Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Next!”

Impulse is, of course, the first in the line of the two. It’s mostly a matter of the alphabet, he supposes; I comes before S, and, well, it was the easiest way to organize them both. Imp and Skizz. I and S. Perfectly sequential. He gets to go first, because that's just how it works with them.

Skizz is just behind him, though, as he always is, just a step slower. They're holding hands. Impulse likes the physical contact, something material, and Skizz is happy to provide. If this were different, they’d be side by side like a gay couple, cheerful and comfortable in each other’s presence. As it is, it’s a single file line, and Impulse is in front of Skizz. 

And Impulse is worrying.

Well. Of course he’s worrying! He’s a very worrisome person! He’s definitely the more worrisome of the two, which is good, because Skizz doesn’t worry nearly enough! (He should know! Dipping into Skizz’s thoughts is like slipping into a pond—the water doesn’t ripple, just holds you there like a hug. Meanwhile, Skizz said Impulse’s mind is less a pond and more a river, always coursing, sweeping thoughts along.)

So! Worrisome! Like: they probably won’t just accept Impulse as a username, that’s probably taken, so what will they accept? Is telepathy allowed? If they’re found out to have telepathy, then what? Telepathy has to be a crime! Oh, Void, the Watcher attendant is staring at him expectantly. She knows he has telepathy—is it a she? An it? Xe? He? He doesn’t know! The attendant’s probably telepathic, and then they’ll be kicked out of the Universe and left to rot in the Void for all eternity which is not great, Impulse had not loved dying in the Void, he had—

Hey, buddy, Skizz says-not-says to him, and Impulse relaxes as a pulse of warmth ripples through their shared thoughts, worries slipping under the surface of the calming river. Don’t worry. If they don’t want us here, well, the Dragon herself said we were meant to come here, so that’s their problem. They’re probably awed at the appearance of the legendary Imp and Skizz duo! A ripple of laughter. But I would hurry up regardless. You are kinda standing there like a laggy rabbit…

Sorry, you know how I am, Impulse conveys, and he breathes deeply, steps forward.

The attendant is smiling, though not unkindly—she seems like an inquisitive villager, polite, but there’s also a certain crinkle to her eyes that seems almost knowing. Of our telepathy? Impulse thinks to Skizz. Don’t jump to conclusions, Skizz warns. She’s a pale purple fox hybrid, which is definitely not natural but also looks sick, and little blue Eyes bob around her head, blinking, taking in the line of new Players.

As he steps forward, the attendant frowns slightly at their clasped hands, tight and desperate. She reaches out to grab his hand and untangle it from Skizz’s. Skizz promises he’ll be there, and Impulse allows their hands to slip apart. Skizz’s touch lingers on his skin.

The attendant takes out a few papers, crisp and white, and begins to read. “Username?” she first asks, pulling out a quill and an inkwell. 

“Impulse,” Impulse says. “Ahm.” Impulsive? Skizz weighs in. Can’t you do something with that? “Impulse… siv… um… ImpulseSV, if it’s open?”

“That name’s not taken, sure,” says the attendant, and something clinches in his code. Something, for the first time, separate from Skizz—something all his own, something personal. Something... lonely, in a way that nothing else has been before.

Skizz murmurs in the back of their minds, She looks like she’s about to ask another question, you should listen up. Congrats on the new username, by the way! Impulse flashes back wordless gratitude (which Skizz accepts with a twitched smile) and turns back to the attendant for the next question.

“Pronouns?” She tilts her head. “You may answer undecided if you are not ready to choose yet.”

“He/him,” Impulse says. Likewise for the guy behind me, he doesn’t add. 

“He/him,” the attendant repeats, writing it down on the paper. “Don't worry—you can change this later using your Comm, we just like to have something set in stone. Species?”

“Cat hybrid,” Impulse answers immediately. They’d seen cats in the villages, and he’d noticed how they’d both had the same long and fluffy tails, twitching whiskers, flicking ears. And I’m some sort of bird, Skizz conveys, though I don’t know which… maybe she’ll be able to tell us! Impulse can’t remember any birds other than the occasional parrot on their journeys, and Skizz has cream feathers speckled with brown, not those flashy colors like flowers or fruit.

“Checks out,” the attendant says. “Now, of course, I don’t mean to pry, and you are entitled to your own privacy, but. I am rather curious about you and the Player behind you... most new Players begin in solitary private worlds. Are you two... connected, somehow?”

Panic surges through Impulse, and he tries to control his breathing and calm himself down, to pause for a breath and think through this, but anxiety grabs every rational thought and throws it aside. She knows. That’s the only coherent thought rattling through his brain. She knows, and we’re gonna die, or we’ll be kicked out of the Universe, or we’ll be separated I don’t want to die without you please let this be a fluke I have to run and hide and fight and fly she is the enemy she is evil she wants to tear us apart I can’t let us be torn apart don’t let us be torn apart we’re gonna die we’re gonna die we’re gonna die she knows what we are and she wants us dead she wants us gone she wants us apart—

Dippledop, Skizz says, soft and prodding, and he takes Impulse’s hand and squeezes. His anxiety melts away under Skizz’s steady confidence, pooling between their minds and energizing them both. The rushing river of Impulse’s brain quiets to a slightly jumpy rhythm. Want me to take over? Skizz asks. And Impulse, exhaling, thinks, Please do, please do.

Skizz steps in front of him. He’s almost certainly the more personable of them both, more comfortable in a crowd, and when he smiles there is no shakiness. “Hello there!” he says brightly, all of Impulse’s trembling gone from his voice. “My friend here’s having a bit of a panic, sorry about that! What I was wondering was, what was it you were saying?”

The attendant smiles. “Apologies for the inconvenience, but I couldn’t help but notice you were both telepathically communicating. Typically only Watchers, faeries, Primordials, necromancers and their servants, and binaries are able to telepathically communicate. Of those, catsfolk can’t be faefolk, you can't be Watchers or Primordials, and neither of you look very dead." She pauses. "If it's binarial discrimination that you're afraid of, I can assure you that you will not come to harm while you are obtaining your Comm. Though if you would prefer to proceed without the extra steps provided to binaries, I understand."

Impulse glances at Skizz. Skizz holds his gaze. Their thoughts whiz back and forth, too quick to be captured in anything other than one, unified, racing mind trying desperately to decide the lesser of two evils.

Finally, Skizz sighs, and turns back to the fox attendant. "Um, sure?"

"Excellent," she says, and with a hand she leads them out of the line. "Again: while your concerns may be validated by... the majority of registered Watchers... rest assured that we here on the Azaren Welcome Server want nothing but the best for our newly-formed Players, and vow to bring you no harm."

"The majority?" Skizz asks, and there's a rare flicker of alarm on his end.

The attendant purses her lips. "Yes. I do apologize for the... inconvenience. But do be assured that any Watcher bearing this symbol should bring you no harm and may be trusted." She points to a golden badge fixed to her dress—it bears the emblem of an ear, and a star in the center. "All of the Watchers of the Azaren Welcome Server bear this badge, though not all of them do. Please exercise caution when in the company of unbadged Watchers."

Impulse and Skizz share another glance. Oh, Skizz thinks, the thought drawn out and surprised. I didn't think your worries actually held water. They both share a pulse of alarm-reassurance-steadying across the bond.

"Well, you two!" she says brightly. "You'll both want to head over to my friend's building over there—" she points toward a spruce-wood building bearing the sign Special Registration— "to register your Comms as binarial. Thank you for visiting the Azaren Welcome Server and do have a lovely day!"

With that, she turns and walks back over to her kiosk, flipping over a new page on her clipboard. They both watch her go in silence.

Well! Skizz says finally, shaking himself out of their stupor. I guess we don't have much of an option but to... go see that friend, right? Impulse nods slightly. Yeah, I guess we don't. They head toward the friend's building, hand in hand.

Behind them, a snake hybrid flicks their tongue in distaste, adjusting their glasses. A hummingbird hybrid flinches as they walk past, hands held close to their chest. A group of dark-eyed dog hybrids peer at them, clearly curious.

That fox said we were binaries, Impulse thinks, casting one final glance back. The fox attendant’s serving the snake hybrid, her Eyes still watching them go. That’s what the Dragon called us, didn’t She? Binary souls? 

(They shove their way into the End, and are faced with the Truth of everything. It’s nearly paralyzing in its intensity, insisting that It is the only thing that matters, and they do not. The sky shifts, revealing colors beyond what they were meant to know; too-vibrant yellows and blues and reds and pinks, scorching themselves into their eyes.

Impulse nearly crumples at the sight of the Universe, bared for all to see. Skizz is patient, though, and his touch is warm and grounding as they head toward the pillars on the horizon. In return, Impulse cautions his sight down from a roaming Endermen, and Skizz echoes back breathless gratitude. They keep each other sane, catching their missteps and dark thoughts, and brushing them away with a flashed feeling.

Finally, they reach the Dragon, perched on Her bedrock throne, eyes gleaming with malice. Her teeth are bared, tail lashing, wings raised in a show of power. Her magenta eyes burn, and when she roars, a spray of acidic magenta splashes onto the endstone.

Skizz is the first to react, whipping out his diamond sword and jabbing it toward the Dragon. Void, she’s almost as bad as the ghastards, he tells Impulse, and then he says aloud, “Alright, well! Time to kill you!”

Not yet, says the Dragon, and Her voice sears through both of their minds, through the End itself. Her words linger, sharp and burning, and something in their connection wavers for the first time ever—something foreign shakes the web, and Skizz and Impulse clutch hands tighter, holding on for dear life. They send out pulses of here-right here-comfort-warm-loyalty-here-here-here, and for a breath there is an abyss below, beyond their connection, yawning.

I think she’s worse than the ghastards, he tells Skizz, and he gets an audible snort for his troubles.

A moment drags by, long and painful, and then Impulse says, “And why would that be?” 

You do not know what you are, She says, leaping down from her perch like a cat. Her eyes are burning. You do not know much of anything—

“Void’s stars, you could’ve just called us stupid,” Skizz interjects. “Not all this fancy talk. We came here to kill you, if you hadn’t heard? Not to listen to you call us idiots.” 

Secondary, be quiet and listen, says the Dragon, and it clicks in their head—oh, Skizz, you’re the secondary; oh, Impulse, you’re the primary. Like inventory-space and the undead, it comes to them naturally, without any further prompting. Personally, Impulse agrees with the sentiment because Void can Skizz be annoying when he wants to be, and then Skizz mentally and jokingly elbows him. Either way, it does keep them quiet. 

The Dragon continues. You are both undeniably and inextricably linked, sharing thoughts and emotions as easily as breathing. It comes so naturally to you both to trust the other, and when you woke from the dark dream of pre-creation, you did not question your names or ideals; you both went straight to work as immediate friends. Do you not wonder why? You have spent months gathering the strength to venture here—has it never crossed your minds as to how you understand each other so perfectly? How it is that you complement each other so well? Do you not question this?

“Respectfully, miss or sir or whatever,” Impulse says, “we were sort of busy surviving. And building. And dealing with villagers.” And then, “Skizz also wants you to know that we didn’t really care about it, we were just happy to be together.” 

The Dragon tilts Her head curiously, and then not-says, That does make sense. However, in order to proceed, you must know what you are. Why you are so tightly interwoven, that your emotions bleed into each other’s even when you do not mean it. In the greater Universe, your kind is far fewer than the singulars, those without a partner born of their own stardust. You are binary stars, orbiting each other, never to be separated without threat of death or grief, envied and shunned alike by the singulars. Try it; try to contemplate the notion of being parted, forcefully or willfully. Is it not horrifying?

They share a gaze, twin terror etched into their expressions, and the thought alone—the possibility that one day they will be torn apart, never to see each other again, never to have their hearts beat in sync, never to share in each other’s swirling emotions, never to laugh at a shared joke or fight off a creeper with deadly cooperation or comfort each other’s sharpnesses or just breathe together, in perfect synchronization, lost in each other’s soul—

The thought alone makes Impulse cling tighter to Skizz’s hand. He never wants to let go of Skizz’s hand, and Skizz doesn’t either. Binary stars, Skizz thinks, and then he pictures them both, orbiting each other, never to break away except through tragedy.

The Dragon leaps into the air, circling them, her burning eyes fixed on their expressions. A laugh tumbles out of her mouth, and for a moment Impulse mistakes it as a growl. You see? Do you see what I mean?

"Yeah," Skizz says, hollow, breathless. "Yeah, that's—that's not great, is it. But that's not going to happen, will it? I'm not gonna let Dippledop... break away from me, or whatever it is you said. I won't let it happen. So we don't need to worry about it, right?"

You may have to, in this world. And you may find yourself lingering on the notion anyway. As I said, the Dragon says, swooping around the island, though Her voice never grows softer with distance. You are each other. The severation of the other would be unbelievably traumatic, to put it lightly. To lose your partner would be to lose yourself. 

Impulse and Skizz look again at each other, understanding dawning in their eyes. To lose your partner would be to lose yourself echoes through their heads. I couldn’t explain it better, Impulse thinks to Skizz, and then they go on with the niceties of preparing to kill a Dragon.)

It turns out that the "binarial extra steps" are mostly adding the other binary as an emergency contact and relabeling some things to account for the split soulfire. The hawk attendant calls Skizz a dove hybrid, which clears up that mystery. They're handed their Comms and walked through the steps of how to use one—what a private world is, how to access other servers, the like.

Xe also hands them both a pamphlet regarding binaries, which shows a grinning wolf hybrid and laughing human on the cover. So You Think You're A Binary, reads the cover. "I wrote that," xe whispers, smiling. "It's been rated a nine out of ten!"

"Why only a nine?" Skizz asks.

"Oh! Well, um, I did go on a bit of a tangent about binarial discrimination. I just... feel very strongly about it." Xe laughs, a little sheepish. "But there you go! You both share a private world due to your status as binaries, but you can also create worlds without the other binary, um, if you want! I wouldn't recommend heading into more... popular city-servers because they do tend to discriminate heavily, but of course a lot of binaries use the cover of romance to hide their binarial nature."

Impulse nods. Xe're saying exactly what I was thinking, back there, he points out to Skizz, and Skizz nods.

"But I don't want to dissuade you both from stepping outside your private world!" the attendant adds hurriedly. "Of course, you might want to exercise caution, but really, I'd recommend you both explore the greater Universe. Try Hypixel or something, whatever it is you mortals are into nowadays. But before I send you both off, do you have any other questions for me?"

They don't, and so the attendant waves them off with a smile. "Good luck!" xe shouts, and then they both use their newly-acquired Comms to jump back onto their private world.

As soon as they’re back on their world, Impulse rushes off to go look up binaries.

The first thing that comes up is a site called the Watcher Forums—that is, a thread lecturing any ignorant Watchers on basic binary info. It's filled with all sorts of technical terms, which is explained away by a helpful banner telling non-Watchers that only Masked Watchers may contribute to the site, but recruits/ordinary Players are free to look through the threads for info.

Since Skizz very much doesn’t know what any of it means any better than Impulse, Impulse fades their connection to a faint whisper in his head. Not entirely—he can’t stand that thought—but enough to dilute coherent thoughts into vague emotions. They both send out a pulse of comfort, and then Impulse retreats into his search, concentrating.

It takes fifteen minutes to find out what all those technical terms mean, and he sighs when it's mostly stuff he already knows through experience, plus some useless trivia.

The next site is a Reddit community, r/binaries, and after that a few educational sites dedicated to explaining binaries. Binaries, reads one site, are two people who share a private world and can telepathically communicate. They are also able to control code itself, and much more efficiently than even seasoned admins. They are volatile and disruptive—the befriending of one should be approached with great caution, if approached at all.

He startles at that, squinting at the page. That's... a really weird way to put it? And what does volatile and disruptive even mean? Disruptive to what?

The rest of the article is similarly odd—there’s a section on how binaries usually act, and another on how best to befriend them which acts like they’re stray cats or something—and—and then there’s a section on—

Fixing binaries is a controversial process which involves fusing both broken soulfires and placing them into one vessel. This leaves the primary soulfire mostly intact, while the secondary soulfire is reabsorbed into the primary’s. This operation can only be performed by a Watcher, and it is the most reliable and humane way to integrate a binary into society. Should one find an unfixed binary, one should report the instance to a nearby Watcher in order to perform the operation.

All his breath leaves him.

No. No, this can't be real. They can't possibly be suggesting—suggesting murder, suggesting killing Skizz and "reabsorbing" him into himself, making Impulse alone, calling it humane... no, no, no, no, no, he can't, he can't, this can't, this can't be real, right? This can't be—this article can't be saying he has to kill Skizz in order to get anywhere in life, it can't, it can't—

Despite himself, he reads further, below the introductory paragraph.

While fixing binaries is only a temporary solution—it has been shown to cause volatility and disobedience in the primary, perhaps as a result of two conflicting wills—it is far less dangerous than allowing binaries to roam around unchecked. Secondaries are particularly dangerous—they are the shadow of the primary, the darkness unsuccessfully severed from the primary's soul. Unfixed binaries are shown to be hostile and aggressive in the presence of Watchers, as well as more likely to live in destitution. Meanwhile, fixed binaries, though unpredictable, tend to be more obedient and less destructive to themselves and others.

No! No, it's lying, it has to be! Skizz isn't—Skizz isn't a shadow! He knows this! Skizz isn't evil, or corruption, or any of that, he's—he's bold but kind, a steady rock in a storm, he's not evil, he's not, this article is lying and if fixing will destroy him—if fixing kills him—Impulse doesn't want any of that! He'll take living in destitution over killing Skizz any day! He can't let Skizz die! He won't let it happen!

He jumps as Skizz mentally taps him on the shoulder, spooking him out of his spiral. Dippledop, what's up? You just went real quiet all of a sudden. 

Impulse is shaking. Slowly, he eases open the connection, and comfort and calming flows through the bond, wrapping around Impulse's shoulders like a blanket. No—like a hug, Skizz's wings around him.

He exhales shakily, relaxing despite himself. Sorry for scaring you, he says, flashing over gratitude and apology. Just... reading a bad article. I'm about to close out anyway, it's not... um, it's not great, I'll tell you.

Firm resolution ripples out from Skizz's side of the bond, lips set in a straight line. Don't close it yet, he says. I want to see how terrible it is.

A few minutes later, Skizz is by Impulse's side, peering over Impulse's shoulder as he scrolls through the article. (It's easy to keep with Skizz's pace—Impulse skims his mind and scrolls down in time with his reading.) "Wow, okay, yeah, you weren't kidding when you said it was bad," he says.

Impulse laughs shortly, heart hammering in his chest. "I wasn't." He scrolls down to a different section and highlights a passage of text. "Look, this one's about the differences between primaries and secondaries."

Skizz reads aloud, "Primary binaries are more reasonable than their counterparts due to being the original soul that was meant to be the player. However, they may suffer from Stockholm Syndrome in regards to their secondaries and beg not to be separated. In contrast to primaries, secondaries are often reckless and have anger issues. One should refrain from interacting with secondaries unless absolutely necessary."

Both of them stare at the screen in shock. Then, Skizz, sending out waves of repulsion and anger: "Wow, okay, um, fuck whoever wrote that, firstly."

Impulse giggles at that, high and nervous.

Skizz smiles grimly, and then he pauses, anger replaced by concern. "But you don't actually believe that, right?" he asks, his voice guarded, his emotions muted. His heart beats rabbit-quick in his chest to the tune of a fear Impulse can only half-grasp before Skizz stamps it down. "I mean, you probably don't, considering you pulled me up here to chat about how bad it was, but, but you don't think—"

"Of course not," Impulse reassures him. "I'm not that stupid. I don't want to leave you either."

Skizz visibly relaxes, and a wave of pure relief rocks through their bond, a steady exhale escaping both of their lips. Impulse takes hold of Skizz's hand, squeezes it, and sends over a pulse of loyalty-connection-protection-here.

There's a moment of quiet; then, Skizz: "Well, then. I guess this connection is our little secret?"

Impulse deflates. "I guess it is. It's going to be a hard secret to keep, but if this is what they want—to kill you—I won't let you die, Skizz. And neither would you me. Never in a hundred years."

"Never in a hundred years," Skizz echoes.

It is very quiet for a few long minutes.

Carefully, Impulse closes out of the tab, and he does not bring it up for the rest of the day.

Despite it all—or, perhaps, in spite of it all—they thrive.

Impulse turns out to be the more redstone-savvy of the two. He spends hours tinkering with the stuff; Skizz always complains of the slight buzz in his thoughts that comes from accidentally eating it. To be fair, it's hard to get all the residue off, even with a good scrub. He spends more time alone as the days go on, but he always returns, always—even if Skizz has to drag him to bed kicking and screaming. 

He even becomes a Streamer, attracting Whisperers to watch his tinkering sessions. His anxiety rises, but Skizz is always there after a bad day to comfort him, to tuck Impulse into the crook of his wing. Impulse is grateful for it, beyond words.

All that redstone you eat, Skizz tells him one night. Makes you so scared. You should stop worrying about it. About everything. We’re gonna be fine. You’re doing great. There’s so many people who haven’t got any regular Whisps, even if they’re trying, so you shouldn’t stress.

Impulse replies, I’m sorry. It’s in my blood to worry. The Dragon did say that we're basically complementing each other—I mean, you never worry, so of course I’m the worrier. One of us has to be cautious, right?

Skizz says fondly, Then I guess I’m also the comforter, which I’m happy to be. As long as you’re happy. I’d do anything for that. For your happiness. For you. You know that, right?

(They last about a minute in that gentle loyalty before Impulse brings up the image of a bed comforter with Skizz’s face on it, and they both break into peals of laughter.)

Impulse makes friends; they meet a spunky blazeborn by name of Tango, and in turn they’re introduced to Zedaph, who immediately decides to hug them both before even introducing himself. (They both are very quick to like him; he gives good hugs.)

They learn to avoid Watchers. They’re the only ones who can truly hurt them, after all, what with their ability to handle soulfires as easily as speaking. Most of them do not bear the same odd symbol as the Watchers from Azaren, but some do, and they learn to search for that symbol before doing anything else.

They observe how the world demonizes them, how it casts binaries as evil spies in TV shows, how casually people throw around fixing binaries. Online, Watchers talk in their Forums like they’re some sort of monster, and of course the Watchers are in charge of everything, so that's how the whole world has to be. The hatred is nigh inescapable.

The only halfway decent place is r/binaries, where the mods are thankfully stringent regarding singulars and trolls; while there's a few posts that sneak onto the sub every so often, they're always swiftly deleted. There's more binaries there, discussing all sorts of things—from how not to get caught out on public city-servers, to positivity posts, to even warnings about anti-binary media. Skizz doesn't really use Reddit, but Impulse does, and he's at least glad for that.

Still they thrive. Despite the world against them, they thrive. Tango is whisked off to a server called Hermitcraft, Zedaph begins his own singleplayer world, and Impulse and Skizz occasionally play survival nearly completely naked.

Life is good.

I just… Skizz is conveying one crisp January day. I’m just scared. Scared you’ll—not leave me, not willingly, but like. I’m scared we’ll slip up, and then suddenly there’ll be Watchers on our tails, and then I’ll— He cuts himself off. I don’t know—I want to fix it. The world. Everyone. I want to show them that, hey, we’re not actually evil! But I—how do we do that without getting “fixed” ourselves?

Impulse murmurs, I don’t know. Then, because he can tell Skizz is spiralling: Tango’s been talking to me about Hermitcraft, wants me to join since I’m the better redstoner. There’s a hint of teasing to it, but also a reluctant excitement.

That’s good, Skizz says, lighting up. A new server! Leaving this piddly little life behind!

Impulse smacks him mentally for the piddly comment and retorts, Hey, now, I’m not getting stripped down to nearly nothing just for you to call my efforts piddly! And then, softer, But I’m scared. Slipping up. Since you—you won’t be—they haven’t invited you.

There’s a moment of silence between the bond, but Impulse can feel Skizz’s growing disbelief and fear. They haven’t invited me, he repeats vacantly. We’ve never been separate before. Not really. You’ll be on a whole new server—and I’ll be alone—I don’t want to be alone, we were made to be together, I don’t want to be without you—

Hey, don’t worry, Impulse tells him, meeting his eyes. I still love you. 

I never had any doubts about that, Impy, Skizz says with a pulse of fondness. But. We’ll be… I mean. It is good for us to not always be stuck alone, right? You have to… but I thought we’d be… are you sure I can’t come with? I mean… but we can’t tell them we’re… but…

He’s scrambling for options, but Impulse quietly turns them all down. It just isn't possible, he says. Not without spilling our secret. And we can't do that. 

But we’re binaries, Skizz says, plaintive. I don’t want to… it’s great you’re on an SMP, but… the Dragon said—

You’re not losing me, Impulse says. But I don’t think… and anyway it’s just an offer. I can turn it down if I want. He’ll understand. But I don’t know. I have to strike out on my own sometime. There’s no way I can grow otherwise—

We’ve done well together, Skizz argues. We can learn redstone together, and besides you got famous for that villager breeder, right? We can do that again.

Wordlessly, Impulse allows his own eagerness to swirl over—he loves Skizz, but he doesn’t really know redstone, and Hermitcraft certainly does, and besides he’s sure he’ll be back soon, he’s sure Skizz’ll be fine alone, even though they’re binaries they can probably be on different servers for a bit, and he wants to be with other people, you know? He wants to be with Skizz, yes, but there’s only so much info they can learn from books. He needs hands-on experience, and besides. He’ll be back.

