Chapter Text
These past few days with Verity have been… nice, surprisingly. All things considered. He’s gotten more diamonds than ever, and he supposes he should have been more grateful for the enchantments.
That doesn’t mean it doesn’t get a little boring, though, with just the two of them.
Don’t get him wrong, Verity’s company is—fine.
Most of the time. Whatever, he can handle it.
Still, wouldn’t anyone get tired of someone else if they were all they had to talk to 24/7? Especially someone as… intense as Verity.
I guess Verity has it worse. I don’t think he even knows anyone else. Personally, I mean.
Nevermind that, though. This isn’t about Verity. Mob has people to keep up with, responsibilities! It’s been about time he visits his friends back home, anyway. They’re probably getting suspicious about the lack of communication right about now; he can barely get away with one-word messages and reaction images on Discord, since Verity doesn’t like when he’s online too much. A slight smirk sneaks its way onto his face. He’s like a grumpy old man.
“It’s nice when someone does something for you without you needing to ask, isn’t it?” Verity’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “I think it’s the truest show of attention a person can give.”
“Huh,” Mob looks up from his steak. “Oh, yeah! Um, thank you for the food, Verity. Doesn't taste half bad.” He raises a thumbs up.
Verity flushes with a satisfied grin in response. He props his body—or, just his head, now—onto folded hands. His hands. Ugh, I’m never gonna get used to his new… form. He just looks like a regular nerd, now—with an orb for a head, but still.
“What are you thinking about?” Verity tilts his head. At Mob’s hesitation, the other kicks at his feet under the table.
Mob swallows the piece he’d been chewing on. “Oh, just, you know.”
“I don’t,” Verity replies quickly. “Tell me.”
“Um,” Mob puts down his utensils. Hands now free, he begins fidgeting with the end of the tablecloth. “I was just… well, thinking.”
Verity stays in place, staring intently. His only movement is the light tapping of his index finger, constant as a metronome.
Mob twists the cloth between his fingertips. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen anyone, you know? Even villagers—”
“You’ve seen me,” Verity interjects. “You see me every day.”
The threads have begun to fray. “Well, yeah, but I mean, other than you.” He pulls a loose string away. “I think my friends are starting to, I don’t know, worry or something. So, I just thought it would be a good idea for me to visit them. Or something.”
The tapping stops.
A thick silence weighs down the air.
“Verity—?”
The entity in question stands up abruptly, knocking down the chair behind him. Mob flinches at the sudden shift. Verity slams his hands on the table, and the sharp crack of splintering wood pierces through the room, halting Mob’s breathing in its tracks. Verity’s stature begins to grow, joints clicking as bones twist in and out of place, skin and cloth stretching around them.
“Verity! Stop!” Mob jumps up, scrambling away from the table.
“Why would you say that?” He asks, through grit teeth. “You don’t need anyone else!” Large footsteps lumber forth. “I would do anything for you, give you anything they could even dream of giving you. Is that not enough?”
“I know, it is!” He blocks his face with his arms. “Verity, that’s not what I meant, I swear! It was a bad idea!” With his eyes covered, he stumbles backward, tripping over his own panic. A sharp pang of pain jolts through his elbow, and he hunches over it instinctively. “I was just—I just didn’t want them to show up and bother us, when we’re so—happy!” The quaking footsteps cease and Mob takes the opportunity to distance himself from. He kicks his feet, shuffling away until his back hits a surface.
“You… Do you mean that?”
Heart beating like a jackhammer, Mob slowly lowers his still-raised arm and nods.
Verity looms before him, back to a more human-like shape.
“Well then!” He clears his throat. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. You haven’t gone to see them in six weeks, and they still haven’t come by? I doubt they’ve even considered travelling all this way!” He waves away the idea. “I mean, why would they? You always go running to them yourself, whether they want you to or not!”
“What?” Mob furrows his brow. “No, they—they want me there, it’s… they’re just busy.”
Suddenly, Verity’s face is barely a breath away from his.
“Why do you care what they think?” His voice is low and his gaze cold and piercing.
“I don’t, I,” Mob looks away. “Nevermind.”
Verity stands up straight. “Okay!” He accepts. He glances around. “By the way, looks like the table leg farthest from you is about to snap. You should use some wood for a new leg.”
Mob slumps against the wall. His heart pounds against his ribs, rate slowing as the seconds tick by. He’s safe.
For now.
“Thank you, Verity.”
Mob heaves himself onto his bed, muscles aching, thoroughly prepared to sleep. Splinters dig into his fingers, virtue of the hours spent carpentering a new dining table leg.
He really shouldn’t have mentioned his friends to Verity. Honestly, what possessed him to say something like that? It couldn’t be more obvious that that would lead to an outburst from that irrational monster.
He just can’t deal with this anymore. With him. He can’t afford to keep making mistakes. And he finds that he actually misses making his own trades, waiting for rain, mistaking lichen for diamonds. He misses doing normal things and talking to people about normal things.
He misses Twixxel. His best friend, and he hasn’t had a proper conversation with him in two weeks. So what if he hasn’t checked in? People get busy sometimes!
That moment, Verity descends the stairs, approaching the corner that had become Mob’s de facto bedroom. Presumably to watch Mob sleep again. A shiver runs down his spine, and he curls inward, protectively. Pointlessly.
However, instead of taking his place seated on the crafting table, Verity pivots to sit at the corner of Mob’s bed.
The distortion of the mattress gently twists Mob’s shoulder toward its source. Mob clutches onto the opposing corner to keep himself facing away.
“What are you doing?” His voice waivers.
“Oh Mob, you didn’t expect me to keep sitting on that crafting table all night with this new body, did you?” Verity asks with a patronising lilt.
His grip on the sheets tightens. “No.”
“Besides, you don’t have a problem with this arrangement. Right? We’re friends!” He places a hand at Mob’s elbow, squeezing lightly. The newly-formed bruise aches.
Mob bites his lip. A metallic tang blooms on his tongue. “No.”
“Well then!” Verity clasps his hands together, satisfied. “You really are too kind, Mob!” Verity crawls onto the bed, lying down next to him. He wraps an arm around Mob’s chest. “Humans are so warm,” he laughs, voice muffled by the shirt on Mob’s back.
Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall.
He’s not sure how long he’s been awake at this point. But he knows he won’t be going to sleep any time soon.
Mob can feel Verity’s smile against his back.
The touch itches, like a burn run under ice cold water. He can only imagine that, to someone outside of this mess, the encompassing cradle would look comfortable. Healing.
Try as he might, Mob can’t seem to force himself to see it that way.
He wears his thickest hoodie to bed the next day. It doesn’t help.