skye nodded again. "Th-th-thank you," she said.

"Of course."

"Let's get you out of those damp clothes and into something comfy and warm, okay?" Jimmy asked.

Skye nodded.

Jimmy leaned back and snatched a towel, helping Skye wrap it around herself without hurting her wing, using his own to maintain his balance.

Tango left the washroom and returned with one of Jimmy's over-shirts. Jimmy took it from him and held it out for Skye. "We're gonna leave so you can change. This is gonna be a little long on you, but pretend it's a dress. It's got the holes in the back for your wings. We're gonna be nearby in case you need anything, okay? Just call out for us."

Skye carefully took the shirt and nodded.

Tango took Jimmy's hand and led the way out of the room.

The SoulBond between them warmed. She "doesn't have grownups anymore"? Jimmy... Tango's thoughts said down their bond, his red eyes sad. Jimmy's expression mirrored Tango's.

I know. Do you think they're dead? Or do you think she was kidnapped?

Tango shrugged. I don't know. The way she said it... I don't think they're alive anymore.

So, what do we do? Jimmy asked.

Tango released Jimmy's hand to rest his fists thoughtfully on his hips. Well... if her family is gone... she needs time to heal. Is she even old enough to fly?

Barely. I doubt she knows much or would be able to stay in the air for long.

Tango pursed his lips. It's not like we don't have the room and resources...

You want to take her in? Jimmy almost didn't dare to hope.

She's just a kid and we're out in the middle of nowhere. If her parents are gone and she's been in a pillager outpost cage—someone has to take care of her. I can build another room up here pretty quickly. She'd be safe here. I'll reconstruct the ward to keep the outpost out of our business.

Jimmy smiled softly. I thought you didn't want kids.

Tango rolled his eyes. I'm not going to turn away an innocent child in desperate need of help just because I didn't want kids, he retorted. She's welcome stay here as long as she wants.

Jimmy beamed, grabbed Tango's face in both hands, and kissed his forehead. Ohhh thank youuu! Thank you, thank you, thank you! His wings flapped happily and Tango shook his head affectionately. I really wanted us to be able to take care of her here. Even if it's just while she heals and we can look to see if her parents are still alive. Thank you, Tango.

Tango brushed his fingers through Jimmy's soft hair. You're welcome, pretty bird.

Jimmy went red under his freckles—

Right as the washroom door opened.

Skye stood there in Jimmy's over-shirt. It was basically a dress on her, the sleeves trailing to nearly her ankles.

Jimmy smiled and knelt in front of her. "Need some help rolling those sleeves up, kiddo?" he asked. She nodded and held out her arm.

Jimmy made quick work of rolling up the sleeves, being friendly and chatting to her. Skye watched quietly. Tango leaned against the wall and watched the scene with a smile on his face. "I'm gonna go get some stuff together," he said to Jimmy, setting a hand on the latter's shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah," Jimmy said. Tango headed for the stairs.

Once he was gone, Skye shuffled on her feet. "Why are you being nice to me?"

"Oh, sweetheart," Jimmy said. "You're just a kid—and you're hurt. Of course we're going to be nice to you."

"He looks scary."

Jimmy sighed. "Tango's family history makes him look scarier than he is. He's really a big softie. He went to go get some stuff to make you a room here. So you can be safe while your wing gets better. His magic isn't strong enough to heal your wing like he did the owie on your forehead, so he's going to do what he can to make sure your wing can heal naturally on its own really well."

"Really?"

"Uh-huh. How are you feeling? Does your wing hurt?"

"Mmhmm." Skye nodded.

"Can I pick you up?"

"Okay."

He scooped her into his arms, still being gentle. She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder. Jimmy's heart melted. He snuggled her closer and carried her downstairs. She tapped his bare shoulder. "You have dots on your shoulder."

"They're called freckles. I have them on my face too." He tilted his face so she could see the splash of freckles across his nose and cheekbones.

"Why?"

"I get them from being in the sun. I'm supposed to wear a shirt with sleeves when I'm working outside so I don't sunburn my shoulders, but I forget a lot, and so I get freckles on my shoulders."

"Oh."

Tango was kneeling in front of one of their chests, building supplies he'd taken from it on the floor next to him. Jimmy took Skye to the kitchen counter and set her down on top of it. He'd noticed when he rolled up the sleeves of the over-shirt that she'd scrubbed herself off a little better, leaving her cleaner than she'd been when he found her. "Hungry?" he asked.

She nodded.

"I have just the thing. We've got some home-grown potatoes and chicken that you're going to love."

Tango hummed. "That'll be good for you to get your strength back, kiddo," he added, gathering his supplies into his arms and getting to his feet to get back upstairs. "Potatoes have lots of nutrients. You'll need them." He paused at the stairs and retraced his steps to the kitchen. He shifted his supplies to one arm and held a hand out toward Skye. "High-five? It's okay if you don't want to."

She stared at his hand for a second—before giving him a high-five.

Tango did a little fist-pump of celebration. "Yes," he said softly, smiling at her. She grinned, a small thing but still visible. Before Tango made happy, singsong noises and did a goofy dance up the stairs, still singing.

Skye giggled. "He's silly," she whispered to Jimmy.

Who grinned down at her. "See? He's a big softie."

She smiled a little brighter. "He's not scary," she decided.

"He's not." Jimmy pulled a potato out of a barrel full of others and stuck it in the smoker, stoking the fuel back to life. Skye giggled again. "Have you ever had a jacket potato before?"

"Why's the potato wearing a jacket?"

Jimmy blinked. "Also called a baked potato?"

Big blue eyes blinked owlishly at him.

"Okay. Maybe you've had one and just didn't know that's what it's called." He busied about the kitchen, pulling some butter out of the chest full of packed ice. Ice was nearly impossible to come by in this area, let alone packed, but a little magic from Tango had given them just enough for food preservation.

Upstairs, Jimmy could hear Tango breaking down one of the walls to start building. Revenge's meowing was also audible, and Jimmy assumed Tango had freed the cat from his crate.

The smoker finished cooking the potato and Jimmy pulled it out. He tossed it between his hands—it was hot—and set it on a plate. He put some chicken in the smoker from where it had been in the ice chest. Then prepared the potato, cutting open the peel and opening it to put some butter inside. "Want some salt and pepper?"

Skye blinked. "Er... sure?"

Jimmy smiled and added some.

Upstairs, Revenge yowled and Tango squawked in surprise. "You're fine!" he said. "What're you yappin' for? You can't whine for affection while you're draped over my shoulder you dingus."

Jimmy snickered as he pushed the plate toward Skye, handing her some utensils. "Go ahead. Eat up."

She took the utensils and stared at them for a few seconds.

Then set them down on the counter and picked up the potato in her hands and dug in.

Jimmy shrugged and went to grab her a serviette to wipe her hands off later, tucking it under the plate. He munched on an apple for a snack while he waited for the chicken to finish cooking, leaning one hip against the counter casually.

"Skye?" he asked carefully.

She looked up from the potato, a little melted butter and flakes of pepper on her chin. "Mm?"

"Have you learned to fly yet?"

She shook her head. "Too little," she said around a mouthful of potato. "Wings not strong enough."

Jimmy nodded. "I thought so," he said, ruffling his own wings with a shake of his shoulders. He stretched the pinions backward to ease an ache in the elbow joints.

Upstairs, a thunk closely followed by Tango shouting a Blaze curse made Skye and Jimmy both turn toward the stairs.

Jimmy boosted himself up onto the counter next to Skye. "Kiddo. When you say you don't have grownups anymore, were you taken from them by the Illagers?"

She sniffed and shook her head. "N... no." Her eyes started to water. "The... the pillagers had crossbows. And axes. My parents tried to hide me in our storm cellar. The pillagers..." She sniffed again. "They chased them. I heard Mama scream, and then Papa. And then nothing. The pillagers came for me. They kept me alive." She shook, putting the potato down, and started to cry. Jimmy wrapped his arm and a wing around her, pulling her close and rocking her soothingly.

"Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry," he whispered, letting her bury her messy face in his side. "Me and Tango just needed to know if we needed to ask around about finding you. I'm sorry, Skye." He kissed her soft white hair. She kept crying. He felt her tears soak through his tank top.

His other hand reached into the smoker and grabbed the chicken before it could burn, setting it on her plate.

Tango's footsteps echoed down the stairs and he reappeared. The SoulBond warmed again. What's going on?

I asked about her parents. They're dead. The Illagers.

Ohhh. Can I help?

I don't think so. How's the room coming along?

It's coming along fine. Not going to be anything fancy but it'll be comfortable.

Jimmy nodded. Thank you. He moved his arm around Skye to rub between her wings. She was still shaking against him. Tango nodded back and slipped nearly silently back up the stairs.

Jimmy started humming low, rocking Skye until her sobs calmed down. Once she wasn't shaking anymore, he wiped her tears with the serviette—and then the butter and pepper left on her face that hadn't come off on his tank top.

She looked up at him with big, watery eyes. "What... what's going to happen to me now?"

"Well, first, you're going to finish your food," Jimmy said with a warm smile. "And then, you can stay here. Tango and I will take care of you. For as long as you want. We'll help you heal your wing. And when it's ready, I'll teach you how to fly."

Skye gasped. "Really?" She looked hopeful.

"Of course! But your wing has to heal. And if you want it to heal well, you gotta give your body the energy it needs. And in order to do that, you gotta finish your food."

She nodded and went back to eating. Jimmy smiled.

He stayed on the kitchen counter with her until Tango returned to the kitchen, Revenge draped over his shoulder. His hands were covered in ash. Sawdust that had caught fire, probably. He grinned at Jimmy and inclined his head toward the top of the stairs. "Ready," he said, looking proud and pleased.

Jimmy handed Skye the serviette again. She wiped her whole face with it, and then her hands.

