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scribbling-dragon · 1 year

Text

breaking the ice

summary:

“What have we got here?” The man grins, brushing closer to him, but not quite close enough to touch. He tilts his head, hair laying flat against his head. Sparks shower out, cyan and orange dotting his clothes. He turns his arms over, admiring the pattern they leave behind before they fade again and the man is in front of him once more.

“What are you doing?” Martyn asks, the fifth time the man has teleported to be beside him, no longer jolting in surprise at the sudden shower of sparks and appearance of the man beside him.

(ao3 link)

(2,714 words)

If Martyn could shiver, he’d probably have shuddered his way out of his own skin by now. But he can't, meaning he’s left to continue floating miserably upwards, accepting his fate of continuing ever upwards, never to escape from the clutches of the sky.

He won't freeze, either, when he gets beyond the sphere of warmth that keeps everything else alive. The lack of air might bring a more significant challenge, but he might just be able to freeze himself entirely solid.

He slumps a little at the thought, though his slumping does very little to stop him from rising several feet higher. The air here is a little thinner, the tips of mountains just fading from his view as they grow smaller and smaller below him. His hands haven't begun to tingle with the tell-tale sign of the effect wearing off. His veins continue to buzz with the magic coursing through them, and, not for the first time, he curses his own curiosity. And then the stupid geyser that had seemed like a lot of fun at first- but now, this.

Something pops behind him, and he twists, hood falling in front of his face as he turns. He pushes it back, just in time to watch a man disappear in a puff of particles, orange and cyan swirling around his face. He blinks, sneezing as one lands on his nose. He jerks with the motion, spinning halfway round in the air.

The man reappears a moment later, particles bursting outwards from a previously empty bit of air. He grins up at him, seeming to hover in place for a moment as he hovers. Martyn continues to rise in the air, but he twists to look down at this new person.

Whatever was keeping the man afloat seems to disappear, as he plummets. Martyn shouts something- no words actually make it through his brain, coming out in a scramble of noise as the man drops like a stone. He pops back into existence beside Martyn’s head, hair floating around his face, stirred by an invisible breeze.

“What are you doing?” Martyn asks, the fifth time the man has teleported to be beside him, no longer jolting in surprise at the sudden shower of sparks and appearance of the man beside him.

“Watching you,” the man answers simply, twisting about in the air casually, as though there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, like, maybe on the ground? “You seem to have gotten yourself in a predicament, huh?” The man has an accent, smoothing over his words as he watches Martyn with something close to fascination.

“Yeah, nothing like endlessly floating and waiting for everything to be over.”

The man laughs at that, teleporting twice more before he stops. The teleporting cuts his laugh up, makes it more choppy, disorganising it and spreading it apart. It’s odd, to watch this man disappear and reappear, floating around Martyn as though he’s the one with levitation.

“Do you trust me?” The man asks, once he’s managed to stop laughing. Martyn didn't even think it was that funny.

“Why would I trust someone I don't even know the name of?”

The man’s face scrunches up, the bands on his arms pulsing for a moment. Martyn watches them move with fascination - he had thought they were tattoos before, circular designs decorating the man’s arms. But they move, as though with minds of their own.

“Why would I help someone I don't even know the name of?” The man counters. He reappears on Martyn’s other side, forcing him to turn and face the man-without-a-name. “Why do we do anything?”

“Right, thanks,” he pushes the man slightly away from himself, conscious of how close they had begun to drift. The man pops up on his other side, legs crossed beneath himself as he watches Martyn. “Don't exactly need a second crisis on top of the current one.”

“A crisis that could very easily be solved,” the man smiles, “if you trusted me.”

Martyn watches him for several long moments, which is made increasingly harder with how he seems to enjoy popping in and out of existence, twisting in a circle around Martyn, forcing him to follow along with his actions.

“Fine,” he grits out after several long moments, causing the man’s smile to get even wider, the points of his teeth becoming more obvious as he leans closer; the grin is almost cheshire-like in nature. “I trust you.”

“Fantastic!” The man disappears again, and Martyn’s stomach drops, considering that maybe this had just been something for the man to toy with, and that he actually wouldn't be able to help in any kind of way.

He scowls to himself, limbs going loose and relaxed as he slumps over in frustration. It does nothing, the endless force continuing to carry him upwards, towards the gaping maw of the void above. It’s slowly widening, opening in greeting as it prepares to swallow him whole. Maybe it’ll even kill him, if the cold won't.

Air brushes over the side of his face, stirring the short hairs there and causing him to shiver. The reaction is involuntary, as is the way his mouth opens slightly at the feeling, a silent breath escaping him.

“Hold on for just a moment,” that same voice breathes into his ear, a hand slipping under his arm to press against his chest; the heel of his palm digs in just below his heart. He can feel the thumping of it vibrate against the man’s hand. A warmth blooms out from there, heating his skin to where he’s almost convinced he’s burning alive.

And then he’s gone.

He’s left feeling weightless, still lifting higher into the sky. Where it had been easy to breathe before, suddenly, now, the air refuses to enter his lungs. It leaves him with a heaving chest, pressing a hand where the man had just touched him. It’s still warm, his heart still thumping hard enough to be felt, hard enough that he worries that his ribs might bruise.

He digs his fingers into the skin there, looks down. But the fabric isn’t charred, no blackening or curling edges of fabric to hint at why that warmth seems to have wormed its way under his skin- why it now seems to be intent on cooking him alive.

His coat is too warm for him, claustrophobic around him in a way it’s never been before. He curls his hand into it, feeling uncomfortable with this sudden heat when it’s the opposite of everything he’s meant to be. His fingers dig into his chest, curling into his skin, as though he could rip this sudden warmth from himself.

He curls a little tighter into himself, feeling the steady beat of his heart against his palm. It’s reassuring, something to measure and breathe beside, to confirm that he can still breathe, that the air isn't thin enough to send him into light-headedness.

Just as everything balances itself back out again, something tugs in his chest. It’s soft at first, a small, experimental tug, as though testing the waters. Whatever it is, the test is deemed successful, as the grip tightens and then yanks.

He stumbles, hunching over as a dizzying wave of nausea washes over him, hands braced against his knees. He sinks a little further down as the dizziness doesn't go away, and his vision turns black and watery- wavering slightly, like a shitty video.

The ground beneath him is solid- the ground below him.

He gasps out on the next breath, blinking in an attempt to clear his vision faster, glancing around at the field he’s currently sat in, and the house a few feet ahead of him.

And he’s alone.

There’s nothing around but a few chickens, all a safe distance away from him, clucking happily to themselves as they root around in the grass for seeds and worms. He stares at them for longer than he probably needs to, watching them move around; watching the way the wind ruffles their feathers; watches the way two of them step towards each other, heads jittery as they eye each other up, before moving onwards again; watches the way that a butterfly lands on a stem of grass, the way it bends beneath the weight, the way it flutters its wings once before drifting off again.

“Nice, isn't it?”

Martyn jumps at the sudden voice, stumbling up and to his feet, almost toppling over with the momentum and lack of weightlessness as he stands. The man grabs him by the arms, easing him back upwards, continuing to hold onto him, even once he’s managed to get his feet under himself again.

“What the hell,” Martyn says. He pulls his arms back out of the man’s grip, taking a small step back, putting distance between them, no matter how small that distance actually is. “Do you get a kick out of scaring people?”

“Yes, actually.” The man’s head tilts to the side, and he’s grinning again. He’s watching Martyn, eyes dragging over him as he takes in every bit of him. “Only a few people ever hear me coming, and even then they don't know where I am.”

“That’s mean.”

“I could have left you up there,” the man’s face flattens back out. The rings around his arms drop to his wrists, rattling around the bone there like bangles before they come to a halt, clanking against each other as the man takes a step to the side.

He reappears behind Martyn, looking him over there. “You even have a tail,” he comments, and Martyn turns, still a little unsteady on his feet but pulling himself away when the man goes to support him again. “What are you?”

“Don't you think it’s a little rude to ask that?” Martyn responds, crossing his arms. Something about this man sets him slightly off-kilter, not certain on how he’s supposed to act when faced with someone he doesn't even know the name of. “I don't even know your name.”

“Scott,” the man grabs his hand and shakes it, “pleasure to meet you…?”

“Martyn,” he responds, when the man - Scott - lets his voice trail off meaningfully. “It’s still rude to ask what someone is.”

“I've just never seen anyone like you before,” Scott says, still circling around him. Like a shark circling its prey. The comparison does nothing to ease Martyn’s nerves. His fingers feel too stiff to even think about holding a sword right now. “The hooves and antlers made me think deer of some kind, but the grey and blue threw me off a little. And then you were just so cold when I touched you. Like you had ice running through your veins. And it’s waaay too hot for you to be wearing that coat right now, but you're doing it anyway?”

“You some kind of expert?”