(Something in the code of the private world shifts, and a server snakes through, ready to claim its next member.)

Skizz wilts, and his own doubts bleed in—but what if the server tries to fix him? What if they’re kept so far apart that they forget who they are? He doesn’t want to be alone. He’ll be left here, the sole person in charge of the world—maybe he’ll forget Impulse too, and then they’ll be without each other forever. What if Impulse messes up and they realize what they are? What if Impulse is killed—or worse, tortured—deep in Hermitcraft, and Skizz isn’t there to help him?

(Something in Impulse’s soul tugs, and Skizz is lost in his worries, too scared to realize that something is easing its way into their thoughts, winding around their connection, about to snap shut.)

What if Impulse decides he doesn’t like him, and then he betrays Skizz because he’s forgotten, and then Skizz dies, and Impulse doesn’t care? What if they’re "fixed" and then he’s dying and Skizz is dead and Impulse is alone? What if Impulse leaves him for this server, and doesn’t return because Skizz doesn’t matter? What if Skizz isn’t enough, and Impulse hates him, or Impulse is dead, Skizz can’t allow Impulse to be dead, he can’t be dead, don’t make him be dead he doesn’t want to be alone and if Impulse leaves he will be alone—

(The something comes down.)

And then, without any warning, Skizz is gone from his head.

And it burns.

Suddenly where Skizz should be there is nothingness, empty and taunting, and everything is burning in his chest like a fire alight, and Skizz is not there and Skizz is not there and Skizz is right in front of him staring broken into him their bond is broken and Impulse reaches out for Skizz and does not get a response and only gets the reverberation of the abyss in return and Impulse is alone and Impulse is alone and Impulse is alone and everything, everything is burning down, and something else wraps around his soulfire like a chokehold his half-soulfire his soulfire that is meant to be linked to Skizz and Skizz is gone and Skizz is dead and Skizz reaches out for him and oh the touch burns and Impulse flinches away and what is happening and then the world disappears and

he

is

f a l l i n g—

And Skizz reaches out again and grabs Impulse’s hand and says something like “Impulse whatever you do don’t let go” but his hand burns and it’s too hot and there is an abyss below his feet and he is falling in it and this is irrevocable and besides Skizz is dead and gone and holding his hand and the world wants him down and he cannot hold on and he says something like “I have to but I’ll be back I promise” but he’s not even sure if Skizz hears him over the din and the burning and it feels like the End again all shifting and desperate and clawing and he cannot hold on and everything is wrong and he and he and he

and he

lets

go.

And then Impulse, truly alone for the first time in his life, painfully alone for the first time in his life, is hurtling toward the ground like a broken Icarus, and the last glimpse he gets of Skizz’s face is heartbroken, utterly terrified. 

(To lose your partner would be to lose yourself.)

And Impulse is alone and falling.

Impulse wakes on a platform in the swamp, nearly dead, burning alive.

There are people around him, and there is no Skizz, Skizz is gone or dead or hates him and, and Impulse is calling out for Skizz, even now, frantically trying to squeeze his familiar laugh out of the void but of course he is not answering and there's a gaping wound, oozing and agonizing, ripped in his chest, there every time he breathes, pulsing pain and fear and desperation and Skizz is not there to heal it and—

Skizz has always been there to help Impulse out of a spiral with a soft wave of calm, chase away the burning with a cooling chill out, but now he is not there and Impulse is desperately longing for it.

But maybe this is just a nightmare yes this is just a nightmare he’s gonna wake up and Skizz is gonna be there and he reaches out and gets no response and the lack of it echoes through the void and—

Voices, soft and unfamiliar and British. “Are you sure this is the right one, Tango? He doesn’t look very good, um. Are you sure he’s actually very good at redstone?”

Tango.

Something bursts aflame.

Tango, Tango the traitor, Tango had ripped away Skizz and torn him apart and Impulse is alone and Tango is the reason why and they had fixed him hadn’t they, they’d driven them apart so it was only Impulse the smarter, Impulse the primary, because they hated Skizz the secondary because Tango wanted Skizz to die so they ripped him away and now Skizz will hate him and Impulse is achingly alone and he has never been alone in his life and now he is and it hurts and they are acting like he hasn’t been devastated, like they didn’t know it would burn, like they thought he would just be happy because now he’s with Tango, like that would fix everything.

He wants Skizz back.

His mind is empty, there is no one there to respond to his panic, no one there to calm him down, no one there to snap him out of his spiral, he is alone and Skizz is gone and everything is burning and he—

“Impy,” Tango says, and suddenly Impulse is back in reality and— “Impy, what’s wrong?”

He sounds almost genuine. As though—as though—

As though he didn’t know.

And Impulse almost laughs. Because here he’s been, having a panic over Skizz’s death, and meanwhile these people have been watching him sob over nothing, and if he answers—if he answers, he’ll give it away.

But he can't give it away. If they haven’t fixed Skizz yet then they’ll certainly try if he gives him away except they can’t find him now he's far far away and besides if they did then they’d be together again but he can’t—Tango is still there, watching him, hovering over his shoulder, everything burning, and he is dying and—

“Just disoriented,” Impulse lies, because he may be here but he will not lead them back to his home to fix him. He will keep Skizz safe as they’ve done for each other for so many years, because the loss still burns, and he will not stoke the flame. “I’m… I’m fine otherwise.” 

That sets them at ease. “Pretty extreme reaction,” another catsfolk remarks, dark ears twitching.

And Impulse—Impulse, unused to solitude, reaches out to joke about how much like a penguin he looks, what with his wide and slightly anxious eyes, long and beak-like nose, crisp tuxedo, and—

And Skizz doesn’t answer. His joke echoes through the abyss, unheard.

Still, again, on instinct, he tries to nudge Skizz’s mind to get his attention.

Nothing. Skizz is gone, and—and Impulse—

Impulse is the only one left.

Skizz can no more respond to his jokes than he can actually speak to him, and it is second nature to him to do that, and Impulse is.

Impulse is.

Impulse is alone.

Impulse is alone. The catsfolk looks like a penguin. And Skizz is gone.

“Impy, you zoned out again,” Tango says, and this time they finally meet eyes. There’s a short inhale, and then, “Hey, did you do something to your eye while I was gone?”

“My eye?”

And then he remembers—one yellow and one blue eye, a sign of their shared mind. It had been brought up in a few websites they’d gone to—heterochromia, because eyes were the windows to the soulfire, and having one in half was reflected in your eyes. To be safe, don’t trust anyone with heterochromia, one site had muttered. This is the most accurate way to identify a binary. After fixing, the two colors mix, often to form brown or black.

But Skizz is blue and Impulse is yellow—that would make green, if they were fixed. And now Skizz is gone, and of course—with the absence of Skizz comes the absence of his blue.

Everything is golden and burning.

“Oh, that. Um. I don’t know?” he says. He shrugs, tries to feign ignorance. "What's wrong with it?"

“Well, your blue eye's gone. It's all just yellow now.”

For a moment Impulse holds his breath—what if he finds out, what if they know what heterochromia is, what if they realize that he’s always had it but now that he’s without Skizz he doesn’t, for all his moments of idiocy Tango's not stupid, what if—

Tango sighs. “I’m... sure it’s nothing to worry about. But he is a very good redstoner, you guys. I promise! He made that easy villager breeder, that’s why it’s called the Impulse villager breeder! And I think he also made some popular item sorter, though it might not be named after him.”

“I did do that,” he says, pride failing to fill the gap where Skizz once was. “I can definitely do redstone. You, you did call me here to do redstone, right?” 

“Indeed we did!” says the guy clad in tarnished green armor. His visor has an electronic display of an emoticon face, which flashes from :-/ to :-). “Sorry for the rough entrance. Hermitcraft just likes to play around a bit, and seeing that’s how Tango got in here—albeit he had a more horizontal entrance, instead of your... very vertical fall—we decided, hey, what if we brought Impulse in as well? He’s apparently a pretty good redstoner. So yeah. Sorry about that.”

Impulse bites back a cynical laugh—it wasn’t the fall that hurt me, cats always land on their feet, but you tore Skizz away and now he’s gone and I don’t know how to get back to him and I just want to go back home to see him. “Alright, then what have we got to do here?”

He tries not to reach out for Skizz to ask his opinion. He tries not to fall into the abyssal nothing. He stands, and gets right to work, and very carefully does not think about Skizz or binary stars or partners at all.

It has been five days since he finished the witch farm.

If he's going to be honest, the server's pretty nice. No one's found out about his background as a binary, and everyone's polite and amicable. If Skizz were here—if he were complete—then maybe it could even be a home.

But it can't. Home is where the heart is, and Skizz is half of his heart, and he's not here, so.

But the good thing is Impulse's Comm is here! And they were taught how to use Comms, right—he can just call Skizz. And then it'll be a little like Skizz is back, like Skizz is next to him, even though they're not together at all and can't hear each other think. At least—at least they'll be able to talk to each other. Apologize for what happened, and reassure each other through the inferior medium of language.

To be honest, Impulse had been a bit swept up in the whirlwind of a new server. There had been the witch farm—he'd been putting his nose to the grindstone for that—and then everyone had wanted to welcome him to the server, and it's only now that everything's calming down to the point where he can take a breather and call Skizz.

...Okay, maybe it's not just that.

Maybe he's also been psyching himself up to actually call Skizz. Because what if Skizz hates him now, because Impulse left him burning, and what if Skizz tries to leave him? What if Skizz has decided Impulse isn't worth his time, and he's moved on? What if Skizz has tried to get cleaved—to be severed from his other half and torn apart forcefully without sacrificing the secondary—what if he's actually done it? What if, what if, what—

No. He breathes in, and out. No, he's just got to do it.

...He opens his Comm. Flicks through the more recently opened contacts for the various Hermits, down to where Skizz's contact waits below—

Below...

He scrolls through his contacts, ice dancing through his veins. Skizz and him communicate through text fairly often—the bond is diluted over distance, so it's easier to just text Skizz about so-and-so than strain to hear through the bond. But below Joe's contact—the Hermit who's texted him the least, only a quick greeting near the beginning of his stay in Season Three—there's Zedaph, and he knows he texted Skizz more recently than Zedaph.

But maybe not? Maybe—maybe he's misremembering. He's prone to that, unfortunately. He scrolls to the bottom of his contacts list, searching for Skizz's name, and then he slowly scrolls back up, carefully examining each contact for Skizz's familiar face.

He can't find it.

But that's—what happened? Skizz wouldn't just block him, not out of the blue! He'd—he'd text first, or call, or something, but not—not this radio silence, not—

Or—or maybe Skizz did hate him after all. Maybe he'd waited for Impulse to come back, and then he'd abandoned Impulse because he was taking too long and severed their bond and—and now Impulse was alone and Skizz hated him and everything was falling apart and—

No, no, no, he has to stop thinking like this. He shakes his head, presses a hand to his chest, and he just breathes for a moment, in and out. In and out. Calm down, Impulse. Calm down.

His hands are almost steady when another thought crosses his mind.

What if Skizz hadn't hated him after all? What if Skizz had been despondent, terrified that something had happened to him? What if Skizz had thought Impulse was cleaved, or—or somehow fixed, or maybe slain altogether? What if Skizz had been driven mad with grief, broken by despair?

What if the reason he couldn't find Skizz's contact was because it didn't exist anymore?

What if Skizz had—

What if Skizz had—

What if Skizz had...

Impulse digs his nails into his skin.

No. No, he won't even think of it, won't so blatantly jinx it like that. He can't have. He wouldn't. Skizz is unpredictable in a lot of ways, and this is a situation unlike anything they've faced before, but he wouldn't—he couldn't—he can't have. He wouldn't do it. He wouldn't do something so cowardly. Impulse won't let him.

But... why else would Skizz block him?

Impulse shivers, his breath shaky. His mind races with possibilities, theories, ideas—and not one of them is good.

Skizz is unpredictable—this is obvious. And most people would, predictably, snap under the stress and trauma of something like this.

Impulse glances upward to the gods he knows aren't watching.

Please let Skizz be the outlier, he prays. Please let Skizz take the third option.

Please let Skizz live.

He looks back at the ground and sobs.

A year goes by.

Impulse works on Hermitcraft, persistent and unassuming. Beyond Skizz’s absence, he does like the server. He makes friends, and has fun, and learns a lot. Still, he turns to make jokes no one else will laugh at because no one else is Skizz. He falls into panics and learns how to work himself out of them. Every night, even at the end, bites at the abyss, and he struggles to fall asleep without Skizz there to help.

In lieu of him, Impulse and Tango become fast friends. But Tango never quite fills the gap in Impulse’s head left behind by Skizz. The abyss still stretches out before him, daunting, taunting, and Impulse can do no more than toss his hopes into there and hope he gets an answer.

When the pain begins to rear its ugly head—the burning never goes away, even at the end—he reminds himself he can’t leave. If he leaves and finds Skizz again, he’d never come back. And then they’d go looking for him, and then they’d be in danger. Impulse is not a traitor, even if he is alone.

And besides! There are more farms to build, more things to do, and he can’t leave, not without raising suspicion. He's fine here. He's occupied. He can live with this, this burning. He's fine.

(The wound gnaws deep into his side. It feels like infidelity.)

It is an unassuming day in late November. The wind is bitterly cold, and he shivers, fluffing up his fur to block out the cold. Beside him, Tango calls Zedaph like he always does at this time, every week at five PM sharp.

"Hey, Tango!" Zedaph says as he picks up. "How're you doing, buddy? Um, quick side note, I do have Skizz with me this time, so—"

He says something more, but Impulse doesn't hear. His breath comes quick in his throat, rattling in his chest. Skizz. Skizz is there, so close—and yet so far—so far away, without the comfort of their bond to unite them, Skizz is there but not and Zedaph and Tango cannot know about their secret or else they will hate them both and—

No. No, but even if Skizz hadn't taken the coward's way out, maybe they're still cleaved, right? Maybe they are. Impulse wouldn't be able to tell! And, and, or—or maybe Skizz blocked him because he hates him, maybe Impulse is still hated, Skizz wouldn't block him for no reason so while he's alive (he's alive he's alive he's alive) Skizz hates him and doesn't want to see him and, and—

"Oh, Skizz!" Tango laughs sheepishly. "Void, we have not talked in a while, have we. Like, since the season started—look, I'm sorry, Hermitcraft's been keeping me busy, what with the witch farm and then everything else and then I totally forgot to call you, my bad—"

"It's fine," Skizz says with a chuckle, and Void Impulse is pathetic but he just wants to hear Skizz again, hear him laugh again, like they used to before Hermitcraft happened, please speak again, please laugh again, I love you so much it hurts.

Skizz continues, heedless, "But you guys did a witch farm? That sounds awesome. What sort of redstone tomfoolery did you dream up to make it work?"

"Oh!" Tango laughs again. "Well, I mean, I wasn't the mastermind behind the whole operation, really, I was just sort of a helper. The real genius here was Impulse, who, as a matter of fact, is right next to me here, fortunately. Take it away, Impulse!"

The Comm is pressed into his hands. The Comm with Zedaph and Skizz on the other end of the line. The Comm with Skizz on the other end, who hates him, who hates him and blocked him because he hated him and, and what does he even do now, does he just talk about the witch farm like nothing happened? Does he beg for Skizz's forgiveness? Does he cry? He thinks he might cry. He thinks he might—

Tango taps his shoulder, and when Impulse looks up he sees worry written across his face. "Um," Tango says, "you good?"

Right. Right, he's supposed to be happy, he's not supposed to be so affected by this—Tango probably thinks they're still in contact, thinks Skizz knows everything about Impulse, it was no secret they were close and to say they aren't close anymore would be to invite curiosity and to invite curiosity would be to betray the bond. He—

Skizz... clears his throat on the other end of the line. "Tango," he says, clipped, "can I speak to Impulse in private?"

Tango's gaze flicks between the Comm and Impulse, brows furrowed. He hesitates for a very long moment, and then he sighs. "Alright. Fine. But remember to give that Comm back to me, alright? It is mine, after all."

Impulse watches him walk away into the night, and then he glances back to the Comm, where it, too, is very silent.

"Impulse," says Skizz, hushed.

Impulse begins to sob, everything coming back—the simplicity of it, the way they’d loved each other, the way he’s been shoving Skizz away for so long, the way his voice is so earnestly concerned it hurts. He can barely see the screen through his tears. “Skizz,” he whispers, hoarse and disbelieving. “Skizz.” His secondary is alive. His secondary is alive and well and here with him, and even though it’s not as good as being together together it’ll have to do but Skizz is alive and there is hope because they can make it back together, and he is repeating Skizz’s name like a prayer, breathless and desperate.

“I’m right here,” Skizz says, soft, loyal, and there’s an undertone of something else that Impulse is far too tired to figure out. “Impulse, I… you’re alive. You’re alive.”

“You’re alive,” Impulse replies, sniffling, wiping his face furiously, clinging onto Skizz’s voice and the faint whisper of wind and the way Skizz just breathes, slow and far less shaky than his own. "But I thought... I thought you'd... you blocked me. What... why? Why did you do that?"

There is a moment of silence; then, "I... I was... I thought you were dead, Impy. Me and Tango weren't talking, so I had no idea you'd even gotten to Hermitcraft, I thought you'd been kidnapped by the Watchers and cleaved, I... and I just couldn't bear to look at your contact anymore but for some stupid reason I couldn't delete the contact because of the way binary Comms are set up so I blocked you instead and..."

Impulse wilts. Of course. Skizz always has good intentions for what he does. He's not stupid.

"I thought you hated me," Impulse says. "I thought you—I thought you thought I was terrible for leaving you, but—"

"It'd take more than that to make me hate you," Skizz says, tears evident in his voice. "But tell me now. What happened while I was gone? I want to hear all about it."

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come back, I swear I was trying, I—”

“Nope! Wrong!” Skizz is stern, but if they were together, Impulse can bet he’d be softening the blow. “What you actually did. What actually happened. None of this whining. Can’t change any of that now.”

So Impulse does tell him. It spills out from his mouth like a waterfall, and he rambles on and on, even as he stumbles over his words and holds back tears. Skizz listens patiently, throughout the whole speech. 

By the time they've finished, Impulse is pretty sure his eyes are watering, and that his grip is shakier on the Comm than it was before. "So, yeah," he says pathetically. "Um. That's how it went."

He can practically feel Skizz's gaze boring into him, even across this distance. "You can't blame yourself for that," he says shortly. "You didn't mean it, you couldn't have stopped it, and I was being stupid anyway so that lined up terribly, like the opposite of serendipity, because I thought—"

"Skizz," Impulse says, a note of sharpness in his voice. They're both prone to this—blaming themselves for actions neither of them could've prevented—but that's probably worsened with Skizz, because Impulse left him alone and mourning for so very long. "Skizz, that wasn't stupid, you were grieving. And that's understandable. I would've done the same."

Skizz is silent for a moment, his ragged breathing the only sign he hasn't hung up yet. "Sure, okay," he says, disbelieving. "But will you be back soon? I... I'd rather not spend another New Year's alone—I mean, not alone, because I'm going to drag Zed over, but. You know. I..."

Impulse hesitates.

"I just miss you," Skizz says. "I wish... but it's fine, because you're having fun on your SMP, I get it, so you can stay over there with all your new friends and I can celebrate with Zed again. It'll be fine. No pressure. But, um. You... are planning to come back, right?"

"Yeah!" Impulse says quickly. "Um, I am going to come back, though I don't know exactly when... I assume whenever I get... well, a moment of peace, which I have right now, because the farm's done. I..." His eyes widen. "Oh, I could probably join you, um, maybe tomorrow? Um, I don't... I don't know when the season's ending, so I couldn't tell you that much, but..."

"I mean, it's still fine. I understand. You like it there with them all. You don't..." Skizz pauses, and then the next sentence comes out in a rush of air. "You don't have to come back if you don't want to."

"I do, I do! I just... I don't know." Impulse deflates. "I like it here, Skizz, you're right about that. It wouldn't be permanent, if I went back. Not that I don't want to go back, it's just..." He looks up toward the night sky, trying to slot the pieces of this puzzle together. "I want to have you both together," he says, and the abyss in the back of his head whispers that that will never be the case.

"Me too," Skizz says mournfully. "I... it's selfish, I know, but I want to be together again. Fully. Whole—complete—together. Without any stupid abysses to keep us apart. She said it best, didn't She—to lose your partner would be to lose yourself. Ha. I finally understand what that means." Skizz's voice is probably meant to be sharp, steady, unbroken—but it wavers with a sob.

Impulse's heart squeezes in his chest. "But I'm not lost," he says quietly. "I'm right here. I know—I know we haven't been apart all that long, and I know our binary-ness means it hurts, but we have to get used to this. It's not ideal. And I know you're just finished grieving me, and I want you back too, but..."

He swallows. He can't put this lightly, can he.

"But it's how we have to be. Because—we had to leave the nest at some point, right? And it hurt a lot, I know, but... but it's for the best that we're like this, because we need to be independent, don't we? We have to get used to the burning, because we might have to deal with it in the future, or—or even worse, we might be stuck with it, and then—"

He stiffens.

Footsteps behind him on the grass.

He twists around, and he meets Tango's gaze, piercing scarlet. The blazeborn stands there, half shocked, half furious. His tail flicks from side to side. On his Comm, Skizz has gone quiet, so everything is deathly silent, save for the steady crackle of Tango's hair and tail-flame.

"I heard all of that," Tango says, low and cautious and dangerous. It's a shocking dissonance to what he normally is—suddenly menacing where he's never been before. "You never told me you were a binary, Impulse."

Impulse forces a smile on his face. "Oh!" he says quickly, and he clutches Tango's Comm (he clutches Skizz) close to his heart. "Um. I'm not, um, done with, um, Skizz, um, sorry, but, um, you'll need to wait a bit longer before—"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Tango asks, cutting him off. "I could've helped, you know. I'm not... I'm not evil. I don't want to kill you two. Assuming you're binaries with Skizz, that is. You... are binaries with him, yeah?"

Impulse flattens his ears and bares his teeth. "Why should I have told you?" he snaps. "You don't know what it's like. You don't know what it's like at all." 

"I'm your friend," Tango says. "Or. At least. I think I am. Are we... friends? Or were you lying about that to get on here?"

Despite himself, Impulse flinches.

"...I'll take that as a no," Tango continues. "I... I mean, I didn't think you would, you seem pretty nice, but I had to ask. You know. You binaries are known for that sort of thing."

Impulse squints. "Do you only see me as that? As a binary? Not as your... not as your friend?"

Tango takes a moment to think. “I’m your friend,” he settles on. “I mean, I did invite you to this server, yeah? A friend would do that, wouldn’t they? And I… alright, sorry about the eavesdropping, but you were taking a long time and I thought I’d check up on you, and then I hear you talking about how you’re a binary? Which is. I would’ve never suspected you.” He frowns. “But from the way you both were talking, it sounds like you’re unfixed, which is weird, because how are you still sane and not fixed?” He tilts his head, and the worst part is it sounds like a genuine question.

Impulse stares him straight in the eyes, fury like bile in his throat. “Because that would kill Skizz,” he says, and manages not to make his voice tremble.

Tango jolts. “Uh, no it wouldn’t? Are we thinking of the same procedure?”

“There’s only one way to fix binaries, and that’s through fusion,” Skizz interjects. “And by fusion they mean they’re gonna take everything of me—my memories, personality, everything that makes me a player—and they’re gonna get rid of it, and then they’re just gonna fuse that onto Impulse with just the most basic of traits. That way he’s not got the telepathy or the friend, and he’s alone. They also use lots of amnesia potions, which are illegal up until you’re using them against binaries. So I’ll be dead, and Impulse’ll have no memory of me. It’ll be like I never existed. But that’s not even all!” Skizz’s voice grows cheery with bitter delight. “There’s usually complications with the fusion, so even if he does survive the surgery, he’d probably die of code decay within the month!”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. Tango is frozen, gazing at Impulse with a collision of wariness and disbelief in his eyes. “I—well, that was one way, but cleaving? Haven’t you guys heard of cleaving? That’s… I mean, fusion sounds awful, but cleaving’s… hold on, let me pull up cleaving.”

Impulse hovers over his shoulder as he searches the term up, and then pales at the first link—binaryeducation.com. (The same one that had set them firmly on the path of never telling anyone they were binaries. The same one that had made them both have nightmares about being torn apart and fused and dying. The same one that had said Skizz was a monster, and Impulse was a freak. And now Tango is taking it as fact.) And Tango clicks on it.

“See?” he says, beginning to read the article. “Cleaving is one of two ways one can fix a binary, alongside fusion. Cleaving is when a mixture of sculk, soulsand, and Weakness are used to burn away the bond of two soulfires, causing a binary to become independent. The only pain is at the moment of cleaving; otherwise, both sides experience no side effects, or lingering connection. The only drawback is the rarity of the mixture, which causes many to hire a Watcher to perform fusion.” He clears his throat and stops reading. “Then there’s a section on how to make the mixture, but we don’t need to know that, since I don’t trust myself with—”

“You can’t trust it,” Impulse says, grabbing Tango’s Comm (which Tango squawks at) and exiting out of the tab. “That’s not a good website.”

“It looks official,” Tango argues.

Impulse turns to stare at him. “Its basic info on binaries section called Skizz a demon who had to be destroyed in order for me to function in normal society, so no, I wouldn’t call it the most reputable thing.”