"Your room is ready, kiddo," Tango said, pitching his voice up just a little to sound more friendly.

Skye looked up at Jimmy. He nodded and slid off the counter, taking her hands to help her down. Tango led her upstairs, Jimmy bringing up the rear, still holding her hand where she didn't let go.

The second floor of the ranch house wasn't much. It was largely built into the roof. But Tango had adjusted so that the blank wall opposite the washroom—that originally led to a 5-block drop to the ground outside—now had a pastel pink wood door. Tango took a position between her door and the door to his and Jimmy's bedroom at the end of the hall, gesturing for her to open the door.

Skye looked back at Jimmy for confirmation, he nodded.

She pushed open the door and gasped as she entered the room.

The room was the same wood as the rest of the house. Oak and birch. But the bed was purple and the little table and chair were the same soft pink as the door. He'd even made a small balcony. Smaller than the one off his and Jimmy's room, but big enough for an Avian to take off and land from. The fence posts of the balcony had flower pots on them, each with a gentle but colorful plant in them.

Skye looked like she was going to cry again as she took in the whole room. "This is... mine?" she asked tentatively.

"Uh-huh," Tango confirmed with a small grin—not opening his mouth enough to show off sharp teeth—and a nod. His fire hair was flickering low and warm like a homey hearth.

Skye let go of Jimmy's hand and rushed at Tango, throwing her arms around his middle. "Thank you," she said. "It's really pretty."

Tango knelt to be at her eye level and hugged her properly. "You're welcome."

But Jimmy could see the way Tango's pointed ear twitched and his red eyes didn't quite meet Skye's. Jimmy brought the SoulBond to life between them. You feel guilty that you couldn't make it nicer, he said. Not a question.

Tango's ears pinned back to his head. We have the resources for an extra room. We don't have the resources for a perfect one for a little girl, he thought back. I did the best I could.

Tango. Look at her. She loves it. "The best you could" was more than enough.

Skye let go of Tango and rushed over to the bed, hopping up on it and wiggling in delight. Tango's gaze followed her with a small, fond smile.

I'm going to clean up the dishes. Stay here and chat with her, maybe? Jimmy suggested.

Yeah, yeah. I can do that, Tango replied, sounding like he was trying to convince himself of that more than Jimmy. Who just pushed his fingers through Tango's warm, burning hair affectionately and slipped out of the room.

—

Tango sat up in bed. Moonlight streamed through the windows and the door to the balcony. His ears flicked and twitched. What had woke him? Probably Revenge whining to be let out into the animal yard—

His whole body went rigid when he realized what he was hearing wasn't the cat.

Skye was crying.

Slowly, so as not to wake Jimmy, Tango slipped out of bed. He slid out of their room and to the new door on the wall. He knocked. "Skye?" he asked softly. "Are you okay?"

Sniffling was the only reply he got.

"Can I come in, kiddo?"

He heard the creaking of a mattress and small feet tiptoeing over the floor. The door opened.

Jimmy had—somehow—managed to save her ravager plushie from death-by-filth. It was clutched in one of her arms, the other one hugging herself. Her face was wet and her eyes were puffy and bloodshot. "Come in," she said quietly.

Tango followed her in. She went back to the bed and boosted herself up onto it. Her broken wing's splint was still in place, the other flopping across the mattress behind her.

"Can I sit by you?"

She nodded. Tango sat beside her.

"You know," he said. "I'm from the Nether. That's why I look like this. Buuut..." He leaned down to smile conspiratorially. "That's also why I'm really warm to hug. Any time you need a warm hug, you just let me know, yeah?"

Her deep blue eyes were dark in the dim light of the bedroom. "Can I have a hug?"

"Of course, sweetheart."

Skye leaned and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his side. Tango wrapped his around her and held her close. He wanted to ask why she was crying, but he had a good guess. Her first night of freedom after being in a cage for who-knew-how-long. Now that she was no longer fearful for her survival, her grief was probably catching up to her at losing her parents.

Tango copied how he'd seen Jimmy rock her gently, trying to comfort her. He wasn't as good at it as Jimmy. Jimmy just had a knack for people. He could connect to them on a level Tango didn't quite understand, but tried to. But Tango gave it his best shot for an innocent child who didn't deserve the hurt she'd experienced.

When her sobs eased into hiccups and her grip around his middle wasn't so deathly tight anymore, Tango felt her go slack against his side.

Having cried herself to sleep.

Tango smiled sadly down at her. He carefully scooped her up into his arms and turned her covers back down so he could tuck her in. He positioned her on her side the way Jimmy slept—the way Jimmy had set her in their tub to avoid jostling her wings—and tucked her in. He smoothed a few loose hairs out of her face and crept out of the room, easing the door shut behind him.

He lingered in the hallway for a moment, the fire of his hair warming the hallway with low light.

Setting his jaw, he slipped stealthily downstairs and out the front door. His Blaze Rods appeared around his head, spinning fast. He shot into the sky, hurtling toward the gorge. The ranch's wheat fields whizzed by below him.

The gorge plunged into darkness below him. He kept going.

When he got close enough, Tango started banking in a fast circle around the outpost, pulling back his arms and hurling fireballs at the dark oak wood of the outpost and its wooden cages on the outskirts. Continuing until it was fully engulfed in flames. He didn't like to fully indulge his Blaze blood often.

But for that sweet, poor child? For what they did to her? Absolutely.

[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

Chapters: 6/6 Fandom: 3rd Life | Last Life SMP Series, Double Life SMP Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Scott Major | Smajor1995 & Pearl | PearlescentMoon, Martyn Littlewood | InTheLittleWood & ZombieCleo, Martyn Littlewood | InTheLittleWood & Scott Major | Smajor1995 & PearlescentMoon & ZombieCleo Characters: Pearl | PearlescentMoon, Scott Major | Smajor1995, ZombieCleo (Video Blogging RPF), Martyn Littlewood | InTheLittleWood Additional Tags: Minor Character Charles | Grian, Minor Character Ryan | GoodTimesWithScar - Freeform, Minor Character Cubfan135 (Video Blogging RPF), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Medical Experimentation, Medical Experimentation, Medical Torture, She/Her and They/Them Pronouns for ZombieCleo (Video Blogging RPF), Disability, Disabled Ryan | GoodTimesWithScar, Disabled ZombieCleo, Mental Health Issues, Depression, Scott Major | Smajor1995 is Depressed, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scott Major | Smajor1995 has PTSD, Panic Attacks, Pearl | Pearlescentmoon has Panic Attacks, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Flashbacks, Torture, Everyone is traumatized, Not RPF, Gun Violence, Title from a Will Paquin Song, Shared Heartbeat, shared pain, Shared Injuries, Scott Major | Smajor1995 and Xornoth (Empires SMP) are Siblings (Implied), Minor Character Death Summary:

"Donor heart and relevant elements of autonomic nervous system fully connected in P3471," the surgeon with her hands inside the woman said. "Doc?"

"Just a second... and there," Doc said, pulling his hands free from S2077's chest cavity. His gloves were stained thick with blood. "Donor heart fully connected in S2077. Give them the startup shock."

He felt an icy cold electric shock run through him, and would have screamed, if he could control his own throat.

The heart monitor beeped to life.

Pearl and Scott wouldn't be friends if they met under ordinary circumstances. They just bring out the worst in each other, for some reason. They'd probably be much happier apart.

Unfortunately, they didn't meet under ordinary circumstances. They met when a medical experiment left them sharing their injuries with each other. With the same heart pumping in both of their chests, they don't have much of a choice, do they?

(Title is from In Two by Will Paquin. Written for the 2024 Summer MCYTblr AUfest event. Updates daily.)

[arthropod-concoctions]

(AO3)

Grian's ears were still ringing when he respawned, back at home. He closed his eyes, buried his face in his hands, and groaned.

“I'm so sorry, Scar,” he muttered to himself. He'd decided to go make an apology to the man himself as well, as he would also be waking up right about now. Grian opened his eyes-

And immediately noticed that he was not in his own base.

He sat up and looked around to get his bearings. He was lying in a soft green bed, in an organically-shaped room with walls of living wood and beautiful wood-carved furniture. Jellie was lying in a cat bed a few meters away.

Scar's base. Why on Earth am I in Scar's base? He thought. “Scar?” he called out, then cleared his throat, because his voice sounded incredibly hoarse. There was no response.

He got up to go find Scar, but barely made it two steps away from the bed before collapsing onto the floor. His legs felt like he'd walked a marathon. That was concerning; respawn pain wasn't supposed to be this intense, even after exiting a hardcore world, and he'd barely even hurt his legs when he died. His ears were the part that got hurt-- and they still did. He rubbed his ears, hoping to make the ringing stop. It didn't, but Grian noticed something else: his ears had pointy tips.

“Wait a second...” Grian suddenly had an idea of what might have happened. He hastily dug through his horribly unorganized inventory for something with a mirrored surface. He eventually found a hand mirror with golden decorations, which he'd never seen before, and looked into it. A scarred face with dark green eyes looked back at him.

“Oh no,” Grian said, in Scar's voice.

He was in Scar's body. That must be why his legs hurt so much, he realized. He looked around and quickly saw a cane carved from spruce wood leaning against a nightstand, with a large green crystal worked into the design. Grian grabbed it, and immediately felt the pain lessen; slowly, he stood up again. For a second he tried to rebalance with his wings, but of course they were gone now.

This was a very big problem; seemed like something had gone wrong separating his and Scar's soulbond. He should probably check how his own body was doing; he closed his eyes to Watch elsewhere--

And nothing happened. He just opened his two regular eyes again.

He sighed. “Right. Scar's not a watcher.” he'd have to go check things out the old-fashioned way, but before then, he decided to send a quick message to everyone online. He pulled out his chat; the device was colored cyan and orange.

Grian joined the game

GoodTimeWithScar joined the game

<Cubfan135> heyoo

<Zedaph> Hi there!

