Work Text:
He doesn't tell them that he's leaving. They've wanted nothing to do with him, left him to grieve his mistakes in silence, told him without words that there can be no attrition for what he's done.
It was hard enough, to walk away after banning his once-brother again. Harder by far, to turn away when told, after he’d hurt Bdubs, hurt half of his friends, and lost any respect or good-will his servermates held for him. And then to not been given the chance. Finding out that Scar and Jellie had been hurt, and no one -no one- had come to tell him, to let him visit, or to help, or to reassure himself that everyone was okay, was coping.
Because he certainly wasn’t. Hadn’t. Anxiety and nerves and painful self-reflection had haunted his waking and sleeping hours. Too much time to think, to wallow, to turn over every interaction, every talk with Hermits that decided not to return. To wonder if it was him all along, instead of the reasons given.
Your parents. Didn’t love me, the way they loved you.
The words haunt him. How much more has he missed? His blind spots have been so large, it’s a wonder that he can see at all, helmet or no. He has no room to blame anyone else, this is all on him. Has been, for longer than he’s been aware.
It’s overwhelming, and it jumbles in his head until he can’t think, sticks in his throat until he can’t eat, stalks his nightmares until he can’t sleep. Until he’d made a plan, in the dark, quiet hours of a silent base, in a jungle unvisited, far enough removed that he may as well have been on a single-player server.
It starts, and ends, with a simple shulker box, dark blue, and named.
Blue Creeper.
Stacks of blocks, tools, potions. Dirt, sand, obsidian, wool, sponges. Flint and steel, shears, bow, sword, hoe, pickaxe, all fully enchanted. Water breathing, night vision, fire resistance. Splash healing, strength, and regen. All maximum strength or time.
All meticulously stocked and organized, packed with care and love for those it could help. Those who called, those who needed, those it could save, if only he could get there fast enough.
He left it in the center of his storage tower, and hoped that it could help another. Another save, another life, another Hermit that deserved it.
It's not a cry for help. It's his last apology, for not being good enough to take care of them all, for not being strong enough to handle his own hurts on top of those he'd caused. For not being the admin they needed, or deserved.
He's shut down all of his farms, set the redstone to standby, emptied the chests and hoppers, set the cactus farm to burn the overflow. His base is silent but for the wind brushing through the leaves, the vines swaying gently outside.
He's had more than a week to prepare, since he made the decision. To document the admin duties, to chronicle his process of choosing and preparing a world. To detail the list of all the current tweaks and mods that are in use, with links and forums to their descriptions and updates. To provide all of the work he's put in to provide protection to their home and world. To pass off to another, of the Hermit's choosing.
He doesn't expect them to mourn, not past what they've already been through, his failures and shortcomings, the pain and terrors that he's brought them.
Even so, even with his plans held tightly inside his now too-large chestplate, he isn't expecting the sudden mob that shows up at his base.
"This is an intervention."
He can't summon anything even approaching shock, and tries not to think of it as despair. Allows maybe the tiniest bit of surprise, that it appears every Hermit is here, the last few stepping out of the portal together, helping each other. Nothing like making a statement, of the safety in numbers, or the strength of family.
A family that he has failed. One that he is no longer welcome in; a family that has cast him out, like he had done to one of their chosen members.
He's certain that they've come to chase him away, just before he can leave.
His throat is dry enough that he can't summon a verbal response. He doesn't know what to say at this point anyway. So he sits on the steps of the inactive bee farm, his armour clunking against the quartz as his- as the Hermits spread out.
Cleo steps up first, her face screwed up somewhere between a frown and a scowl, and he knows that even if they can't see him, he also can't watch this happen. He fixes his gaze on the quartz at her feet, and pretends that there is an iron bar against his spine to keep him in place. This is going to hurt enough as it is.
"We've let you stew long enough, X." Her words were low and carried over the quiet jungle, the loud silence of players gathered. "Even if you're not ready to talk, we have some things we want to say to you. That should have been said already, except for some miscommunication."
Xisuma steels himself for their accusations, for the ultimatum that he's prepared himself to grant. And nods.
"I'm sorry."
Her voice is torn and heartfelt, and pierces deeper than he thought it would. He starts to nod, ready for her to release him on behalf-
"I'm sorry that I accused you of hating us. And that I didn't drag your moping, idiotic ass back into a Hermit-pile when you obviously needed someone to help instead of pushing you away." It's Cleo, her words bare and unrefined as always, straight to the point without pretense. "When I thought that I had hurt Joe, I hid away, too." She ignores his flinch, an unsubtle reminder that that too, was on his shoulders. "It was the worst thing I could have done for myself, wallowing in guilt and blaming myself for something I had no control over. And hurting myself, because I didn't think I deserved to still call Hermitcraft home."