“No, but I have been around the block,” Scott tilts his head to the side, popping in and out of space as he reappears next to Martyn, stretching up to peer at his antlers, a hand hovering just above his shoulder, as though for balance. “Seen plenty of people wandering about, some lost some not, others simply exploring. Some friendly…some not.”

“I can't see how anyone could dislike you,” he says. “You're so forward with information and understanding of people’s personal space.”

“All you had to do was say,” Scott says, stepping back and looking at him with his unfairly pretty eyes. “And there was hardly any time to tell you anything up there, I was constantly playing catch-up and toying with how far I could fall before teleporting to you again.”

“You could tell me now.”

“Alright!” Scott chirps, “Pleasure to meet you, strange ice man, I am Scott, the lovely and local transporter, at your service. And I don't even charge for use of those services,” Scott grins at him, as though any of that was charming. And- alright, maybe some of it was a little charming, in a weird sort of way. Like when you found a feral cat in the area near your house and thought it was quite sweet in its violent, insane little way.

He even does a little bow, bending himself at the waist and looking up at him from beneath his hair.

“Alright, alright,” he huffs a laugh despite himself. “I'm a chillager.”

“A chillager?” Scott pops back into his personal bubble with a flash of sparks, peering closer at him. “Are you sure? You certainly don't look like one I've ever met before…”

Martyn thinks he’s been quite controlled up until this point. He really, really thinks he has, actually. And, at this point, Scott is deserving of whatever Martyn serves to him. He closes his hand into a fist, yankwing downwards, feeling the water vapour in the air around them rapidly condensing and freezing.

The snow dumps on top of them with little mercy, large chunks of ice rolling further out. Martyn stares at the small mound of snow he’s created, considering that he’s maybe done a little too much this time, pulled slightly too much water into his control.

He watches the snow. The snow that has entirely swamped Scott, almost drowning him beneath it. He can't see hair nor hide of the other man. So he rocks back on his heels and waits. And then waits a little longer.

And then a little longer.

A small thread of anxiety begins to curl in his stomach - what if teleporters are extremely vulnerable to cold? He’s never met a teleporter before, will it be his fault if he’s accidentally just murdered the guy? What if he’s the last of his kind- he’s never met a teleporter before, that’s gotta be for a reason, right? What if they're all dead, and he’s just managed to kill the last of the teleporter species.

He digs his hands into the snow, shovelling it out of the way quickly, digging deeper and berating himself for dumping so much snow on top of the man- his mother would kill him if she knew what he’s just done. Exercising control and restraint is very important. All of which do not include dumping snow on a guy, even if he was really annoying.

He brushes against something solid within the snow, something that moves when he touches it. He heaves some more snow out of the way, coming face to face with a grinning Scott. The man’s hair is damp and plastered against his face from the snow, but he’s still grinning. Doesn't look even a little bit hurt.

He’s leaned over Scott, looking over his face for any small winces of pain, before he can even think about it. Maybe he just has a grin constantly plastered on his face, or something, and so he can't show pain or cold.

“Aw,” Scott sits up, snow cascading from his very bare shoulders. He doesn't even look cold. “Were you worried about me?”

Martyn scowls at him, considering how much more snow he might be able to dump on him with the significantly depleted water vapour around them. Definitely still enough to bury him again.

His silence is apparently enough of a response as Scott’s grin grows further, sharp teeth glinting under the light. “You know I could just teleport myself out, right?” He asks, a laugh beginning to bubble under his voice.

Actually, screw whatever his mother says. He dumps more snow on the guy, patting a hand against it to solidify it a little more, pack it in a little tighter.

Scott continues to laugh, even if it is slightly more muffled now. Martyn scowls at the mound of snow, hoping that he freezes to death a little quicker.

Except he doesn't, really, even if Scott teleporting behind him makes him reconsider the whole swearing off on murder attempts. He could make an exception, just this once.

#juno.writes #new life smp #nlsmp #martyn inthelittlewood #inthelittlewood #new life smp fic #newlife scott #newlife martyn #scott smajor #mean gills #majorwood #trafficshipping

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scribbling-dragon · 1 year

Text

That Damn Scarf

summary:

But Martyn is also definitely the guy he’s spent the most time around. And because of this, he would have thought he’d find the answer to the strange man he first came across floating in the sky (which is actually a lie, he’d been watching him putter around for a little while before that, but he didn't actually speak to him until he was several thousand feet in the air and approaching certain death by suffocation). But he still doesn't have his answer: why the scarf?

(ao3 link)

(12,489 words)

Scott has met, and spoken to, Martyn several times. He likes to think they're on rather good terms at the moment, with him poking his head, or his arm, or any other limb, really, in to poke at Martyn in a way of saying hello. Martyn then, often, pulls him all the way through the portals, dragging him (quite literally) into a conversation, or pulling him in to help with whatever task he’s doing that day. Most of which are very boring and are not things that Scott would normally consider doing, however, when he’s with Martyn he cannot help but smile and go along with it, enjoying the moments they spend together.

So, Scott likes to think they're friends- and rather good ones at that! He’s met several other people on his wanderings around the world, popping in and out of places, checking on the new faces he spies around. A few of them are interesting, catching his interest for a few minutes or hours, leading to him watching them from a distance, either until he got bored, approached them, or he noticed them.

Scott knows what a scarf is, obviously, but what he doesn't get is the purpose of the garment. Everyone pulls out a scarf, maybe some mittens and a hat too, when it gets a little bit chillier and frost begins to nip at any exposed skin and the winds turn sharper, more likely to cut at your face if you venture out into it with insufficient protection. It’s a normal response to bundle up and add a few extra layers, perhaps spruce things up a bit with how artfully you drape your scarf around your neck and over your shoulders.

Scott’s fallen victim to several nice scarves over the years, though most of those had been thin pieces of fabric, silken and floaty things designed to look pretty rather than keep the chill away. Not that he was particularly bothered by the cold, preferring to let it bite at his skin and find that he’s actually impermeable to their teeth of ice and snow. He hails from places far colder than what a little snow can achieve, it’ll take more than the measly winds to get him to cover up more.

So, Martyn’s scarf. Scott’s not actually sure why he’s so fixated on it, only that he’d noticed it once, taking a moment too long to fixate on the knitted garment; and just like that, it had snaked its way into his mind, capturing him in its threads and pulling his attention towards it when he has a free moment- every waking moment of his, not occupied by other things, has been consumed by the blue and slightly-darker-blue wool of Martyn’s scarf.

It is a very nice scarf. Obviously handmade, but made by someone that clearly knows what they're doing, possibly a master of their craft. Or maybe Martyn just bought it from some random person, and it was made in bulk with several thousand others that look exactly the same. But it also just looks handmade, and Martyn treats it carefully, as though worried it might get harmed by something. Scott has watched him tuck a loose thread back in carefully, neatly folding it back amongst the blues.

The only thing, and the thing that he’s focusing on, is that he’s never seen Martyn without the scarf.

He wears it seemingly constantly, always in the same way, with it a few scant inches from being tugged up to cover his lips completely- not that Scott spends long periods of time looking at Martyn’s lips, his scarf is just really close to his lips, and it’s hard to look at his scarf without also looking at his lips, and…maybe he does look at his lips. But only in quick, friendly glances that mean nothing more than watching Martyn speak and the way he shapes his vowels as he talks.

And he still doesn't know why Martyn even wears it! He doesn't get cold, something that Scott had been able to establish pretty early on, asking first why he wears all of the layers, then finding out just how cold Martyn was the time he clamped a bare hand down on the back of his neck. It had sent several shivers down his spine and forced him to squirm away from the ice blocks Martyn had pressed against his skin. Ice blocks that turned out to be his hands, which also turned out to be his normal (and healthy) temperature.

So, he doesn't need the scarf. Definitely not for keeping warm reasons, because Martyn actually explained to him how higher temperatures are bad for his health. Though only in the extremes, like deserts or the Nether. And he also doesn't enjoy hanging out in completely frozen environments, both for the lack of life there, and because the cold can still bite at him, just not as fiercely.

And yet he wears it! Scott’s has never, ever seen him without it- even that one time when it was really late at night, the moon halfway towards its descent, and he’d been stranded in the middle of nowhere and the first waypoint he’d managed to connect to was Martyn’s. And it would have been rude and cruel and not at all friend-like of him to kick a dear friend, like Scott, out in the middle of the night (closer to early morning, but semantics) when it was so dark and cold and dangerous.

And Martyn had been in his pyjamas, very obviously just woken up with quite spectacular bed-hair that Scott had to exert all of his willpower not to comment on (he wasn't going to risk being kicked out just because Martyn’s hair made him look like a parrot with how it stuck up at the back). And still wearing his scarf. Neatly tucked around his neck and trailing over his shoulder, a perfect compliment to the pyjamas he was wearing.

His ongoing theory, until recently, was that the scarf was simply a part of him. Scott had never met a chillager before he came across Martyn, and so he wasn't one to judge, nor was he one to question something. He much preferred to figure things out on his own, mainly because the satisfaction of eliminating all incorrect assumptions and settling on the most plausible (and usually correct) answer was something basically unbeatable.