<GoodTimeWithScar> guys

<GoodTimeWithScar> there's a big problem

<Cubfan135> need some help, Scar?

<GoodTimeWithScar> not right now

<GoodTimeWithScar> but

<Grian> no im having the time fo my life lol

<GoodTimeWithScar> im not scar

Grian experienced kinetic energy

<GoodTimeWithScar> that is

Well, at least Grian's questions of what had happened to his body and Scar's soul were answered now. He decided to go find Scar, and see if he had any idea what to do now. He left Scar's treehouse, opened his elytra-- mechanical elytra, he'd have to get used to those again-- and took off.

He flew towards Scarland's main street at first, before realizing his mistake; he set his own spawn point at his own base, so that would be where Scar was. Sure enough, when he approached his base he also saw a figure with black-and-white wings circling around the rocks floating high in the sky. It was a surreal sight.

Grian ascended up to where Scar was flying around-- quite clumsily, he should add-- and called out to him: “Scar!” he landed on top of a rock, nearly losing his balance but regaining it by using Scar's cane. Scar, who had been singing to himself, looked in his direction.

“Flying around, so gracefully on the wings of a- WHAT IN THE WORLD!” Scar shouted, the sight of Grian spooking him so much he involuntarily flexed his wings, and he began to fall down.

Grian watched Scar plummet down and try to recover, frantically flapping the wings but not letting them catch any air, before eventually hitting one of the rocks floating lower down and dissolving into white smoke. Grian winced, and began gliding down again, towards his bed this time.

He touched down just in time to see himself rolling out of his own bed, visibly shaken. Scar looked in his direction and startled again, falling back onto the bed.

“That was hard to watch. Hello, Scar,” Grian said to him.

“I don't- who are you and how have you- wait.” Scar stammered, before stopping to think for a second.

“...Grian?” his expression on Grian's face was dumbfounded. I hope I don't look like this much of a loser when I'm myself, Grian thought to himself.

“Yeah. It seems we've done a bit of a switcheroo for some reason. What, did the wings not give that away to you?”

“Yeah, but I thought we'd just merged together for some reason! I didn't think you would be in my body!”

“And that didn't concern you for even a second?”

“No, I was having too much fun for that. Look, dude, I have wings now!” Scar said, and spread his wings out again.

“Yeah, I know, those are my-” Grian didn't finish his sentence, distracted by the sight of Scar jumping up and flapping the wings, not gaining any air at all, and faceplanting into the ground. He groaned.

“You just respawned. You have to give them a few minutes before they work again.”

“That's lame,” Scar said, sitting up. “Anyway, what should we do now?”

“I dunno. Maybe we should go check on some of the other people that've come back, see if they're- what's so funny?” Grian said to Scar, who was giggling.

Scar stifled his laughter, and waved his hand. “Nothing, nothing. Keep talking.” His smile looked very out of place on Grian's face.

“Right. So, check on the other peeps, or maybe we should talk to X and see if- why are you laughing?”

Scar's giggle had evolved into a full-on laugh now. “I'm sorry!” he said between wheezes, “It's just... I sound so stupid with a British accent.”

Then he added, doing a terrible imitation of Grian's accent: “'maybe we should go see X to-' see, I just sound normal now!”

Grian pursed his lips, then whacked Scar on the shoulder with his cane. He half-expected to feel the impact in his own shoulder as well, but fortunately that wasn't in effect anymore.

“Hey, back off!” Scar said in response. “You know, technically you're hitting yourself when you do that. Self-harm is very unhealthy, don't you know?”

“Oh- you're one to talk, mister powdered-snow-baths!” Grian responded. “Anyway, I think I'm going to go check on Tango and Etho now. You wanna come with, or...?”

“Okay!” Scar said, before standing up again. “Let's fly, bird boy! Wait, no I'm the bird boy now. Let's fly, elf boy!” With that, he spread his wings out once again, and successfully took off this time. Grian grabbed a firework rocket and followed suit.

“Remember, Scar, I'm using regular elytra now. So if you fall, I'm not gonna be able to catch you.”

“Oh, you think I'm gonna fall? Of course not, I am an expert at flying with wings now! Did you not see me practicing...” Scar's voice faded into the distance as he moved closer and closer to the ground, too distracted by talking to keep his altitude consistent.

Grian heard his own voice yelp from below, and burst out laughing. Server-moving bugs aside, it was nice to be flying again. It was good to be back.

(next)

[zedif-y]

A lot of their relationship, Impulse thinks, requires filling in the blanks.

Sometimes, Bdubs holds him like he's afraid to. He holds Impulse as if at any moment he'll shatter, more porcelain than flesh. Sometimes he cradles Impulse's face, his hands rough with callouses, and just. Stares.

("What's wrong?" Impulse asked, once. "Bdubs?"

Wide eyes stared up at him, black like the darkness of a well. If Impulse looks close enough, he can almost see the thoughts whirring through Bdubs' head, shifting and spinning and-

Bdubs lets go.

He shook his head, "Nothing." He muttered, then walked away without another word.)

Impulse never did get an answer. He's fairly certain he never will.

Sometimes, he catches Bdubs watching him.

No, that's... That sounds weird.

It's more like...

"Agh!" Bdubs hisses. The knife clatters on the chopping board, and Impulse looks over at him in alarm- "Goodness sakes--!"

His hand stings with warm blood, but Impulse barely spares it a glance.

He leads Bdubs over to the sink, hushed sorrys falling from his lips with every twinge and throb of the cut. Blood stains the waters pink.

It's not a deep cut, Impulse thinks as he cleans it up, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Should heal up just fine.

Bdubs stays silent.

A thought hits him like a jolt- Bdubs hasn't spoken at all.

That's when Impulse sees it.

It's... It's like...

His heart drops at the sight, roiling unease in the pit of his stomach. Huh?

Bdubs looks ashen, his mouth set in a thin line. It wobbles, just a little, like a wall beginning to crumble, like the beginning of an avalanche. His palm stays slack in Impulse's hold, but now that he's stopped moving it-

Impulse can feel it shake.

"Bdubs?"

No response.

Impulse follows his gaze, looking down at... Oh.

Blood stands stark against his skin, a rivet of browning crimson that cuts through his palm. It's faded a little where the water ran its course, but most of it stayed, tacky and drying.

He looks back at Bdubs, his throat suddenly tight.

Bdubs' eyes are unfocused, unblinking. His breaths grow shorter, his jaw tensing with an alarming force. He looks seconds away from throwing up.

He looks haunted.

With mounting alarm, Impulse tries again.

"Bdubs?" He asks, shaking his hand a little in his grasp. "Honey, breathe with me, yeah? Slowly-"

Bdubs sucks in a sharp breath. Like a snap of fingers his expression hardens, then relaxes, then crumples into something pained. He yanks his hand away from Impulse with a hiss and turns away-

"What-" His hands hover over Bdubs' form, stilling in the air. A terrified helplessness sinks its teeth into him, what's going on?

Bdubs clears his throat, " 'm good!" He says, strained. "All good here, I-" He pauses. Impulse sees his shoulders tremble. "Gonna head out for a moment, yeah? Great. I'm gonna- I'll go now. Be back soon."

A rushed love you! echoes throughout the house as Bdubs leaves, and Impulse just stands there, half-frozen in shock.

He looks down at his hand. He thinks of the expression on Bdubs' face.

A thought comes, itching at the back of his mind.

They say the axe never remembers, but the tree never forgets.

...Right?

[roxie-roo]

Bird of Prey Chapter One: Welcome to the Coalmine

(Taglist: @carry-on-my-wayward-gays <3 hope you like it!)

[TangoTek was blown up by a creeper] [SolidarityGaming died]

When Jimmy respawned, startled, itchy, and a little scorched, he expected to see his soulmate. Though, he hadn't expected said soulmate to be the one causing their first death. Tango got the brunt of the injury when it came to the creeper death, still brushing himself off and grumbling to himself. Jimmy found the sight almost adorable.

"Hey, Tango." He called out. The blaze-hybrid let out a startled little "meep!" as he looked up at Jimmy with a sheepish smile.

"Oh. Hi.. uh- I'm so sorry.." He laughed nervously and rubbed the back of his neck.

"It's alright.. honestly, I'm used to being the first one to die, I'd be surprised if I wasn't." He tried to joke.

Tango laughed softly and took Jimmy's hand gently. "Then we might as well get to work setting up somewhere! Before we're both killed again." He grinned, and Jimmy almost swore he felt his heart leap out through his throat.

They decided they'd build a ranch. Jimmy honestly couldn't tell you why that was. It just happened. So did him and Tango's blossoming dynamic. Tango was energetic, and passionate. He talked about redstone projects and life back on the server he was from. Hermitcraft, he said it was. It sounded interesting. Jimmy didn't know much about hermits, or redstone, but he was happy to listen to Tango talk, he liked hearing his voice. And the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and the way his hands flapped when he talked about something he was super passionate about, or his bright smile and pretty eyes and- wait what.

Oh dear void, Grian was right. Jimmy had fallen for Tango. Hard.

"Jim? Yo- Jim Jam, dude, you okay?" Tango waved a hand in front of his face, and just then it occurred to Jimmy that he'd been staring. At Tango. Oh dear.

"Y- yeah! Yeah, no- I'm fine!"

"If you think I'm cute, just say so." The blazeborn teased, and Jimmy felt his face turn even redder than before. Was that possible? Who knows at this point. All Jimmy knew was that Tango had caught him staring. They joked about it, brushed it off with a laugh, and moved on.

But it had become more frequent. Their little banter, and slow, longing looks. Brushing of hands, hidden smiles, light blush-dusted cheeks.

It caught everyone else's eyes fairly quickly.

"I think I'm coming down with something.." Tango muttered as he was gathering resources with Impulse and Bdubs. He still liked to keep friendly with them, remembering how they'd worked together in past seasons. He thought maybe they could help.