He's reminded of long days sitting with Joe, and soothing his fears that Cleo would leave, would never speak with him again. All while hiding his own guilt that he couldn't prevent it, that he wasn't fast enough to contain the glitch before anyone was hurt.
Joe's quiet voice joins her, with an arm that wraps around her back.
"I'm sorry, Isuma." It's not quite the dismissal that he was expecting. "That I accused you of being untruthful with us, during a time of uncertainty and emotional distress. I'm sorry that I undermined the apology and explanation that you were offering, and with my words, turned away any one else that would have reached out to comfort you."
If he wasn't already sitting, his legs would have given out at the lance of pain through his chest. He hadn't thought- hadn't imagined that.. no, it couldn't have been Joe's fault it was-
False's voice rang out, closer than the others and not holding back.
"I'm sorry, X. That I didn't stand up when harsh words were thrown, that I didn't offer you the same comfort you gave me. I'm sorry that the server you love became an unhappy place, and that we refused to allow you to help us in a time of need."
"Or to help you in yours." Bdubs is no quieter, though his usual brash cheer is missing. "I was upset, yes, but I was also hurting, and I took that out on you. It wasn't your fault, and you didn't do it to hurt me, or anyone else, and it wasn't right or fair of me to say so."
He's shaking his head, but the apologies keep coming, and he can't drown them out. His voice won't work, his hands shaking in his lap when he tries to lift them.
Cub, Mumbo, Iskall, Rendog, all apologize for not reaching out to him, as he had for them. Each clear or stumbling statement twisting the sword deeper and deeper into him, detailing their pains by his own behavior. Because even stepping back, pulling away from them, he has somehow hurt them even more. His own retreat has brought their memories of hurt and pain to the forefront, when they should have been allowed to let them fade and be forgotten.
His body seems frozen, detached to the point of numbness, unable to stand up and leave or to curl into a ball and disappear. He's still waiting for the anvil to fall, for the apologies to resolve into the final dismissal, to realize that they're done with him forever, and ready for him to just leave.
A brown cardigan encroaches on his dazed vision, two joined hands swinging for long moments before Zedaph crouches down and peers at where his visor should be.
"You're awfully quiet, Zigsuma, and I'd hate to think that you had passed out in there before we were done. Is it shock? Or denial, that you're not shouting us down?"
It's probably more that his armour is the only thing holding him upright, oversized as it's become, and he's gotten used to locking the joints in place to support himself. He manages the barest of nods, and that seems to be enough for Zedaph. He wonders if he will strike the final blow, his once-brother clasped tightly beside him.
"I"m sorry. For not trying to understand the history between you and Exiona. For dismissing it, and taking a side. And I’m sorry, really sorry, for putting you on the spot, when we forced you to whitelist Exiona without ever telling you that we forgive you, and that we wanted to be a family, together. Do you understand?"
He can read between the lines. This is final. Their apologies, their forgiveness. Their dismissal.
"Yeah." His voice cracks, rusty with disuse. He hasn't spoken aloud in weeks, giving up even yelling at himself a long time ago. "I get it. One big happy family. No hard feelings, right?" He pushes himself to his feet, looks out at the hopeful and smiling faces, and feels the last of his resolve crumble as they look to each other, hugging and congratulating themselves. Clinging to each other, reaching for each other, touching each other.
He stands alone, on a short stair to an unused, unvisited farm. One or two faces turn his way, and turn away again when another catches their attention.
He doesn't think his whisper carries, the breath in his lungs long gone with the strength that he had to carry his love for them.
"I wish you all the joy of each other, and the world left to you."
Xisuma turns away from the crowd, from the family he'd cherished for years, and runs the last program waiting for his approval.
26 players have been given full admin access to the world. And the whitelist shrinks by one, as his name is removed.
The void between worlds welcomes him, and the shining world of Hermitcraft disappears from its pedestal.
He doesn't have the chance to do more than draw a breath to sigh in the silent oasis, and then he is no longer alone.
"What in the silent, endless void do you think you're doing?"
Xisuma closes his eyes, dismayed to realize he hadn't considered that Exiona could or would follow him. "L-leave me al-"
"I don't think so." He sounds pissed, and Xisuma can't blame him, but he also doesn't want to fight. There's a low hum and a gentle pop in the stillness, and he knows if he looks that the Hermitcraft world will be back where it was, spinning beside his testing worlds and his original single-player worlds.