Tango stares, stunned, at him. “Oh,” he says shortly, fire crackling low. “Are you…”

“I’m very sure that this is the website.” 

“Then let’s see if there’s anything about it on the Watcher Forums,” Tango says, snatching back his Comm and typing in cleaving site:watcherforums.net in the search box. A site pops up—which procedure should I use on my binary players, cleaving or fusion? and Tango clicks on it, scrolls down to the top comment, and reads it out.

“Trixie_Eclipse says: This isn’t really a question. Cleaving has been widely disproven as an outdated form of fixing. Study after study has shown that as soon as the binaries meet again, the bond is reestablished. It just makes a lot of trouble for you, your players, and your server, and amnesia potions are illegal anyway, so even though they’re effective at removing all memories, it’d be cruel to go that route for both you and the binary. Fusion is the only way to fix binaries without any issue, since it deletes the secondary and prioritizes the primary. Hope this helps! Heart emoji.”

Tango reads and rereads the answer, gaze flicking over the words. “Wait, hold on. This wasn’t… I… this has to be misinfo, I… oh Void…”

“See?” says Impulse, almost bitterly. “A Watcher says cleaving isn’t a viable fix. The only way is fusion. They even said it themselves—it deletes the secondary and prioritizes the primary. It’d delete Skizz. It’d delete Skizz.”

“Oh dear Void,” Tango breathes, finally gazing back at him. “I… I didn’t know that before, I—I was genuinely sure you could cleave and then—”

“But we shouldn’t even have to cleave!” Impulse snaps. “I don’t want to be without Skizz! I like our telepathy! We’ve been together ever since we were created, and I don’t—it hurts, Tango, like I’m being roasted alive. Usually we can reach out to each other and just… we can be one person without any fixing. We just sit together and let each other feel our emotions until I’m Skizz and Skizz is me. And you saw us! You’ve been with us! We don’t need to be fixed. We’re…” 

“We’re not broken,” Skizz fills in. “We just know each other better than anyone else. And even the Dragon told us so.”

“The Dragon…” Tango repeats. “I… I don’t… I need to rethink a lot of my opinions on binaries. I can’t… I… but that I believed all that, and I’m not an expert on… I can’t imagine what it must be like for you, I…”

Impulse softens. Tango is his friend, still, even through everything. “It’s okay. It’s not really your fault, just the universe’s. I forgive you.”

(Impulse has always been the softer of the two, more eager to forgive, where Skizz has always been sharp and quick. Maybe this too is a sign of their separation; that while Skizz says nothing more on the Comm, Impulse is eager to forgive. Maybe if they were together, he wouldn’t have.)

Later, Hermitcraft ends, and Impulse returns to the private world. 

The gnawing in his soul lessens, and he’d missed being whole, forgotten the satisfaction of having your other half there and present and reliable. And that is when he finally allows himself to reach out, back across the emptiness that’s plagued him for so long, back across the void that has never answered back, and then Skizz is there, and Skizz is there and Skizz is present and Skizz is reaching back again, filling the gap in his chest with his presence, rejoining the murmur of his thoughts, sending pulses of relief and hope and desperate longing now satisfied, grabbing onto him and never letting go, and Impulse returns the same feeling, and it rebounds across their minds, drowning out all the worry and grief with utter joy. 

Impulse wants to cry. His secondary’s absence has been almost unbearable, burning hot as the unforgiving Nether, and now Skizz is here with him, pulsing again like they always did, natural and comfortable and beautifully simple, and now he is warm and safe and Skizz is alive, and now his soulfire knows this instead of just his mind, and Skizz runs downstairs and wraps him in a hug and once again they swirl together, becoming pure bliss. Both of them let go, and their hearts again beat in perfect sync, both of their breaths become slow and easy, and their thoughts vanish under a surge of pure love. 

Despite it—despite Hermitcraft, and Impulse’s absence—they forgive each other, and Skizz wraps the anxiety lurking at the edge of his mind in blankets of you are safe and I am here and we are together again and it works just like it always has. I’d never leave you, Impulse conveys, or maybe Skizz conveys, or maybe they both convey. It doesn’t matter. Once more they are together, and they are the most whole they ever need to be—two souls, wrapped in each other until the edges are indistinct, fixed beyond what the world wants of them. Skizz allows Impulse to relax, and Impulse brushes away the doubts floating at the edges of their mind, and for what feels like a year they are together again, whole again, and Impulse never wants to leave so violently again because Skizz’s hugs are warm and he is warm and everything is perfect.

(To lose your partner would be to lose yourself, and that had very nearly happened.)

Finally they break away on amicable terms, and Impulse or maybe Skizz says, I’d forgotten what it was like, being one together… fully in mind together, without any Comm to separate us, and Skizz or maybe Impulse replies, Me too, me too.

But it is surely Impulse who says excitedly, Season Four starts in a month. Skizz replies, Oh, okay. But you won’t… you’re not gonna be yanked to there by a portal, right? I don’t want to have to brace myself for that. I didn’t like leaving you the first time, and knowing it’s coming— 

Impulse cuts him off with, No, I’ll be joining manually. We can have time to ease down the connection, so it doesn’t hurt so much—I mean, we were literally being each other when I was portalled into Hermitcraft, so it won’t hurt that much. And we’ll—we’ll call, or maybe we can try and meet up every month so we don’t always have to be alone, you know? Even if I have to go back afterwards, we’d still have each other. And Skizz pulses over relief and decision, conveys, I think that’d be good, yeah.

Life goes on, and Impulse thrives, now as a Hermit.

They agree on the first Sunday of every month, a whole day taken off so that they aren’t alone, and Impulse finds it never gnaws as much as Season Three had. Season Four goes by without a hitch, and then Season Five arrives and they find a very confused Zedaph in a very dark cave. Tango reveals that they too had portalled Zedaph there because it was apparently a ZIT team tradition. That friendship flourishes, and the Sunday meetups turn into ZITS Team meetups. They make candles, cook badly, just talk. Eventually they even tell Zedaph about being binaries, which he takes surprisingly well once they explain that Skizz would die if they tried to ‘fix’ them, and then it is a ZITS Team secret. They all turn out to be pretty good at keeping secrets.

Season Six rolls around. Skizz says farewell, and Impulse, now very comfortable in his role as a Hermit, settles into the server. There’s no new Hermits this time ‘round, which is a first for the server. Instead there’s districts, to encourage new building styles. Zedaph decides he wants to build a base in every one, to which Tango bets a diamond he won’t do more than three. Impulse leaves the two to their bickering and betting, and begins his own base beside a bay. No new Hermits, beside two returners from previous Seasons. He can deal with that.

…And then there come reports of a new player who’d slipped onto the server and joined Hermitcraft.

They all agree it’s weird. They catch glimpses, post them to the server chat, and gossip. And then one day they begin being deleted. Impulse uploads a blurry picture of a red-sweatered man with bright lavender wings, and then as soon as it sends it’s gone, and it’s as though he’d never sent anything at all. Then Xisuma jumps into chat for an emergency meeting regarding “the new player” (which immediately sets off warning bells because no there wasn’t, not this season, and Impulse has to remind himself not to reach out for Skizz to ask if he’s being gaslit or not because all that will greet him is the abyss). The world is bright with lavender streaks as they land in the meeting. He almost misses the hum of other thoughts, distant and drumming, and then there’s something muted in his head, like his brain’s being thrust underwater, and then he surfaces and there is nothing else beyond the abyss.

It goes like this: there’s a weird man with bright purple eyes that draw you in when you look at them, and an intense gaze, and fluffed-up purple wings. Xisuma introduces him as Grian, and his words are choppier than usual. Python asks if he’s okay, and Joe asks if he’s under magical influence, and then Grian is speaking and. And. Everyone turns to gaze at him, and something shifts and stutters and clicks, and suddenly yes, yes of course they’d invited him on, they’d had whole meetings about this, how could Impulse have forgotten? His eyes are bright purple, and everyone’s eyes reflect his, so they’re all bright purple, and the meeting ends with Mumbo ecstatic that he’s back and everyone else sheepishly welcoming him to the server.

(Afterward, Zedaph is the only one convinced Grian had shown up out of nowhere. He says things like, “Don’t tell me you fell for the purple!” and “Don’t you dare gaslight me, I know he’s not our ‘newest player’,” and “I thought you all were smarter than that, to get tricked by something as simple as hypnotism!” and “Well, I suppose I can’t really do anything about this, not realistically, but I’d rather you not pretend he’s allowed here at all, okay?” which is a weird request, but then again Zedaph’s always been weird, so they accept it without question.)

So Grian’s the newest arrival, bright and friendly and only a little off putting but then again aren’t they all? He starts a game of Tag, starts a prank war, ends a prank war, and gives Impulse the chance to show Skizz how awesome he can be with rapping. They head into 1.14, he becomes a hippie with Grian and Ren, they realize that Area 77 was apparently a theme park instead of a secret government base. It’s going well. Skizz keeps on telling him Only on Hermitcraft! and it becomes another inside joke, just like the rest of them.

And then Grian announces the game of Demise.

It’s simple, he says. You’ll do whatever you can not to die, and the last one standing is the winner. Dead people join the Dead team, and must set out traps for the Living. I’ve also implemented a little charm of my own to turn your skin gray, give you a bit of bloodlust, the works. Afterward he meets with Impulse and says: “Oh! I’d wanted to have a little chat with you before the game began. I’ll meet with you this evening, how does that sound?” And then he’s off, and, well. You don’t really cancel a meeting with Grian, Impulse has learned. You nod and smile and wait for him to show up and tell you what he wants to meet about.

So he’s not getting out of this, then. Impulse goes back home, and begins to get ready for Demise.

Grian arrives at six o’clock sharp, just as sunset begins to roll in in its bright and beautiful colors. Impulse watches him swoop in, gracefully gliding through the air and spinning quite a few times as he does. He snaps open his wings as he lands, and manages not to take a tick of damage. Almost reminds him of Skizz, except Skizz only does that when he’s trying to pretend to be smug. “Hey, Impy!” he says brightly, eyes agleam with purple—that usually means he’s up to Mischief. “Just wanted to check in with you before we began the whole game, you know how it is. How’s it going?”

“Why me in particular?” Impulse asks slyly, leading him into the dining room/kitchen area. “I mean, surely you’d talk to Ren or Mumbo first, right?”

“Oh, I did!” Grian says. “Just Ren, I mean. Mumbo’s already an expert at dying, if Zedeath’s taught anyone anything, but I just wanted to have a chat with my fellow hippies before we began this whole game. Here, I brought us some refreshments, can we go inside?”

“Oh, alright,” Impulse says amiably, and they both head inside.

The first thing Grian does is get out a few glasses. He pours what looks to be water into his own cup, and then something dark, viscous, and gleaming into Impulse’s. “It’s my own special brew,” Grian says cheerfully, pushing it over to Impulse. “I think you’ll like it!”

The mixture doesn’t smell all that great—nauseating, somewhat musky—and besides the swirling is making him dizzy, so he sets the glass near him and asks, “So what did you want to talk to me about today?”

“Not much,” Grian admits. “I just wanted to hang out with you, y’know? Since after today, well, all your bonds’ll be severed. Gone. Lost to the wind. All of them. Even the ones you hold most dear. And that includes us. By us I mean the hippies, of course, but also your little ZITS Team you like to meet up with. Completely gone! So I just… yeah, you know. One final meet up before everything goes to hell. With friends.”

“I understand.” Impulse says with a smile. “So? Whaddaya want to talk about? Sahara? ConCorp?”

“ConCorp? I hate those guys,” Grian says with mock hatred. “Always selling us short, choking up our competition, keeps on monopolizing Sahara’s trades and then pretending they didn’t, plus they’ve been on the server way longer so everyone loves them—have you met Scar? He’s insufferable! Always up my neck trying to get me to buy his coral and stuff! Like, okay, I know I’m basing in the ocean, but I’ve got all the coral I need! I don’t need to buy it from some Vex who’d rather drink me dry of money than fight like real men! I hate corporations!”

“Says the guy who built Sahara,” Impulse says.

“I—shut up, you,” Grian replies jokingly, waving his hand at Impulse. For a moment he stares intently at the dark drink, and then he says, “But more seriously, you remind me a lot of Mumbo.”

“Thanks for the high compliments,” Impulse says, doing a mock bow.

“Yeah, you both do absolute magic with red powder and a bit of light—I’ll never understand that! I’m very bad at redstone! You show me one of the ‘simple’ circuits, my brain’s short-circuiting! So the fact that people like you and Mumbo manage to make, like, working storage systems? With dust? Hats off to you, my friend.” 

He mimes doffing a hat, and Impulse grins wider. “I could teach you, if you’d like.”

“Nah, I have a reputation among the Whisps for being bad at it, it’d ruin the bit,” Grian says. “And you know how I am. Live by the bit, die by the bit. So I’ll have to turn you down, but thanks for the offer! But anyways. Not just redstone, that’s things a lot of people can do, like X or Tango or Doc or I guess Zedaph if we look past all the disgraceful stealing that he’s fonder of. But what I mean is that you also worry a lot.”

“I mean, I do have clinical anxiety,” Impulse says.

“I think Mumbo does too,” Grian says, “but anyway. That’s… you know, I want to help you guys the best I can, you know that, right? You’re genuinely the best friends I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a lot of friends.”

“Thanks for the compliments,” Impulse repeats.

“But I just… it’s hard, you know, when your friends don’t want help!” Grian says. “They actively refuse it because they think it’s better being b—unmedicated or stuff like that. And then sometimes you’ve got to be sneaky, because they just won’t let you help them because they think they know better even though you’re the Watcher in the room, you’re the one who knows exactly how to fix their anxiety, and they’re just blinded by the weight of it! They want to stay with the person that’s actively hurting them instead of being free because I dunno, they did some cool things together, but now they don’t want to acknowledge that they’re being hurt! Because the other person keeps calling them away and influencing them and then they come back and you have to try and convince them over and over that they’re not fine, their worry isn’t just mundane, there’s actually something wrong with—”

“Grian?” Impulse asks, eyes wide. Alarm bells ring in his head. This sounds like… “Are you okay?”

“Why haven’t you drank yet?” Grian asks, eyes burning purple, and suddenly the command sears itself into his head— drink drink drink drink drink —and he turns back, keeping Grian’s gaze steady, and drinks from the glass and—

“So I took it upon myself to help you,” Grian says. “All bonds broken. Even the binary ones.”

AND HE IS BURNING—

There is something cutting into his very soulfire, slashing across the flames, digging its claws into his chest and ripping him apart, something evil something hostile something malicious and—and—and—even the binary ones—Grian knows he’s a binary—and everything is burning burning burning, so much more violent than the portal because this one wants to destroy and this one wants to cleave and rend and raze and tear him and Skizz apart he is dying he is dying there is smoke in his lungs and red-hot pain in his chest and Grian isn’t helping and Skizz is being torn from him, torn away, they are being torn apart and no one is answering and he is burning burning burning and his secondary is deorbiting and he has no one left and Grian wants to fix him and he is being fixed and it is burning and it is burning and he is dying and their bond is being broken and Skizz cannot hear him and he cannot get to Skizz and he will never feel Skizz again, not so intimately, not so perfectly because they are being ripped apart and everything, everything is burning up and he does not want to be alone and he doesn’t want to be alone and he can’t be alone and he can’t be alone and to lose your partner is to lose yourself he is losing himself and Grian is watching coldly on and he wants Impulse to suffer and he wants Impulse to die and he wants them to be broken away and burning to death and he wants Skizz to—he wants Skizz to—he wants—

And—

And—

And—

Something wriggles into his mind, something foggy cold and slippery, and suddenly everything—everything—suddenly—it is almost as though Skizz were there again, except he is not except he is not it is almost as if Skizz were there pulling blankets of warmth around him and his racing thoughts except Skizz is gone and Skizz will never be here with him again and Skizz is dead and they are broken away and the fog comes in on little cat feet and begins to steal, and suddenly—and suddenly—and everything is slipping, every little memory, it is being taken and he cannot save it and he cannot save himself and he is a failure and Skizz is being torn from him in more ways than one and on instinct he reaches out and meets fire and void, burning him alive and chilling him to ice, and the fog continues to take and Grian continues to not help and Impulse continues to burn into a white dwarf and he will never be with Skizz again, they will never be the same person again, they will never be—because Grian is fixing him and—and—and—

and why does he care so much about Skizz again?

Because—because—the fog burns away his thoughts, and it continues to take, and he is forgetting and Skizz is a friend—acquaintance—he means not that much and he is meant to mean everything and everything disappears and—

And the server freezes.

Lag. Lag, blessed lag. Grian is frozen above him, and the world is frozen around him, and for a moment the effect pause and—and he needs to get out of here, something calls him to Skizz though he doesn’t know what, and he opens the world join and taps his private world and as the server unfreezes and he leaves he hears Grian saying, “Wait, hold on, Impulse, where are you going I was trying to help you—”

And he—

And he spawns into a house built by him and Skizz (this is his private world, why would Skizz be here, there’s a reason it’s called private, he is forgetting who Skizz is—and he is still burning, and the fog is still descending on him, and nothing is right and everything burns and something is being torn away from him and he doesn’t know what and something reaches into his mind, something soft and gentle something he should know something horrified something that the fog recoils at something that he shoves out of his mind because his mind is his own place thank you very much and he is burning and he is breaking and he is not about to give into this thing and he hates it and he is dying and it is a trick to make him soft and he bites back and and and—

A stranger (Skizz, not Skizz, who is Skizz—) runs downstairs, terror written into his face, and Impulse is shivering trembling quaking because the fire is raging and blazing and he wants nothing more than to forget everything and something soft pushes at the edges of his mind and the stranger (Skizz wearing the face of a stranger) leans down and whispers, oddly familiar, “Impy, shh. I’m right here. You need to let me in. Calm down.”

“Who are you?” Impulse retorts, fire and ice shaking his body as though he were a dog’s chew toy, and he cannot keep from shivering under the weight of the pain. “Why are you here? This is my private world, you aren’t meant to be here, go away I need to—”

“Impy, I just need you to trust me, you just need to relax so I can get in,” the stranger begs, and deja vu pummels at him, and his gut says do it do it do it and he has no one else to trust and he—and he—and the fog is taking him and he lets everything go and he is not safe, he is burning and freezing and everything is wrong and something has been broken and he doesn’t know what and. And he has nothing left. His private world has been conquered, everything is burning to ashes, crumbling down, and now this stranger with a familiar face is asking him to—to—to—something is wrong, something is fundamentally wrong and it is built into his very code to trust this stranger and—and something, something buried is trying to reach back up and the stranger brushes against his mind like a longing, and. And it almost feels like a desperate comfort. He is losing himself, even now, even as the fog tries to fill his wounds, and he—and he—and he gives this stranger his last refuge out of nothing but that simple touch, and he tries, he tries to relax and the fog tries to tense him back up but—but he tries, even in vain, to relax, and the fog and fire alike, he shuts those out and something eases and the stranger reaches through.

He recoils, sharp with disgust, but it’s no use. The stranger already has a hold on him. He worms through his mind, searching for where the fog comes from, and Impulse is burning and the flickers of warmth that come are as hot as the sun, and he tries to shut the stranger down and he says, “No, Impy, come on, don’t give into the fog, please, please.” The fog clamps down, stubborn and snarling, and the stranger (quickly turning into enemy quickly turning into rival quickly turning into monster) is patient. The stranger pulses something, something akin to calm, and the fog—the fog—the stranger is sending pulses of warmth, warmth that’s suddenly so much more welcome than the burning in his chest, and the fog tries to snatch away the stranger, but—the warmth burns it away as though the sun were at rest in his heart, and hope flutters and returns, like morning coming after night, a promise to come back.

And the fog lifts.

Impulse’s eyes snap open, and suddenly he remembers, suddenly he remembers everything, suddenly there is no more fog and this is his secondary and he is a binary and to lose your partner would be to lose yourself and it’s terrifying how that had nearly happened and it is Skizz who is calming him down, Skizz who is quelling the flames, Skizz who is holding him tight and sending pulses of loyalty-warmth through the bond. Impulse is still shaking from the fire and the fog alike, everything taken from him, and he tears up, terrified. Skizz makes a soft noise, and the whisper of don’t worry, I’m here threads through his mind and he had almost forgotten this, and Skizz had almost been ripped away from him, and Impulse sinks back into Skizz’s mental embrace, savoring the easy connection almost so easily torn apart, allowing themselves to swirl into each other.

It’s easy to lose themselves, and almost therapeutic. Skizz holds him, fragile and frightened, and does not let go, and the universe said I love you because you are love and right now the universe is Skizz, pulsing out warmth, and he sends back relief-remembrance-gratefulness-love love love, and it echoes and rebounds and ribbons through them a thousandfold. The burning’s gone, and everything is blissfully warm. They stay like that for longer than they can know, recovering, breathing easier, breathing deeper, smoothing over the claw marks that the cleaving left. 

Impulse borrows some of Skizz’s confidence, feels less like he’s gonna cry and Skizz finally separates them both and asks, So what was going on? Impulse replies, Grian tried to cleave me, which doesn’t make sense since he’s a Hermit, we met with him, he was fine—

Impy, I do have something to tell you, Skizz says, and he’s very obviously apprehensive, almost scared, and then he says—and then he says—and Skizz says, I don’t think he’s a Hermit.

I remember the meetings—

But I don’t. Skizz eyes Impulse warily. I—I think he might’ve messed with your mind. I—you told me—you told me we weren’t getting any Hermits—listen! Skizz brushes away the arguments bubbling in Impulse’s head. I wouldn’t be telling you this if it weren’t true! I don’t remember ever hearing the name Grian before—you guys were observing him like he was a cryptid, and then one day you come back, your brain’s a little fried or something and it doesn’t feel quite right, and then suddenly you and Top’re talking about someone called Grian and acting like he’s been there all along and I will tell you this, your memories—they had a different feel to them? Like they weren’t yours. And I don’t think they were. I think he might’ve done something, made you think he’d been there all along, which means… which means he’s a Watcher. And not a friendly one at that.

Impulse stares at him, almost disbelieving, but. But there’s a headache when he tries to press, and. And Skizz isn’t lying. And that makes perfect sense. And then there’s an idea, and Skizz says, You are not going back there, there’s a Watcher loose on the server, and I don’t want him to try fusion, I don’t want to lose you I can’t lose you what if he makes you hate me what if he kills you what if he tortures you and I don’t want you to leave forever and never come back—

Well, firstly, he can’t fuse us if we aren’t on the same server, Impulse recalls, and I have to warn them. I have a duty to Hermitcraft, Skizz. If he’s going so far as to try and cleave us… X has to know, or Doc, or Joe. Or someone else. Because he tampered with our memories, Skizz, and he’s just shown he’s capable of far worse. Impulse allows Skizz to empathize, and watches as he relents under the fierce loyalty. Alright, Skizz says, though reluctance coats his tone. But at least stay a little longer. I almost lost you. We almost lost each other. And Impulse responds, solemn and soft, And to lose your partner is to lose yourself.

(Later, much later, Impulse finally logs back into Hermitcraft and finds Grian staring at him. Their gazes lock, and something shift-click-settles into his brain, and suddenly he has never been cleaved, and Grian is a normal Hermit, and everything is fine, and everything is fine, and all that’s wrong is a headache on his part, which Grian helpfully offers some pills for. They do not notice the half-full glass of a dark liquid, still on the table. They do not notice the way Grian’s eyes flicker purple as soon as Impulse turns to leave. They do not notice, though it’s not like that would’ve saved him. After all, Demise is about to begin. And that means all bonds are broken.

Including the binary ones.)

Impulse doesn’t win Demise, which he’s fine with. It’s instead Iskall who does, and then Grian comes over, asks if he can take half of the second-place reward—building a contraption which will kill him—and Impulse says sure. They do, they kill Iskall with his hatred of diorite, and then that’s over and done and then so is the Season. He does not understand why Skizz stares at him cautiously, not even when he tries to empathize. 

Season Seven begins, and soon Impulse is watching Grian run Mumbo for Mayor, and then when Scar wins—which they were apparently compliant in, despite the whole thing being started by Grian’s whim of becoming a mayor—Grian decides to resist the leader he’d elected. Impulse buys mycelium, and then he’s trapped in a cellar room with spores heavy in the air and nesting in his lungs and the binary bond is buried under mycelium and Mother Spores and the calendar used to mark the ZITS Sundays is lost in a tangle of roots and stems and broad caps. 

It’s almost like another binary bond, except with more people, and instead there’s a leader who’s the only one allowed to tap off trains of thought. Mushrooms sprout from his forehead, arms, legs, tail, and Tango decides to fix the bond, and then it’s HEP versus the Mycelium Resistance. And Impulse can’t quite think under the haze of mushrooms. And it’s so much easier to let Grian do the thinking instead. And he drops into a half sleep, allowing the Mother Spore to control him. She knows what’s best. He trusts her. The fog rolls in, and Impulse drowses, and neglects everything in favor of contaminating the sea surrounding the Shopping District, in favor of blowing spores into Zedaph’s Cave of Contraptions, in favor of watching him seize up and surrender and assimilate. 