Impulse lit up, a wide grin splitting his face as he saddled up beside Tango and nudged his arm. "Oh you're down with something alright. Bdubs, I think our friend Tango here is in,, the L word."

Bdubs paused for a minute, and if you looked closely you could see the cogs turning in his head, before he nodded like he understood. "Leprosy!"

Impulse raised an eyebrow and shook his head. "No, dude. Four letters, starts with L, ends in E."

Tango certainly understood what he meant at this point, even if Bdubs still didn't.

"Lice?"

"No, Bdubs." Impulse snorted. "Our friend here is in L-O-V-E."

"I'm not in- Impulse shut up-" blaze rods starting to circle tangos head gave away his hidden embarrassment, though to his credit he did try to snatch them and stuff them into his pockets. Free blaze rods.

"I think he is!" Bdubs, now finally fully understanding what's going on, was excited to join in on the teasing. "He's in love!" Impulse nodded and grinned mischievously.

"Tango and Jimmy sitting in a tree!" The two chorused. Tango's head whipped around to face them. He shuffled through his pockets and tossed whatever was light enough not to hurt them, but heavy enough to impact, towards them.

"K-I-S-S- ow!"

"Tango that was mean!"

But that did get Tango thinking. Where did he and Jimmy stand? They'd never talked about it, really. Both parties got too flustered whenever one would try and bring it up.

Soon enough, they'd find the answer in their ranch. Their home.

Jimmy tried to convince himself that the only reason he was laying like this, curled up against Tango and relaxing into the feeling of a warm hand playing with his hair, was just because Tango was practically a human space heater. He was just warm, and nothing more.

That night already had so many near misses with Death. It hung over Jimmy, loomed ominously like a wraith. Tango had been through the games in the past. He knew how this would go. Might as well tell him.

"We're probably gonna be the first out.." He muttered.

"What makes you say that?" Tango asked, looking down at him curiously.

"I've... I've always been the first out in these games. I'm cursed.. the Watchers don't like me, they never have.. so I'm usually first out. And since you're paired with me... well, that means you're cursed too. Sorry.."

"Remember, I'm the one who got us on yellow first." Tango laughed softly and pulled him closer. "I don't mind being cursed. I'm your soulmate, you're stuck with me until the end of this. Beside,, I'm not really concerned with not winning."

Jimmy looked up at him, bewildered. "You-... you're fine with this? Most people would hate being paired with me..." Sure, Scar was accident-prone. But he wasn't cursed.

"I don't.." Tango smiled down at him warmly. "I haven't regretted being paired up with you this far. I won't regret it further down the line either. Promise that."

Jimmy couldn't help the slight snort that escaped him. "Never love a canary... they're meant for the coalmines."

"I'll be your coalmine, then." Tango kissed his forehead, letting his hand come to rest at the base of Jimmy's spine. "Goodnight, Jimmy.."

Jimmy melted into his arm, head resting on Tango's chest as he smiled a little to himself. "Goodnight, Tango... I love you." He whispered, before drifting off. It was the first time it was said between the two. There were moments where it was understood, little fleeting touches or glances, whispered praises, but never those three words. Now it was being said, and Tango was almost breathless.

"I love you too.." He whispered in return. He felt Jimmy's smile against his chest before he fell asleep as well.

It wasn't all fine. Not like Tango kept wanting it to be. Incident after incident, until it culminated. Jimmy stared at the crumbled down ranch, he heard Scar's laughter echoing in his ears, the taunts of those around him, and he broke.

Tango held him as he sobbed late into the night. He shushed and soothed him, rubbing his back and pressing little kisses to his head. "It's okay.. it's okay. You're okay.."

Jimmy choked out a sob and clung to him as tight as he could. This was them taunting him. He knew it had to be. They were pushing him to his limit. It started with the wings. Then this. This was taking it too far.

He had always been their little play-tester. Never a player in their crooked game.

"I can't take this anymore.." He weakly hiccupped and gripped onto Tango even tighter, his body trembling. "I- I can't- I'm not gonna let them fucking do this anymore-"

"Then we won't..." Tango reassured him. "We won't. I promise. We'll fight back.."

"We'll... we'll fight back..." A change seemed to form in Jimmy. One that he'd only ever heard about from those who'd stayed on Red Life much longer than he usually did. Scar, Grian and Ren had told him horror stories of what it might do to one's mind. He finally understood, at least on some level. But it wasn't horror, no... A different kind of fire flooded through him.

Vengeance.

They set to work on a plan once the ranch had been rebuilt. Jimmy got a brewing stand, powered with Tango's blaze rods, and the poison was made within a few minutes. Then came what to put the poison in something, cookies seemed like a natural choice.

"After all." Jimmy commented smugly. "BigB sure loves his cookies. And Ren's clumsy enough that the last half will already be taken care of."

"You're so smart.." Tango muttered and pulled Jimmy into a little kiss, which the avian happily returned.

"I try."

The easy part was getting them to take the bait. BigB and Jimmy had known each other for a long time. He tried not to think about Evo often, though sometimes the thoughts did cross his mind.

"BigB!" he called out cheerfully. "I brought a gift!"

BigB came outside to see him and lit up. "Dude- ! You didn't have to-.."

"Well, I wanted to.. I mean, we're the only ones on red about now. I wanted to sort of.. well, let you guys know you weren't alone."

"Well, thanks! I hope you guys are doing well." BigB said with a grin, eying Jimmy's wings specifically. "You.. uh,, your wings aren't looking too hot."

"Huh?" Jimmy raised an eyebrow and turned to look at them. They were a grayed yellow, pale and sickly looking. He'd have to fix that. "Oh.. I guess that just comes with being on red, y'know?"

"I guess so.."

BigB took the cookies and went inside, and Jimmy left with a smirk.

Too easy.

While Ren was working on some finishing touches to their Box, BigB eagerly took a bite of one of the cookies. It was heavenly. Then again, in his opinion, you couldn't go wrong with cookies. Unless...

There was a strange aftertaste when he'd swallowed. Like it was burning his throat. His chest tightened up as the poison kicked in. Dropping the plate, he tried to call out for Ren, who was already trying to make his way down.

"Dude- what the hell's going on?!"

"Poison- it- poison- Ren be careful!"

Though in his haste, Ren jumped down from a high ledge. The final nail in the coffin.

[Bigbst4tz2 was killed by magic] [Renthedog died]

[underground-monarch]

Moses' Basket | Chapter 2: You're Gonna Die, I'm Gonna Kill You

I managed to get this out a lot lot sooner than expected, so here ya go! agst tiem (plus comfort) :] Chapter word count: 1.4k

Jimmy was the happiest he had ever been in one of these Life games.

The Flower Hollow had been beautiful and idyllic, the Southlands strong and imposing; the Ranch was small and simple – ugly, even – just a cramped wooden box with its weird foot-shaped tower and its noisy cow pen up against the house and its plain cobblestone boundary wall and its pitiful wheat field. But it felt more like home than either of the others had.

It was theirs, his and Tango’s, a place they shared in its entirety without having to go back to separate beds each night. A place they lived truly together, as a team, as equals, without any kind of hierarchy or mockery.

Of course they teased and joked with each other, they had quickly moved past the initial uncertainties, but Jimmy never felt any hint of actual disdain in Tango’s voice. Never caught his soulmate’s smile harden out of the corner of his eye after he looked away.

Tango was always encouraging and supportive and warm and gentle and understanding and real in a way that Scott or Grian or Mumbo or Martyn or Impulse hadn’t been, not properly.

The Flower Husbands had wilted. The Southlanders had crumbled. The Ranchers would be together until the very end.

But in the bright, happy scene of his life with Tango, that was the darkness that ate away at the edges.

The end.

Laying in bed at night, with their drafty cabin warmed by Tango’s peacefully sleeping form next to him, Jimmy stared up at the shadowed ceiling and worried.

Continue reading on AO3

[collierose1]

hey again! a hermittober drabble my friend (who doesnt have tumblr) wrote

go give them some love >:D

[birrdies]

the art of ship burning

2.6k, smalletho / boat boys ficlet set in my pirate au (reading the original fic is not required to understand this)

If you asked Joel, ship-burning was more an artform than a science. The matters weren’t as simple as a few dry pieces of timber and a spark to light them. To Etho, those matters probably extended into levels of moisture and the direction of the wind. However the objectively correct and all-around better matters— Joel’s matters— lay entirely with one thing: presentation.

Swords clashed on the deck. Streaks of silver cut through the midnight black sky, rivaling that of the moonlight hidden behind a thick weave of clouds. The ocean roared beneath the hull, waves thrashing the side of the ship this way and that— a storm was coming. The electricity danced in the air, teasing and coy. Gods, what a lovely night for a ship to burn.

Joel threw himself at the starboard side of the military ship, climbing up onto the rusted deadeyes to reach the shrouds. His heart hammered in his chest as the song of gnashing blades and pained yells accompanied his great climb. His sweaty palms gripped tight onto the rope, but with one violent lurch of the ship to the right, Joel lost his grip. Terror swept through him, a coldness sinking in his gut like he’d swallowed a cannonball. Perhaps it was his heart.

His legs, tangled in the rungs of the shroud, caught his fall. He dangled upside down from the ropes, all the blood rushing to his head. The frantic beat of his heart pulsed in his temples. Below him the deck’s action continued to brew. In the center of it all: Etho. He fought wildly through a crowd of butter-spined men who, by uniform alone, could be considered naval officers. They came for him at all angles, but whereas the King’s men relied on brute force, Etho relied on something far stronger: strategy.