He’d been able to eliminate that theory rather quickly, though he still went through several testing stages to be certain of his initial conclusion (he would much rather spend time determining that he was wrong than skip over it and find out that he was right initially).

He’d tugged at the scarf experimentally, twisting the fibres to see if it gained any reaction from Martyn. He’d done it before, definitely, but he had a concussion that time from one of the “Colins” that Martyn insisted on keeping in his cave-house, and had been a little too blurry around the edges to look for a reaction to the action. But on his second, and then third and fourth and fifth, attempt, when he still garnered no reaction from the man, he had to give up on the theory, crossing it off his quickly shortening list. The lack of response meant it obviously wasn't sewn into his nervous system, and Scott had seen him adjust it several times before, even if it was only a tiny bit, either tightening or loosening the material.

But he’d continued to tug and pull at the scarf, gently at first, then growing with force once he’d determined it wouldn't hurt Martyn if he did so- he may be carrying out tests to determine the truth behind the scarf, but he wasn't going to willingly hurt one of his friends.

And Martyn had only protested slightly (actually a lot, especially when Scott yanked at the scarf), but not enough to dissuade Scott from forming perhaps his worst habit in the entirety of his life.

His teachers would be so disappointed.

===

The sun was just warm enough to be uncomfortable, the sun bearing down with some force on the bare skin of his arms. He eyes Martyn from the corner of his eye, watching as he ambles along easily, hood still pulled up around his ears and looking entirely unbothered by the heat that seems determined to slowly boil his insides. He feels like he’s being slowly eased off of a simmer and onto a boil.

It leaves him feeling too hot in his own skin.

He trips, too focused on side-eyeing Martyn and questioning how the man hasn't melted into a little puddle yet. He pops back into place a few feet ahead, sparks drifting around him as he continues walking, backwards now, so he can squint at Martyn.

Martyn looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “Did you need something?” His face isn't even a little pink, not at all betraying that he might be feeling a little on the toasty side. It’s also beginning to piss him off a little. He looks far too cosy, at too much of a comfortable temperature with his stupid scarf tucked neatly around his neck, brushing against the bottom of his chin.

He hums, spinning around so he’s walking forwards again and falling back into place beside Martyn. “Just wondering if your brain is melting into a puddle.” He makes a small, considering noise in the back of his throat, turning his head to continue squinting at Martyn. Martyn is watching him. “You look like your brain is melting outta your ears.”

Martyn stares at him, jolting to a halt for a second before his brain seems to reboot (maybe it’s not quite melted yet. Just…defrosting) and he starts walking again, jogging for a moment to catch up with Scott.

“What does that even mean?” He asks, sounding genuinely confused. His face scrunches up, eyebrows furrowing and forming a small crinkle between his eyebrows. Scott can't quite bring himself to look away, though he covers up this new and embarrassing discovery by grinning wide.

“Means you look like an idiot.”

Martyn goes a little pink in the face at that - though, Scott notes, unfortunately it doesn't look like the pinkness of his face is due to the heat. It looks more like- he teleports a few feet to the left, crossing his arms and frowning at Martyn.

“That’s not very nice of you.” He complains. He stops walking so he can plant his hands on his hips and frown at Martyn disapprovingly. “We use our words, not our fists to communicate.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Martyn shakes his head. “I wasn't gonna hit you hard.” He pauses, then smiles at Scott, sidling a little closer, “Just a little tap.”

Scott reels back as Martyn flicks him on the nose, hands shooting up to cover his face, glaring at Martyn once he’s managed to blink the tears back from his eyes enough to actually bring Martyn’s face back into focus.

Martyn laughs at him, bending almost double at the waist as he laughs. It echoes around them, sending a few rabbits shooting off through the grasses, disappearing quickly into the browning grass. He frowns after them, watching the bobbing of their cotton-tails disappear. He’s got a recipe for rabbit meat somewhere, tucked away in one of the recipe books lining his bookshelves. He’s hardly had an opportunity to make any rabbit-based dishes.

The slowing of Martyn’s wheezing (sounding more like he’s choking and less like he’s laughing) brings him out of his thoughts, and he remembers to glare at him, lowering his hands from his face to properly achieve the full effect.

“Did your mother teach you no manners?” He cries, once he’s managed to gather himself sufficiently enough to be annoyed. “Or did you just grow up in a barn?” If he ever dared to flick someone on the nose (on the nose) back home, he’d have gotten a slap on the wrist and sent to his room for a week. His teachers would have also made sure to slot in some extra etiquette classes, just to rub salt in the wound a little further.

“My mother was a lovely woman,” Martyn huffs back at him. “She taught me plenty of manners, but she also told me not to waste them on rude people.”

“I'm not rude!” Martyn snorts a laugh at that. “I am not!” He has to jog to catch up with Martyn, following behind him as he pushes through the tall grass, carving a path for Scott to easily follow behind.

The grass brushes over the bare skin at his wrists, causing him to shiver and tuck his arms a little closer. He loves the plants of this realm far too much to be disgusted by many of them, but tall grasses are something that makes him want to claw his skin off when it brushes over him, skittering across his flesh like the similarly unwelcome bugs he’s come across recently. Simply the thought of the spiders is enough to send a shiver down his spine, crawling uncomfortably over his skin.

“You're one of the rudest people I've met.” Martyn says, turning his head over his shoulder to look at him. His scarf slips a little lower, exposing a pale flash of skin at his neck. It’s almost enough to make him swallow a look away, though the heat can be blamed on the sun, still trying to cook him from the inside out. Like his insides are soup and his organs the meat of it. He grimaces at his own analogy and looks away.

Looking away means he makes direct eye contact with the creeper lurking just to the side of them, fixing him under its beady stare. He stares at it for a moment, not even registering that his feet have stopped moving and Martyn has continued on in front of him, unaware of the creature waiting to put a dent in this horrible, itchy field.

It hisses, swelling slightly in warning. It’s all the warning he’ll get, and he grabs it with both hands and holds on, teleporting to Martyn and grabbing the closest available thing, dragging him forward and through another one of his portals, both of them tumbling through several feet away, tumbling over each other in the grass as Martyn yells something into his ear.

The grass brushes past every bit of exposed skin, and he feels several of his joints protest the movement, twisting oddly and promising him pain later if he doesn't use heat and pressure. He ignores it, ignores the scratching of the grass as it tickles him.

The explosion rocks through the air a moment later, causing him to wince and duck his head, far closer to Martyn’s face than he’s…ever been. Ever. Martyn’s staring up at him, eyes wide and hood halfway fallen off of his head, revealing his ridiculously fluffy deer ears. His scarf is still tucked neatly around his neck, though, not a speck of dust caught in its fibres.

“What,” Martyn wheezes out, “the hell.”

“There was a creeper,” he manages, still a little disoriented from the sudden, jarring teleportations- he hasn't gotten dizzy like this since his first few teleports. Certainly not after he’d graduated his first year. “Uh. Thought it’d ruin the day a bit if one of us got blown up.”

“You think?” Martyn’s breathing still sounds a little wheezy. His voice slightly strained as he speaks. “Might do a bit more than ruin the day.” Scott shifts slightly, knees digging uncomfortably into the weirdly soft ground…

He shifts backwards onto his haunches a little further, drawing back as he realises he’s hunched over Martyn, knees digging into his chest, faces far too close to be friendly. The sun is unbearably hot on his back, flushing his face with the heat and recent exertion.

His ankle twinges painfully as Martyn sits up, dislodging him from where he had been crouching. It brings them almost face to face again, because Scott’s still sitting on his legs, just below the knee, grass still itching at his arms as they shift about.

The smell of gunpowder lingers in the air, hanging heavy about their heads, even as the small particles of smoke begin to float back down.

Martyn’s hand wraps around his, slowly prying his fingers away from something. Scott looks down, finding the end of Marytn’s scarf clutched in his grasp, fingers digging into the material tight enough that his knuckles are white.

“Next time you decide to save my life,” Martyn says, a small note of humour lingering in his voice, “try not to yank me around by my neck, yeah?”

“I- yeah.” He shifts back a little further, pulling his hands back to himself once he’s managed to release Martyn’s scarf. “Course.”

===

Martyn almost walks off a cliff the next week.

He’d been speaking, saying something that Scott can't even remember anymore, after the adrenaline-fueled and anxiety-inducing five seconds that resulted from Martyn stepping off a cliff. It’s no wonder there’s so many stories about death in this realm, if people so easily fling themselves to their doom on the regular. Or if small accidents like this spell the end for most people.

Martyn’s foot slips, something giving way beneath his heel. Scott gets a brief moment of seeing Martyn’s face twist - morphing to something like horror - as their eyes meet, before Scott is lunging forward, reaching for any part of Martyn.