Ultimately, Grian defeats HEP, and then Hermitcraft is the mycelium’s, and Impulse is filling Tango’s lungs with spores, and they take root in his heart brain lungs blood, and everything is filling with the spores, and soon the server will be thick with that scent, and everything shall belong to the Mother Spore as is her right, and—

Later, Gem will say she knocked everyone out, and then got rid of the infection while they were all asleep. She will say no one else was there with her. She will say she doesn’t doubt some of them were hallucinating, this was the worst case she’s seen in years. What Impulse will say is this: the first sign of weakness is something stirring in his chest, something written into his code, something flaring back to life. What Impulse will say is this: a portal opens, and yes, Gem steps out, but also Skizz. What he will say is this: Skizz beelines for Impulse, alone, rotting, ragged, run over by red-caps, and he will brush away the roots and stalks and gaze into his eyes, expression a mess of emotions, mostly sympathy. What Impulse will say is this: Skizz whispers something along the lines of “You’ve really got to stop trying to break our bond, it’s not gonna work,” and then kisses him kindly on the forehead, and Skizz’s familiar warmth brings him down into darkness.

No matter what happens, the mushrooms leave. And then he goes to sleep one night, still recovering, and wakes up in a death game.

You all know what happens then. Impulse plays spider by day and strider by night. He watches Skizz, but for some reason the connection is already eased down to only emotions trickling through. Skizz dies. Tango dies. He dies too, betrayed for a clock. That isn’t important. Well, he supposes the clock part is, but that’s not what this story is about, is it? This story is about Skizz, now dead, and Impulse now dead. Here is what is important: Impulse wakes up, in the space between the stars, and Impulse is alive and utterly alone.

Impulse dies, and wakes up in the void. Something is off. Something is wrong. Something is different in his head, though he can’t exactly gauge what it is, or why it is, or how it is. Something about his thoughts. Something about the way they don’t glide out across a void to reach a wall, anymore. Something about how they stay put, obedient, waiting, wrong. Something about how his head is heavier, and in fact everything is heavier. Something about his heart beating harder than it should. Something about the way there’s a persistent fury, lodged at the back of his throat, when logically his bloodlust should be gone. Something about the way this isn’t Hermitcraft, and this isn’t Third Life, and he doesn’t know where. Something about the way he almost feels unbalanced, without something on his back tying him down.

Death does a number on you, Impulse rationalizes, though it feels less rational and more excuse. Something about the way the dark feels so completely alone. Something about the way he double-takes at his pale skin, and then remembers who he is. Something about everything, everything feels wrong, wrong like an instinct, wrong like magic. Bone-deep wrong. Like there’s been some Watcher, messing with his head and laughing as he fumbles for certainty. Something about how everything feels so completely alone, like there’s nothing beyond his mind where before there was nothing. Something about how everything’s a little blue, now. Something about the way dread shifts-clicks-settles in his gut, warning, whispery. Something about the way lavender flows in to fill the edges of his vision, blurry and indistinct.

Something’s wrong. Something’s terribly wrong, but he can’t quite place his finger on what. Something in the way, when he reaches out, there is nothing. Not just no one. There’s nothing to mark where his mind ends and the universe begins. There’s just thoughts, rattling around, but it’s in a closed jar rather than an open tent. Impulse squints, tries again. Maybe the fact he’s been in mycelium so long, and now the death games, he’s become unused to reaching out. Again he reaches. Again he is met with nothing. Nothing almost like a wall, yes, but still nothing. He frowns. There should be… again, again he tries, and then again and again, and the wrongness creeps up his spine and makes all the fur on the back of his neck stand up.

And something else, too, in the way he looks at himself. For a moment he expects scars on his arms—well, why wouldn’t he? They were in a death game, after all. Apparently they’ve healed, though, so he doesn’t know why their absence is so jarring. Something building to a headache behind his eyes, sharp and dark, pounding. Something in the way—something in the way he doesn’t expect a tail and ears, even though he’s always had them. Something in the way he tries to flutter his wings on instinct, even though he hasn’t got an elytra. Something in the way the wrongness is dimming as he grows accustomed, but it feels like murder, but even this getting used to feels like slitting another’s neck. Something in the way, as he reminds himself he’s just Impulse, a protesting voice is swallowed up and silenced. Something in the way he almost mourns it. Something is wrong, and the worst part is he doesn’t know what.

“Hello?” he calls out to the darkness, and he’s shocked by his own voice, and it’s. It’s. It’s not his own. Not entirely. There’s something rougher to it, something clearly different, but the specifics dart away like fleeing minnows. There’s something in the way his thoughts slow and skip, the way they layer over each other, and then the way that lavender tries to speed them back up. Something in the way lavender chokes him, and then slips into his throat, and when he says, “What was that?” it’s normal. Something in the way the lavender fogs in over his mind, trying to clean over cracks. Something in the way his head burns. Something in the way his chest burns. Something in the way he is utterly alone.

Something in the way lavender tries to urge him to sleep, something in the way it coils around his chest and squeezes, something in the way he almost slips, something in the way it’s imperative to stay awake (and alive and alive and awake). “Don’t,” he murmurs, though drowsiness painted purple tries to close in. “Give me a moment.” It retreats, and he is back, and the only darkness is the void, pinpricked by stars.

He spins around, looking frantically for the culprit. An answer is all he needs. He feels wrong, everything’s wrong, and his chest burns more and more each second, blazing hot and searing, and his heart pounds and his head pounds and the stars twinkle at him without any answer and everything is wrong and everything is wrong and everything is wrong and there is something missing and he is alone and something is missing and something is—

Hold on.

Something is floating in the abyss, something limp and lifeless, and he squints, the sense of wrongness rising quickly, and he tries to swim over to it. Again he reminds himself that he doesn’t have wings, for goodness’ sake, he can’t flap or flail them, but he does have paws and a tail. The void clings to his fur like water. Impulse swims over to the thing, and the first sign something is wrong is that it has wings. Great big wings, like Grian’s or Skizz’s, enough to hold one aloft easily. They gleam white in the cold light of the Void, which is his second sign. The third sign is how, as he leans in close, he realizes it is—or was, he supposes—human. Its eyes are closed, fluttered shut, and no breath comes anymore. The fourth sign is the way he runs his paws over the arms and feels the dip of scars, covered by hair. The fifth is the way his thoughts ricochet off the walls, alone. The sixth is the way his face is vaguely familiar. The seventh is the fact that this is the only other person in this void. The eighth is that he is alone, and he has never been alone, and this face is vaguely familiar.

The ninth is that—

No—no—no no no no no this isn’t—

The ninth is—

It can’t be—it’s not—it—he’s not—he can’t—he’s not allowed to—

Impulse stares in utter shock at the body, lifeless, limp, dead. The ninth is that—

No. Think rationally. This can’t be—because—no, it’s not—no one would—why would—how—no, it’s not—rational, rational—but all the evidence is—but—no, it’s—no, this is just a dream, but his thoughts are alone and when he reaches out—but he’s had nightmares about this sort of thing, why wouldn’t he now—but—but he’s never alone, if this were—he calls out and there is no grace in it, there is nothing to answer—nothing—nothing nothing nothing nothing—no this can’t—it’s not—but—but—but the ninth sign is—he shakes the body, the body does not respond, it has to respond—everything stutters and skips—they hadn’t—they hadn’t—he can’t—just a dream just a dream just a dream wake me up wake me up wake me—but—this feels so real it can’t be—the ninth sign is—the ninth sign is—the ninth sign is—

The ninth sign is the body smells unmistakeably like Skizz.

He stutters, skips, and stares, head empty. All that there is is him and Skizz, alone, alone and dead, lost in the Void aglitter with stars. Impulse shakes Skizz, and he doesn’t wake up. No. No, Impulse is gonna wake up and Skizz’ll be there like always, warm and comforting, ready to lend an ear. No, Impulse is gonna walk into the private world and feel Skizz sense his fear, and he’ll come running out and try to help. No, Impulse’ll wake up and text Skizz about his nightmare, and then they’ll have an emergency ZITS meeting and everything’ll be alright and everything’ll be alright and he is only dead here because this is a nightmare and. And everything’s right. And this is just… and Impulse’s head is… and Impulse feels oddly heavy and oddly full and Skizz is dead and the Void is dark and endless and somewhere he knows this is real but it can’t be. No, it’s not! It’s not, and Impulse is gonna—Impulse is gonna—

He holds Skizz. He holds Skizz. Skizz is here and lifeless and limp and Impulse cannot even reach out and see the yawning abyss. Rationality tells him he is dead. He is dead. He is dead and dying and Impulse is—five stages of grief. Five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance? Yes. He’s going through—but he can’t. He can’t. This isn’t the five stages of grief because he isn’t dead, and if he isn’t dead then—but. But. But. Impulse—Impulse cannot—Skizz is not responding, no one is answering, and—but—but he can’t—Impulse stares into the shut eyes, opens one, sees clouded blue, jerks his hand back. The eye flutters shut. Skizz is. Skizz is. Skizz is—Skizz has to be a—but he’s—but—but—but—

Skizz, he calls out, and the call echoes back because there is nothing there, because he is trapped in his own mind, because Skizz is dead and he is all that remains, his secondary has been fused and fixed and now he will die too, because to lose your partner would be to lose yourself and Impulse has lost him and Impulse wants him alive he wants Skizz to slip in and wrap his presence around him and whisper, hey buddy, shh, calm down, you know what I saw yesterday? A goldfinch! Yep, it was chirpin’ and flutterin’ and everything, so clearly not everything’s bad, so you’ve got to slow down. Everything’s gonna be alright. He wants Skizz to keep songs stuck in their heads and shoot him a raunchy joke every time someone says something even remotely suggestive. But the goldfinch is dead now, and so is Skizz, and Skizz is—Skizz—his greatest comfort has always been Skizz, and Skizz is dead and Skizz cannot be dead and Skizz is. Skizz isn’t here and Skizz is gone and it is only Impulse left.

Impulse is strangely hollow. Everything is hollow. His ears ring. He supposes this is what it’s like for someone normal, someone who hasn’t lost their brother their partner their best friend all in one, someone who hasn’t lost their secondary, his secondary, he wants his secondary back he wants his secondary back and his secondary is dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead. Dead. 

Something bubbles up in the back of his throat, something hot and burning, and his chest is burning, right. He’s burning. He’d… he’d—he’s burning and his throat is burning but in a different way, something hot and furious like raging fire, joining the blaze in his chest and outmatching it. He wants to be warm. He wants to be with Skizz again, free and warm with Skizz again, thoughts swirling into Skizz’s again, he wants Skizz back and something catches in his throat, stutters-skips-stops and then—

And then he is furious.

It surges over him, blindingly bright, and how dare someone fuse he and Skizz. How dare Skizz be dead. How dare they kill him, and then leave Impulse alone and dying, and not even ask. How dare they. How dare they. His claws tighten on Skizz’s clothing, and he shakes with Impulse’s movement, dollishly limp. He clutches the body close to his chest (he clutches Skizz close to his chest) and he whips around, rage roaring in his ears, pounding and burning, because Skizz is dead and nothing else matters, nothing besides avenging him, nothing besides making sure that he can be avenged and that he can find the killer and that the killer can come to justice and Impulse sees nothing but starlight and shadows, dancing and whirling and taunting. He catches glimpses of blue, flashing eyes, and Skizz is—

Skizz has always been fiery, is the thing, and if Impulse has absorbed Skizz then he supposes he is fiery too. If Impulse is fiery, just as Skizz was, then Skizz lives on in him, in his fury, in the way his teeth bare and his eyes widen and his fur prickles and fluffs. But it’s not enough. He wants all of Skizz back, not just his fire, he wants his kindnesses too. The way Skizz could always read a room, the way he knew how to build someone up, even without a binary bond. The way Skizz was there and now he is not and how dare they take him, how dare they kill him and not even get Impulse’s consent, how dare they how dare they how dare they. Impulse takes care not to rip Skizz’s skin. 

“Come out here!” he roars, hoarse, furious. “You murderer! Get out here right now and show yourself!” His eyes narrow to slits, and he flattens his ears, clutches the corpse. He lets out a wordless caterwaul, and it rings through the Void, a declaration of pure hatred. 

Something lavender loops around his wrists, and they involuntarily flex, and suddenly he’s lost his grip, and suddenly Skizz is being taken by the lavender and no they won’t no they won’t NO THEY WON’T and he lunges forward and bites down on Skizz’s arm, digging into the flesh, grabbing his secondary and coiling himself around him because even if he is dead then he will protect him, he will die before he allows Skizz to be dishonored like that, he will not let the lavender—

Lavender sluices through his thoughts, and they slip and slide and NO YOU DON’T NO YOU DON’T YOU DO NOT GET HIM YOU DO NOT GET HIM YOU WILL NOT GET HIM AND I WILL NOT ALLOW YOU TO TAKE HIM and Impulse focuses on the way Skizz is dead on the way Skizz is dead on the way Skizz does not answer on the way he clutches tight on the way Skizz was on the way Skizz will never be and the lavender retreats and all that is left is the burning and the fury and the lavender killed Skizz the lavender killed Skizz THE LAVENDER KILLED SKIZZ AND THE LAVENDER WANTS HIM TO FORGET AND THE LAVENDER WANTS HIM TO FORGET ABOUT SKIZZ THE LAVENDER WANTS SKIZZ TO DIE AND—

HE WILL NOT FORGET ABOUT SKIZZ—

YOU WILL NOT TAKE SKIZZ FROM ME—

Impulse catches a glitter of lavender, and he snarls, “YOU.” He is all dark and blazing and Skizz is dead and the lavender killed him and he holds on tight and—

Somewhere, the Void shifts-clicks-settles, and then there is something behind him, and the something behind him says, “Oh, good Void, you could stand to be grateful.”

Impulse whips toward him. It’s Grian. It’s Grian, with lavender wings and lavender eyes and looking too deep makes him NO NO NO YOU ARE NOT TAKING ME FROM SKIZZ YOU ARE NOT TAKING SKIZZ FROM ME GO DIE GO DIE GO DIE and he hisses, lip curling, everything alight within him because YOU WILL NOT MAKE ME FORGET MY SECONDARY YOU ALREADY KILLED HIM YOU ALREADY KILLED HIM YOU KILLED HIM YOU MURDERER YOU FUCKING MURDERER YOU MURDERED SKIZZ I WILL NEVER HEAR HIM OR FEEL HIM OR SEE HIM EVER AGAIN YOU WILL KILL ME BEFORE I ALLOW YOU TO FUSE US SKIZZ DIED AND I WILL NOT FORGET HIM I WILL KILL YOU I WILL KILL YOU AND—

“Impy?” Grian squeaks, and that is all it takes to set him off because only Skizz is allowed to call him Impy only SKIZZ is allowed to call him Impy AND YOU TOOK HIM AND YOU ARE NOT SKIZZ YOU ARE NOT SKIZZ SKIZZ IS DEAD AND he lets go of Skizz to latch onto Grian and he pounces forward and wraps his arms around Grian’s neck.

His heart beats quickly, and Grian screams, trying to shake Impulse off, trying to calm him down BUT ONLY SKIZZ IS ALLOWED TO CALM HIM DOWN YOU KILLED SKIZZ and he digs his claws deeper into Grian’s shoulder blades and Grian is shrieking and it sounds like music and he never wants to hear Grian stop screaming and Impulse leans in close and hisses, “You fucking murderer.” All his rage sits cold and sharp in his throat, and his voice is dangerously low, dangerously quiet, dangerously cold.

“Impulse,” Grian begins.

Impulse digs in deeper and draws blood and Skizz is dead and Skizz is dead and this is not punishment enough he needs to die he needs to die he needs to die and he says, “You better shut the fuck up or get ready to die.”

That cans him right up. Skizz floats into entropy below, and something lavender loops around his wrist, but if Impulse lets go of Grian then the lavender will take him over and he cannot allow the lavender to take him over and Impulse says, “Do you even know what you’ve done?”

Grian stares at him, his fright delicious, and then he finally speaks. “I—no? What—I don’t—but I—but I fixed you, you shouldn’t—I—what happened?”

“I’ll tell you what happened!” Impulse roars, loud and dangerous and Skizz’s fire burning in his blood, he’s burning up, Skizz is going to die but by Void will it be spectacular because Skizz is dead and that is all that matters in the world, that everything knows he’s dead, that everything grieves him and that he does not go quietly into that good night, no, Impulse will let them both go out in a supernova rather than a white dwarf, lighting up the heavens with their death, becoming for a breath a bright sun before finally falling to eternal sleep, and Grian will not snuff them out. “You murdered him. You murdered Skizz.” They stare at each other, a threat display, cat against bird, and Impulse is alone and Impulse will not go out without a fight.

“I—what?” Grian asks, baffled, terrified terrified deliciously terrified and Impulse breathes hot and everything is hot and the Void is freezing cold and he is blazing hot like a wildfire and Grian says, “I don’t—but—he’s not dead?”

“Yes he is, you heartless bastard,” Impulse spits. His voice catches on the consonants. “You murdered him. How does it feel, hm? How does it feel to have killed my best friend?”

“But I—” Grian says. “I… but—but you’re fused?”

“It’s not fusing, you absolute idiot,” Impulse growls, claws working into muscle, and Grian gasps sharply and he digs in deeper, presses his teeth to Grian’s neck and says dangerously, “it’s murder. You took Skizz’s soul and covered him in me so now he’s gone and I’m all that’s left. You murdered him.”

“I—” Grian’s eyes widen, somehow. “I—that’s not—that’s—”

“Oh? Do you want to die?” Impulse asks, raising his head again. He drags his claws to another spot, and Grian hisses as blood begins to spill out, flecked with purple and gold, and cloud around the Void. “No? Then shut the fuck up and get him back. You monster. I was doing fine and then you came along and you took him away—” and suddenly he’s screaming, “I LOVED HIM! I loved him and now you take him away and you expect me to be FINE WITH THAT?” 

“I—” Grian’s voice is very small. “I didn’t—”

“You didn’t know.” Impulse laughs bitterly, and then leans in close, so much so that their noses touch. “You didn’t know you killed him. You didn’t know I’d be angry at you for it. You didn’t know what you did. Do you want to sound believable? No?”

“Impulse, I didn’t—” Grian begins, and then, “I thought—I’ve been told—I thought it was—I thought I was helping you.”

“Well, you didn’t,” Impulse growls. “Skizz is dead and—” And for the first time his fury falters, and his voice trembles, and he says, “And you killed him, and I’m never getting him back—do you know what I wanted? Because I didn’t hate him. He was my secondary. I was his primary.”

“It wasn’t a curse?”

“NO!” Impulse’s eyes are burning. Impulse is burning. “It was never a curse! I loved him! I loved him, and then Watchers like you come in and you—and you—and you murder people and you get away with it because all binaries are broken or evil, no alternative, and death is the only option! You killed him and because he was a secondary and we were binaries it was okay and—and—and I’ll never get to feel him or see him or hear him again or—” And now he’s crying. Great. The fire in him is flickering. “I’ll never be with him and I’ll never swirl with him and we’ll never—and I’ll never—I just—I just want—you killed him and you don’t even think you did! And he’s—and he’s—”

Impulse breaks into sobs, and he blinks back tears furiously. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand, because you’re a Watcher and you hate binaries and everyone hates binaries and everyone wants us to die and then you get away with murder and no one cares because no one cares about binaries until they’re fixed! Except Skizz is dead! And I loved him! I loved him!”

Grian stares at him, horror and realization alight in his eyes. “Oh dear stars,” he says, and beyond him the Void seems so much more vast. “I fucked up.”

“You sure did!” Impulse laughs again, short and harsh and this time tearful. “You just realized? Should I give you an award? Should we clap?” And then he loses all his mirth and says, “Yes, you fucking killed him. And he’s dead. And you can’t take it back.”

For a moment Grian merely stares at him, quiet, and then he says, “I… I can… I might be able to… I might be able to… to bring him back.”

You could’ve heard wheat grow.

“Then why haven’t you done it?” Impulse challenges. 

“I—I didn’t—” Grian swallows. “I thought I was doing—I thought Skizz was alive. In you. I—but it’s not final yet. When you wake up—that’s when it’s finalized. But in order to—in order to get your soulfire, I’ll need to knock you out. And I don’t know if you’ll kill me or not. But you shouldn’t be totally fused, not yet. The website said it took a few hours to completely solidify, which is why you should knock the binary out for the whole day. But it shouldn’t have… but we need to do this quick. We don’t have long. I need to knock you out, Impulse.”

For a moment all is still. Impulse peers into Grian’s eyes, rage simmering. “And why should I believe you?”

Grian breathes in, breathes out, closes his eyes. “I swear on my immortal soulfire,” he says solemnly, placing a hand on his heart. “I swear. I thought… Impulse, if I should break this promise to unfuse you and Skizz and leave both of you unharmed, then you may torture me in whatever way you wish. You may kill me. You may starve me. You may do what you want in order to punish me sufficiently.” He opens an eye a crack. “Is that good?”

“I don’t trust you,” Impulse says finally, voice steady.

“I don’t expect you to,” Grian says. “But I just need you to allow me to knock you out. I don’t want to waste magic on getting you asleep.”

“As long as you do it,” Impulse threatens, voice low. “If you don’t…” He leaves the threat hanging in the air. 

Grian nods, short and grim, and places two trembling fingers—a thumb and an index—on Impulse’s forehead. As asked of him, Impulse relaxes, breath coming steady and slow. For a moment all is still—for a moment, Impulse doubts, for a moment Impulse longs to argue.

Magic laces Grian’s tone as he says, Go to sleep, and he flicks his fingers against Impulse’s forehead. Darkness rushes up to catch him, and then there is no more.

He wakes, remembers, and reaches out. 

The first sign that something is right is this: there is an abyss again. There is something beyond his mind, a connection meant to be filled, a wound ready to heal. His mind is less crowded, less full, emptier. His heart beats lightly again.

He takes out his Comm, and the second sign that something is right is this: Skizz’s name is white. Not the gray of deactivation, not gone. White. Normal. Alive. The third sign that something is right is this: he gets a notification from the ZITS groupchat, and it’s Skizz, saying: We need to meet up ASAP. The fourth sign something is right is this: their private world is still technically not private, and Impulse cannot help but stare at the whitelist of two, still intact, still bright. 

Impulse clicks Join World on the ZITS group world, and the fifth sign something is right is this: Skizz is back in his head.

Skizz is also before him. Skizz sits on the couch, next to him like the last time they'd been here, which feels like a lifetime ago. Skizz is quiet unlike he’s ever been. His wings quiver. You left me alone, he says, soft, accusatory, and then, We nearly died. 

I know—

The faintest emotions flicker under the surface, guilt-terror-silence-protectiveness, and Skizz thinks, I just want you to stay with me. You nearly got us killed and I wasn’t aware and you nearly left me behind and you nearly forgot me and I died and it was only by a miracle that I came back to life and you leave me behind and you leave me behind and why can’t you just settle down with me and I’m selfish and you love Hermitcraft and you’re happy and I can’t take Hermitcraft away from you but I’m always alone and I nearly died and I’m selfish and—

But you’re alive— Impulse tries to point out.

I’m well aware, Skizz responds, exhausted. I’m just… complaining, you know? Selfish. I’m selfish and you’re alive and we’re alive and that’s enough and you love Hermitcraft and I can’t… I don’t even know what I’m saying here. We’re alive. We’re back in orbit. Quieter, not meant to be heard: Can’t we just stay like this for forever?

Secondary, Impulse says, and Skizz flinches. What’s wrong? And Impulse isn’t as gentle as Skizz, not as good at this, but he tries to make his words like a blanket, tries to keep his words warm and soft, and tries to send over that steady tide of love. He’s not good at this, but nonetheless Skizz stutters and pauses, soaking in the warmth like a cat in a patch of sun. 

You can’t keep on leaving, Skizz says finally, trying to keep his emotions dismissive. I… you’ve… you've been in Demise, you fell away from me, you've been in at least two wars, you got taken over by mushrooms, and then we were thrown into a death game— and those are the words that bring everything barreling down, all the betrayals and blood, swords and hoards and death and watching Jimmy die and dying yourself and watching everyone die and there isn’t even a purpose and sorry for sharing that with you, Skizz says, shoving the memories away, tossing them aside and trying to focus on something that isn’t the blood dried in his hair or the scars on his arms or the lingering weight of a sword in his hands.

Skizz, Impulse repeats. Skizz, I don’t want you to hide this from me.

It’s not important, Skizz insists.

Impulse disagrees. Not to me. Not if it’s you. And he can’t dress up his emotions in the fancy way that Skizz can, what with so much practice alone, so he pulses them over in their overwhelming bursts, love-fear-hope-joy-relief-longing-love-love-love. He walks over to Skizz and hugs him, and for once his secondary is stunned, for once he has no words with which to reply. 

I just want us to always be together, Skizz says, trying to make himself selfish. Impulse doesn’t allow it. Impulse says, I do too.