He weaved between jabbing elbows and sweeping swords, slipping through gaps in the onslaught of soldiers. One officer lunged with his blade aimed at Etho’s chest. He side-stepped it and grabbed the officer by the sword-wielding arm, pulling the both of them backwards until the officer’s blade pierced one of his own men in the shoulder. Without missing a beat, he disappeared from the space between them. They might’ve out-numbered him about a dozen to one, but to keep Etho locked down was like trying to bottle lightning up in a jar. You simply couldn’t, and you looked ridiculously stupid if you tried.

Joel’s vision grew spotty. He’d been dangling too long, his head overfilled with blood and his legs tingling and numb. He heaved himself upright, gripping the shroud and hauling himself the rest of the way upright. Heat rushed down his spine, through his limbs, as the blood returned to its rightful place. He waited for the spots in his vision to clear before continuing his climb up the shrouds.

Usually, Joel liked to let things simmer for a bit before bringing them to a boil. It was nice to savor their targets’ panic, to watch them scurry across the decks like headless chickens as the water filled up to their ankles and they hauled away every valuable thing they had to their name. But there were more of these peacocks than either of them had anticipated; Etho was good, but he was only so good. If Joel didn’t speed things up he wasn’t sure he’d still have a partner to split his earnings with at the end of the day. Good for his wallet, but bad for the ship. Upkeep and raids were much easier when you had someone to split it up with.

So, Joel reached the top of the shrouds, swaying back and forth with the rock of the sea and wind alike. He dug around in his pockets for his flint-and-steel. It was powerful enough to take down the thickest of sails. Tongue stuck between his teeth, Joel leaned out as far as his arms could stretch, sparking the flint-and-steel inches beneath the fabric of one of two large, layered sails. It caught instantly, orange and gold flecks turning into small yet promising flames. A flash of heat kissed Joel’s face; he grinned madly.

If they thought those ridiculously oversized crimson sails stood out, stark and proud, then they weren’t ready for the show in store.

The flames consumed the sail stitch by stitch, fiber by fiber. Joel climbed down the shrouds to keep himself out of the fire’s reach but kept close enough to feel the heat of it. He should’ve quickly moved on to the other sail, to the ratline, to the sacs of flour and fruit on deck— anything to get the flames to catch quicker and get him and Etho both out of there. But don’t blame him for wanting to admire his own handiwork. They didn’t get to do this often, especially not against a military ship. This was a special treat. Etho would be fine for an extra second. Or ten.

The skin of his hands buzzed. The ropes under him shook, a rattle carried down the entire length of the shrouds up towards the nest. At the base, a broad-chested soldier climbed the dead-eyes and climbed after Joel. He was only a few feet away, a sword in his hand.

“You’ve got to be bloody kidding,” Joel groaned.

The flames quickly ate a hole in the center of the front-most sail. The further they traveled, the closer they got to the central mast. They’d start eating away at it any second now. Once the mast gave out, there would be nowhere else to go. Joel needed to get off of the shrouds, preferably before that happened and he got crushed in a mess of wood and embers.

If he got lucky, the Gods would quit toying with him and let the storm break. If lightning struck, it’d either knock this guy off and give Joel some breathing room, or it would strike the ship and fan the flames that much faster. The latter ensured almost certain death, but Joel couldn’t exactly afford to be picky. He’d rather die at the hands of some spiteful god than a military peacock who wore wigs at dinner parties for fun.

But said peacock had him cornered. There was nowhere for Joel to climb except for up, closer to the flames where the fire would burn him and the smoke would suffocate him. He had not one weapon on him aside from the fire-starter, and Joel wasn’t so stupid as to burn his literal life-line while he was still on it, suspended forty feet in the air above solid wood and thrashing blades. That was probably second on his list of least preferred ways to die.

The soldier growled and reached for Joel’s ankles. He kicked like mad, hoping he could at least crunch a bone or two under the force of his steel-heeled boots. But the soldier was tougher than he looked. He took each kick without so much as a wince, and in a second he grabbed Joel’s ankle with one hand. He balanced precariously on the shroud, one hand dragging Joel down and the other raising his sword.

“Shit!” Joel threw an arm up to shield his face from the worst bite of the blade.

But it never came. Instead, a much sweeter sound: the soldier’s cry of pain as a bolt whizzed through the air and buried in his neck. Blood sputtered from around the arrowhead; he immediately lost his grip on Joel and the shroud alike, rolling over. With him, the shroud twisted, but this time Joel was ready.

He hung on tight as it flipped over like a tangled hammock, dumping the soldier’s body unceremoniously onto the now still deck beneath. Several bodies were either dead or unconscious, stacked unceremoniously in piles where they’d fallen. The rest were either tied at the wrists and ankles or cowering with their foreheads pressed into the wood like they really thought any sort of god was helping them.

Beneath him, Etho held a crossbow still aimed at the sky. His cheek bled sluggishly.

“You sure took your sweet time up there, Joel!” he jeered, breathing heavy. “Should I grab you a pillow? Rub your feet?”

“Shut up, Etho!” Joel yelled from where he dangled overhead. “The bloody thing’s already lit, we just need to— woah, woah, watch out!”

It was close. Etho spun right as a cutlass swept through the air over his head. But not close enough. Not fast enough— a blade caught Etho in the shoulder. His pained sound was quiet, but to Joel it might as well have sounded like cannonfire. Etho staggered as the general who had snuck up on him reached for the back of Etho’s collar, hauling him back.

The cannonball he’d swallowed turned into hot, active steel. Shot directly out of a cannon, Joel slid down and leapt from the shrouds when he was confident he was low enough not to break both his ankles.

“Nope, no you don't!” His pulse pounded furiously in his ears as he snatched a sword from one of the bodies at his feet. All it took was a single lunge. A dangerous, incredibly stupid and risky lunge. But a successful one nonetheless. Even with Etho held up between them like a human shield, Joel slipped the tip of the sword in the gap under Etho’s armpit, burying the sword in the general’s gut.

He fell into a heap of limbs on the deck, blood bubbling up between his fingers where he clutched at the wound in the center of his stomach. Joel sneered and kicked him as far away from Etho as he could manage. Which wasn’t very far, he was a lot bigger than Joel, but it was about the principle of the thing.

Furious, sweaty, and buzzing with fear, Joel whirled on Etho. “You bloody idiot, what were you thinking, turning your back?! Let me see—”

Etho swatted his hand away. With the other hand he clutched at the wound. “Next time I’ll let someone poke you full of holes, then,” he said, voice strained.

It bled from the junction where his neck met his shoulder. Blood slicked his hands and dripped down the front of his white shirt, but he wasn’t bleeding as much as the guy he’d shot did. It was bleeding, but it wasn’t oh my gods I’m going to die bleeding. Which was a comfort to Joel, no matter how little. He’d be hurt and whiny, but he wasn’t going to die. He could deal with that.

Joel tilted his head back to admire his handiwork. The red sails blazed a brilliant gold and orange. Embers and ash rained from the sky, a storm of their own making. They didn’t need any gods. The ship went up like a torch, more beautiful than any damn lighthouse or painted sail on the seven seas. It was a mark to be made permanently in the way of ash. It won’t be faded by time or bleached by the sun. Joel’s grin grew wickedly sharp.

He put a hand on Etho’s back. “Let’s get the goods and get the bloody hell out of here.”

***

“Ow! Joel, careful!”

“How can I be careful if you aren’t holding blummin’ still?” Joel snapped, grabbing the back of Etho’s neck forcefully. He sat on a stool behind Etho, armed with a rag doused in drinking alcohol. He examined the wound that bit the worst into the back of his shoulder. It wasn’t as deep as Joel initially feared. The wound’s edges were puffy and oozy (everything Joel detested), but the worst of the bleeding finally stopped. Not that that spared Joel’s sleeves any; he looked forward to burning his shirt as soon as Etho was bandaged and put to bed.

He kept one hand on the back of Etho’s neck while the other dabbed at the edges of the wound. Etho shivered with each touch, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end every time so much as Joel shifted his hold. Cold air wafted through the ship's calm hull, the steady rise and fall of the sea like a lullaby. A gift for their hard work today (as if the gold and diamonds hadn’t been enough).

“It stings,” Etho complained.

Joel sighed. “You’re the one who told me to do this part.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Sure, but it still hurts.”

He was a great partner to fare the seas with, but by the gods, Etho could be bloody annoying when he wanted to be. How could a man who was capable of cutting down an entire naval crew be capable of complaining so much? Little about him made sense, and while Joel gave up long ago trying to piece him together, it didn’t stop the puzzle from grating on his nerves often.

With a groan, Joel draped the rag over his thigh, feet tapping a restless, agitated beat on the floorboards. “Alright, it’s clean or whatever,” he said, then hesitated. “… You don’t need stitches, do you? I am not poking a bloody needle through your skin.”

“If I don’t want it to scar, probably,” Etho said, and Joel understood what he meant.

Etho was no stranger to scars. It wasn’t the first time Joel had seen him without a shirt, but it was the first time seeing things this close— close enough to touch. His back was littered with them. Thin cross-hatching lines covered the expanse of his back, some silvery and pale with their age, from a time before Joel, others still red and fresh. As fresh as scars come, at least. A gash on the right flank, a spearhead Etho caught with his body during a rowdy raid on a clan of fishermen. A long, straight cut down the length of his spine. A burn scar to his left shoulder. That one was Joel’s fault — don’t ask.

What was one more to the collection? Besides, Joel wasn’t going to complain about not having to sew Etho’s skin shut. Instead he, without complaint, reached for a roll of bandages he had set out on the table. He called it a roll of bandages, but really it was one of the finer shirts they’d stolen among one of the officer’s luggage cut up into long, thin strips. He was proud of himself for the innovation, even if Etho had pursed his lips at the side of it. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. Etho would have to just get over it.

As he wound the makeshift bandages around Etho’s shoulder and under his armpit, Joel held his breath. Etho didn’t say anything, only lightly wincing when Joel lifted his arm too quickly, which happened every time he needed to reach under the wrap the bandages around. But he endured it without much more complaint. Suddenly, Joel wished he would. Just so he didn’t have to be the one to start talking.