One hand curls around Martyn’s shoulder, the contact enough for him to snag onto Martyn with his powers, a thread coiling tightly around him as he releases him once more, staggering back from the cliff edge, not even giving himself a moment before he’s yanking on that thread, fingers twisting tight in it and pulling.

It gives way with a snap, and Scott becomes weightless. The ground below him rushes up, a mix of greys and darker greys, a few dripstone reaching up, eager to impale him. He twists, reaching for a spot on the clifftop.

He stumbles, feet coming into contact with the ground, jarring his knees hard enough to make him gasp, knees buckling as they decide they don't want to hold his weight up anymore. He winces as his knees hit the ground, lungs feeling too empty as he gasps, attempting to breathe properly again after…that.

“God, Scott,” Martyn sounds equally out of breath as he does. “I- thanks, thought I was a goner there.”

“You're lucky I was around,” he bites back, straightening up so he can see Martyn. One of his knees twinges painfully, as he rocks back to rest on his heels, one hand still planted firmly on the ground for balance. “Or you’d be a smear on the rock right now.”

“Alright, no need to rub it in.” Martyn grimaces. His hood has fallen back, exposing his windswept hair and flushed cheeks. His scarf trails loosely around his neck, no longer tucked snugly against his neck. Scott gets the odd impulse to tuck it back into place for him.

He clenches his hands into fists before he can make a move to act on that thought, snagging several blades of grass in one hand, almost ripping them free before he relaxes again, releasing them carefully and checking that he didn't damage them. He might hate their taller cousins, but the short and soft green grass is something that he’s found himself growing rather fond of.

“I need to put you on a leash,” he mutters, pushing himself to his feet. When he looks back up, Martyn’s cheeks look a little rosy. Possibly a little wind-bitten, but he looks fine otherwise. “If you keep wandering off, I’ll put you in one of those child leashes.” He threatens.

“You wouldn't,” Martyn denies. He looks confident in his denial, as well, which Scott supposes is fair; they've only known each other for a little while, and thus he cannot expect Martyn to understand how willing he is to commit to things, especially if it means he can stop getting an adrenaline rush when he decides to go a nice, leisurely stroll with one of his friends.

“I would,” he steps closer, grinning up at Martyn. They're close enough that he can almost feel Martyn’s breath on his cheeks. Close enough that he can study the odd, square shape of Martyn’s pupils (something he’s been meaning to ask about for the past while but has never managed to). “But,” he hums, glancing down, “I suppose this will have to do for now.”

He winds the end of Martyn’s scarf around his hand, pulling on the end a little, just to watch it tighten around Martyn’s throat. It’s closer to how he normally wears it, even if Martyn immediately grabs the scarf, tugging it away from his throat.

“Absolutely not.” Martyn loosens it a little further. Scott tugs at it again, watching how Martyn’s hands curl into his beloved scarf a little tighter, holding onto it.

“Why not?” He asks, tilting his head to the side as he continues to look up at Martyn.

“Because I'm not a child.” One of Martyn’s hands has come up to scrape at his hand, trying to peel his fingers back from where they're curled into his scarf. His gloves mean that Scott can't feel the bite of his nails, and so his attempts are rendered useless.

He seems to realise this, after several seconds of silence between the two of them as he fruitlessly attempts to free himself.

“Would a dog be better?”

“What?” Martyn stops his attempts, hand pausing where it hovers over his own. He can feel the cold of his hands seeping through the fabric of his gloves. His own fingers tingle in sympathy, and he almost winces at the thought of his hands being that cold.

“If I compared you to a dog rather than a child,” he grins. He already knows that the comparison is not better. He’d had a lovely conversation with Gem - a swarm, he didn't even know such a thing could exist - about dogs and how cute they are. She’d seemed quite enthusiastic about them, even if, to Scott, having a dog seemed rather inconvenient; you had to take it for walks and pay it so much attention. It was hardly self-sufficient, and they always seemed far too cheerful about everything. And a dog also seemed like it would create lots of messes.

So, not something someone wants to be compared to.

“No!” Martyn protests, redoubling his attempts to pry Scott away from his scarf. “No, that is not better.” He pauses, looking up at Scott, before he begins slowly pulling his hand upwards-

“Don't bite me!” He cries, yanking his hand back, releasing Martyn’s scarf. “What the hell, Martyn? Why?”

“You weren't letting go!” Martyn yells back, eyes wide and ears pinned backwards, looking almost startled. “I didn't know what else to do!”

“And biting me seemed like a good idea?”

“Yes!” Martyn clutches at his scarf, holding tight onto the fabric where Scott had held it, brushing a thumb over the material. “My teeth aren't sharp like yours, you’d be fine.”

“Human bites are some of the most dangerous bites in the entire universe,” he rattles off. “They're more dangerous than animals, due to the bacteria that live inside human’s mouths. As such, if a human bite breaks the skin, it can become infected.”

Martyn blinks at him, still holding his scarf. “And you just know this?”

“I only met humans recently,” he replies. “I wanted to be aware of the dangers. Especially if one tried to bite me.”

“You weren't letting go!” Martyn repeats, holding his scarf closer to his chest, clutching at it like it’s some precious treasure rather than a knitted item. Maybe it is more valuable to him than any treasure.

“Fine,” he sniffs, turning on his heel. “Come on.”

Martyn doesn't follow him, and he turns after a few steps to look at Martyn. Martyn’s regarding him with suspicion. “What?”

“Where are we going?”

“To my house, duh,” he raises an eyebrow. “Where did you think we were going?”

“Why are we going to your house?” Martyn asks, but he does take a step after Scott, and then another. Satisfied that he’s following him, he turns and continues walking.

“Because I have an actual kitchen. And because I have actual food, and I don't have creepers infesting my living room.”

“Leave the Coliny alone.” Martyn frowns at him as he falls into step beside him, matching him step for step. Scott smiles as he notices this, glancing down at their feet then back up at Martyn’s face.

He grins, and Martyn takes notice, pulling away from him with a suspicious look. “What?” He asks, glancing around them, as though worried another cliff is going to appear out of nowhere and he’s going to walk off of it. Maybe Scott would let him this time, just to remind him to look where he’s putting his feet.

“Look at you,” he sidles up beside Martyn, bumping their shoulders together. “You listened when I called you to heel, just like a good dog.”

He’s well enough accustomed to Martyn’s reactions by now, meaning he can duck and teleport away when Martyn swings an arm at his head, reappearing a few feet in front.

“Compare me to a dog again and I’ll bite you.”

“How violent.” He grins. “Guess we still need to work on a little bit of training for you.”

Martyn’s face is absolutely worth it. Absolutely. Even if he’s forced to, very politely, ask Martyn for some ice so he can reduce the swelling of his face. Martyn also gives it to him, which means that he’s already forgiven.

Martyn’s scarf is tucked neatly around his neck once more, but Scott’s fingers itch to tug at it again, just to see how Martyn would react. He holds off on that urge, for now.

===

“Woah,” he reaches a hand out to yank at Martyn’s scarf, pulling him back a step. “Watch your feet there. And your head.”

“I thought I told you to stop that.” Martyn slaps his hand anyway, but he does duck his head, watching his feet as he navigates the shaky-looking bridge. Scott chooses not to risk it, eyeing the half-rotten boards and teleporting to the other side, landing on the rock there silently.

Martyn continues to inch along the walkway, watching his feet and with his head ducked to avoid tangling his antlers in the chains above him. He takes his sweet time too, leaving Scott peering down the abandoned tunnels of the mineshaft in boredom, scanning around for any skeletons lurking around corners, waiting to stick an arrow in him.

The sound of Martyn’s hooves against the wood is loud, echoing around them and down into the darkness below the unsteady bridge. Scott glances back at it again, watching the way Martyn wobbles for a moment before stabilising again. He looks unsteady on his feet, placing them carefully as he makes his way across the yawning chasm.

In theory, he could have offered a helping hand in the form of a portal. But Martyn had slapped his hand, and there’s still a light pink mark on the back of his hand. It doesn't sting - it had only stung in the moment when Martyn had actually hit him - but he’s content to give Martyn his penance through this.

The wood creaks dangerously beneath Martyn, and Martyn apparently decides that he’s had enough of walking cautiously across the gap, because he launches himself forward, pushing off of the board, causing it to splinter, and landing on the other side with a clatter.

Scott barely avoids being crushed, dipping out of the way and slipping through a portal. A few sparks land on the ground around his feet, illuminating the area for a few moments before fading away.

“You could have killed me,” he says. Martyn gives him an unimpressed look, brushing his coat off as he peers back into the gap. The gap that is now no longer bridged by a dubiously stable plank. The darkness reaches upwards when Scott joins Martyn in peering over the edge, squinting as he tries to see into it.

A clattering sound reaches them, several seconds after the plank initially fell.

“But I forgive you,” he adds, glancing over at Martyn. “It’d be a shame if I had to go scrape your remnants off the cave floor. And so far down too!” He rocks forward, positioning himself more precariously on the edge, toes slipping just over the lip of the rock.