Without his bidding, memory bubbles to the surface. Skizz had been punished for trying to restrict his primary, and Skizz had been selfish to keep Impulse from pursuing his dreams, and now Impulse has been fused and Skizz just wants Impulse to be safe and he cannot do that if Impulse isn’t there. But Impulse is happy on Hermitcraft, and Skizz can’t just take that away, and he is only a secondary so Impulse is more important than him, Impulse is the one Skizz orbits around, Impulse is happy and Skizz would be selfish to take that away so Skizz can’t always get what he wants and he stays behind burning and Impulse goes forward burning. And Skizz is left behind. (Impulse is happier without him.) (Impulse hates being with him.) (Impulse hates him.) (Skizz is selfish for wanting him to stay.) Skizz is left behind, Skizz’s only merit is in being left behind because Impulse is smart and Skizz is selfish and that means you have to sacrifice things for your primary and that means you have to watch your primary throw himself into danger and be unable to help him because he likes it and he likes being severed from you and you just want to be with him again and—

Skizz, Impulse tells him. Shh. And just as Skizz has done so many times for Impulse, unheeded, desperately needed, Impulse begins to pulse warmth into the connection. The pond of Skizz’s mind ripples, and Impulse surrounds him, telling him no I love you I love you I love you. And Skizz responds, I just want you to be safe. But you don’t need me. I… I understand, I can stand this, I can deal with this—

Skizz, I’m not going to break our bond, Impulse says, squeezing tighter, and Skizz untenses, shoulders shaking, wings curled around him and Impulse, pulling them together like gravity. Impulse allows all the warmth to swirl into Skizz, and Skizz’s doubts and fears and worries bleed into him, and for the span of a second there’s the sharp fear marching in, bringing back the memories of the fall through the portal, bringing back the memories of the tear, bringing back memories of laying flowers on a primary’s grave and being alone and burning and trying to fit in. Impulse frowns and smooths over the fear, radiating warmth which Skizz clings to, and then Skizz allows himself to fade into their connection, and nothing matters.

Distantly, Tango moves over to the hug, and they wrap him into the wing. Zedaph slips into the other. It’s a mess of limbs and love, warm, and they are all exhausted, and they wish Zedaph and Tango were binaries because then they could feel the warmth pouring off them in waves. This isn’t enough. Tango is shivering, and they move Impulse’s hand to rub his shoulder, slow and rhythmic like a breath. He leans into their touch. Everything is warm and beautifully simple and they are both here and they are both here and they are not dead yet. And the Universe said I love you because you are love.

It is Zedaph who finally breaks up the hug. “Do you guys want to tell me why you’re all clinging to each other like burrs?” he asks, and reluctantly Impulse and Skizz become separate again, move to sit next to each other with their hands held. Tango stays in Skizz’s wing, shivering, and only flinches slightly when Skizz folds his wing around Tango’s body. Tango’s eyes are wide and flickering, and he’s nearly bald with fear. 

It is Impulse who finally replies, fighting to keep his voice steady. “We were nearly fused,” he says, squeezing Skizz’s hand. “We were nearly fused, and Skizz almost died, and I was almost a singular, and Grian dragged us into his death game and he tried to fuse me and Skizz, Skizz was gonna die and…” He trails off.

“The death game,” Zedaph says, eyes wide. “And—hold on, fusion? Isn’t that… oh dragons.” 

“I only really remember the death game,” Skizz lies. “I was… it was… there was so much blood, Impulse says it was a lot like Demise—I didn’t even get notified! I just went to sleep last night, and then I wake up and we’re in a death game and we had to kill each other and…” Alliances flick through his head. “Grian and Scar teamed up, I joined Martyn and Ren, Top was on Cleo’s and Bdubs’ side, and Dippledop…” Skizz steals a glance at his primary. “Well. You know how it goes. Spider by day and all that.”

“In the end I was the one who survived longest,” Impulse says with what might be a bitter laugh. “But I was betrayed twice. First by Bdubs—Bdubs and I, we were friends, and then Scar just gives him a clock and he turns traitor. It was the end of the game. It wasn’t fair. We should’ve gone around, picking off the ones who survived the Battle of Dogwarts—that was Martyn and Ren, Skizz didn’t survive it—and then me and him should’ve won fair and square, and instead I die and then Skizz is permadead and I’m…” He chokes on his words.

“They would’ve just made you two fight instead,” Tango says. “We were all… it wasn’t… Grian won. Grian won and we egged him on and he just killed Scar and jumped off a cliff and we were happy. We needed… we needed blood. Desperately. We needed them to die because this was a death game and they couldn’t survive and we… it was… bloodlust. That’s all it was. We were all meant to die, and then we killed the winner. That’s what it was. And I—I killed a few people because I had no choice, and I got betrayed, and then everything blew up in my face, because I’m—”

It’s still amazing how well Zedaph can predict Tango’s thoughts without telepathy, because he immediately taps Tango on the shoulder and stares into his eyes. “You, my friend,” he says solemnly, “were in a death game. So you can’t call yourself stupid. Not even if you did stupid stuff, because you were in a death game, so everything immediately doesn’t count.”

“But it wasn’t even that,” Tango says. “I—I killed, fuck, I don’t even know, I just… I saw Cleo dead, she was one of the first out, then Skizz and Joel and Etho… and then—I don’t even—it was so hard,” he says, and he begins crying, gasping things that leave him shaking. His fire dies down to embers. “It’s just—we didn’t stop. We made alliances, and then we got betrayed, and. And there was so much blood and you couldn’t trust anyone and everyone was out to kill you and then when you died two times you became Red which meant you had to kill people—it was kinda like being a vampire! I became a vampire! And then I died in a really stupid way! I tried to kill this guy called Martyn, stupidly strong, and then I died! So yeah! That’s how it went!” He laughs, wet and wild, and then promptly buries his head in his hands. 

“Oh my stars,” Zedaph says after a minute, soft and breathless. Tango’s sobs fill the silence, and the lunacy of peace settles over them shivering. Zedaph places a hand on Tango’s, and Impulse can see him slowly squeezing, like a pulse. Like a heartbeat. Tango squeezes his eyes shut and tenses, untenses, simply breathes. Zedaph does not leave him.

“As I said, I died near last,” Impulse says quietly, “and Bdubs betrayed me. For a clock. A Day One alliance and he broke it for a fucking clock!” Impulse does not allow the tears to fall. “But it wasn’t… you know, then I woke up and Skizz was dead and I wasn’t and we were fixed and I… that was worse. That was way worse. Because we all knew we were gonna return from the death game. Even if we weren’t told, it was just… Grian wouldn’t put us in a game we couldn’t come back from. He’s a lot of things. He’s not cruel.” He hesitates. “I threatened his life, did you know? I was just… I snapped. I was alone and Skizz wasn’t there so I tried to kill him to avenge Skizz. And then he brought you back.” Impulse flicks a glance to Skizz. “But it was… I wasn’t even burning. It was just, my mind was contained, and you weren’t there, not even as an abyss, and then I realized and… yeah. Yeah. We nearly died.”

For a moment, Zedaph simply surveys the room. Outside, rain drizzles down, forming a sort of soothing chatter behind all the fear, and the couch below them is soft, draped with blankets, decorated with pillows. A fire crackles merrily, dissonant, ever burning on netherrack. (It reminds him of stakeouts, bitter nights and whipping winds, campfires and inexpertly cooked meals, waiting for death to finally find them and take them painfully.) Slowly, non threateningly, Zed draws a pink blanket over Tango’s shoulders and wraps it around him. Wordlessly he does the same for Impulse and Skizz, a yellow one for Skizz and a blue one for Impulse. He takes the remaining red one for himself, pulls up the ottoman, and sits facing them all, silent, face twisted into something somber and somewhat unfitting of him. The world is almost muted. Impulse is leaning into Skizz’s wing, and Tango’s still tucked into his wing.

Finally he says defeatedly, “I don’t know how to fix this, ‘cause blankets clearly aren’t cutting it.”

“I’ll be honest, Zed, don’t know how to fix it either,” Tango says, and though it’s probably meant to come out more jokingly it loses that edge along the way.

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna need a few years to recover,” Skizz adds. “Not that I don’t like the blanket. Thanks so much for that.” Gratefulness pools in Impulse’s and Skizz’s minds. If only he were telepathic with us, one of them longs. What they want to convey is this: that the memories still clash and burn in their heads, emotions made twice as intense through the bond. What they want to convey is this: that Impulse stops shivering, and his warmth bleeds into Skizz, and they both relax, vulnerable, weak, soft, warm. What they want to convey is this: that the fact that Zedaph is doing this, that he cares enough to listen to them sob and take it all in stride, is unbelievable and beautiful and they do not deserve him. What they want to convey is this: it is hard learning to love again, because for the past seven weeks they have been stuck in a death game where that was never an option. What they want to convey is this: it hurts, trying to love again, trying to be vulnerable again. 

What Impulse does say is this: “You know we love you, right? Like, lots?”

“Well, I mean, we’ve been friends for like eight years now, pretty sure you’d have left me behind by now if you didn’t,” Zedaph jokes.

“No, like, seriously,” Skizz cuts in. “Sappiness be damned.” 

Zedaph’s gaze softens, and then he says very quietly, almost lost among the background song of crackling and pitter-pattering: “I don’t think we have to worry, then. I think that it is all gonna be fine one day, and this’ll be long behind us, and we’ll all be making weird contraptions and Skizz’ll be on Hermitcraft and Impulse’ll stop worrying so much and everything will be, just, okay.” And then he straightens, mouth set in determination. “But that’ll take a long bit, so in the meanwhile, I am going to make us hot cocoa, and then we can sit here and talk everything out properly. ” he says, and then he heads toward the kitchen, blanket still around his shoulders. And then it is just them in the room, tucked into Skizz, trembling from the aftermath. 

There is a long moment of silence. “For what it’s worth,” Tango says, hesitant, fearful, “I think I forgive you. Zed’s right. It’s a death game. It doesn’t count.”

“We forgive you too,” Impulse says, and Skizz wraps a wing around Tango, pulls him close. The rain continues outside. The fire continues inside. The world is warm and soft, and maybe Zed’s right. Maybe it will turn out okay. They’ve nearly been fixed, and they’ve died so many times, been betrayed, but maybe. Maybe one day the sun will rise and the colors will seem less like blood. Maybe one day they’ll finally tell everyone they’re binaries without fear of fixing. Maybe one day they’ll all be on Hermitcraft, and one day this will all be far behind them. Maybe one day Bdubs and him will forgive, and everything’ll be alright.

As it is, the world is healing. Skizz wraps a wing around Impulse, and Impulse wraps his mind around Skizz, and he repeats under his breath like a prayer that everything’ll be alright.

Season Eight begins a few weeks later.

There’s two entirely new Hermits—Gem, the perky faefolk who’d cleared out the mycelium infection, and Pearl, a spunky foxfolk who was allegedly a long-lost friend of Grian’s and Mumbo’s. Impulse is roped into Boatem, and while he and Grian give each other a wide berth, they manage not to murder each other in front of Mumbo and Scar (and later Pearl), which is a plus.

Impulse gets letters from an old candyman who used to work around there, begins eating the amethyst rock candies he bequeaths, and watches with mild fascination as crystals begin to grow under his skin, clinking when he walks. Pearl creates an impossible door. Mumbo becomes a murderer. Scar begins to swindle people again, which is comforting. Grian… Grian defeats the dragon and makes a game out of hiding its egg, which Impulse signs up for and loses. He’s lost a lot of things, though, and it’s an easy art to master.

And then, in the midst of Boatem and growing corporations and shady salesmen from long ago, they are thrown into a second death game, and Impulse and Grian team together. It’s a death game, after all. All bonds broken. All enemies forgotten. Boogeymen and bloodlusters lurk about, and Grian’s trust is better than his fury. (They do not trust each other, but Impulse and him both scheme to unleash the Wither, and then they do, and it is glorious.)

Impulse is killed by Scott, at least, and he wakes back up in the factory, breathless, trembling. He gets back to work. He does not think about lives held in cupped hands, or Eyes watching carefully, or explosions ringing in his ears. He does not think about his dreams, Boogeymen lurking in the shadows, axes and wither lingering under his skin. He does not think about many things.

One day, Grian catches him while he’s busy restocking iSoar. Last Life is fresh in their minds, in all its blazing glory, and for a moment Impulse is back in the B.E.S.T. castle, and there is a Wither roaring in his ears, and Grian is cackling like a maniac, and Impulse watches them—catches Skizz’s gaze, breaks away—watches Bdubs die, and Etho reject him. An arrow through his back. 

“Hey, Grian,” Impulse says curtly, because the fusion is also still fresh and raw, even after a good few months. He doesn't suppose he’ll ever be able to let it go. It’s a part of him—just as he is binary, he also escaped fusion. Likewise, it's a part of Grian—here is the fuser who nearly sacrificed Skizz’s life in order to ruin yours, brought back only by rage—here is the Watcher who saw fit to throw you into not one but two death games—he has broken you over and over, nearly taken so many lives, and yet you allow yourself to team up with him, join a death game alliance with him, create a Wither with him? (It was a death game. It doesn't count.)

“Hey, Impulse,” Grian replies. “I, uh. Wanted to know what you were up to. Um. If you were okay, or if you…”

“I don't need your help, no,” Impulse says, low, glancing up to gaze at him, dropping the diamonds into the shulker box. They clink as they fall, flashing in the evening sun. “I’m perfectly okay by myself.”

“I just realized I never, um, said sorry for, um, nearly killing your secondary—”

He closes the shulker box, stares Grian in the eyes. “You aren't allowed to call him that.”

Grian startles, and Impulse carefully does not let any of the boiling fury show on his face. “I—” Grian begins.

“That's my name for him,” Impulse says, struggling to keep his voice steady. “You can't have it. Not now. Not ever. You tried to kill him, and now you're trying to pretend you can call him my secondary. So. Use his name.”

“Skizz. Skizzleman.” At least he has the decency to look abashed. 

“Good.”

“I didn't know he was… okay, look. I was—the Watchers—I…” He carefully does not meet Impulse's eyes. “I… oh, this is gonna be impossible without restoring your memories.”

A jolt of fear, then fury races through him. “What?” he demands, barely concealed distaste giving way to disbelief and terror. “You did what?”

“I’m sorry,” Grian says. “I—in my defense, I didn't really trust any of you Hermits. Well, except really Mumbo. So I did… lots of memory alteration. Not just on you. I just—I just—I was running from the Watchers, and I thought this whole server was too perfect to be real, so I just—I mean. I was scared, and I was also, like, really against anyone different from me, and I thought, to keep everyone in line—” and here his voice begins to tremble, “I thought any day you were gonna catch me and break through the control, and—”

“That doesn't excuse you messing with our minds,” Impulse snaps, ears twitching flat. “I don't care if you were running from the Watchers, I can't forgive you rewriting my memories!”  Rage comes back like a familiar friend, taking him over, unsheathing his claws and baring his teeth because how dare he. How dare he manipulate the entire server, including—Tango and Zed and Bdubs and all of them, he’d just—he’d—he’d—see, Impulse has always considered his mind his own, utterly his, and for Grian to have broken into it, and the other Hermits’—for them to have been twisted from the refuge of their own thoughts—for Grian to have stolen into their minds and shaped them to his will, and only telling them now—

“I know,” Grian says, soft, almost remorseful. “I didn't—I wasn't justified. I was just scared. And I did it because I was scared. But now everyone’s—I do want to undo it all, you know. And I’m—I guess I’m starting with you.” He exhales, inhales. “So, um, I’m gonna need you to let me just…” 

Grian moves over, places a hand behind Impulse’s head and tilts it so that they’re touching foreheads. “Alright, here we go,” he says reluctantly; then, “∷ᒷᒲᒷᒲʖᒷ∷ ∴⍑ᔑℸ ̣  i ⍑ᔑ⍊ᒷ ꖌᒷ!¡ℸ ̣  ⎓∷𝙹ᒲ ||𝙹⚍.”

Something shifts, clicks, lifts in his brain, and—

Everything comes back.

(Pictures of a cryptid, whispers in the server chat, sketchy meetings, purple eyes—)

(A meeting for drinks, a lengthy rant, a sketchy home brew, fire through his soul, purple eyes—)

(Little incidents, glimpses of magics he shouldn't have witnessed, predator claws on his face, purple eyes—)

Impulse stares at Grian, reeling, ears flat. His fingers twitch. His tail twitches. He can remember Skizz, always oddly suspicious of Grian, and how Impulse had dismissed his concerns as fear of novelty—he can remember Zedaph, saying that Grian wasn’t the newest Hermit, asking them never to pretend like he was around him, and he and Tango dismissing Zed’s insistences. He can remember the way Grian’s presence always set his fur prickling, even when he'd gotten used to his name on the whitelist. It all makes sense.

“You cleaved me,” Impulse says slowly, the betrayal revealing itself finally. Grian had tried to fix him before, and he had failed, and—and—and he's been cleaved and fused and he's only remembered one of them and he's been cleaved, and—and Grian had made him nearly forget Skizz, he’d nearly forgotten Skizz, he’d been cleaved and nearly forgot his secondary and then—and then, after all that, it had taken a mere gaze from Grian to forget all that and he’d—he’d— “You cleaved me, and I nearly forgot—I nearly forgot—I nearly forgot my secondary—” and rage comes back, burning hot and biting, how dare he try and take Skizz away, how dare he try and sever their connection twice, how dare he try and make Impulse forget his secondary—

“I’m sorry,” Grian whispers, hanging his head, guilt etched into the very way he holds himself. “I… I didn't realize at the time… I thought—well, my first thought—see, I didn't know, who Skizz was, I just—I knew you were a binary—I knew how to fix binaries, so I went with what they said was the less painful option, that didn't work, so I went to fuse you, and then… yeah. That happened. I didn't… if I’d known, I’d have…”

“But it did happen,” Impulse argues. “It happened, and now I’ve been fused and cleaved, and it's a miracle Skizz’s still alive.” His tail flicks irritatedly. “You can reason yourself all you want, you still tried to kill Skizz. You tried to make me forget him. Do you even know what you did?”

“I took away your Mumbo,” Grian says. “I tried—I know what I did, and I… I’d like it to be said that I feel terrible.”

“I can't forgive you for that.”

“I know. I didn't come here for only forgiveness.” Grian sighs. “I just… we can't be angry at each other. We're Hermits. We have to work together. I don't… but either one of us leaves the server, or we get along.”

“You tried to kill Skizz.”

“I know.” He buries his head in his wings. “I know it so well, I… I don't even know how I can make it up to you, I…”

Impulse studies Grian—poisoner, near murderer. Unfortunately, he's right. Unless Impulse wants to reveal he's a binary to Xisuma, they can't leave—because asking to leave prompts a reason, and goodness knows Impulse can't lie to save his life. (It clearly hadn't saved him in Third Life.) Impulse says, quiet, “You’d better not do it again.”

“Do you think I would?”

“I’m just asking.” Impulse folds his hands, sits down on a placed shulker box. “I can’t forgive you. I probably never will. Skizz says I’m the type to hold grudges. And this…” Impulse closes his eyes. “But you did bring him back to life. And we can't keep on… and we did do worse in the Life Games. But. But this isn't forgiveness. It's just a rock and a hard place, and…” 

“I know. I’m sorry.” Grian’s shoulders sink. “I… I can't ask you to forgive me. That would be unreasonable. But I do forgive you for attacking me, if that means anything.”

Impulse does not say anything. Impulse thinks about curses, and clocks, and Red blood. He thinks about Zedaph. He thinks about Skizz. He imagines a blanket, blue and soft, drawn around his shoulders. The night after Last Life had ended, they'd called another meeting, and they'd both been somewhat relieved that that game hadn't ended with attempted fusion. Zedaph had been comforting, as he’d been before. Well, he’d said when Skizz had asked why he did all this for them, you are my friends, and you’d do just the same for me. Besides, I’m not the one getting trapped in a death game. I might as well help you guys when you do. 

Impulse thinks about forgiveness, and moving on, and finally says, “I can't leave this alliance, so I suppose we’ll have to make it work somehow.”

“Somehow,” Grian agrees, and after a beat flies off. Impulse watches him go, the sky dark and star-specked, lit only by the rising moon. Not forgiveness, he reminds himself. He watches the empty sky for a moment after he’s gone, and then lets the mourning doves coo into the night like an accusation. 

So, you know, the moon falls. 

The moon falls, and they all flee, and then they are in the Void, floating, alone. Separate from every other thing. Everyone else is dead, and they too will probably die, lost in the infinite cosmos. Jellie’s there, at least, and she's their little comfort. 

Scar is talkative, to say the least. If no one’s talking, he begins to, filling up the awkward silence with meaningless chatter. He finally shows a hint of charity; he lets Grian, and then Pearl borrow his ridiculously big hat, and allows Mumbo and Impulse to pet Jellie. Sometimes, when he turns just the right way, Scar’s eyes glimmer like Skizz’s, or his voice slips into a tone that Skizz’d take, and the wound tears open further. Other than that, he’s probably the best sleeper. Maybe the only sleeper. Impulse watches him one night, turning into a Vex, the spacesuit shifting to fit his new form—or maybe both forms always had the spacesuit, and in the flash that accompanied a shift, it only seemed as if it changed to fit Scar himself. Whatever it was, Impulse allows Scar to settle in his arms, about as big as a Maine Coon, slumbering softly. Grian does not reach out to take Scar, though for a moment it seems like he will. His eyes, Impulse notices, are golden like a sunlit desert.

Mumbo is quiet, but not abnormally so. Just distant. He still wears the charms of the moon; the golden crescent with most of its paint chipped off, the silver orb with a pearlescent luster, the star crystal that gleams in the half-light of the Void, the sun pendant painted with iridescent gold. Sometimes, he takes the orb or the crescent, and he murmurs. Impulse doesn’t think anyone can hear him, not clearly, but he speaks, and he bows his head in prayer. It’s only once that Scar disrupts him, and Mumbo glances up, terror and fury alike burning in his eyes. It’s out-of-place, almost uncanny, and then he drops his head back and begins to whisper again, and Scar keeps his distance after that. Sometimes Mumbo stares out to the Void and mumbles old parables about moths and moons and stars. Sometimes Mumbo traces lines on Impulse’s chest, and the way he leans against Impulse is almost reminiscent of long nights with Skizz, except Mumbo has dark bags under his eyes and scars on his arms and clinking charms around his neck.

Pearl’s odd, to say the least. Her eyes, firstly, are wide and bright as the moon, and her hair glitters with starlight. But there are other things, too—the way she almost comes undone out of the corner of your eye, colors unraveling and spilling out into the chatoyant Void. The way her skin burns cold and colder, and the way she calls Scar’s touch burning hot and hotter. The way she gazes into the distance, speaking to an audience none of them are witness to, alternating between harsh and snapping and soft and apologetic. The way she flinches every so often, face contorting into pain for a split second before smoothing back over. The way that, when Impulse tries to talk to her, she says, quick and almost secretively, “I know who your partner is.” The way her eyes blaze with pale purple, and the way magic collects around her in orbs and flickers. The way that her smiles quirk like Skizz, except Skizz doesn’t have stars in his hair or moons in his eyes. The way she laughs whenever Impulse yearns, almost like she knows.

And then there's Grian. Grian, half hysterical at the end of everything, trying to keep everyone else in line. He conjures up card decks and dice out of thin air, and tries to cheer up morose Mumbo. Grian, a near murderer, allows Scar to ramble on about Star Wars or Disney or whatever's piqued his interest this time. Grian, a poisoner, wraps Pearl in his wings and allows her to undo herself, unspooling, coming back together. Impulse catches Grian staring at him, almost longingly, almost guiltily. Impulse pretends not to notice. Impulse watches back as he tries to care for Boatem, and does not think about burning soulfires. Grian is not forgiven, but Impulse does allow him to rope him into a game of Uno. Scar wins. Impulse has a feeling he was cheating. Grian is the only one untied to Skizz, but then again he tried to kill him. He does not forgive. He does not forget. He tries to get along.

Impulse is quiet. His thoughts echo out into the nothingness, and every single time his thoughts don't come back, he is reminded of the world, shattered into a thousand broken, burning fragments above them. Sometimes he thinks about Tango, flown up to a falling moon, never to return. Sometimes he thinks about Zedaph, adamant, staying inside his lab, staying in denial of their doom. Mostly he thinks about Skizz. They haven't reunited, not since Last Life’s chaos, and the wound is as tender and raw as Season Three’s, slowly intensifying, ripping more open day by day. He reaches out to the chasm, stands just on the edge of it, calls out for Skizz? Skizz, are you there? I’m trying. Can you hear me? Please answer. Please. He tries not to cry. The death of Hermitcraft weighs on his shoulders as though he were Atlas, bearing the burden of the Earth. He does not think about gravity's infidelity; the way it had betrayed them for the moon, dragging them down and letting them go without warning. 

As it is, nothing answers. Not the ever silent stars, not broken Boatem, not the ghosts. Impulse is utterly alone, and each star is solitary.

He can’t sleep, you know? He is called ever closer to the clawing tendrils of unconsciousness, and the Void laughs at him, throws up visions of Zedaph and Tango sneering, throws up visions of Skizz limp and lifeless. Impulse rubs his eyes and tries to stifle his yawns. It’s not like he can sleep, anyway; he is always spinning, slowly but surely, and laying his head back makes him spin in place. He grows weaker, less stubborn, and catches Pearl when she falls, allows Mumbo to lay his head against Impulse’s chest as a pillow. He watches for Void monsters, and tries not to fall asleep. He can’t. He sees Tango out of the corner of his eye, and reminds himself not to fall for it. His sight flickers. He trembles with exhaustion. He has to stay awake, or else Boatem will die.