“That was bloody stupid what you did,” he said. “I’ll kill you if you die pulling something like that again.”

“No promises,” Etho said, and by gods Joel could hear the mischievous smirk in his voice. “Someone’s gotta watch your back, Joel.”

Joel scoffed and tucked the edge of the bandage into itself, patting them down. This time Etho groaned and recoiled from his touch, protecting his shoulder with his hands as best he could. “Now you’re just being mean.”

“I’ll stop being mean when you stop being useless and annoying,” Joel said, quickly climbing to his feet and rummaging around in the armoire (another fixture they’d stolen on a previous raid, a rare and expensive mahogany piece that both Joel and Etho found incredibly ugly but both refusing to be the first to admit it). He pulled out a shirt, wadded it up, and tossed it against Etho’s bare chest.

“Cover up before I throw up,” he said. “More ships to burn, more stuff to steal. Up and at ‘em.”

[karmadraws]

Time to suffer, desert duo fans-

I WAS LISTENING MUSIC AND I FOUND A SONG- it's "ya me enteré" by Reik and y just- I didn't get the desert duo out of my head and I ended up writing this- AND I DO NOT REGRET

This is the song if you want to hear it- and credits for the fanart to their respective creator <3!

[canarydarity]

(Thought a little bit too hard about Romeo and Juliet ranchers...)

Keeping his head low and his tread light, Tango ducks from tree to tree under the cover of dark from the canopy, protecting him from the spotlight of the moon and therefore his discovery. Behind his back, leftover laughter from Skizz and Etho drifts further away; the volume of Skizz’s last protests, however, remains annoyingly the same as it continues to plague his mind, as does the memory of Etho’s agreement that Tango was—for lack of a better word—fucked. 

Louder than all of that, though, more insistent, more pressing, was the ghost of Jimmy’s lips against his. The sole force of it drove him on, his heart tripping in anticipation when around the trunk of a tree he’d glimpse the stone of the house of Solidarity, or through a break in the leaves he’d catch a glimpse of light from a brazier. 

Voices draw near just as the treeline breaks at last, and Tango ducks behind the nearest trunk as two servants meander by, following a worn path toward the back of the manor; his courage returns to him as they fade, and as if pulled by some rope falling taught or some string being coiled, Tango draws as close as he dares to the base of the stone without giving up the shade of the last tree. He kneels.

Now that he’s here, he must admit, his mind draws blank of any possible plan for continuing on. It’s not like he can wander the house of Solidarity unattended, making it clear in every way that he did not belong, and, on top of that, with one of Verona’s most recognizably unwanted faces. 

Idiot, Skizz had called him; blinded, his friend had laughed. Always the most cautious of them, Etho had recalled that even a masquerade hadn’t been enough to conceal his presence from Grian. 

And Tango hadn’t really until now heard a word. 

Movement in the far window, the unmistakable shifting of the curtains, drawn by an imaginary force—the manmade wind of someone passing through. After a moment, a more permanent form takes shape, and Tango finds himself wondering how he could have stayed still for so long, how the sun could possibly have risen while he had been unaware. 

But it of course is not the sun. He blinks and darkness is restored around him as his eyes adjust to the sight. 

Jimmy, framed in beiges and creams and white—the masonry, the curtains, his blouse—fair as any portrait, as any bolt of silk, as any fine jewel. The slightly damp flop of his hair, the color like spun gold; the curve of his shoulder, the tan glow of skin shimmering beneath the cotton—he’s breathtaking, breath-robbing, even at such distance away, and Tango wobbles enough in his stance that he places a hand on the ground for stability. 

How clear it is that this is a setting in which he doesn’t belong; how envious must be the moon for how dull it shines in comparison. Its colors—silver, the cool tones it usually accompanies—they were despicable in their wrongness. Tango thinks he’d be suited more enveloped by heat; in open fields of flowers, stranded in miles of wild wheat and tall grass, in places without trees, without shade, without reprieve. 

The masquerade, Tango thinks, was not to foster intrigue amongst the guests, but to shield them from such raw beauty, to protect them from its temptation. 

Jimmy’s chest bellows with what Tango imagines a sigh, and he continues on, momentarily disappearing from Tango’s view only to appear again in the following window, and then the one after. Tango follows, and they walk together along the length of the manor, albeit separated by its walls.

Bound, tethered, Tango’s heart tugs him along. 

A corner is turned, and instead of a further row of windows through which to watch, Tango finds a balcony jutting out of the stonework, grand and open to the air. He swallows as Jimmy steps out onto it; stares, enraptured, as Jimmy wanders over to the railing, balances his elbows on top of it, and then drops his head into his hands. 

Through the stillness of the moment comes an unmistakable and truly inspired groan, and Tango startles and glances around expecting to be caught by a rather resentful servant before realization alerts him to its source. 

Jimmy drops his hands and sighs again, and this time Tango can hear the puff of his breath as he exhales.

“Stupid,” he mutters, “so incredibly stupid. Why did I…” He shakes his head and decides better than finishing the thought, squeezing his eyes shut tightly as if he can will the arrival of more to a complete halt with just enough concentration.

Tango is familiar with this method, and, he’s gotta say, it is not as successful as he’d like it to be. 

Jimmy’s lips move again, but too little sound comes out for any of it to be heard, and Tango finds himself wandering closer before he can arrive at any of the reasons why he absolutely should not—too distracted by the thought of those lips touching his mere hours before. 

Just as he’s braving closer ground, Jimmy’s voice rises to exclaim “Tango!” and Tango’s foot finds false purchase over a well-placed root and he slips, catching himself on the cool dewy grass. His head raises slowly, ready to be forever expelled from the grounds—or more likely stuffed and made to decorate Grian’s quarters—but Jimmy’s gaze remains safely away, off into the distance beyond. “Why did it have to be Tango?”

Tango does not dare move. 

Jimmy grabs the balcony railing with both hands and leans back, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose. When he opens them, he draws himself back in and lets his arms go slack. His brow furrows in thought, his nose forming a little scrunch by the action, like his tutor’s just posed him a particularly troubling set. “But…it’s not Tango that’s the problem, is it? It’s just his name…Tek.” 

Should he be listening to this? Tango doesn’t bother thinking about it, he already knows the answer; not that that stops him, or compels him to turn around and proceed the way he came—for how could he when he’s hearing the echo of his own musings? An utterance of reciprocation for the feelings to which he’s fallen victim? Shared dismay at the grandeur of their circumstance?

“Maybe…maybe if he weren’t Tango.” 

Even before Jimmy drops his head in defeat, Tango knows that line of thinking is for naught. Maybe if he wasn’t Jimmy, maybe if his cousin wasn’t Grian, maybe if his name wasn’t Solidarity and his very existence meant to be an offense. Maybe if the sun didn’t shine, or the moon didn’t beam, or resentment didn’t flow through the streets like blood spilled. Maybe did not stand the test of time nor outlast the memory of a grudge. 

“Perhaps, should I not call him Tango, but assign him some other name…”

If only Skizz was there to witness Tango blurt out, “You can call me anything you’d like.” Idiotic and blind would not have been the only adjectives he was assigned if he had. A few immediately come to Tango’s mind himself—stupid, insane, absolutely and completely screwed. 

He has no memory of deciding to speak, but the words have undeniably come out of his mouth, and there’s no hope of them not having been heard based on the way Jimmy rises to attention. 

“Hello? Is someone there?” Alert and understandably perhaps a little frightened, Jimmy's eyes scan the treeline in which Tango dwells.

Intelligently, Tango replies, “uhh.”

“Who are you?”

Tango flounders, his voice raising a dozen octaves, becoming high and stringent as he at once wheezes out, “God, why has that question become so complicated all of a sudden?”

Jimmy shuffles to the corner of the balcony, his waist pressed against the perpendicular juncture of stone as he leans over the railing to squint into the orchard. “Wait—Tango?” 

Tango is left with no other option than to abandon his haven of trees and shade and step into the torch light of the Solidarity’s garden, lest he’d rather Jimmy lean so far over the balcony that he falls. He catches the moment that Jimmy sees him—the softening of his features, fear being overtaken by the more welcome feeling of surprise, the nervous tightening of his jaw, the biting of his lip. 

If he thought revealing his presence would mean less of Jimmy’s precarious balancing act, then he thought wrong; Jimmy doubles over more, if possible, and Tango throws his hands out in a gesture he hopes is universally interpreted as stay put while some sort of alarmed squeaking comes out of his mouth. But Jimmy just fervently whispers, “What are you doing here? Are you crazy?!”

“Are you?!” Tango whisper-shouts back. “You’re giving me a heart attack here, lean back wouldya?”

Jimmy thankfully returns his upper body to a standing position safely behind the balcony’s edge, but his voice gets no less intense, his words no less urgent. “They will kill you if they see you here, you know that right?” 

In return, Tango can only nod as if this realization has only just, for him, come to light. Of course, it hasn’t—Skizz and Etho had been trying to tell him since they left him outside the Solidarity’s walls, and by instinct alone he knew to hide if he suspected someone walking too close by, and yet. His frantic nodding does not cease as he says, “You know, I hadn’t really thought about it…to be quite honest.” 

“You hadn’t thought about it?!” Jimmy grabs at his hair, incredulous, and Tango is momentarily distracted for the amount of time it takes to imagine doing it himself and wonder at what it would feel like. “I can’t believe this.” 

Shaking his head, desperately trying to restore function, Tango delivers the only defense with which he’s come equipped. “I just—I had to see you!” 

Once more, Tango curses the moon for its inadequacy, for what must be its deliberate hindrance to the wonder of this scene. Because, though it’s too dark to really tell, firelight falling much to short, Tango swears that Jimmy begins to blush. 