Martyn grabs at the back of his shirt, yanking him backwards and attempting to choke him. He coughs, ripping Martyn’s hands away from him once he’s certain he’s not going to send both of them to certain doom.

“It’d be a shame if I had to scrape your remains off the cave floor, too.” Martyn says, pulling his hands back towards himself. “It’d be far too inconvenient, and then you’d just be stuck down there for eternity.”

“I’d haunt you.” He retorts. “I’d haunt you so hard you’d be sick of me.” He pokes Martyn in the chest, just to emphasise his point.

“I'm already sick of you,” Martyn says, but there’s a small smile teasing at the edges of his mouth as he leans a little closer, reducing the distance between them.

“Oh really?” He leans back, finger still pushed into Martyn’s chest, keeping him at a distance. If Martyn really wanted to lean further forward, he could, very easily- Scott’s finger isn’t going to be enough to stop him. “If you're so sick of me, why didn't you let me plummet to my death?”

“Because I'm not rude?” Martyn responds, sounding almost confused. “Do you…kill people that annoy you?” He sounds a little more concerned than confused there, eyes searching Scott’s face.

“Only if they really annoy me,” he grins back up at Martyn, watching the way his eyes widen a little before he forces his face back into a more neutral expression. “Like, it’s definitely not a first resort. Or a second resort. Probably around a fourth or fifth solution to whatever problem. And even then I don’t really like doing it.”

“That’s weird.” Martyn tells him.

“Your sky is blue,” he responds. “That’s weird.”

“What other colour would it be?” Martyn asks. They're still stood in the abandoned mineshaft, feet away from the almost endless drop into the abyss. “Red?”

“Don't be stupid,” he scoffs. He’s not sure what Martyn wanted from here- there was some point to their visit here, but he can't remember it anymore. Martyn had only told him what it was once before asking for company. Scott would have offered company even if it wasn't asked for. Mainly because if Martyn gets shot by a skeleton, he wants to be there to witness it. “Purple is a far more normal colour. Or even just black.”

“The sky is dark at night,” Martyn says. His eyes flash a little in the darkness of the mineshaft, and, why didn't they bring torches? Surely having a torch would make this whole thing a lot easier- coal. That’s what they're here for. Martyn needed some more coal, and there was a mineshaft he hadn't explored yet. “And it turns all sorts of colours at sunset.”

“The sun is even weirder.” He concludes. “Don't even talk to me about the sun.”

“The sun is the most normal thing there could be!” Martyn cries, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “You're telling me wherever you came from doesn't have a sun?”

“No.” Martyn’s eyes are unusually bright for how dark this corridor of the mineshaft is, their blue bright amongst the darkness. As blue as the stupid sky that everyone in this realm seems to be obsessed with. “There are numerous celestial bodies, but each of them are much too far away to have the same impact on us that the sun has on you. If the sun disappeared - permanently, that is - did you know you’d die? That would simply be it, the end of all life unless you could adapt to the colder temperatures and overall lack of food.”

“What a cheery thought.”

“Not really.” He shrugs. “Did you want coal or not? I'm fine with continuing to stand here and bicker, but I'm also pretty sure you disturbed a spider’s nest earlier when you broke that plank.”

“I- what?” Martyn had been beginning to step away from him, but he whips his head back around to stare at him with the mention of spiders.

“Spiders.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Can't you hear them?”

“No I can't hear them,” Martyn hisses out. “Why didn't you say anything earlier?”

“I thought you could hear them. And I thought you wanted to continue arguing more than you wanted to remain not poisoned.”

“Why would I want to get poisoned?” Martyn sounds almost distressed, like he’s rapidly reaching the end of his tether and is desperately trying to hold onto the last thread of his sanity. People from this realm often sound like this, though he’s not sure what the cause of it is.

“You drink alcohol, don't you?” Martyn narrows his eyes at him, but nods anyway. “See!” He gestures. “It’s a form of poison- or toxin, whatever, and your liver filters it, right? Most creatures wouldn't even drink alcohol if it poses such a risk to them, and yet you do so anyway?”

Martyn appears to mentally flail for a moment, before sighing and replying. “It’s…they’re not the same thing.”

“Could've fooled me.” Scott shrugs. He then reaches out and grabs Martyn’s scarf, yanking him downwards as a spider launches itself where Martyn’s head had been moments before. It sails right over his head instead, landing on the ground with an irritated chitter, circling around to try and bite one of them again.

He crushes it beneath his heel, driving his foot downwards until it stops making that awful screeching noise. One of its legs still twitches, just slightly, and he grimaces at the sight, pulling Martyn past the spider corpse.

“You're welcome,” he provides, when Martyn doesn't seem inclined to thank him.

Martyn scoffs, yanking his scarf back out of Scott’s hands without even a muttered thanks. “You could just tell me rather than pulling me around by the scarf.” He strokes a careful hand over the scarf, smoothing it against his chest.

“But you follow so easily,” Scott spins on his heel to face Martyn as he walks, watching the corridor behind him for any pursuing spiders. He doubts they'll chase after in revenge for their fallen brethren, but some of the creatures he’s encountered are also far more vengeful than he’d first considered. “And it’s far easier than letting you get bitten. Wouldn't it have been sad if you died of spider poison in a dingy little mineshaft?”

Martyn doesn't give him a verbal answer, but his withering look is enough of one anyway.

===

He pokes at the pot on the stove, watching as the lentils continue to bubble. He stirs them once more before covering the pan again, leaning to the side of the stove to read the recipe from the book. It had seemed like a rather easy recipe, but then he’d had to go hunting for several ingredients- a few of which he didn't have in his garden yet, so the seemingly simple meal actually turned into a short trip to find a mango.

He flicks over the page, turning to the covered bowl nearby and peeking at the mixture inside. It looks like the recipe says it should, as well as the few additional tips the villager had helpfully given to him when he was noting the recipe down in the first place. He pulls the ball of dough from the bowl it was resting in, admiring its increased size as he sets it onto the counter.

There’s a small groan from behind him and he turns his head to the side to peer at Martyn, watching how his guest slumps a little further into his sofa, turned to the side and leaning against the armrest rather than sitting on it properly.

His hooves are pressed up against the other armrest of his admittedly small sofa, leaving him looking scrunched up and uncomfortable. His notebook is open in his lap, several scribbled and crossed out lines glaring at him from the pages.

He doesn't say anything, turning back to the meal he’s making. He learned, a few weeks ago, that when Martyn gets like this it’s best to just leave him to it. Asking him anything will either cause him to sulk, or to go on a rant about the problem he’s facing, then solving it halfway through said rant and leaving the conversation unfinished to write…whatever it is in his notebook.

The lentils are still happily bubbling away when he checks on them again, leaving him free to divide the dough up into several, smaller balls. They get covered in flour rather quickly, from simply coming into contact with his incredibly flour-covered counter. He tries not to wince and think of the clean-up he’ll need to do once he’s finished.

He stretches the first ball of dough out, setting it into the pan before diverting his attention to the first experiment, leaning back and away from the steam that billows out once he removes the lid. He dips a spoon into it, blowing on the food before tasting it, humming a little at the flavour.

When he glances back at Martyn, he’s managed to contort himself so he’s leaning backwards over the arm of the sofa, hooves now planted firmly in the middle of his sofa and head almost brushing the floor. His scarf dangles in front of his face, blocking at least half of his notebook from view. But he seems unbothered by the position.

He dips the spoon into experiment number one again before stepping towards Martyn.

“Up,” he tugs at Martyn’s scarf, yanking him upwards none too gently. It forces him to rise from where his head is nearly brushing the floor, which is surely uncomfortable from all the blood rushing to his head, right? Martyn grumbles, and Scott yanks at his scarf again, a little harsher than before and probably in a way that’s beginning to cut off his air supply. He keeps half an eye on the spoon, watching to make sure it doesn't drip onto the floor.

Martyn grumbles, but sits up without any further complaint. He tries Scott’s new experiment too, not even pausing to ask what it is, simply taking the offered spoon. Scott doesn't get the opportunity to tell him that it’s hot, but Martyn seems relatively unbothered by the temperature of something fresh off the stove

He hums and offers the spoon back to Scott. “Nice. Got a little bit of a kick to it, what’d you make?”

“Uhh,” Scott spins on his heel, rocking forward on his feet to squint at the cookbook propped against his half-open window. He hears the springs in his sofa creak as Martyn flops back down onto his sofa, no doubt contorting himself into another wildly uncomfortable position. “A de-ahl?”

“A what?” His sofa creaks and he turns back to face Martyn again.