So they are alone, and the Void taunts them, taints them. More than once Impulse has seen Voidstuff swirling up Mumbo’s arms, dark and glittering. Sometimes Scar cries out for Cub, eyes cyan and turning bluer, and then Grian taps him with his wing. Sometimes Pearl shifts and clicks and doesn't quite settle. As for Grian, his wings are lavender—in fact many things about him are lavender, from his eyes to the scars on his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, Grian has too many Eyes—Eyes in a halo around his head, darting around his arms, blinking on his knuckles and neck and wings,  lavender swirl of gazes, drawing him deeper, drawing him closer to total submission, allowing him to relax and give into the lavender and lavender seeps into him, purple and inviting, beautifully tiring. He chastises himself with a vicarious memory of the moonfall, fiery and terrible, debris raining down on him—or maybe he snaps himself out of it with Zedaph, lying that they will be okay, entombed in a laboratory by the sea.

Today—well, to be pedantic, there is no day. Days are determined by when the rest of them decide it's been too long to be just one, since you don't have to sleep in the Void; it keeps you just on the edge, awake enough to be coherent but tired enough to be susceptible. Today, in whatever sense of the word that is, is no different. Mumbo is sharply quiet. Scar is rattling off facts about Disney princesses. Pearl is deeply interested, or at least very good at feigning it. Grian stares nervously out into the darkness. Impulse drifts. 

He burns, is the thing. He’d forgotten the simple relief of not burning, of being whole and together, but now the wound is torn back open. It feels so much like Season Three; no answer, no answer, and when he reaches out he stumbles on empty space and the absence burns in his heart. His secondary has broken from orbit, and here he is, alone in space, a primary alone, the wound burning, everything burning. Like a match, you know? Like someone’s lit tinder in his chest, and it’s blazed out of control, and he can't tell anyone about it because otherwise Skizz will die, and Impulse’ll die alongside him. The fire licks up to his throat, so like fury it hurts. 

(He tires, is the thing. The Void keeps him awake but only barely, and his thoughts slip through his fingers like sand or maybe smoke. He yawns, and the rest of them yawn with him. He has to stay awake, is the thing. Because the other Hermits are gone, and if they show up in the Void somewhere, then Impulse’ll have to be awake to welcome them, and they can’t be gone, and he is alone, and he can’t be. The Void keeps him upright. He watches over the others as they drift, and tries not to drift himself. The weight of exhaustion pulls down on him, threatening him with the allure of sleep, and he tries not to succumb. He’s the responsible one of Boatem. He can’t rest. He yawns, and tries to ignore how every muscle feels like molasses, how each movement is half-hearted, how each blink is longer than it should be.)

So the burning goes on. Impulse keeps on reaching out and stumbling. He keeps stumbling. Scar says, long and drawling, “You know, I was pretty sure we would’ve reached another world by now. Any idea on why we didn’t?”

“Launching us into the Void was a stupid idea?” Mumbo suggests, twitching his tail.

“We should’ve brought rations and things to actually call people with,” Pearl says, coming undone at the seams. “Like flashlights. Or whistles. Or food, or water, or sleeping bags. All of which were not on the packing list.” She hesitates. “Also a card game that isn’t Uno.”

“Hey, at least we’ve got a card game,” Grian says, studying the cards he’d brought down for the ride. “If Scar’d had his way, we’d be stuck in this Void without anything to do other than talk, and that’s not the best thing in the world, not gonna lie!” 

“Yeah, no, I agree with Grian on this one,” Impulse interjects, pinching himself to stay awake. “There’s some secrets not meant to be told, is what I’m saying.” He yawns through the last bit of his words, and then rubs his eyes, shocks himself with the moonfall again. It’s getting less potent. Impulse cannot fall asleep.

“Well, what else’re we supposed to do?” Scar asks, crossing his arms. “Sit around waiting for Season Nine to get us in? Get eaten by the monsters of space? Play another round of Uno? Because I win all those. It gets boring, you know, playing with a bunch of incompetent players. We need to add house rules or something, like—”

“We’re not adding house rules, Scar, it’ll all be shit like ‘give two cards to Pearl every time she swears’ or ‘Scar’s deck goes to Uno if he’s able to, I dunno, do a backflip’,” Grian says. “And you’re not exactly subtle with your cheating.”

“We need, like, Mumbo to shuffle the deck before I trust us with Uno,” Pearl says. “Without any ‘corrective shuffling’ from Scar. Or Grian. You know how to shuffle a deck, don’t you?”

Impulse winces as another wave of pain rushes over him, fierce and undaunted, and leaves drowsiness in its wake. Pearl is the only one to notice, eyes luminescent in the dark, fraying at the edges. Her eyes are a little like Skizz’s, almost the same shade of blue—sky-blue, except hers are darker, like the sky at the precipice of night. And, come to think of it, in the Void Grian’s lavender wings almost shine white, and Scar’s skin is dappled in the half-light of the Void like Skizz’s scarred arms, and Mumbo looks back for a moment and he’s got the right nose shape, his eyes are the right shape, and Impulse reaches out and burns. And Skizz is not there. Between blinks, Impulse can see dreams of him, but Skizz is not there.

“You know,” Pearl says, breaking the silence, “all these specks around us are really just mini worlds. Every single speck belongs to a player. Or it could be an SMP, or a city-server, or a game-server… they’re all just different worlds. And the Universe said, I shall harbor the Players, and the Void shall harbor their creations.” She hesitates a moment, and then says, “Theoretically, that means—with me and Griba’s Watcher powers, of course—we could take refuge in one until Hermitcraft started back up—”

“But we don’t know where we’ll end up,” Grian points out. “So we could end up in, say, 2b2t, or, I dunno, Hypixel. We might be swarmed, or kicked out, or killed…”

“We’re Watchers, Gri,” Pearl says. “They can’t kill us.”

“Well, they can certainly kill the other three we’re with at the moment!” Grian snaps. “Like Mumbs, or Impulse, or Scar. They’re all mortal, Pearl! We might survive, but not with them! Besides! We might end up in a Watched server, and then what then? We’re on the run, Pearl! We’d be taken and broken in and they’d still be dead! So we can’t just theoretically hop into any world we want! Worst case scenario, we’re fuckin’ dead!” Impulse watches Grian draw his wings around himself, eerily like Skizz does when he’s cold. “I don’t—Pearl, you don’t understand—”

“I do, very well,” Pearl says, eyes narrow. “I didn’t… see, I’m used to—”

“To being a registered Watcher,” Grian finishes. “But we’re not, Pearl. We’re targets. Foes. Enemies of importance. If they see us, we’ll be brainwashed, tortured, put to work studying, and absorbed by the Highest One, in varying order. So no, we can’t just show up on any server we’d like unattended. We’re lucky we haven’t been found yet!”

“Oh,” says Pearl shortly, hugging Jellie tighter. “Oh.”

They are all very quiet, even chatty Scar. The burning grows brighter, fed by despair. Impulse tries not to crumple under its weight, or the weight of exhaustion, because he is Boatem’s steady rock and he will not allow himself to fall, not while Boatem still needs him. Mumbo swims over to Pearl, and wordlessly they begin to pet Jellie together. She’s probably the only happy one here, purring, purring. Grian hesitates, and then he too moves over to extend a wing behind their backs. Eyes blink on the primaries, somewhat startled. Scar slips into the groove of Grian’s other wing, and Grian draws Scar into a one-winged hug. It is only Impulse, now, floating alone, floating separate, shivering with tenseness and fire. 

Pearl outstretches a hand, and after a hanging moment, Impulse takes it. “So we’re gonna die, then,” he says, a statement of fact, alone in the dreamy dark.

“Most likely,” Grian replies. “Or, well. Like I said. You’ll be killed, we’ll be eternally tortured. Same difference.”

They lapse into silence, and stay holding each other for a long time. The worlds float and shimmer like motes of dust. The Void is lonely, and so they are lonely, because Players were never meant to know this part of the universe. Minutes or hours or days pass by, and Impulse keeps on reaching out from the steady link, and Skizz is absent and it feels like a black hole in his chest, sucking up every thought he has—his thoughts fall into inside jokes and little fond insults, and no one is there to hear them. The silence weighs on his chest. He almost falls asleep. He shocks himself awake with the memory of the moonfall. It’s not enough. He’s not enough. He hadn’t stopped Tango from dying, had he? Or Zed—or Bdubs—or anyone else, really, because they’re probably dead and everyone’s probably dead and Impulse himself is probably dead and Jellie purrs and purrs and purrs like forgiveness. She’s dead. He’s dead. They’re all dead. There’s nothing left to save them.

At some point, something shifts.

At first, he can’t tell what. The light in the Void, maybe, dimming and brightening like a mockery of the day-night cycle. Or perhaps one of them’s moved, twitched a wing or changed grip. Maybe there’s something else on the horizon, some new world, a way out of the unknowable bedrock, or maybe there’s a monster, slowly advancing, mouth gaping with amorphous teeth. Or maybe sleep is finally catching up to him.

Something stirs in the back of his head, something soft, something warm. Something familiar. Pearl still holds him, but he ignores the burning sureness, the way he knows nothing is beyond him, he is alone he is alone the Void demands he be alone—and he closes his eyes and reaches out.

Ever so faintly, something tries to reach back.

Skizz.

Impulse jolts, and the movement ripples across the congregation of Hermits. Grian stares at him with wide lavender eyes, and tilts his head, much like a confused puppy. Pearl squeezes Impulse’s hand. Jellie herself untangles from Mumbo’s frantic petting and moves to gaze at him curiously. Again Impulse reaches out, but there’s nothing coherent, not yet. Just a thread, enough for him to tug at. Mocking, almost. Somewhere distant, Zedaph and Tango are laughing at him, cruel, utterly enamored. Dead. Dead, dead, dead. The Void turns into blood, and he watches with detached interest, Zedaph and Tango laughing laughing laughing somewhere far away.

“Impulse,” Pearl says, and the Void is back to Voidiness. “You good?”

  He reaches out, tries to grab, tries to open the connection. It slips just out of reach, furtive, taunting. You thought you could see Skizz, it says. You thought he was here, knowing you, loving you. You idiot. The Void has decreed you are alone, and yet. And yet there is something lingering at the edge of his mind, something familiar, something blue. Something Skizzle-like.

Impulse blinks open his eyes, and it is then that he notices a certain speck, somewhat green in the colorlessness of the Void, drifting around him. It begins orbit, just like a secondary star around a primary star. The burning lessens, if only slightly. Impulse reaches out to the speck, cups it in his hands. It doesn't float away. It hums a little, and when Impulse leans in close to peer at it, the stirring grows stronger, and, oh. Each speck is a world. And this one might be his.

“Pearl,” Impulse says, quiet, tentative. “You said we could get into any of these worlds if we wanted, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Pearl glances at him inquisitively, and then at the speck in his hands. “Impulse. Impulse have you randomly picked out a speck and decided we’re gonna join it?”

“No!” Impulse says. “No, I… well. Grian, Grian can vouch for me, right? Grian, you trust me, right? I have a special connection to this world.” He stares at Grian meaningfully.

“I don’t,” Grian says without looking at him. “Impulse, I’m not about to start throwing us into different worlds just because you decided a speck of dust looked pretty or something.”

“A special connection,” Impulse enunciates.

Grian glances up to look at him. “Oh,” he says, realization dawning in his eyes. “Oh. Oh, yeah, no, we can, we can certainly do that. That’s a different case.”

Pearl’s gaze flicks between Impulse and Grian skeptically. “What’s going on,” she says. “What’s this special connection, hm? Why aren’t I allowed to know about it?”

“Did Impulse also steal some of your soul?” Mumbo asks. 

“Sure,” Grian answers nonchalantly. “Pearl, you have to drag us in, I’m not sure I can do it—”

“Because you dropped out and haven’t been doing Watcher things for four years, right,” Pearl says, moving over to—well, she isn’t stealing Skizz, but something flares up in Impulse as she takes the speck and cups it between her own hands. It floats, placid, reassuring. Impulse does not take his eyes off it. “You know,” Pearl continues, “I’m not really sure I trust you? A special connection isn’t a lot to go off of.”

“Pearl, I need you to trust me,” Grian says. “Otherwise we’re stuck in the Void forever.”

For a moment, Pearl hesitates, breathing slow and near-silent. Then she says, “Alright. Impulse, Gri, grab onto my arms. Mumbo, Scar, grab onto Imp’s and Gri’s. If we get killed, we’re killing Impulse first.”

“This feels unfair,” Impulse comments.

“Well, you were the one who got us into the non-existent mess, so you’ll be the first sacrifice!” Pearl explains. 

Nonetheless, Impulse holds out an arm and grabs onto Pearl’s. Mumbo clings onto Grian, and Scar clutches Impulse’s outstretched hand like a lifeboat. Pearl’s face calms, and for a moment she is eerily still. Something shift-clicks-brightens, and then suddenly there’s flashes of pale purple spilling from her hands, shimmering in her hair, backlighting the speck and casting it in green the color of Impulse’s eyes. She opens her eyes a crack, and her pupils are that same brilliant purple, bright and piercing. Eyes pop up all around her, near white in the black of the Void, blinking, focusing on the speck, focusing on Skizz. 

“ꖎᒷℸ ̣  ⚍ᓭ ╎リ,” she commands, and her voice is distorted, layered, echoing, as though a thousand versions of her are saying it. The words themselves burn, add to the burning in his chest. Mumbo hisses a curse in Mwrrparr. Scar’s grip tightens. Impulse is too used to the burning to react, and Grian is a Watcher himself. The speck is enveloped in pale purple light, and then it goes farther, and it dapples onto Impulse’s shirt and he—and he—and the thing about the light is that it does not burn, but it does freeze. Chilling cold to the bone. Everything is encased in that swallowing light, and he shudders under the weight of it, and—

And—

The Void lets go. The Universe shifts, and twists, and accepts them five into Impulse’s private world. Everything is unbearably cold, as though he were wet in a blizzard, almost enough to chase away the burning but not quite. But not quite, because it adds to the cacophony of pain tearing him apart, splintering at the center, being dragged into a world by a Watcher’s magic and it feels so much like respawning in Season Eight, like waking up with all the bite of unhealed scars—they never healed, not with respawn, only somewhat with healing, so you didn’t go into death loops or dangerous caves, you stayed put on the surface because it feels like being ripped apart by the Void, like your very code is coming undone—that’s what it feels like, that’s what it is, the same terrifying half-consciousness in order to witness your own permadeath at the hands of respawn because Hermitcraft is dead and the Hermits are only barely clinging on and no one is answering, no one is—

The light dims, and he sucks in a breath as he comes back into creation. Blazing fire and freezing ice clash in a climax, and he twitches in agony as pain rakes through him, vicious, apathetic. The others breathe again near him, out of the corner of his eye Mumbo is shivering, and Pearl opens her mouth to announce something and—

He is falling—

He is falling, there is nothing beneath his feet, he is alone and he is wrong and he is alone and Mumbo is screaming and Scar is screaming and Pearl is screaming and Impulse thinks he’s screaming but he cannot be sure and the air whistles around them, the wind tearing through their skin, clawing them apart, their code is coming undone Impulse is coming undone he is falling he is falling there is no one to catch him Skizz is dead and Tango is dead and Zedaph is dead and everyone is dead and he was wrong he was wrong and Grian grabs Scar and shouts something and Impulse cannot hear and he is cold, so cold, so cold it burns and he is freezing he is going to turn to ice before he hits the ground and then he will shatter or maybe he’ll fall in a river and drown or maybe in a lava lake or maybe he will never reach the ground, maybe they are forever falling, maybe they will be stuck here as they were stuck in the Void except there they were held aloft by magic and here they are forever falling forever freezing forever dying and he is reaching out for anything, any sort of solace, any sort, anyone who can hear him he is dying he is freezing and—and—and—

Something catches him and says-not-says, Dippledop?

Impulse shivers, and Impulse falls, and Impulse can only barely hear it—and then the surge of fear-loyalty-horror comes, and Impulse is plummeting toward the ground and Skizz is there albeit faint and he clings tight to him, to the notion of him, to the way Skizz is there and present and solid and there and the freezing is almost ignorable compared to the way Skizz keeps him anchored, out of the sweeping riptide of anxiety, the way Skizz keeps the word Dippledop hung in both of their minds, and Impulse clings to the fondness the nickname holds. The clouds come into view, distant, wispy, cirrus. He is still falling. This time, he is falling toward Skizz, instead of away. This time, Skizz is getting closer, and the ground is getting closer, and Impulse isn’t sure he’ll survive this like he did Hermitcraft because the clouds are getting closer and the clouds pass him and he can see the ground, a green blur, and he can see Mumbo hurtling toward the ground and Pearl flailing her arms and Skizz is there in his head, asking, Can you see our base? and Impulse tries to look for it, answers Not yet, hopes it’s within range, and Skizz says he’ll see if he can’t find them and he runs a command to see their coords and—

You’re, like, way out, near the border, dude, he tells Impulse; then, I’m heading to spawn, meet me there.

Pure panic flashes through his thoughts—memories of being nearly torn apart, memories of fraying code, memories of gasping awake, memories of being dragged into painful respawn, memories of falling into a hole to the Void, memories of the Void, memories of the Void’s frozen chill, memories of how it felt like the hang of respawn, how it felt like the moment between death and waking, how it felt like your code undoing, redoing, mending itself, reviving, restarting, memories of red lives and bloody deaths and the way it almost felt like permadeath and the way he’d woken up once and been fused and this burns like the fusion this burns like his code swallowing Skizz’s will that happen in reverse will Impulse slip under Skizz and be gone will he respawn at all will he die is he too weak will this world harbor him—

He can see the trees, he can see the ground, he cannot see water there has to be water there is the familiar anxiety closing in around his throat he is going to die he is going to die he is going to die he has to be saved he will fragment and they will fragment and Hermitcraft will be dead and Hermitcraft is dead and he is dead and his code will fray and fracture like Skizz’s fusion like being cleaved he can’t be cleaved he can’t leave Skizz he has no choice the ground closes in and he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he is going to die he is going to die he is going to die Pearl hits the ground Mumbo hits the ground Scar is screaming Grian is screaming Impulse is screaming he is Icarus and he hits and hits and hits and he hits the ground and

And—

He… wakes up?

His eyes snap open. He gasps awake, grass dewy beneath him, sky brilliant above him. It’s like silk, is the thing. For a moment there is nothing and he is nothing and then he gasps and he is something and the world is something and Skizz is in his head and he is alive, that death had not been real, he is alive and he is alive and Mumbo and Pearl respawn next to him. 

There is a moment of silence from Boatem. Skizz’s thoughts are a comforting drone, mundane, simple now where is that and there it is and but would they need this? Mumbo is silent. Pearl is silent. Impulse is nearly silent, save for his gasps.

The moon hangs high in the sky above them.

There’s a flicker of pink in the corner of his eye, and Impulse whips around, sees pink eyes gazing from the woods. He stands. He’s shaking, and his head throbs, and he’s no longer burning but he doesn’t really care. The moon hangs high in the sky above them, and for the flash of a second it has pale skin and scarlet eyes and sharp fangs and Impulse blinks.  The sky looks a little like blood. Zedaph watches from the forest, undisturbed, silent. His head pounds. He tries to reason his way out of this, but every thought slips out of his grasp before he can properly process them.

Pearl and Mumbo are talking. He can’t tell what, exactly. Mumbo’s rubbing the golden crescent charm and murmuring, words lost in the fog of his thoughts and the sounds of the night. Pearl’s trying to be sharper, but she isn’t any more clear. Impulse tries to focus on her, and then the thought flickers from his mind, replaced by Zedaph’s and Tango’s laughter, drilling through his head. Shadows twist and dance in the edges of his vision, only to lie low when he turns to face them head on. The forest beyond tangles and taunts, moonlight falling in dapples across the leaf-littered floor. Pink eyes. His head pounds. His eyelids weigh. He snaps himself awake.

Come here, he can almost hear, Zed’s voice, teasing, whispery. I’m right in the forest. Come on. Coward. Laughter, light and mocking, and Tango’s too. They’re here, Impulse thinks, the first sharp thought he’s had in a while, and he turns to the forest, to Zedaph, to Tango. Pearl and Mumbo aren’t looking at him. Zedaph is. Zedaph is clear and direct and his eyes glow in the soft forest.

Between blinks, darkness crashes in, and he digs his claws into his arm—he can’t fall asleep, he can’t fall asleep, he can’t fall asleep he has a duty and vague protectiveness snaps through him. Zedaph is laughing. Impulse yawns. Impulse stumbles. Suddenly there’s a rock in front of him, and he trips and falls and it’s hard to pick himself back up again. He has to. (But the ground is soft and cool, flecked with dew and cushioned with grass, and besides the chatter is almost lulling and besides he can barely stand back up and—) He steps away from the soft grass, ears flat and twitching. Of course a little helpless kitty would try to abandon his friends for a nap! Tango scorns. Of course he’d escape through a hole in the code and then make off with his life and not even think about his friends.

Impulse shakes the dew off his fur, and then begins to wander toward the forest, slow, meandering, away from the patted-dirt path. There’s only one thing in the world, and it is Zedaph’s eyes. Everything is laughing. The rocks grow faces to leer at him, and the flowers bounce and bob like they’re mocking his movement. For a moment there’s silence; then sharp stingers stab into his skin, waking him up, legs crawling under his shirt. Impulse yawns, bites back the yelp of pain, head pounds. Zedaph laughs. The trees talk through the wind, slow and sauntering, likewise taunting. Everything is laughing at him. You could’ve stopped the moonfall. You could’ve! But you chose to stay awake and leave your friends behind and now everyone is dead, you murderer! Can’t you feel it? Dew on his paws. Blood on his paws. Brambles scratch against his fur, sharp as punishment. I’m dead, says Tango, laughing laughing laughing. I’m dead! Isn’t it fun? He steps on a twig. The world does not quiet. The world roars in laughter at his misstep, but aren’t you a catsfolk? Catsfolk are well known for being sneaky. Idiot. Coward. Clumsy. 

Zedaph blinks, and then his eyes are further ahead, glinting off the surface of a tree. Ghostly wisps. Impulse can barely drag himself further, bleeding, clinging to tree bark just to stand. Fire burns at his legs and head, raging, laughing crackling laughing. Zedaph is laughing too, harsh and cruel. Season Eight had burned too. Season Eight has crashed and crumbled and collapsed and Impulse still bears that memory. He slips, gets back up, yawns. The world spins around him, and he fumbles for a tree to hold him. 

Come and find us, murmurs Tango. Coward. You’ve got to come save us. We’re dying, dipple-dop. We’re all dying, and you’re not saving us. Please help. We’re out here. We’re nearby. All you’ve got to do is save us.

Impulse closes his eyes, ignores how easily thoughts float away, blinks furiously to keep his eyes open. Yawns. It’s like moving through honey. He rests against a tree, and for a moment he almost drifts off, and then he digs his claws back into his arm and continues ever forward. Zedaph and Tango giggle as he stumbles, and Zedaph’s eyes watch from the depths beyond, flashes of pink in the dark.

Impulse glances up above, to the moon watching them carefully. Two scarlet eyes mar its silver surface. He shivers. He burns. Everything is too bright, and all he wants is—is—is—he steps into a patch of moonlight, ambles on, twigs crunching under his paws. He can’t rest. Zedaph is smiling somewhere, eyes smiling somewhere beyond. A mourning dove calls, soft, barely audible. It’s too bright, too cold, too sharp. He jerks. He drifts. Zedaph and Tango are absolutely thrilled, cackling from wherever they are—at his sides, or on his back, or right in front of him. The trees lean in close to laugh at him. Bones crunch under his feet, and he thinks of Gem, hazy, distant, dead. Her antlers. He’s stepping on her antlers. He glances down. There is blood on his shoes, and it’ll never come off. 

Impulse glances up, and catches a glimpse of fire, burning gold. He remembers—

(The end of days was cloaked in fire and ash and smoke. The blocks had come down, and at some point the wildfire had started, and then the rain never came to douse it. Impulse was safe in his factory, of course, and the others hid up in their high mountains. The Boatem Hole had been surrounded by flames, licking greedily up the Boatem Pole, eating away at the boats. Devouring the ground, devouring Boatem Town. The Comms had stopped working properly around that time. Messages wouldn’t go through, and the profiles started to glitch. Some of them would show Ancient Galactic instead of names, or the default icon instead of the actual profile picture, or glitch-color instead of pronouns. The mountains were burning, and Hermitcraft was burning, and then one day Tango’s profile showed a 404 error instead of his profile.)

(Zedaph hadn’t even left. He’d dismissed the moon as nothing but ghost stories, and he’d died in his laboratory doing what he loved—mischief. Impulse hears them both again. They never died. Their profiles show a 404 error. They never died.)

Look, Impy, Zedaph says. The fire. We died in the fire. Go there. Go into the dark. Into the fire. Into the wildfire. We’re there. 

There are scarlet eyes in the fire. There are pink eyes in the fire. Impulse is breathing heavy, and he can’t rest, he has to honor them he has to get to them he can’t sleep he can’t he can’t he can’t and he runs forward to the fire to meet Zedaph and Tango and—

Nothing. His step crunches, and he glances down to see bark, dark and rough, and twigs and a few rocks. Owls hoot and huff. There is no fire. Zedaph and Tango are dead. He twitches and drifts off again and claws back to wakefulness. If he sleeps, they’ll die. He’s the steady rock. Where Grian’s the manager, and Pearl’s the newbie, and Scar’s the salesman, and Mumbo’s the smart one, Impulse is the steady one. The one people feel comfortable around. He can’t betray that. He’s betrayed them. Everyone is dead, and he is alive because of a fluke. The fire isn’t here. He needs the fire. Zedaph’s in the fire. Where’s the fire?

April fool’s! Tango cackles. Look down, idiot.