Since he can’t completely be sure, he’ll have to make due with admiring this: the way Jimmy tucks his head down, closer to his shoulder, the shifting of his weight from one foot to another; how his eyes seemingly impossibly get a fraction of an inch bigger, wider. 

He doesn’t quite look back at Tango when he says, “You really mean that?”

Tango smiles, “I do, I swear it.”

Whatever modesty was held in his expression before disperses and Jimmys face holds room for little more than mirth when he turns back and demands, “On what?”

“On…” Tango draws his shoulders higher, his hands raising with them as if attached by puppeteers string. They suspend there momentarily, waiting to be released by the arrival of a coherent thought that unfortunately never comes. “I don’t know…” 

Tango bites the inside of his cheek. “What would you want me to swear on? Name it and it’s done.” He holds his hands up in pure complacency, a promise and an offer; take me, im yours.

Jimmy laughs at his near madness, and Tango swears that it moves like wind through the orchard, rippling across all the branches and leaves of all the trees; he sways on his feet to the music of it, doesn’t bother to curb the urge to smile harder at it—his face a perfect mosaic of every feeling he’s every felt. 

With a shake of his head, Jimmy admits, “I dont know either.” 

“Ah, an impasse.” 

Though his head doesn’t move, Jimmy’s eyes duck away again, seeking safer purchase as he instills the night sky with his reply. Tango doesn’t mind, for it’s easier then for him to continue to to watch. “Maybe just…say it again then. Instead.” 

“I came because I had to see you, Jimmy.”

Jimmy’s eyes dart back and then away again, needing to see Tango to truly be sure, but needing privacy to be able to comprehend. “Alright…” He glances back into the room behind him, whatever is beyond the curtains that are all Tango can see. “They’ll come looking for me soon, you really should go.” 

Playfully outraged, Tango sputters, “What! That’s it, I don’t get anything in return?” 

The dramatics earn Tango an eye roll, but Jimmy also begins bouncing a little in place—resevoired anxiety that lets Tango know he was serious about the chance that someone would soon seek him out. Whatever stolen time they had managed to accrue was fleeting and not a second more. 

Even so, Jimmy plays along. “And what am I supposed to give?”

“I don’t know, something!” 

“You’re very helpful, has anyone ever told you that?”

Tango laughs, “A fair hit.” He watches as Jimmy turns around again to assure their privacy once more, understands for both of their sakes the importance of not overstaying his welcome, and his hands tucked behind his back, comes up with, “alright, just tell me this: are you glad I came?” 

Jimmy turns back to him, and this time Tango is absolutely certain of the blush present on his cheeks by the way Jimmy raises a hand as if to feel his own temperature on instinct, or to hopelessly pat it away with the back of his hand. He’s smiling, but it’s clear he’s trying not to, and that’s all the answer Tango needs. 

Before Jimmy can, in his bashfulness, form a verbal reply, from inside a voice does indeed call “Jimmy?” 

Bliss turns to panic in an instant, and instead of earliers soft tone Jimmy near hisses when he says “Tango!” 

If he was smart, he would heed the warning and go, but Tango is still drunk on their proximity alone, on the events of the night—all of which were set in motion by the taking of a chance on an innocently shared kiss. He figures if this is where one chance has gotten him, then he can stand to risk another. 

“I mean, I’m perfectly content to wait, Jimmy.” Tango steps to the nearest tree and leans against it like he’s planning to stay for some time, tries not to laugh as Jimmy’s eyes practically bug out of his head. 

“You—” Jimmy’s head swivels back and forth, caught between the harmlessness in the tease and the actual realistic harm in its consequences if Tango legitimately followed through. Of course, he isn’t going to—the second Tango sees another silhouette in the window he’s out of there, blending back the way he’d come into the trees—but where was the fun in it if there wasn’t just a little bit of real life pressure? “You’re insane,” Jimmy berates, but before he turns and disappears behind his walls that are meant to keep out Tango and Tango specifically, he whispers, “Yes, I’m glad you came.” 

Jimmy’s already gone, but when Tango says, “That’s all I needed,” its more to himself than anything as he turns to go back the way he’d come. 

He did not imagine when the night began that he’d find himself betraying the one rule his family had ever demanded he follow, nor did he expect to feel little concern for himself in spite of this fact, but he did know he’d be helpless but to do it again had the situation started anew, because Tango doesn’t know what greater purpose he could have than to love this man. It wasn’t just the remembrance of a kiss that drove Tango to Jimmy’s window, but the sense that it was only the first, and where there was one would come more. Of this, Tango was certain: attending the masquerade, glimpsing Jimmy through the party-goers, risking following him through the crowd and delighting in that first, perfect kiss had set off more than the events of tonight, one singular night, but rather of whatever was in store for him—for them—all the rest of their lives.

(gonna put "can translate Shakespearean English into gamer speak" on my resume under special skills. [read on ao3 here])

[mintierose]

I just imagined/wrote an entire Double Life fic in my head, now where do I get the motivation to ACTUALLY write it-

So if anyone is interested in a post double life Martyn fic with some possible treebark redwood polycule tell/encourage me and I might actually write it

Please I need encouragement to function

[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

Chapters: 1/6 Fandom: 3rd Life | Last Life SMP Series, Double Life SMP Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Relationships: Scott Major | Smajor1995 & Pearl | PearlescentMoon, Martyn Littlewood | InTheLittleWood & ZombieCleo, Martyn Littlewood | InTheLittleWood & Scott Major | Smajor1995 & PearlescentMoon & ZombieCleo Characters: Pearl | PearlescentMoon, Scott Major | Smajor1995, ZombieCleo (Video Blogging RPF), Martyn Littlewood | InTheLittleWood Additional Tags: Minor Character Charles | Grian, Minor Character Ryan | GoodTimesWithScar - Freeform, Minor Character Cubfan135 (Video Blogging RPF), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Medical Experimentation, Medical Experimentation, Medical Torture, She/Her and They/Them Pronouns for ZombieCleo (Video Blogging RPF), Disability, Disabled Ryan | GoodTimesWithScar, Disabled ZombieCleo, Mental Health Issues, Depression, Scott Major | Smajor1995 is Depressed, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scott Major | Smajor1995 has PTSD, Panic Attacks, Pearl | Pearlescentmoon has Panic Attacks, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Flashbacks, Torture, Everyone is traumatized, Not RPF, Gun Violence, Title from a Will Paquin Song, Shared Heartbeat, shared pain, Shared Injuries, Scott Major | Smajor1995 and Xornoth (Empires SMP) are Siblings (Implied) Summary:

"Donor heart and relevant elements of autonomic nervous system fully connected in P3471," the surgeon with her hands inside the woman said. "Doc?"

"Just a second... and there," Doc said, pulling his hands free from S2077's chest cavity. His gloves were stained thick with blood. "Donor heart fully connected in S2077. Give them the startup shock."

He felt an icy cold electric shock run through him, and would have screamed, if he could control his own throat.

The heart monitor beeped to life.

Pearl and Scott wouldn't be friends if they met under ordinary circumstances. They just bring out the worst in each other, for some reason. They'd probably be much happier apart.

Unfortunately, they didn't meet under ordinary circumstances. They met when a medical experiment left them sharing their injuries with each other. With the same heart pumping in both of their chests, they don't have much of a choice, do they?

(Title is from In Two by Will Paquin. Written for the 2024 Summer MCYTblr AUfest event. Updates daily.)

Thanks to @daisy-mooon for the amazing art which inspired this fic and the excitement I needed to get it done, as well as to @thatapolloguy for beta reading, brainstorming, and moral support <3

[arthropod-concoctions]

(AO3 - prev)

Jimmy wasn't in Tumble Town. Instead of the mesa he'd claimed to build his empire in, Jimmy found himself in a snowy field surrounded by gargantuan walls made of blackstone. Had someone pranked him by terraforming his surroundings while he'd been in the game? Probably not; there wasn't enough time for that. He'd been inside the game for five weeks, so that was... about fifteen hours for outsiders. Not nearly enough time to gather enough blackstone to do all this.

I still can't believe I died so early again. To an enderman of all things! Jimmy thought to himself. Well, no point lingering on that now; he'd apologize to Tango the next time they played. Right now he wanted to get out of these walls and see something familiar.

He flew to the top of one of the walls to look around, but he only saw forests, no familiar scenery. He shuffled across the wall to see more-- shuffled, because whoever had dropped him into this snowfield had also put a thick, cumbersome coat on him. It got in the way of his movements and made it very hot, so he began to take it off-

Wait a minute. He was in the middle of a snowfield, yet didn't feel cold at all; in fact, he was getting very warm. Wasn't that a symptom of hypothermia? Suddenly, he noticed that his arms were very pale, unhealthily so.

“Oh no,” he whispered to himself, and put the coat back on. “Right, change of plan: I need to get out of here.” He activated his elytra again, and flew away from the blackstone construction.

He didn't have to fly long to find signs of civilization; he quite quickly came across a large street with many buildings along it. It was deserted, and didn't look like the building style of any other emperors, but Jimmy landed anyways. Then he decided to do something he probably should have done earlier; he checked chat.

Strangely enough, his chat didn't manifest as the book and quill he'd designed, but instead as a small red device. Still, it showed him the most recent messages of the server he'd ended up in:

Tango joined the game

<joehillssays> Howdy Tango, welcome back!

<Cubfan135> Tangooooooo

Tango was here! Jimmy didn't know the other names, but that didn't matter; finding Tango would already be very helpful. He decided to send him a private message; better not to alarm these strangers.

You whispered to Tango: tango

Tango whispered to you: tango

You whispered to Tango: im lost

Tango whispered to you: im lost

You whispered to Tango: where are you

Tango whispered to you: where are you

The fact that his messages to Tango immediately got sent back was worrying. Maybe Tango's chat was bugged, and somehow bouncing messages back instead of showing them to him...? Regardless, Jimmy sent him one more message.