Exiona isn't done. "Everyone came out for you, they all came to find and help you, Xisuma. Why are you running away? Why can't you let them-"
"They don't want me!" His chest feels like it is splitting open, torn and bleeding from his outburst. "I'm not good for them, I've fucked everything up and they're better off without me." There is no floor, but his knees ache anyway where he collapses, curled around his chest. "I was leaving, they didn't have to chase me away, they didn't have to witness it-"
He's pulled into strong arms, his helmet tucked against a shoulder pad when he tries weakly to pull away. He's wrapped into a hug that he's wanted so badly, so strongly, but not like this, not like…
Maybe like this. He sobs, his tears and pathetic noises stuck in his helmet, until gloved hands tug and pull it away, brush through the mess of his hair and rock him as he loses all coherence.
"You melodramatic derp." It shouldn't sound as fond as it does, even as it makes him cry harder. A hand presses hard against his back. "We aren't chasing you away. We're worried about you. Are- I mean," Exiona stumbles over the words, but his hug doesn't waver. "I'm not gonna ask if you're okay, because you're obviously not, but.."
"I"m not." He can hardly get the words out, with the way he shakes and his breath is tied in knots as he tries not to choke on his sobs. "I'm not, I can't, I.."
"Shh, it's alright, for now. Just breathe, jeez." He would worry, if they were in a world, instead of in between them. As it is, he chokes on a semi-hysterical laugh, until he's coughing so hard he wonders that he isn't taking damage anyway. "Aww, come on. It's not- you can, just-"
Xisuma coughs again, the fit leaving him exhausted and wanting to curl up in the void. Exiona pats his back, a little awkwardly, a little uncertain, but blustering through it anyway.
"Do you.. want to stay? You, your family is on Hermitcraft, your life, your-"
"My failures."
" Xisuma."
He turns his face to the darkness between them, wishing he had the energy to be surprised by the tightening of an arm, the way they fit together so easily, so simply.
"So many years, and so many mistakes. I've lost them, Ex, I've smothered and broken them, I'm just.." his voice breaks, betrays him like he has already done to them. “I- I-”
“Blue Creeper.”
His eyes fly open, his breath held as he freezes like a lag spike. A second helmet falls to the invisible ground, and a hand on his jaw tilts his head up, until another forehead presses against his, and warm red eyes meet his.
“You deserve it, Xisuma. You put it in place, for anyone to use, at any time, for any reason. You’ve already helped so many, won’t you let them help you, too?”
He feels like the air is gone, nothing in his lungs when he tries to breathe.
“B-but.. You.. they…”
Exiona doesn’t look away, doesn't pretend. “It’s only two words, Xisuma. You’re allowed. But it has to be your choice, not ours.”
“I’ve done it all wrong.”
Exiona thumps his forehead with his, but acknowledges his whisper. “Name me a Hermit that hasn’t. But you don’t get a chance to fix it, if you don’t go back.”
Like he did. Trying to change, making friends, making up for lost time, for old wounds, getting a handle on his emotions, on his destructive impulses. By focusing on being better, on wanting to change, and then following through. He hadn’t - he had made his attempt, and then ran and hid at the first rebuff. Blamed himself, hurt himself, and hurt his friends.
No. They only hurt, because he had let himself be hurt, and they cared enough to want to help. And he could.. he could maybe…
“‘Suma?”
“B-blue creeper.”
It’s just a whisper, just between them, in this silent space outside of the world they should both be in.
Exiona’s smile is a tight, small thing. But it’s there, and he’s listening. “How can I help you, Xisuma?”
“I don’t, I don’t want to leave, to leave my family.” He can barely get the words out again, sticking in his chest, catching in his throat. “But I can’t.. I can’t bear it if they hate me. If they never-”
“They love you,, you silly fool.” He’s pulled in, chestplate clicking against chestplate, bodies fitting together like the warmest hug, the most comfortable kind of peace between them. “You’re not hurting each other, you’re all hurting because the other hurts.” His hug is strength, is confidence and power. “It’s why I kept coming back, why I couldn’t stay away, when I was hurting myself. Because you all taught me that I was my worst enemy, and my worst critic. Much like you have been, I imagine.”
Xisuma has no answer, but quiet sobs as he clings to his twin.
“Let me help you home, Xisuma. And your friends can show you themselves.”
There’s a near-on riot, when they return.
Helmets clunk together, as Exiona had stepped forward to the space where Xisuma had logged out, before following him, and they reappear less than a hand’s-width apart.
Shouting and panicked voices rise over, under each other, and Xisuma drops his head forward, only to find it resting on Exiona’s shoulder. Red and tan arms come up, and steady him when he sways.
A cane taps, loud against the quartz, louder as the furor dies down, and the last few confused comments are aired.