“A de-ahl?” He tips his head to the side. Martyn mirrors him, only upside down, his hair fluttering about his face as he looks up at Scott. He also looks like he’s got a headache (probably from sitting upside down for the past hour) with how his face is scrunched up. “It’s a soup thing with lentils in it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Martyn nods, then thwacks his head against the sofa and grimaces. “A dhal. You're saying it wrong.” Scott hears some kind of bone crack as Martyn adjusts himself, sitting a little more upright than before, but not yet actually sitting up. He seems to prefer sitting on the arms of his sofa than the actual sofa part of it. He would think this is just a difference between realms, but he’s had other guests capable of sitting on his sofa properly, so maybe it’s just a Martyn thing? Or maybe it’s because Martyn is here more often than he’s not and thus more comfortable, so perhaps it’s simply a familiarity thing?

“Dhal,” he repeats back to Martyn, then shrugs. “I got the recipe from a nearby village when I was perusing their markets and crop fields, ahm,” he pauses, eyes flicking back to Martyn. “I mean, looking at their crop fields. Admiring them.”

“You were stealing from their crop fields?” Martyn asks, sounding surprised, and Scott is ready with a no on the tip of his tongue, only to be interrupted by Martyn continuing. “Nevermind, I can totally see you doing that.”

Scott pauses, unsure of whether he should be offended by that or not, stopping with his mouth just slightly open as the words form. He settles on giving him an affronted look that will hopefully communicate how offended he is by the implication that he steals from villagers. The effect is ruined by the notebook blocking his sightline to Martyn’s face.

“You know Villager?” Martyn asks after a second of silence, lowering his book to look up at Scott.

“Yep,” he steps back to check on the dhal again, stirring it and checking on the lentils to see if they're soft enough yet. “Vocational course.” He turns back just in time to watch Martyn mouth vocational course to himself with some measure of disbelief, before plastering a grin on his face when he sees Scott watching him. “They said it would be nice with…nan bread?”

“Naan,” Martyn corrects. “With a h sound.”

“Thanks.”

Martyn hums in response, followed soon after by the sound of writing, of a pen scratching against the paper of a page. It’s an element of background noise that Scott had never chosen to pick up on before- there had been hardly any point when his day was filled with the sounds of people writing, scratching against surfaces to imprint their thoughts in whatever way best suited them.

And the ideas were all the same. Each fragment of information was taken from the same sections of the same libraries, each book read from cover to cover by every single person occupying those spaces. Each idea was the same, formed by the same hands and guided in the same direction. It was boring.

What would be the point of writing, when it was something that had been written a thousand times over? What would be the point in verbalising your thoughts on a topic if you were only commended for specific points, if those same points were reiterated over and over again, month after month, year after year. Only the higher-ups were able to make new discoveries, able to poke into topics that haven't been so thoroughly investigated- studied so carefully that every stone had been overturned several times already.

He finds himself paying attention to Martyn, though. He finds himself listening when he hums to himself, muttering words and beginnings of sentences beneath his breath as he writes. He scratches words out with the same energy, too, with an almost frenzied pace as his brain ticks and whirrs and finds better ways to phrase things. Better ways to communicate his newest idea.

He lays the food out on the table, leaning over Martyn at first, not quite catching his attention yet. His book page is open to a sketch of something that looks like a poster. The lines are messy and not joined together (a drawing that would not get any commendations from Scott’s teachers), resulting in an almost chicken-scratch look, but neater. It’s not a style of drawing he’s seen before, and not one he gets to study for much longer as Martyn notices him watching and slams his notebook shut, rolling over to face him.

“That’s not for your eyes yet,” Martyn says, grinning. “Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise.”

“I don't like surprises.” He says, turning back to the table, and the still steaming food, when he’s certain Martyn’s not going to just dive straight back into his brainstorming.

“You’ll like this one,” Martyn hops up to follow behind him, “promise.”

He’s grinning, wide, and in a way that makes Scott think that he is definitely not going to enjoy whatever surprise this is that Martyn has prepared for him. His grin looks like the “cheshire cat” that Martyn has compared him to several times in the past. He certainly looks too pleased with himself, and it fills Scott with a sudden feeling of dread.

“For some reason, I'm doubting the genuinity of your words.” He’ll have to revisit that village at some point and thank them for sharing their recipe with him. Touching his hands to the side of the bowl warms his fingers, chasing away the small chill that had been lingering since that morning.

“I'm hurt,” Martyn presses a hand to his chest and Scott rolls his eyes at the dramatism of it all. “You've wounded me, I don't know how I will ever recover from this.”

He snorts at the high pitch of Martyn’s voice, resisting the urge to roll his eyes again (he’ll probably end up giving himself a headache by accident) and looks down at his dhal, stirring his spoon idly. “What, want me to kiss it better?”

Martyn goes silent very quickly- even the sound of his breathing stops, and it’s enough to make Scott suspicious of what he’s doing now. He glances upwards, watching as Martyn very quickly begins coughing, cheeks flushed red as he angles his head away from the table.

He’s still holding a spoon in one hand, and Scott watches (with barely restrained amusement) as Martyn struggles to handle the spice in his food. He wasn't sure if Martyn had ever had spicy food before, but his knowledge of what a dhal was filled him with a little more confidence. Apparently, that confidence was unwarranted, as Martyn is struggling to get his coughing fit under control.

“Did you inhale some of the spice?” He asks. He goes for sympathetic but probably comes across a little more mocking. Martyn glares at him from one watering eye, face still a little pink.

He coughs once more, a pathetic little cough that probably did nothing to actually help. “Something like that,” he manages after a moment. He doesn't hesitate in picking his spoon up again, turning back to his bowl with a narrowed glare down at the dhal, as though it’s personally offended him.

He doesn't seem to struggle as much for the rest of the meal, though the pink of his cheeks doesn't fade completely and he won't make eye contact with Scott.

Personally, he doesn't think the dhal is that spicy. Probably because he barely added anything, leaving it as mild as he could without ruining the flavour.

===

“Why did I agree to do this?” Martyn groans next to him. Scott ignores him as best as he can, even when Martyn goes so far as to drape himself over Scott’s back, attempting to crush him into the ground. He pays no mind to the guests that are now staring at them. He thinks he hears Sausage make a choked-off little giggle sound.

He breathes in through his nose, and out slowly through his mouth, reminding himself that Martyn is his friend, and that he values his companionship, even if he can be insufferable on occasion. He must not do a very good job of looking calm and collected, because Sausage makes another weird, laughing sound behind him.

He shoves his shoulder into Martyn’s chest, jabbing him between the ribs as best as he can from the odd angle Martyn has reduced them to.

Martyn whines, rolling off of him and onto his own feet. Which are still perfectly capable of supporting him, he’s just a pain.

Scott ignores him as he finishes collecting the vegetables from this section of his garden, tucking them neatly into his wicker basket. It’s the result of a project he picked up a week or so ago, trying his hand at something new, just to see if he could weave something. The basket is a little uneven in places, but, personally, Scott thinks that it’s a rather good first attempt. And it fulfils its purpose of holding his vegetables.

“C’mon,” he grabs hold of Martyn, fingers winding around the end of his scarf. “You're helping me wash these.”

Martyn whines for a moment longer, before giving in and allowing himself to be dragged back into the house. The stares of their guests - why did he agree to host their picnic here? Who even came up with the idea? - are hot on his back, but he does his best to ignore them, striding into his kitchen with purpose.

He dumps the vegetables out onto the side, not even flinching at the dirt that follows them out. He releases Martyn, blipping to the other side of the kitchen to grab the knives he needs, before reappearing beside Martyn again.

“Knife,” he holds it out.

“I can see that.”

“Just take it.”

He washes the vegetables, because Martyn doesn't understand why the vegetables need to be washed- still doesn't, even after the lecture Scott gave him on health and the potential for harmful bacteria living on the vegetables. He admitted to eating carrots with dirt still on them, too. He didn't even see a problem with it, so Scott labelled him as a lost cause and moved on.

He’s also far better at cutting vegetables than Scott is, somehow still nimble enough even with his glove-clad hands. Scott can barely manage to cut vegetables neatly without gloves on, struggling with the dexterity it requires and balancing that with not cutting a finger off by mistake.

There’s a sound of something exploding outside.

He closes his eyes and prays that it didn't go anywhere near his farms, before flinging the window open and leaning out, hands braced on the edge of the sink to yell at either Sausage or Jimmy. It was one of them that much is certain, but he isn't sure which one of them it was yet.

Sausage is watching him with wide, guilty eyes. He’s holding onto Jimmy’s arms, keeping them high above his head and away from wherever it is that he stores his bombs. Maybe he should have reiterated his rules a little more harshly.

Smoke is wafting off of them both, but the crater is relatively small and has only singed the edge of one of his paths. He sighs, dropping his head down and praying to any god that is willing to listen to give him patience.

“If I come outside,” he speaks just loud enough for his voice to carry, but doesn't bother yelling. They're listening either way, Jimmy’s sunglasses slipping partway down his face to reveal his equally guilty-looking eyes. “And there is still a crater in my front garden, I am not going to be pleased with you.”

“Yeah!” Martyn joins in, grinning at him as he shoves his way to stand beside him in the window, pressing him up against the window frame. It digs uncomfortably into his spine. “Get that crater outta our garden!”