You whispered to Tango: im so sorry about that death btw

Tango whispered to you: im so sorry about that death btw

Unsure of what else to do, Jimmy made his way to a bench and sat down. He was beginning to sweat; would it be safe to take off the coat yet? His arms still didn't have any colour in them, so he decided against it.

After a few minutes of waiting, someone flew past on elytra, noticed Jimmy, and landed in front of him. It wasn't Tango; this was someone wearing a brown sweater, with curled horns jutting out from his blond hair.

“There you are! Why weren't you responding to chat? And what are you in Scarland for?” the stranger asked Jimmy.

Jimmy wasn't sure how to respond; this person didn't seem at all concerned about the fact there was someone new on the server. He decided to get straight to the point: “I think I'm freezing to death.”

“Oh jeez. The deep frost finally got to you, then?” he stepped towards Jimmy, and put his hand on his forehead.

“I mean, you are a little cold, but I thought that was just part of your bit this season,” he said. “You feel, warmer than the last time I high-fived you. And- dude, you're sweating! Tango, buddy, I know hardcore worlds can get intense, but did you forget the difference between hot and cold?”

Jimmy hadn't ever high-fived this man. “I thought getting warm was a symptom of... did you just call me Tango?”

The man's eyes widened slowly. “...Yes? That's your name, silly!”

“No it isn't,” Jimmy said, and frowned. If he got mistaken for Tango, did that mean...?

“Oh. Okay, that's fine, uh... do you remember my name?” he spoke slowly, and had a concerned expression on his face.

“No. Look, dude, I think something went-”

“WHAT!?” the man interrupted Jimmy. “You don't even remember your best friend Zedaph? Okay, you are clearly not feeling well. Take that big coat off, I think you're overheating.”

Jimmy did take the coat off, leaving him with a short-sleeved undershirt. His upper arms were even paler than his hands; they were almost blue. Zedaph took the coat and draped it over the bench they were sitting on.

“Tango, you just lay down for a moment. I'll stay here with you, and I'll call X when he gets online, and then he'll get you checked out, okay?”

Jimmy started to lay down, then changed his mind. “No, I feel fine, but dude, I'm not Tango. My name's Jimmy, and me and Tango were-”

“Ah-bah-bah-bah, don't get so worked up, just get some rest,” Zedaph interrupted him, and pushed him flat onto the bench. He was surprisingly strong; or maybe Jimmy was just lighter than he was used to. Zedaph sat down on the bench next to him, and began writing something down, muttering to himself: “Okay, symptoms: amnesia, weird body temperature, talking in a London accent for some reason...”

Jimmy sighed, and laid down. How had he ended up in this situation?

---

One moment Bigb was rushing up the stairs of the Box, trying to help Ren. The next he was... sitting in his lap?

When he turned his head to see Ren's be-sun-spectacled face right next to his own, he immediately jumped up. He also squealed, which would've been embarrassing if not for the sound Ren made, which was louder and lasted much longer.

“He-hey, Ren! Fancy seeing you here,” Bigb said to Ren, trying to sound casual. He had not expected to see him again; he'd expected to end up back on BasicCraft with Tom. Maybe this was the afterlife? He was pretty sure Scott had mentioned an afterlife some other time.

“What sorcery is this!?” Ren responded, not sounding casual in the slightest. “Why- How is there an impostor of the king in thine own throne room?”

“Impostor? Aw, I thought you liked the matching dog ears,” Bigb replied, scratching his own ears. Yep, still furry. Then, noticing the small crown on Ren's head and the throne he was sitting on, he added: “Wait, are we doing this again? Uh, my lord.”

“Well, of course I like the ears. But-” Ren paused, and tilted his head at Bigb. “Ah, I see. You are my old self. My PEASANT self! Oh, how it doth pain me to see this reminder of how I once was... BEGONE!”

“Wow,” Bigb said. “Rude.” He'd remembered Ren having a dramatic flair as king, but he was fairly certain he'd been nicer last time.

“I am the king, and I can be rude to whomever I doth wisheth! Now leave me, I must ponder!”

Well, two could play at that game. “You know what?” Bigb said. “You look stupid in that big cape.”

Ren's face dropped, and Bigb saw him shrink down into his throne. “Oh,” he said, much quieter than before. He looked utterly crushed by Bigb's remark.

Bigb stuck out his tongue at him, and turned around to leave... but Ren's sad face made him feel bad. So he turned back around and said: “I'm sorry, my lord. That was mean.”

“Yes... yes, I'm sorry as well,” Ren replied, wiping a tear out of his eye. “I should not be so rude to my own image... but I can make it up to you!”

“You can?”

“Yes! From this point onwards, I declareth thee... the royal stunt double! If ever I need a vacation from ruling, or I get a bad haircut or something, I will calleth upon you to take my place for a meeting or two.”

Bigb raised an eyebrow. “And what's in it for me?”

“Huh? You... you'll have a position in the royal court of King RentheKing! That is the greatest honor in all of Hermitcraftia!” Ren called out, spreading his arms wide.

“Right, of course, of course,” Bigb responded, then scratched his ear again. “...Are you sure I look enough like you for that though? I mean, we don't even have...” he trailed off, as he took a good look at his own arm for the first time since getting here. Why on earth was he white?

“Yes, of course, you are my splitting image! Come, stand beside me,” Ren ordered, so Bigb approached him again and stood next to his throne. Ren grabbed his chat and turned on the camera.

“Look, our faces are identical! As soon as you don some proper royal garb, no one will tell the difference.” Sure enough, the screen showed two Rens: one with a crown and cloak, and one with the floral shirt Ren wore at the start of Double Life.

“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense,” Bigb said slowly, staring at the screen. “I have no questions about this at all.”

---

Martyn felt the characteristic thud of getting dropped into a new world, and opened his eyes to see he was laying in a flat field of grass.

“Are we going again already? Surely not, it's been like thirty seconds since the last game. I didn't even hear the rules this time,” he said to himself. He got up, and immediately saw that wherever he was, it was not at the start of a Life game. Giant rectangular pillars loomed before him, and he turned around to see two huge seahorse statues. He also noticed he wasn't wearing his own clothes; instead he was wearing a dark blue dress, and his limbs were pale green and felt numb.

He was undead like Cleo, and was wearing a dress like Cleo's. “If this is some kind of punishment for being mean to my soulmate earlier, it's-”

his statement to nobody in particular was interrupted by the sound of fireworks nearby. Martyn immediately whirled around to find the source-- was someone coming at him with a firework crossbow?

It almost seemed that way when an explosion of green and yellow lights in his peripheral vision made him jump; but the person who emerged from the explosion was unarmed. They looked a bit like Skizz, but with a significantly more eccentric fashion sense. They smiled at Martyn.

“Howdy Cleo, welcome back! How was the death game?” they said in a voice that sounded nothing like Skizz's.

Oh, so that's the game we're playing, Martyn thought. It was best to stay under the radar until he'd figured out what was going on, he thought; so he decided to play along.

“Oh you know... you know how it is with death games,” he replied, talking slower than usual, hoping to mimic Cleo's voice. It seemed to work, as Cleo's friend didn't look suspicious of him.

“Not really. It's been a little while since I did one. Maybe I should ask Grian to invite me next time,” they said. “Anyway, I'm about to go mine out some nether tunnels, do you want to help?”

“No. I'm gonna go... recover for a bit,” Martyn said. The more he was alone, the longer before someone caught on to the fact he wasn't actually Cleo. It's a good think we have similar accents at least, he thought.

“Okay, see you around!” the stranger responded, then used a pull-string firework rocket and elytra to take off into the sky. Martyn watched them fly away for a few seconds, then turn around and go back towards him.

“By the way, Cleo, I have a lot of blackstone now, so if you ever need any for your builds, just tell me and I'll give you some, alright?”

“Yeah, alright. Look, can you just-” Martyn was interrupted by the sound of yet another person flying in using elytra. He turned around and saw Scar landing on the ground and walking towards him, leaning on his cane. This was someone he knew-- he wasn't sure whether that was better for him or worse.

“Howdy Scar! Did you have fun in the death game?” Cleo's friend said, while grabbing a totem of undying from their inventory. That worried Martyn; he really didn't want to end up in the middle of a fight right now.

“Hi Joe,” Scar said to them. Then he turned to Martyn: “Look, Martyn, something's gone horribly wrong, as you can probably tell-”

“Who's Mahrtyn?” Cleo's friend-- Joe, apparently-- interrupted.

“This is,” Scar responded, gesturing at Martyn. “Wait, did he not... had you not told Joe?”

Martyn didn't respond. Well, there goes that plan, he thought. Joe stared ahead for a moment, squinting, then a smile broke across their face and they turned to Martyn.

“Oh my gosh, Cle- Martyn, that's amazing! I'm so happy for you! Is it okay if I call Quinn?”

Martyn didn't know who Quinn was, but evidently Scar did. “No, Joe, that's not what I-” he started to say, before breaking down into laugher. It was a loud cackle, very un-Scar-like; and Martyn suspected he knew why.

Joe's smile faded. “...What?” they said accusingly. “Did I not understand this correctly? Also, Scar, why are you British now?”

When British Scar had recovered slightly from his laughing fit, he said: “No, Joe, listen- first of all, I'm not Scar, I'm Grian. Somehow we all got swapped into each other's bodies when coming back from Double Life. So this isn't Cleo at all, this is Martyn.”

“Oh, okay,” Joe said. Then they blinked and said to Martyn: “Wait, no, cancel that. You mean you aren't my good friend Cleo?”

Martyn sighed. “No, sorry dude.” At this point, pretending otherwise would only make things worse. Martyn held out his hand-- or rather, Cleo's hand-- to Joe. “I'm Martyn, nice to meet you.”

Joe stood still for a second, thinking, then shrugged and took it. “It's a pleasure,” he replied. “Welcome to Hermitcraft, I guess.”

(next)