And Impulse looks down.

Tango’s body lies curled up, fetal position, tight together. His hair doesn’t flash with flames. His eyes are fluttered shut, and his skin is rough, cold to the touch. His tail is limp and flameless. Blood trickles out of wounds on his arms, legs, shoulders, back. Impulse is standing on his neck. He steps back and is still standing on Tango’s neck. Zedaph’s eyes flash in the forest. He is alone. He is alone. He yawns, feels sleep tug at him, withstands. Crunch of footsteps behind. He falls to his knees, weeping, exhausted. He failed. He betrayed Tango. He’s alone. He’s alone. He’s alone.

You killed me, Tango says, utterly unlike himself. Feels nice, doesn’t it? Murderer. Zedaph chimes in, There should’ve been a fire. You killed him. Why not die yourself? The moon is laughing. Shadows laugh. Everything is laughing. Everything is too bright, too real, creeping up and down his arms. Darkness reaches out tendrils to tug him down into sleep, and he twitches, shocking himself over and over again with the moonfall, the moonfall, the dread doesn’t come as easily, the anxiety isn’t keeping him awake, he has to stay awake he has to stay awake Tango is dead they are all dead he is dead isn’t he? The world plays out without him. He stands. He trembles. He has to stay awake. He has to grieve them. The bark crunches under his feet like bones and the woods crunch with footsteps and the moon hangs heavy in the sky. Every blink stays longer. Impulse is so tired.

Something taps at his mind, and he flinches, ears stiffening. Tango and Zedaph are laughing again. His ears are ringing. The world is hazy. He’s drifting. He digs his claws into his arm. Blood trickles out. Blood splashes onto the ground. Everything is too bright. He blinks to chase away sleep. They are dead. There is no fire. He is alone, save for the stars, save for the moon. He… blinks, shivers… he… yawns. He isn’t giving in. He’s strong! He’s steady and strong and infallible and he… he is alone. He is dead. The moon killed him. He’s… he’s… he’s…

He’s yawning, which is bad, and Tango and Zedaph are…

The world weaves, unweaves, and he stumbles, falls, lays, and gets back up with a shock and he…

“Impulse,” says something.

Impulse jolts, whips around to see some sort of oily creature advancing on him. Its arms are tentacles, black and slimy, and it wears ripped up clothing. Tendrils flutter behind its back, gleaming in the moonlight. There are pores all over his body, brilliant against the slick dark, and ink drips from its hair onto the grass. It approaches, limping forward, mouth gaping. “Impulse,” it says, and it wears Skizzleman’s voice like a disguise. Liquid drips off its skin, and it moves unnaturally, shambling forward on liquid legs. “Impulse,” it says again, soft, eyes—or what could be called its eyes—blue and soft. “Impulse, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Monster, mutters Tango and Zedaph together. Zedaph pipes up, Probably the same one that killed me!

“Impulse, stop that,” says the monster. “I’m not… I’m not a monster. I’m Skizz. You know me, don’t you?”

Liar, grumbles Tango. Shapes and colors unmake themselves around them too. Impulse’s hands are stained with blood. The monster walks forward, and it takes a few seconds for Impulse to catch up. His hands shake. Everything shakes. His vision shakes. He blinks to keep from drifting off.

“Impulse, you’re hallucinating,” says the monster. “You’re exhausted, I can tell.”

“I…” Impulse trails off, and then coughs. His head pounds. Words don’t slot together just right, jaggedly rubbing up against each other. “Don’t need sleep. Fine. Good.” He waves his hand dismissively and nearly stumbles. “You. Monster.” His tongue catches on the sharp consonants and slurs words together. 

“Impulse, you need to—” amd here something taps against Impulse’s brain again, and this time he falters, and for a moment he is warm and everything is dark and Skizz is there with him and he blinks and Skizz is nowhere and the monster is staring him in the eye. “Impulse,” says the monster again. “We’re going home.”

“Tango’s dead.” Impulse sinks to the ground. The monster sinks with him, never taking its eyes off him. “Tango’s dead and so is Zed,” he repeats. The monster lays a hand on his own. “I can’t go to sleep. I can’t… I need to… I need…” The rest of the sentence is gone. Impulse trails off and tries to shock himself back into waking up and—

Between blinks, Skizz is there instead of the monster. He slides a wing under Impulse’s head—soft, cushiony, pillow-like, soft—and lifts his head up. “You need to go to sleep,” Skizz says. “You’re exhausted. I can’t even telepathize with you safely, that’s how bad it is. And now you’re hallucinating…” He doesn’t finish. He holds Impulse up, and Impulse wants to sleep but he can’t! But he can’t. But he can’t, because everyone is dead and he needs to… shadows dance in the forest, and Zedaph and Tango are cackling, and blood ripples on Impulse’s skin and fur and the forest is awash with blood and the sky is awash with blood and fire fire burning under his head lighting him up and he…

“No, Impy,” Skizz says, and Impulse is guided up to standing with the wing. He’s ankle-deep in blood. Skizz is bleeding. Skizz is grinning. Skizz’s wings are coated in blood. Fire rages around them. Zedaph says, You were never meant to live. We died! We died and and then their words dissolve into static and smoke. The world waves. He blinks his eyes closed, and—

A minute later, he startles. They’re somewhere a little farther, and Skizz is practically dragging him into the woods with the shadow creatures, with the shadow monsters, blood and fire and Skizz says, “Impy, shh, we’re less than a hundred blocks out and I’ve got Peaceful enabled right now, okay? We’ve just got to hold out.” Impulse stumbles forward, and Skizz holds him close. Shadows leer at them, laughing harshly, voices like rocks scraping against each other. He drowns in darkness. Zedaph and Tango are laughing laughing laughing and blood pours from the stars and Skizz says, “No, no, you’re… Impulse.” 

A tap against his brain, and this time Impulse stumbles and trips. Skizz pulls him back up. “Dippledop, can you shapeshift, or does that need more energy?”

Impulse stares at Skizz blankly. His face is half covered in crimson blood. Everything needs more energy, he wants to say. He leans against Skizz’s wing, and Skizz holds him steady, looking around for threats. Shadows ooze and mutter, and Tango’s eyes glint in dappled leaf shadows. Skizz protects him. For a moment there’s only blood, and Impulse buries his face in Skizz’s wing. Zedaph’s accusations aren’t enough to be drowned out, but when Zed gets too loud or too sharp, Skizz begins to hum. Impulse relies on Skizz. Skizz does not let go. Impulse clings on tight to Skizz, and Skizz does not let go, not even as blood pours down Impulse’s back, not even as the woods light up with firelight, not even as Zedaph’s words bite deeper and deeper. 

They make their way through the shadows. Impulse’s steps disturb the souls lying dormant under the leaves. Skizz’s wings are soft. Impulse blinks furiously, and sometimes time skips and stutters and then he’s somewhere else, farther toward… and all his thoughts vanish, and all that there is in the world is Skizz and Impulse and the ghosts, walking toward oblivion. Walking toward Skizz’s destination. The woods get sparser, and the moonlight breaks through the canopy to spill onto the ground, and sometimes they walk in those patches and Impulse cannot help but think of Mumbo, dark circles around his eyes, gold charms clinking on a chain. Cannot help but think of Pearl, stars gleaming in her eyes, coming loose at the edges, blending into the chatoyant Void. Cannot help but think of Grian, Eyes drifting around his head, holding the power of the stars in his hands, holding their stars in his hands. Impulse clutches Skizz’s hand. He is burning up. He is shivering. 

Finally they reach the end of the forest. The shadows swirl at their feet, and Impulse leans forward into Skizz’s wing. Skizz says, soft, “Alright, see right ahead? We’re so close.” Right ahead: a quaint house, windows dark—no, bloodstained and red—no, it’s inhabited by ghosts and ghouls and spirits, and Zedaph and Tango are bloody and standing on the porch, grinning, eyes flashing—blood laps at the steps and pools around their ankles, and Impulse’s head pounds, and Skizz leads him to—

“Skizz,” Impulse says, and the words are more of a sigh than spoken. “Don’t…”

“Close your eyes,” Skizz tells him. “We aren’t turning back.”

“Zed’s…”

“He’s not going to hurt you. I’ll protect you.”

Impulse focuses on Zed. If you sleep, he threatens, gaze sharp and piercing. I will not let you rest until we’ve been properly avenged. And if he closes his eyes—it’s a slippery slope, and if he closes his eyes he will no doubt nod off, and he will have betrayed Tango and Zedaph and Bdubs and Gem and everyone else and they are dead and he has to grieve them and—

“Impy,” Skizz says. “Impy, I need us to move. You either close your eyes or go in there with me. Alright?”

It hurts to stand. Impulse steps forward. Skizz shepherds him into the house. The lights are off. Faces peer at him from every angle. Skizz leads him up the stairs. Impulse sees Mumbo and Pearl and Grian and Scar are asleep. Skizz leads him over to their bed, and sits him down. It’s soft. The blankets are soft, and the room is flickering before his eyes, and Skizz’s wing is still around him.

“Can’t,” Impulse mumbles, rubbing his eyes, yawning, trying to stay tense. Traitor. He has to stay awake, keep them safe, stay steady, honor the dead, has to stay awake, has to stay up, because they will not because they cannot he is the one who has to…

Skizz says, “C’mon. Stop being so stubborn. You look like you’re about to pass out.” And then he hugs Impulse.

He doesn’t even have the energy to be surprised. Skizz has always been good at giving hugs—only outperformed by Zedaph—and Impulse is… well, he sinks into the embrace, and Skizz does not let go, and their hearts beat next to each other, and it is dark and Skizz is warm and familiar and soft and they are brothers and they are partners and Impulse is… Impulse is… a wave of warmth floods through his brain, sent by Skizz, and he melts into Skizz’s arms, into that warmth, he is so cold he is so cold he is so cold and Skizz does not judge, Skizz holds him close as Impulse…

(Skizz brushes away Tango and Zedaph, and holds Impulse close to his chest, holds his primary close to his chest.)

Impulse drifts off.

Days pass. Impulse wakes, slowly and blearily, exhaustion tight and thick on his chest. Every time he wakes up, Skizz makes sure he doesn’t go traipsing back into the forest again. The shadows stop wearing names and voices. The shadows stop laughing like Zedaph and Tango. Sleep carries him off easily, and slowly the connection eases open. Slowly Skizz’s thoughts trickle into Impulse’s, and the first time they swirl together it is dark, everyone is still asleep, and Impulse is still recovering. The magnitude of Skizz’s love is still delightfully surprising, even after everything. They swirl together, and they both say aloud, using the same voice, same inflections, using each other’s tongue to speak: “Love you.”

The first sign something is right is this: Zedaph comes back.

Impulse is still bedbound, but Skizz goes out for a walk and comes back with delight-relief-excitement rolling off him in waves and Zedaph, barely even scratched, walking in alongside. For a moment, Zed’s face is bloody and torn and grinning, and then he’s normal again and real again and sitting on Impulse’s bed and talking in that semi-serious voice he saves for all but the most solemn of situations. Skizz tells him about the hallucinations, about the sleeplessness, and then Zedaph comes in for the next few nights, talking to Impulse about his plans for Season Nine.

(“Why do you think there’ll be one?” Impulse manages one night as Zedaph is animatedly rambling about a jumpsuit that a Whisp had made him. “Another Season Nine?”

Zedaph squints at him, for a moment jolted out of his thoughts. His eyes glitter pink as he replies carefully, “I mean, there’s not much else to do than that, now is there? Hope they’ll all come back. I mean, worst comes to worst, we’ve got six out of twenty-something, we can add Skizz, we can rebuild. But I don’t think they’re dead, believe it or not. I mean, we’re pretty powerful than most people, y’know? Whisp following and all that jazz?” Zedaph sits down on the bed, taps his hoof against the floor. “And, you know. I made a promise, that Third Life night. Hermit Skizz, weird contraptions, getting better. And I keep my promises, I’ll have you know. If you can survive all this, then I wouldn’t worry. I think it’ll all be fine.”

Impulse’s ears twitch. “Thanks for that, I… you know how my anxiety…”

“And all that redstone you eat,” Zedaph teases, and then he chuckles at his own joke. Impulse smiles.)

The second sign something is right is this: the Hermits start showing up.

In pairs and trios and alone, they come back. Gem and a redhead who Impulse never gets the name of swoop in on an Ender Dragon, and Gem sheepishly waves away compliments on her wizard hat. Iskall and Stress show up one day, apparently through a Vault portal. Doc and Ren break in through the world border, and a few hours later Joe flies in through the hole they left behind. Cleo wakes up in a red bed that definitely wasn’t there before. 

Skizz and a few of the builders make a new house for the Hermits to sleep in, and then a communal campfire. Xisuma spawns in and immediately gets to work figuring out which Hermits they’ve still got left to find and which Hermits are already accounted for. Impulse attends the first meeting, taking notes as he always does, and no one comments or even notices the way Impulse is quick to answer for Skizz’s opinions, or the way Skizz finishes Impulse’s sentences. It’s comfortable. 

(“Am I a burden?” Impulse asks one night. It’s only Zed and Imp in this building now. Distantly he can hear Cleo and Ren chatting up a storm. It fills up the night, chases away stifling silence. The shadows are just shadows. Zedaph does not laugh in his head. In fact, Zed’s writing in a notebook, occasionally humming to himself or muttering. 

There’s sharp alarm-fear-negative, “No,” Skizz says, “never.” He takes Impulse’s hands, squeezes it between his own. Skizz switches to telepathy: why would you think that? And then, lingering under the surface: I’m too stifling I’m selfish I’m sorry I don’t want to leave you I can’t leave you—

Impulse taps away that train of thought and thinks, It’s not you. Relief and fear from Skizz, and then they overlap:

Never a burden never a burden you are my primary why would you even think that—

You take care of me and I don't even give you anything in return I just keep getting into trouble—

They both pause. Skizz allows Impulse to go first, and he tells Skizz, I was the one who went to Hermitcraft, I was the one who made friends with Grian, I was the one who got us nearly cleaved and then fused. I keep on making mistake after mistake after mistake and you keep on taking care of me. You keep on comforting me and I keep absolutely disrespecting that and dragging us into danger and—

Skizz brushes that train of thought away. But you're happy, he says. That's all the payment I need. You're not a burden. We're binaries, and you happen to be the one who's doing actual things—you’re a Hermit! An actual Hermit! My best friend is a Hermit and I’m a nobody who works full-time and hasn't got a single redstone innovation to his name and I just stay at home and wait for you to come back so I can actually do things and if anyone's not a burden it's you, and I—

Impulse nudges Skizz. But you're always so kind and comforting even when I don't deserve it at all. Like, you kept me company even though I was literally hallucinating. I neglected both our healths because of a big moon and then you just forgave me. Or, or I got us both into a death game and then into fusion and when we come back you still love me. Or I get cleaved and you heal me up, and then when I forget you don't even get mad. Or I get possessed by a mushroom and you go onto an infected server just to save me.

I still don't remember that, Skizz reminds him. But. I can't really blame you for that. Any of it. You're happy, and that's the only thing I need. I know you love them. I can't be angry at you for that. Not ever. He hesitates, and then, I just want to keep you safe. To lose your partner would be to lose yourself. I can't lose you. The same wave of horror flashes through them both, strangely nostalgic, still terrifying. 

Thanks, secondary, Impulse says. The stars gleam outside. Cleo and Ren have quieted, or maybe gone to sleep. Zedaph's put away his notebook, and the room is quiet save for Skizz’s ticking thoughts and all their breaths. Skizz replies, Love you. Impulse does not respond in words, but the tangle of concept itself is enough to convey the same thing.)

The third sign something is right is this: Tango comes back. 

It’s an immediate pulse of disbelief-delight-eagerness, and then Skizz is running back to the campfire with a badly burned and bald Tango, but he is still alive, but he is still alive, but he is still alive.

They heal him. Zedaph knows a little too much about how to heal blazeborns, and Skizz is more than happy to supply potion ingredients. The burns scar, but no longer bleed. His hair flickers back, first real fire, and then his temperature stabilizes and it changes back to fluvofier. The journey is arduous, but one day Impulse is drawing up base blueprints and Tango coughs awake and Tango is alive again, eyes burning scarlet, hair burning gold.

Zedaph says they’ll be alright, and Impulse begins to believe it.

(“We’ve got to light the candles,” Skizz says that night, the night Tango wakes up at last. “For good luck.”

“We do.” Zedaph takes out Tango's candles, says, “He gave them to me before the moonfall, said if anyone was gonna keep them safe it had to be me. I do still have mine, though.” Zed’s candles are pink, where Tango's are red. 

Skizz is the one to spark his first, S-I-Z-T, and then with the S candle he lights Zed’s Z, Tango’s I, and Impulse’s T. They light their own, and then there are sixteen burning candles, four for four. 

The thing about the candles is this: ZITS Team is pretty sure they're magical. The thing about sentimentality is this: sometimes the Universe notes your fondness, and then a chip of your soulfire is stored, as a token of your love. The thing about the candles is this: sometimes, when Impulse needs luck, they all light them, and, well. It’s not luck he gets, not really. What he does get is Skizz’s shameless confidence and Zedaph’s insatiable curiosity and Tango’s bold slyness. What he does get is an indescribable warmth, candlelight in his chest, and that is what carries him through, that is what gives him luck or strength or whatever else he needs. The thing about the candles is this: it is nothing but a reminder of the ZITS Team bond that the candles bequeath, but that is enough. 

Tango stirs, and his skin flushes gold. His hair flares up, half passionfire, half-server-magic, and for the briefest moment his eyes flutter open and he has pink pupils instead of scarlet and his mouth quirks into a grin. The moment hangs, and then he sighs, or something like it. He relaxes, and falls back asleep. His hair shifts to pure passionfire, and his faint smile does not leave his face.

“Good luck,” Skizz echoes, and then says, “He’s alive.”

“He is indeed alive,” Zedaph says, and then does not need to say more.)

They decide on a working date for Season Nine, and then Hermitcraft itself whisks them off to an unknown seed, and then it's begun. Impulse is a Hermit again, and Hermitcraft welcomes them back, warm again, bright again, almost as comforting as Skizz again. The server-magic gleams in the yellow fringes of his shirt, the roots of his fur, his eyes. Gleams everywhere. Promises that Hermitcraft is back, truly back, and there will be no moonfall this time. The server is singing with life, and no one knows about the resident binary.

Season Nine passes placidly. Impulse becomes a dwarf, and then joins the Soup Group. Pearl proves how great an alliance it is by serving them poisonous soup in the first Soup Group Meetup. Gem turns out to be pretty awesome at building, and also adequately terrifying, so she fits right in. They overthrow a king. They go to another server, and it turns out Gem is secretly a princess and Pearl is a goddess. Then he and Gem threaten Grian with blowing up his base, Grian blows up a tunnel borer, and then there's a prank war that none of them get too involved in. Pearl makes a dragon out of dragon eggs to prove a point, so that's pretty impressive.

(The death games continue, but by now it's a ZITS Team tradition to meet up after. Impulse is paired with Bdubs in Double Life, and they somehow make it to third place. Skizz doesn't join in, but they call him the Matchmaker. Later, they finally make a full alliance in Limited Life, and Etho is the only one who doesn't get their inside jokes. Death does not sting as much. Grian doesn't fuse them again. They wake, and the post-death game meetup turns less melancholy and more memoried. They reminisce, and forgive each other, and forgive themselves. Zedaph keeps on making them hot chocolate. Impulse and Bdubs go horse riding, and they find they don't mind each other's presence.)

The Season winds down. Grian gets them all to cover Doc’s Perimeter, and Impulse tags along gleefully. They talk, and learn, and laugh. It’s comfortable. Impulse can feel the server-magic, slipping into the glints of Joe’s diamond glasses, weaving into the feathers on Grian’s wings, humming, bringing them all in tune. A little like the binary bond, except this is mostly emotions, and this takes a more physical form. Threads of magic run through the grass, quickening the tick speed, quieting Doc’s thunderous speakers. Their words are easy and private, and all too soon it is done, and Impulse does not regret it. Not even when Doc swears vengeance. The Season is slowly ending, as all Seasons are wont to do, and Doc’s going to be too busy adding last-minute things to the Perimeter to enact any meaningful revenge. 

Decked Out II begins, and immediately Tango’s begun a guest list. Most of the guests are people he expects: Hbomb from MCC, who’s grown close to those of the Hermits who go to those kinds of events; Joel and Lizzie, who everyone’s talked to or gotten to know; Martyn and Jimmy from the Life Series; and then Skizz. Skizz is coming onto Hermitcraft. Skizz is coming onto Hermitcraft, and he’s going to play Decked Out, and Impulse will finally be truly complete. Hermitcraft dulls the burning to a manageable ache, but it can’t heal it, and Skizz can, and Skizz is going to come on here—already beautifully comfortable, already easy, already kind—and heal the burning and be there and Impulse can barely sleep with excitement.

The day arrives, and Skizz joins, and Impulse can feel it. Hermitcraft is singing with life and energy, and Skizz joins and Impulse becomes whole again and Hermitcraft accommodates it as it always does. The server takes Skizz into its arms, and then they’re sending pulses of emotions, and Hermitcraft is sending its own pulses of emotions, and Impulse is delightfully overwhelmed. Skizz runs downstairs and wraps Impulse in a tight hug and Impulse is. Impulse is crying. Impulse is crying and clinging onto Skizz and everyone’s watching and Hermitcraft is singing singing singing.

You’re here, Impulse manages to think, laughing elatedly. You’re here and real and on Hermitcraft and it feels so good, I didn’t know it would be this good, neither of them are burning and Hermitcraft doesn’t have to dull the ache so it doesn’t and every sensation is vivid and real and it takes Tango’s icy claws to pry them off one another and even then they are not fully apart. It’s so easy to talk between themselves, really. Skizz too can feel the other Hermits and guests, brushes of emotion made possible by server-magic, and then Hermitcraft’s innate warmth. It’s beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. 

(The other Hermits notice too. Joe comments on the way Impulse holds himself more easily, Skizz’s confidence smoothing over his jitters. Xisuma watches them eagerly, and when Skizz asks him why he’s just staring at them, he says something about how it’s interesting how intimate they are with each other, the way Impulse slips into the groove of Skizz’s wing so easily, the way they snicker at each other’s jokes and elbow each other playfully and balance each other out. Ren teases them about being partners. Tango approaches them at some point, while Lizzie’s going and dying, and tells them that he’s never seen them happier. Impulse smiles, leans into Skizz’s arm, and Skizz jokes about being husbands. The three of them laugh. Only one of them is burning.)

(And then, one day, Impulse is approached by Xisuma. Xisuma asks him whether he wants Skizz on Hermitcraft, and Impulse says yes, of course. Xisuma, smiling, hands him a crisp white envelope with the words HERMITCRAFT INVITATION written in Joe’s signature green ink. He says, then you’ll be the messenger. I know you guys meet tomorrow, you can give it to him then. And then X leaves.

Impulse stands, reeling, daydreaming. Every memory of the bliss of Skizz’s visit on Hermitcraft comes bubbling back to the surface, reminding him, exciting him. He begins to imagine—Skizz trying out redstone with Doc, Skizz selling things in a ridiculous shop, Skizz coming up with nicknames for the entire server, Skizz flying with Grian, Skizz pranking Tango or building with Gem or just being there, unremarkable but entirely integral. He imagines being whole, without any of the burning of separation. It’ll be like before, back before Tango had ever invited Impulse to Hermitcraft—back before they’d all gone their separate ways to pursue their own dreams, and they’d always been together, back before ZITS had fractured along faultlines and the secret had ever been out. Impulse can barely recall anything specific from those days except a steady peace, and the way they’d slept together each night, Skizz’s wings enveloping Impulse. 

He imagines swirling together, and being so inextricably tangled in each others’ souls that it’s hard to tell where Skizz’s thoughts end and Impulse’s begin, if they ever ended at all. He imagines the server-magic, warm and soothing, facilitating the connection, hiding their truth with the power it has. He imagines introducing Skizz to the intricacies of the server, and seeing how server-magic takes form for him—hidden under his feathers, tracing his scars, bright and burning in his eyes. He imagines not burning, relieved of that reminder, being able to reach across the abyss and not stumble over empty air. He imagines being safe and warm and not alone. He imagines his secondary on Hermitcraft, and becomes breathless with excitement. They’ll be together again. They’ll be together.)

Tango’s only request is for it to be a surprise, so Impulse eases down the connection as soon as he joins and makes sure to only think of the rushing waters of the Hermississippi, sweeping away all his excitement as soon as it rises to the surface. They join their server, and immediately Skizz is onto him, trying to force open the connection, curiosity rippling from his side of the bond. Zedaph smiles when he lies, and Tango’s notorious for switching to real fire when he tries to hide things, so when Tango walks in with blistering fire on his head and Zedaph’s barely stifling giggles, Skizz says, “Alright, what is it?”

“How do I even begin,” Tango muses. “Well! To start with, we were all big fans of the Decked Out crossover, right? Everyone loved that. Impulse, I never really got to ask you how it went, what with your whole binary bond with Skizz, how’d that go?”

“It was amazing,” Impulse admits, moving to stand next to Skizz. “I… well, you know my burning. It went away. And I just… well, you know how Hermitcraft’s server-magic is. Usually it’s kinda dulled by the burning, but I just… and with all of us in one place, it just… it made it stronger, and it was kinda overwhelming except Skizz was also there so it was fine. It was just… it was way better than great, I can’t even begin to describe how great it was because, like, we were together—it was a lot like old times. You know. We were happy, and together, and everything went great. I’d missed that.” Skizz folds a wing around Impulse’s shoulder, and he leans into the touch.