“It is not our garden,” he hisses, shoving at Martyn. Martyn shoves him back, pushing him into the window frame hard enough for him to wince. “It’s mine.”

“I'm here often enough for it to be mine.”

“No, you're not.”

“Nuh-uh, I'm here more often than I am at home. The Coliny pines for me when I'm away.”

“That’s your fucking problem,” he shoves Martyn back again, pushing him into the window frame. See how he likes it. “And it’s still my garden. You don't own any part of it.”

“I planted some stuff.” Martyn argues, pushing himself closer. Scott’s arms are beginning to ache from holding himself up and over the sink for this long, made worse by Martyn shoving at him.

“What did you plant?” He never let Martyn plant anything. Martyn doesn't even know where he keeps the seeds for his current crops.

“Nothing.”

“No, you just said-”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Yes you did! You just said you planted something. So help me god, what did you plant?”

“Nothing!”

(Sausage loosens his grip on Jimmy, far more entertained by whatever’s happening in front of him right now. He didn't think it would get any better than watching Scott lead Martyn around by his scarf- and for Martyn to let him. Jimmy doesn't seem to notice that his grip is loosened, as his hands don't return to his bomb storage compartment, instead choosing to continue staring at the fighting pair in the window.

Scott’s grabbed onto Martyn’s scarf again, yanking him, somehow, closer than they were before. They were practically pressed nose to nose before this, but now they're practically kissing. Or, they would be if Martyn didn't just grab a handful of Scott’s hair and yank at it.

“Um,” someone else pipes up from behind Sausage, he doesn't know who it is and doesn't turn around to find out, far too entertained by the people arguing while squished together in a window. “Do you think they still know we’re here?”

“I don't think they care.” Someone else responds.

Oh, this is far better than what Sausage thought would happen at this picnic. He agreed because he thought he might get to see them kill each other- but this is far more interesting (and baffling) than fighting each other to the death. He’s not actually sure what this is.

Someone makes a despairing sound, like their soul is being sucked out of their body, when Martyn headbutts Scott.

They disappear a moment later, in a cloud of orange and cyan sparks. Sausage is disappointed in the lack of entertainment, having to content himself with listening to the sounds of fighting that occasionally drift outside.)

(No-one comments when they re-emerge, clothes rumpled in a way that would imply something else if not for the bruise blooming on Scott’s forehead and the way they glare at each other.)

===

Scott’s not actually entirely sure on how he managed to end up like this; leaning over a stove as he watches the pot bubble away ominously. Perhaps not one of his better ideas to experiment in the kitchen while there’s a sick person in the house. But he also doesn't know what else he’s meant to give a sick person.

The recipe is for some kind of soup. He’s not entirely sure of the actual name of the soup, just that there’s chicken in it, and it’s filling his kitchen with a warm and inviting smell. Definitely one of his better first attempts, but the lack of complexity in the recipe itself may be what he needs to thank rather than his improving cooking skills- they've improved, definitely, but not enough to perfect a harder recipe on his first try.

He stirs it, sighing as the steam continues to drift upwards. The recipe was easy enough, at least, and he had all the ingredients he could need for it. And the villager had said it was perfect for when someone was sick. He’s not sure what makes something good for a sick person, but he’s not going to question the villager’s wisdom.

Something thumps above him, echoing around the entire house with how loud it is. It is then very suspiciously quiet, far quieter than it had been a few moments before. Almost as if someone is consciously choosing not to make as much noise, focusing on being as quiet as possible-

Something clatters down the stairs, but this time it’s followed by the sound of someone groaning softly.

He turns, setting the spoon over the bubbling pan as he plants his hands on his hips.

His guest looks up at him from the floor, some parts of him still encased in ice and immobile. At least he’s still aware enough of…his general everything to respond like that to falling down the stairs, rather than allowing himself to break a bone.

Martyn continues to grin up at him, from his position flat on his back at the bottom of his stairs. His rug is slightly disturbed, folded over at the corner. He doesn't seem bothered about the uncomfortable floor beneath his back, seemingly content with his position.

“Didn't I tell you to stay put?” He asks. He’s not actually sure why he asks, because the previous times he had bothered to question whatever it is that Martyn was attempting to do had only given him incomprehensible answers and left him more confused than he had been previously.

Martyn’s forehead crinkles as he puts visible effort into thinking, face flushed pink as his eyes trail along the ceiling, away from Scott’s face.

He uses the momentary distraction to stride across the kitchen, after checking the pot isn't at risk of boiling over, and hauls him to his feet again. He brushes him down, watching and dying a little inside as the chunks of ice fall onto his rug, already beginning to melt.

He steers Martyn over to one of the seats by the kitchen counter, sitting him and ignoring whatever protest Martyn is attempting.

He’d shown up late last night, several hours after the time they had agreed upon for dinner in the first place. Scott had eaten alone after half an hour went by and Martyn still hadn't shown up, preferring to eat his food while it’s still at least a little warm rather than stone-cold.

And then, lo and behold, three hours later, Martyn had shown up on his doorstep shivering and soaked through. It hadn't even been raining! They’d had a small heatwave that Scott had suffered through, Martyn seemingly content in his thick overcoat despite the blistering temperatures.

He was sick, rather obviously. Though it wasn't anything life threatening, and definitely not something that Martyn couldn't take care of on his own. But when Scott had attempted to kick him back out of his house, after determining he wasn't about to keel over (he wasn't heartless), Martyn had whinged and complained, clinging to Scott until he simply gave in and let him back into his house.

And he was still here today. No less sick and seemingly more miserable than before. He might even be a little bit more sick today, if the pink flush across his face is anything to go by.

“How do you even get a cold,” he complains, once he’s determined that Martyn isn't going to try and brain himself on the counter. “Your whole thing is being cold.”

“It’s not my thing,” Martyn says. His voice comes out odd, all congested and slightly wet. It takes all of Scott’s willpower for him not to wince at the sound of it. He pushes a glass of water across the counter a moment later, only warning Martyn not to drink it too fast- he is not cleaning up vomit today. Or ever. He’d prefer never having to clean up vomit.

“Then what is your thing,” he asks.

“Being cool,” Martyn grins at him, as though that isn't his worst attempt at a joke in a while. Scott stares at him for a moment later, waiting for the actual punchline and waiting for Martyn to come up with something better than that.

He doesn't, just continues staring at Scott silently.

“God,” he turns back to the pot, turning the heat down to let it simmer. “You're sicker than I thought. That joke was shit.”

“Was not.”

“Uh, yeah it was.”

“I’ve been thinking of that one for the past half hour,” Martyn protests. “Didn't you find it funny?”

“Not at all.”

“You're horrible to me.” Martyn sniffs, or maybe he’s just trying to breathe through his nose, Scott’s not sure. “And while I'm sick.”

“I'm horrible to you no matter what,” he’s not really. He could be much more nasty, could pick the right spot to poke and prod at until everything is sensitive. Martyn probably knows this too, because he did it to him once, once and never again because it left him feeling sick to his stomach for several days afterwards. “I'm not going to suddenly start being nice because you're feeling a little under the weather.”

“I'm not just under the weather, I'm dying.”

“Shame,” he hums. “And here I was, about to waste this soup on a dying man. Perhaps I shouldn't bother, if you're going to be dead soon.”

Martyn makes a noise that’s halfway between a groan and the sound of a wounded cat, followed quickly by the sound of his head hitting the counter. Scott panics for a moment, and yanks him back upwards, perhaps not as gentle as he normally is. Martyn whines a little at that too, eyes a little glazed over and unfocused.

He presses a hand against Martyn’s forehead, pulling his hand back almost immediately afterwards, wincing in sympathy at the heat radiating from him. Maybe he was more than a little worse than yesterday.

He turns back around, leaving Martyn to sprawl himself over his countertop, ignoring the small voice in the back of his brain that’s reminding him of how he’s going to have to disinfect it later and remove all the infectious germs from his cooking area.

He has to rummage through three separate cupboards before he manages to find what he’s looking for, emerging with a triumphant noise that has Martyn perking up, trying to get a closer look at what he’s holding.

“Here,” he holds the tablets out, offering two (he thinks it’s two? He can't quite remember the correct doses for humanoids, but it’s something like two? It could be three, but he’s sticking with two to be safe).

Martyn stares at the tablets in his palm, before slowly raising his eyes to him. The pupils are a little larger than they should be, and he still has that hazy look to his eye that suggests he’s not entirely there.

“Are you a drug dealer?” Is the last thing that Scott expects to hear from him, though.

“Sorry?”

Martyn’s eyes flick between his face and his hand, and the tablets in it, a few times. “Are you giving me drugs.”

He sighs, resisting the urge to brain himself on the counter as Martyn continues to stare at him. Trust that to be the first thing he thinks of in this situation.

“Yes,” he grits out. “But ones of the medical kind. The safe ones.”