TFC doesn’t climb the steps, but he waits at the front of the attentive crowd, strength behind his voice if not his body.
“Xisuma? Can you explain what just happened?” He silences a comment behind him with only a motion of his hand. “If something is wrong, I’d like to help, if I can.” Xisuma doesn’t have to look over, knows without looking that Tin can see right through his armour, through his silence, through his guilty tears that he wasn’t okay.
But it’s Exiona’s embrace, barely and yet more than a hug, that reminds him, and supports him.
“You can do it, I know you can.”
Xisuma doesn’t lift his head. He can hear the vines grow in the trees around them, they’ll hear his plea.
“Blue creeper.”
There are gasps and soft sounds, and Exiona’s arm moves to tilt his head up, to bring their helmets together again. “Can we join them? Or would you rather stay up here, on the stairs?”
Xisuma shakes his head, he can’t.. he can’t make that decision, not here, not now. He still, he has to…
“Shashwammy?”
The quietness, the hesitance in Keralis’ voice is his undoing.
It’s Exiona that holds him up, when his legs and his heart collapse. “I can’t,” he protests, knowing he won’t make any sense. “I’m sorry, I don’t.. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”
Someone swings him up, hefts him up and off his feet, and it’s Exiona who speaks half his thoughts, more coherent than he is.
“He thinks we hate him. That we were chasing him away, even though he was getting ready to leave on his own. For some reason.” It’s a gentle admonishment, coming from him.
Xisuma cringes anyway. And again, when steady steps bear him down the few stairs, into the center of the crowded pathway.
It's Hypno that speaks up first, standing beside him. "Oh? Decided to jump out of the way of the minecart, and ignored the helping hands on the other side."
He's holding his breath, trying to stave off the panic that grips his lungs. It's not the same, and Hypno shouldn't have to joke about his own struggle, not for him.
"Or he missed the part about how we already forgave him, even for whatever extra derpiness his brain came up with."
He shakes, trying to quietly gulp in air to speak without alerting anyone. "Easier to forgive, if I'm not here, never have to, deal with again." He sounds horrible, like a bad case of hiccups, but he can't stop it, or the flow of words he's released. "Shouldn't have, an admin you don't t-trust, not on, on hh-this server."
Someone crushes him in a hug from behind, and it's easier to let them steal the breath that won't come, to relax into the painfully tight hold. They get the message, somehow, without him having to say a word, and there's more limbs, more pressure joining the hug, smothering him in their presence, calming the crawling panic until he's breathing deep and easy, in a comforting cocoon.
There's no more need to wait, to hold back, not when they're here, they have him, they support him.
They're not turning him away. They’re not turning away from him.
"I didn't think you wanted me here, not anymore. I messed up, and I gave everyone space, made myself scarce, and tried to make my apologies. I.. I didn't expect to be forgiven, not right away. But I'd hoped.. I thought, maybe you'd seek me out. Maybe there'd be a bit of yelling, but we could work it out, could figure it out. Together."
There's a hush, a sense of expectancy, and they're listening. Waiting. For him.
"No one called me, when Scar got hurt. Or Jellie." He can't quite bite off the hurt he still feels, though it's numbing with time. "No one’s come to help, with the world mods, or to offer a replacement for the old firewall.” That’s a tighter ache, that he’s afraid won’t go away anytime soon. “I can’t- I won’t change that, not without someone else looking at it, I can’t- can’t-” he has to breathe, but he keeps getting caught on the thought. “I can’t make that decision, can’t-” he forces it out, despite the burn in his throat from rising bile. “I can’t be that monster again.”
A metal hand flexes against his knee, careful in its strength, like the words that follow. “I didn’t know you wanted help with that, Zizuma. I.. I’m sorry that you felt like you couldn’t ask. And I’m sorry that we painted you in such an unfair light, that it’s become another worry you’ve had to take on.”
That is a tangible weight off of his shoulders. And even more, when Doc offers to check with SciCraft, and Tango says he’ll check with the modding community, and Grian will look it over since he has a little bit of admin experience.
He’s not alone. They’re not leaving him to muddle through, to make more mistakes, or to wallow in the self-doubt that he’s fallen into.
It’s enough. For now, it’s enough. To stay, to hope. To mend the bridges that he thought already burned, to relight redstone circuits that he thought washed away by the flood of his own folly.
To let himself be the one comforted, be the one worthy of their care, the one cradled as his tears are welcomed with open hearts, with all of the love he’s ever given them, returned and multiplied by the ways they’ve learned and grown and loved.
He doesn’t tell them that he’s staying. He doesn’t need to, they’re here with him, they always have been.