For a moment, Tango flickers into passionfire, soft and singing, before replacing that with fluvofier. “Oh, that’s… I didn’t expect that but… I never even took that into consideration. But that’s good.” He shakes himself out. “Skizz? How ‘bout you?”

“I will be honest, that was genuinely the most impressive thing I’ve ever seen,” Skizz says, and then there’s a flicker of doubt and awe (can’t believe I’m best friends with the maker of Decked Out, what a genius, can’t even compare, Impulse makes out) before he continues, “And being on the server was amazing, the Hermits are truly the best people I’ve ever met.”

“You haven’t seen Grian on a regular day, then,” Zedaph jokes.

“Hey, dude, I’m in the Life Series, I know what he’s like on a bad day,” Skizz replies.

“And you, Zed? I notice you’ve been awfully quiet,” Tango says.

“It was awful and I hated every second of it,” Zedaph says before immediately adding, “Which is how we cattlefolk say that maybe you should stop begging us for compliments because it was amazing and you know it was amazing and everyone thinks it was amazing and you know everyone thinks it was amazing.”

“Hey!” Tango says with a huff. “Some of us dedicated two years of their lives to getting possessed by a dungeon instead of doing anything productive!”

“Anyways, the surprise?” Skizz prods, wings twitching. The curiosity is gnawing, and half-formed thoughts flicker through their bond, almost daringly hopeful—Hermitcraft. Skizz, as a Hermit, with Impulse and Zedaph and Tango, all of them together on one server, and he’ll no longer burn, and Impulse will be there and present and side by side with him, and—and it’ll be like old times, like before Tango’d summoned Impulse to Hermitcraft, when they’d been inseparable and they hadn’t known the pain of burning and the way it could only fade into a dull ache, flaring up at the thought of his primary—and then he dismisses it, almost longingly but not quite, with whispers of doubt that even Impulse can only barely make out; bad builder and bad redstoner and takes up whitelist and unfunny and clingy and not enough and not enough and not as good and not enough not enough and Skizz flicks away those thoughts, slips them back under the surface, and returns with an inhale. 

“The surprise, yes!” Tango interrupts them both, making them both jolt, but he doesn’t even seem to recognize that. “So! That Decked Out feeling, you like that, yeah?”

“We have established that, yeah,” Skizz confirms.

“Well, what if I told you that in, say, three months, you were gonna be able to experience that all the time?”

There’s a beat of shocked silence. The doubt flares, and for a moment Skizz tenses before asking tentatively, “What do you mean?”

“He means you’re gonna be a Hermit!” Zedaph announces, bright and proud, beaming. He takes Skizz’s hand and squeezes, and even without any sort of bond, anticipation and eagerness and pure excitement radiate off him.

Skizz is stunned, a thousand thoughts flicking through his head. “No way,” he says, but there’s excitement rising, overpowering the doubt, echoing through their bond. Impulse allows Skizz to reach out for confirmation, and then Skizz says again, “No freakin’ way. I can’t… this is real?”

“This is real,” Tango says, and now he’s completely foregone the fluvofier in favor of passionfire. “You’re gonna be a Hermit! HermZITS together!” 

“This is real,” Skizz says; then, “This doesn’t feel real—are you sure it’s me? Like, positively sure.” Doubt seeps in, whispers of no it’s not and of course not, you’re not worthy and why would they invite you onto Hermitcraft and bad builder and bad redstoner and wordless doubts, flurries of images—their grand bases, intricate contraptions, beautiful armor stands, hilarious pranks—and the undertone of I can’t live up to that. The whisper of I’m just a guy who happened to be friends with some of the most brilliant people in the world. The mutter of I don’t deserve this. 

“Yeah, dude, you’re a Hermit! I can’t wait—I’m gonna torment you with so many noise machines!” Tango makes one of his signature Happy Noises, and his tail begins to whip. “And, and we’ll be able to have our ZITS meetups on the Hermitcraft server, and you’ll be part of our meetings and you’ll be a Hermit and I can’t wait, this is gonna be awesome!”

“We’ll be all together,” Zedaph says. “And I’ll have a new test subject I mean friend on the server, and—trust me, man, the Hermits are wonderful people, you’ll fit right in, I just know it. Like—how’d that idiom go? Like a pick to stone! Or something. But it’ll be great, I can’t wait, I have so many plans for Ten and you’ll be there to see them!”

Skizz closes his eyes, and the doubts boil—fraud fraud fraud they’ll be disappointed you built this house in a year this is a starter base to them they’d build this in a week and you’re not any good at redstone so you’re stealing a spot from people who actually deserve a place on the whitelist you’re only getting invited because you’re friends with Hermits you don’t deserve it—

“Skizz,” Impulse says, tapping off that train of thought. “Mind sharing your thoughts with the rest of us?”

“I was just thinking—” Skizz begins.

He’s about to lie. He’s about to lie, and Impulse knows it, and Skizz knows he knows it, and Impulse reaches out and switches out the lie for the truth in their brains and Skizz blurts, “I don’t deserve it.”

Almost immediately there’s confusion-anger- why would you do that dippledop and Tango says, confusion lacing his tone, “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” Skizz is about to lie again. Impulse rolls his eyes, slips into the pilot seat of Skizz’s brain, and gets him to say, “I’m not talented like you guys. You’re all so smart and cool and I’m just… I’m just Skizz. Like, not to say I’m not great or anything, but are you sure I deserve to be on Hermitcraft? With Scar and Grian and Etho and Bdubs and Pearl and—Void, Top, you’re literally the most amazing game designer in the universe, and Zed, you’re just—just the funnest guy I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, and Dippledop, I know I joke about it a lot but you’re, like, doing—I dunno, quantum redstone over here and I’m just… mediocre.”

There’s a beat of silence. Tango is staring at Skizz, expression halfway between confusion and horror. Skizz is fuming at Impulse for blurting that out. Zedaph’s eyes widen before narrowing them, flitting from Skizz to Impulse to Tango to Skizz again, determination glittering in his gaze.

It is Zedaph who finally speaks. “I think you’ve got it all wrong,” he says confidently. 

Skizz turns to glance at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“You think being a Hermit means you’re good at building, yeah?” He crosses his arms, ears twitching.

Skizz scoffs in their bond, but not aloud. “I mean, you’re all good at something, not just building, but. Pretty much. And I’m not. Not like you guys.”

“Then you’re dead wrong.” Zedaph moves to sit between Tango and Skizz, and then takes Skizz’s hand. “Haven’t you heard why Joe got invited on?”

“He’s great at building pinball machines?”

“No, before Season Nine.” After a beat of silence, Zedaph continues, “He was actually one of the original Hermits, though he certainly doesn’t act like it. And while everyone else was good at building, or redstone, Generik brought him on because he was a wild card.” He chuckles. “Which is a title he definitely lives up to! I mean, he’s brave enough to be on Tumblr! But anyways. That’s what you are. A wild card.” 

Skizz nods. “Alright. I guess.”

Zedaph hesitates, and then adds, “And you’ve just got those Hermit vibes, you know? Like… okay, bear with me, I’m about to get really sappy here, but you’re just kind, okay? You have this way with words, like, you’re really empathetic, you know exactly how to compliment someone in just the right way, and when people aren’t cooperating, you can just—” He snaps his fingers. “Get all of them to work together without any issue. You can just… well, I’m not gonna say manipulate people, that makes you sound like an evil mastermind, but that’s basically it. You can get people to feel how you want them to feel, and you’re good at it. And you’re just… you’re easy to be around, you know? Like, you’re really chill, so everyone else gets really chill, and it’s just… that’s what Hermitcraft’s really about, you know. And you basically embody that. That feeling, like, I can trust these people, these people love me, these people care about me, I’m welcome here. That. That’s basically you. Goodness I’m sappy, aren’t I?” He laughs, almost abashed.

And then Tango cuts in. “If you’re really sure you don’t want to get in, we’d understand if you declined. It’s just an invitation, and it does limit a lot of things. Pretty taxing, plus all the pressure, and of course you’d be famous. So you can totally back out right now, and we’d be fine with it.” He closes his eyes. “I’d be fine with it,” he says, though it almost sounds like a wish, or maybe a prayer. “You can back out now, and we’ll be…” He doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t look at Skizz. 

“I don’t think I will,” Skizz says after a moment. The doubt’s gone, replaced by firm determination and fervent hope. “I… thanks, Zeddlebop, that’s exactly what I needed to hear. If that’s what being a Hermit is, then I’m… I mean, according to you and Impy, I’m perfect.”

“You really are,” Zedaph says fondly. “It’s just taken the other Hermits two years to get to really know you after you saved our lives in Eight, and… now you’re here. Finally! Took them long enough!” He laughs. “For a moment I was almost scared you’d decide not to join, to be honest.”

“Me too,” Tango says with a laugh. “Please never do that again, thank you.”

Skizz chuckles. “Got to keep you on your toes! But I… of course I want to join. Obviously. If it doesn’t mean I have to suddenly get possessed by the spirit of Alex, sure. I can’t believe this is real. I can’t believe—I’m about to join the Hermitcraft server. The Hermitcraft server!”

“It’s amazing, right?” Tango says. “Though I will point out that you’re pretty much the only person on this world right now who got to be happy about the whole joining through unusual methods thing, what with both Impy and Zed going in through mysterious portals—”

“Hey, I fell through my portal, don’t blame me,” Impulse says.

“But anyways!” Tango takes out the official invitation, and then a blue pen. “You’ve got to sign this. Just get it down in official documents, then we can make sure you can’t go back on your word. Are you sure you want to proceed?”

“Thanks for picking my favorite color,” Skizz says, and there’s the fuzzy warmth of you didn’t have to do that but you did and I love you for it. Thanks for remembering I love blue, even though the whole end-of-Season must be hectic. I love you. “Are you sure I’m not, like, signing my soul away to Gem, am I?”

“No faery deals today,” Tango says. “Or, at least, not that I know of.” He throws up his hands. “If you get scammed out of your soul, it’s not my fault, it’s just a risk of the job.”

“A risk of the—why do I feel like that’d actually happen?” He sends out a flicker of dragon’s egg, how are you still alive dippledop? and then begins to read, “Dear Skizzleman, the whole of Hermitcraft cordially invites you to join the Hermitcraft server for its tenth Season alongside Joel Smallishbeans. You have been personally recommended by...” He pauses. “This is terrible handwriting.”

“Well, that’s Joe’s fault,” Tango says. “He’s the one who writes all these invitations. Personally recc'd by me, Zed, Impy, Gem, and Grian. You’ve just got to sign down here…” He jabs his finger to a line at the bottom which reads Entrant: and then a line. “And then there’s a few more bits on the back, but that’s the big one." He reads a footnote. "Hermitcraft is not responsible for any possessions, amputations, and/or apocalypses—that’s a new one—you may experience whilst on the server.” He laughs. “Risks of the job!”

“Risks of the job,” Skizz echoes. “What’s your mortality rate again?”

“Depends on how you define mortality. Some of us are immortal.” 

Skizz signs his name with a flourish, and something shifts on his side. It’s almost definitely magical. Something clicks into place, and then suddenly there’s no doubt about it. He’s signed the papers. He can’t back out now. Resolution blossoms on his side, and suddenly through Skizz's eyes, for a brief breath, barely even, they’re… something else. Impulse only catches a glimpse of it, but suddenly Impulse is yellow warmth-anxious-patience-kindness and Zedaph is pink bright-whimsical-creative-kindness and Tango is scarlet sharp-smart-fond-kindness and Skizz is himself warmth-stability-energy-kindness and for that breath everything is so purely warm that he wants to hold this moment in his hands, hanging, never wants to let go, and everything is exactly as it should be, and Skizz is a Hermit and that is unchanging and Skizz isn’t going to doubt it and then everything drops back to normal and they’re all smiling still.

Impulse pulses over warmth, and when Skizz accepts it, Impulse smiles, remembers the end of Season Seven, remembers the end of Season Eight, sits with his best friends at the end of Season Nine.

They’re going to be alright.

The day comes.

Impulse is, of course, spending the time in-between Seasons with Skizz. Tango and Zedaph show up, one after the other. Zedaph’s carrying some sort of gloves, which clink with hidden chains when he sets them aside, and Tango’s brought over some factory blueprints, which Skizz fondly scolds him for (didn’t you already build Decked Out? Aren’t you exhausted?). Tango laughs (I dunno, a little bit, I guess? But I just need to build things, Skizz. Way too many ideas to just settle down for the Season, you know?). And Zedaph interjects his own opinion (clearly you don’t know Tango if you’re asking him to settle down!) and Impulse checks in (but, Top, don’t overwork yourself, we don’t want a repeat of the time you got possessed by Decked Out because you needed to build it faster.). Tango smiles and tells them he knows (I know, I know. That’s not gonna happen to me… not if I can help it.).

Finally, it’s fifteen minutes to the official beginning of Season Nine. Tango finishes up a text with Xisuma, says, “Alright, we’ve been cleared for portalling!”

“Portalling?” Skizz says, wings fluffing up. “Hold on, no one mentioned portalling—why am I getting portalled? Why would I need such a special entrance into Hermitcraft? Isn’t Joel just gonna join through his Comm?”

“Well, we couldn’t leave you out of the ZITS Team tradition, now could we?” Tango says. “We all got thrown into Hermitcraft through portals, and you’re lucky you get a warning.”

Not sure this is safe, Skizz comments. Are we sure tearing a hole into the very-much-protected Hermitcraft server’ll go well? Impulse replies, Well, Top’s got OP, so we don’t really need to worry. Especially since we’re all Hermits. We got out of Season Eight; we can get into Season Ten. Skizz replies with gratitude-warmth, and Impulse echoes it back.

“Yeah,” Zedaph is saying, “I went through a mysterious portal, got thrown back in time, gave my past self a pep talk, knocked my past self out, went forward in time, woke up flat on my back in a very dark cave that was full of monsters, and then, on top of all that, I still had to deal with Tango!” (This earns him an elbow from the blazeborn in question.)

“Well, I mean—Tango, how was your experience with being thrown onto Hermitcraft?” Skizz asks. “Hopefully better than Zed and Imp?” 

“How exactly did it go?” Tango asks, flicking his tail. “Like, okay, I know that you two were torn apart and Impulse fell from a very high place, but, like. How did it go?”

Impulse watches as Skizz tries to approach the subject elegantly. The memories still burn as hot—if not hotter—than the day they’d been forged, and now they’re tainted with inconsistencies, personal bias, and mostly terror. They’d swirled together, and then they’d been unceremoniously ripped apart, and then Skizz had been alone and Impulse had been alone and that was it. They’d never been alone before. They’d always had each other, and then they didn’t, and Skizz was left alone on a server too empty, too quiet, too cold. Like an abyss. Skizz built a house to live in, and raised livestock and crops, and tried to mourn Impulse’s death, however sudden it was. 

To be alone for that long—without anyone to turn to, not even your primary—was hell. Skizz went out every morning, after breakfast, and laid another flower on Impulse’s grave. (Impulse hadn’t done the same.) He’d believed Impulse was dead, and he’d be alone forever, a lost secondary drifting among the cosmos. Skizz had resigned himself to Impulse’s death, and burned, and Impulse had left him alone for a year. (There’s still the sting of betrayal hidden under Skizz’s loyalty.) Skizz loved Impulse, and love meant letting your primary leave to go pursue what they wanted. Impulse was so happy about Hermitcraft. Impulse is so happy about Hermitcraft. Impulse had been torn from Skizz’s hands, their connection shattered, and Skizz had believed that Impulse hated him for keeping him from Hermitcraft, or maybe he was dead and Skizz was the only proof he’d ever existed. And the server was empty.

Skizz was alone, is what happened. Skizz doubted Impulse, and for that he was punished. Impulse keeps on going back to Hermitcraft, and Skizz never objects because maybe this time he will leave forever. What if Impulse decides that Hermitcraft is better than Skizz, and then he’s left alone?

(Skizz is quiet, almost ashamed at Impulse's discovery, and Impulse works his way out of Skizz’s soul, and their gazes meet—Skizz’s soft and guilty, Impulse soft and loving. Forget you saw how selfish I am, Skizz conveys, and Impulse squeezes his hand, and wraps Skizz in a mental hug as he has always done for Impulse. Skizz does not protest.)

“We were arguing,” Impulse says, “and then I was falling, and we couldn’t hear each other, and Skizz was left alone and I was left alone and then you know what happens next.” Skizz’s wings are drawn around himself like a curtain. Impulse can feel him failing to build himself back up, and Skizz is utterly vulnerable, shaken by Impulse’s probing, trying to ignore how each memory bites with fury, and he thinks Skizz might be trying not to cry at this point because he’s about to join Hermitcraft and he’ll be with Impulse and it’d be silly to cry now when he’s got what he wants and Impulse left him for a year and kept on leaving. “Skizz had it way worse, though. I had Hermitcraft. He had no one.” 

“Oh,” Zedaph says, somewhere around sympathetic. “That must’ve been terrible.”

“Yeah, it was!” Skizz says sharply, head flicking up from behind his wings, eyes bright and gleaming, voice trembling. “It really did suck!” His voice is a lot like Tango’s after a Life Game; laden with emotions, sharpness lost in turmoil. “It sucked, but now I’m here, and now I’m in Hermitcraft, and Impulse…” Skizz pauses, clocks his next words as clingy and possessive, and shuts up, drawing himself back into his wings.

(And Impulse won’t leave me anymore.)

Impulse sidles over to Skizz and tells him, I’m sorry, and Skizz echoes it back, and Skizz doesn’t need help he’s here for Impulse not for selfish things he’s Impulse’s secondary and Impulse hugs him again, this time physically, and Skizz does not protest. Zedaph slips into his other side, and then Tango’s there in front of them providing his unnatural warmth, and Impulse says, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, I wasn’t here for you before but now I am, and Skizz says, You don’t have to do this, and Impulse says, For all you’ve done for me before, you deserve at least this. Skizz does not protest.

They stay like that, the final group hug before Season Ten, warm and comfortable in each other’s embrace. Tango’s hair burns bright pink. Zedaph’s eyes are lightly closed. Gratitude-longing-hope-warmth radiates off Skizz in waves. Impulse is shifting his fur out, tail winding around Skizz’s leg, ears slightly laid back. None of them speak. None of them have to. 

Finally, Tango breaks away from the hug. He walks, almost as though in a trance, toward the center of the room. His tail waves, slow, rhythmic, like a metronome. It’s only when Zedaph stands to move toward him that he begins to look around, though his eyes are closed—almost like he’s scenting for prey. His tail begins to quiver instead of wave, and his face is tilted toward the window, light spilling onto his skin, highlighting the glittering gold of his veins. For the flash of a second, his hair lights up with Hermitcraft’s server-magic—a thousand colors, their soulfires’ colors, gleaming and glowing and bright, hidden in his passionfire, and somewhere pastel blue is tucked into the knot of color, threaded alongside gold and pink and red and ginger, and it is Skizz’s and Skizz is a Hermit despite everything—and then settles, turning back to bright pink. 

“We need the candles,” Tango says, understanding dawning in his eyes. He takes out his own and places them in a large square on the carpet. “All of them. I’ll light them.” He plays with a wisp of fire for a moment, and the flame dances through his claws before alighting on a tip and being absorbed back into Tango’s finger.

Zedaph places down his candles, and then Impulse, and then Skizz. Tango reaches over to the top, where a cluster of Z candles nestle together, and he lights his own. The flame leaps from Tango’s flame to Impulse’s to Skizz’s to Zedaph’s, and then Tango lights his own candles from the I cluster; then the T cluster and the S cluster. The candles flicker and then steady themselves. The light reflects in their eyes, and the fuzzy and indescribable warmth of the candles blooms in their chests. 

It is nothing but a reminder of the ZITS Team bond that the candles bequeath, but that is enough. 

The carpet begins to flash with glitch-color, and a circle rings itself around the candles, glowing gold. Zedaph shies away from the edge of the circle, and Tango stands, tail flicking. For a moment the carpet stays like that, half broken, on the edge of reality.

And then the carpet falls away to reveal blue sky beneath. Clouds drift far below their feet, placid, fluffy. The sky is bright, and wind whisks through the portal and tousles their hair. It’s almost singing. Zedaph reaches a hand in, and then quickly jerks back. “It’s Hermitcraft,” he confirms, gazing down into the depths. “That’s a very long fall,” he continues. “Would anyone mind explaining why there’s a very long fall? Is this because you said Impulse fell into Hermitcraft? Are they doing likewise to Skizz?”

I’m not falling without you, Impulse reassures; then, “This isn’t my fault, don’t go blaming me!”

“This is totally Impy’s fault,” Tango says with a snicker. “But! What we’ve gotta do is take that leap of faith. Except it’s literal. We’re all jumping into Hermitcraft. Which is not great game design! Like, seriously, if you’re gonna make people walk through a portal, you shouldn’t just drop them into the game! It should be, like, when I went into Season Two I wasn’t falling! Or, worst comes to worst, you knock them out and then have them wake up like with Zed! But no fallificating! That’s not good!”

“That is very much what’s happening here,” Skizz comments. “Why did you guys convince me that joining was a good idea?” This is almost as bad as a faery deal, Skizz tells Impulse, who says back, Well, come to think of it, you're probably going to get both. Risks of the job!

“Well, usually we aren’t falling from high places,” Zedaph says. “This is new. Who’s going first? Not it!” He taps his finger on his nose.

Impulse and Skizz both have the advantage of doing theirs in telepathic synchronization, so it’s Tango who’s left without a gleeful exclamation of not it! and with a very displeased look on his face. “I—this isn’t fair! I’m, like, the admin! I made Decked Out! That has to count for something!”

Zedaph stands. “Come on. Chop chop. We haven’t got all day, mister admin. Into the portal you go.” He walks over to Tango, places his hands on Tango’s back. “You jump in or I do it for you.”

“You bastard,” Tango says, though he’s close to laughing. “You—you get down here with me, we’re going down together or not at all!” He grabs Zedaph’s arm, clutching on like it’s dear life, and a white-toothed grin splits across his face. He steps backward.

For a moment it’s just Zedaph, holding Tango above the drop like it’s a trust fall. Tango doesn’t even flinch. Tango smiles, and he allows himself to dangle, grip tight on Zedaph’s hand. And then Zedaph laughs, says teasingly, “You’ve really got a vice grip, haven’t you? Well, then. Anything for you, Tango,” and then he steps forward into the sky.

Immediately they both plummet, and Zedaph’s unflappable (probably due to the multiple leaps he’d taken to get the Caves and Cliffs achievement) and almost ridiculously calm. Meanwhile, Tango’s clinging onto Zedaph because now it’s actually dear life, and a few startled laughs tear out of their throats. They fall, and soon disappear under the clouds.

Fear flashes over from Skizz’s side of the bond. He’s collected all their candles in his inventory, and now gazes into Hermitcraft. Scared about this one, Dippledop, he says, fingers white on the edge of the carpet. His wings flare out. All that is in his head is the memory of Impulse’s fall, and then everything that comes with it—pain-alone-fear-grief-scared-horror-crying-no-no-no-guilt-guilt-your fault. Skizz manages, I can’t do this, I can’t, and sits on his knees, staring into the swirling blue. Fear still pumps alongside his blood.

Impulse takes Skizz’s hand, and smothers all the fear in warm-loyalty-here-comfort-warm-excitement. We’ll fall together, he says. I’m not letting go. Besides, you’re the bird in this relationship. You're the one who can fly.  Impulse keeps on pulsing out warmth, returning Skizz’s kindness, and Skizz’s fear melts away under warmth. Thanks, man, he says. Not losing you this time. We won’t lose each other. I promise. Impulse replies, I promise too, and steps forward, toes curling over the edge. Take my hand. He reaches out a hand to Skizz, his secondary, his beloved, and watches the struggle between he is going to fall and I am going to be left behind and I trust him.

Skizz takes Impulse’s hand.

And Impulse steps backward.

Suddenly there is no carpet below them. Suddenly there is Hermitcraft’s warmth on their skins, and the chill of the biting air, and the carpet disintegrates, revealing the sun. The sun is bright and blinding, and Skizz blocks it out with his wings and his face and the server-magic flutters in their bond, familiar, at home, so warm, unbelievably and indescribably warm. Skizz is the only thing that matters here, and Impulse does not let go and Skizz does not let go and they are never letting go and they are both Hermits of Season Ten and the echoes of warmth give them light. The world is light. The world is light, and the universe said i love you because you are love, and that is what they are—love. All that is in this world is their love. 

Skizz’s wings snap open, and they catch the wind, and mischievous Hermitcraft shifts. A shift in the wind, perhaps; suddenly Skizz is swinging around Impulse, and his wings are spread, and they are turning without letting go of each other, swirling into each other, losing themselves in each other, orbiting around each other. They are in orbit. They will not be broken, not if Impulse has anything to say about it.

This time, they will be inseparable. This time, they will be Hermits together. This time, Grian won’t break them, and they’ll be safe, and they will stay in orbit, and Skizz will know what it is like to be in this beautiful community. Impulse cannot wait to see what will happen.

This time, he is falling with Skizz, orbiting each other, together, together, together.

To anyone watching below, they’d almost look like stars.