“There are no safe drugs.” Martyn crosses his arms, leaning away from him. He seems to forget he’s on a stool as he leans too far backwards and has to lunge forward and grab the counter before he topples off of it entirely. “My mother taught me that, and my mother was a very smart woman.” He blinks. “Are you saying she’s wrong?”

“No, I'm-” he cuts himself off with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. It doesn't help as much as he hoped it would. “Just take the tablets, please.”

“My mother also said not to take drugs from strangers.”

“I'm not a stranger!” He shoves the aspirin tablets towards Martyn, “You are in my house because you dragged yourself here looking like a drowned rat, and so I'm trying to make you better.”

Martyn picks one of the tablets up, but doesn't swallow it. Whatever, a win is a win, and he’s pretty sure this is a step closer to the end goal. Whether than end goal is him strangling Martyn or Martyn getting better is still up in the air.

He turns to the soup, and when he turns back around again Martyn is still holding the tablets, looking at them like they're going to bite him.

“They're safe,” he says, trying not to sigh too hard. Sighing this often is probably bad for him. “I should know, I made them myself.”

“You made these?” Martyn’s eyes widen a little, gaining a little more clarity back as he looks at the tablets again. “How?”

“I'm not explaining it to you when you're sick,” he says. “It took me three years to learn how to do it like that, you're not gonna get it.” He winces a little at his dismissive tone, ready to turn around and add something on the end that’ll lessen the sting of his words.

“That’s really smart.” Martyn says, cutting off whatever train of thought he was having beforehand. “You're, like, really smart, you know that right?”

“I- huh, thanks.” He does know he’s smart, or at least above average. He’d done well in his classes, and his teachers had been pleased with his progress. Pleased enough to sanction his exploration of another realm, at least. “You're pretty smart too.”

“You think I'm pretty?”

Scott is glad he’s facing the stove at that point, and that he has the excuse of something cooking right in front of him for how warm his face suddenly feels. He needs to stop talking. Martyn is latching onto all the wrong parts of a conversation right now, and really, he should probably be sleeping.

“Didn't say that,” he steps around the counter, grabbing Martyn’s scarf (which he hadn't managed to get off of him. Martyn bit him for trying) and yanking. Martyn follows easily, feet tripping over each other as Scott leads him away from the kitchen.

It’s a task, getting him up the stairs without him falling back down, but he seems happy to follow when the alternative is getting his airway slowly cut off by his favourite garment.

“Sleep,” he has to hold Martyn’s shoulder down so he doesn't try and roll out of the bed. “You are sick and you are going to be so embarrassed when you feel better and remember this.”

“Why would I be embarrassed?”

“Because I'm going to remind you,” he pushes a little more of his weight down onto Martyn’s shoulder, just to emphasise it, and remind him that he is staying here. “You get up again and I'm videoing you for everyone else to see.”

Martyn grumbles at him, but flops over onto his side anyway, closing his eyes.

He’ll be back up thirty minutes later, threat forgotten, but the moment of peace is all Scott needs to finish the soup. And collect himself so he can stop thinking about the way Martyn had looked at him when he said pretty.

===

“You're insufferable, you know that right?” He tries to tip his head back, but Martyn keeps a firm hand on the back of his neck, forcing him to continue facing forward.

“I strive to be!” Martyn chirps in response. He’s not at all gentle in the way he’s braiding Scott’s hair, tugging at it just a little bit too hard for it to be comfortable.

Scott sits there and lets it happen, sinking into the feeling of someone playing with his hair, tipping his head back the slightest amount that Martyn is allowing. He relaxes moment by moment, listening to whatever song Martyn is humming under his breath.

It’s not a song he’s heard before. So much of the music of this realm is entirely different from anything he’s ever heard before, varying so much in the different sounds used despite using the same few notes that he knows. Every piece of music he’s ever been forced to learn had sounded the exact same, with perhaps a slight difference in pitch.

Every piece of music here has him feeling a different variation of emotions, sometimes an entire collection of them. It’s confusing, but in an almost good way. Everything in this realm seems confusing, far too much and far too little at the same time, so different from everything he knows and everything he expected.

He finds himself liking it more than he expected.

He winces as Martyn tugs at his hair again, waving away the murmured apology Martyn gives him in return. He’s not sure what possessed Martyn to do this, but he’d had the idea halfway through their dinner, voicing it moments later. Maybe most surprising of all was how easily Scott agreed, in exchange for Martyn drying the dishes and putting them away.

(He does that anyway, finding comfort in helping out when Scott won't let him in his kitchen. He’s been brought up with truly impeccable manners - whoever his mother is, Scott wouldn't mind meeting her - and cannot stand to take something from someone without giving anything in return. Scott doesn't quite understand the sentiment, seeing himself as offering the meal freely in exchange for company, but he’s also not going to protest help in washing up.)

“And…done!” Martyn leans back, Scott can feel the way his weight shifts behind him. He raises a hand to carefully feel along his hair, fingers drifting over the braid winding its way around the side of his head. He didn't think his hair was long enough for this, but Martyn somehow made it work.

“Thank you,” he twists around to direct his smile at Martyn. Martyn smiles back at him, a little softer around the edges than usual. Though maybe that’s just the effect of his hood being down for once and his scarf a little looser around his neck.

“It really suits you,” Martyn says, tipping his head to the side. One of his ears flicks, the furry ends catching the light and holding it between the fine hairs there. He still hasn't explained that part, though he’d made it clear that it was a separate entity from the cold that laces his bones. Scott hadn't understood his explanation- mainly because there hadn't been an explanation in the first place, but he hadn't dug deeper in search of one. The people of this realm are fascinating, but they're also insanely private with their personal affairs, preferring to hold things close to their hearts when those feelings cannot be accessed.

Scott finds that his own feelings have migrated closer to his chest in mimicry. His emotions are a tangled ball of thorns that he’s not looking forward to unwinding when he has to return. To unpick the knots that have snared themselves within that tangled ball of feelings and experiences is bound to tear them apart in places, leave them misshapen and incomplete.

Leaving them a tangled snarl of confusing emotions is preferable to him. It’s something for him to hold onto, to remind him of this experience once he’s left. Because he will have to leave, eventually, the days ticking by and counting down on an invisible clock.

“Thank you,” Martyn continues to watch him, even after his thanks. He feels himself growing a little warm beneath the attention - something else he hadn't experienced before now. Something he hadn't ever expected to experience.

He’s not sure what possesses him- maybe it’s something entirely out of his control taking over his body for a moment to push him forwards, to shove him from one door to another, forcing him through it before he can deliberate any longer. Or maybe it’s his mind taking a backseat for a moment, allowing his heart to push him forward.

His hand closes around the end of Martyn’s scarf, the fabric worn in all the right places beneath his fingers, in all the familiar places. He’s not sure how many times he’s held this scarf in his hand, exactly like this before. Far too many to count, probably not enough to mean anything.

He yanks, before his brain can kickstart and send him sprawling away, backpedalling in the hopes of saving whatever fragmented friendship they come out of this with.

He’s never kissed anyone before.

It’s nothing like what he expected, but somehow everything at the same time. Fireworks don't go off in the background, there’s no dizzying rush of adrenaline flooding his veins. Nothing like the few romance novels had described it as, nothing so extreme as losing control over yourself and sinking into the sensation of it.

He’s entirely aware, can feel the warmth of another person’s body beneath his hands, can feel the brush of skin against his lips, the slightest amount of pressure, before he’s pulling back again.

He shoves himself off of Martyn hurriedly, and would have had a rather undignified meeting with the ground if arms hadn't circled around him, dragging him back towards that warmth, that orbit that seems to drag him further and further in, no matter what he does in an attempt to distance himself.

He learned about black holes, on a whim as it was on none of the courses or optional modules that he signed up for. It just didn't cross over into his branch, didn't overlap with any of the courses he took. It wasn't anything he ever learned in a class, but it was something he studied anyway- some interest that had seized him and left him in what some may describe as a frenzy as he studied everything about the stars he could get his hands on.

Black holes drag anything and everything in, indiscriminate in what enters their orbit and is consumed. This slow dragging back towards Martyn, no matter how many times he tries to put a safe distance between them, reminders of his limited time here doing very little against the gravitational force Martyn seems to have swathed himself in.

But it is not the crushing force of some immeasurable celestial being. It is not how he imagined being dragged into a black hole would feel like. It’s more like the soft tugging of a hand, caught on the edge of clothing, or linked around a finger, urging him to return towards them.

Such a force should be easy to overcome, should be easy to break away from. And yet, Scott finds himself sinking back into the feeling every single time, coaxed back by the oddness that everyone he now surrounds himself with seems to possess.

“Where d’you think you're going?” Is Martyn’s only question, but it’s enough to drag Scott back into his orbit once more. Maybe enough to keep him there, this time.

#juno.writes #new life smp #new life smp fic #scott smajor #martyn inthelittlewood #trafficshipping #majorwood #nlsmp #nlsmp martyn #nlsmp scott

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