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The first time happens shortly after returning home. Joel barely even remembers the images imposed in his mind, only left with the searing pain of sharp weapons slashing through his body. Paper thin skin, waterfalls of blood, only one survivor.
Vaguely, he sees an arena, a colosseum that expanded from horizon to horizon; a thousand eyes in the sky like stars, burning up in broad daylight. The eyes watched them for hours without blinking. His and their every move and action for their amusement.
On worse nights, when sleeping is impossible and the experience becomes present, a feeling bubbles under his skin. He stares at his hands relentlessly—flashes of blood, bloodied weapon in his hands, a body gone cold. Breathing is hard on those nights, the guilt overwhelming.
But time passes and it becomes a distant memory.
One day he stops flinching when he hears sounds behind him. One day he holds the handle of his sword with confidence again, one day his ax makes a return and he feels complete.
With time, everything returns to normal.
Until they are summoned again. And again. And again.
Five seasons. Five whole seasons, all those months he will never get back. All the scars he got in return—
Joel thinks he is handling it pretty well, all things considered. He is tough, and he is resilient, and, above it all, he is stubborn. There is nothing that can keep him down—he refuses to stay down.
And yet…
Two months flew by since Secret Life, and suddenly Joel finds himself in a new world. A whole new server, though not another game. Something nicer—somewhere more domestic where death means little, and friends are less back-stabby with many new faces.
Some familiar, the rest strangers he will know in time.
Despite it being a piece of paper, the invitation in his pocket weighs more than he could imagine. He still hears Jimmy’s cheering in the back of his mind, and right now, he has Grian babbling on and on about whatever.
He should be listening. But something else distracts him.
While the whole group discusses how to divide the cherry mountain, Joel looks to the horizon, the only way he can answer the abrupt tug on his soul—much too familiar, jarringly familiar. His body stays frozen as the world heats up, crisp air replaced with smoke and cherry petals turning into soot.
Pinks and greens become reds and browns, a world set ablaze. It eats his clothes, consuming threads by threads, clawing at his skin and eating through the muscle down to the bones. Arduous lashes cut through, shattering bones as the smoke wraps around his neck.
There is screaming. Throat scorched and his words dry. Voices, there is someone calling out to him—
After that, Demise plays out as everyone settles into the new world. Activity is plenty, and block by block, bases rise up from the ground. Of course, Joel is among them.
Skyscrapers reaching out to the sky, bustling city with signs that never sleep. Soon, his world is filled with more and more, and yet he feels hollow. The pride he feels is not enough to mute the call.
During a sleepless night, one of many, Joel sits on the edge of his bed, staring at the planks of his floor. His body is stone but far too wired to rest, so he sinks his elbows into his knees and drops his head.
There is static under his skin, soot under his fingernails, a fire he cannot see but feels. Licks of fire on his face, running fingers through his hair, wishing him back in the arena where blood can be shed.
He has made it a habit to store his tools away at night. In a special shulker in his ender chest, the sharpness kept from his hands and delicate skin. Death means nothing on this server, but it calls with a honey-sweet voice.
The itch to sink his ax into something until it squirms, until it stops squirming and a pool of red flows under. Break a bone or two, push someone off a cliff, explosions that lead to a warm rain—bloody raindrops and rotting guts.
Joel yanks his hand down, digging his fingers into the edge of his mattress, the tension pushing back on his fingers on his hand. His eyes unfocus on the planks, lines of wood becoming tripwire in the darkness. Awaiting. Awaiting. Some poor soul—
A hand grabs his forearm tight, claws tense around his muscle, nearly piercing. There is growling in front of him, purple particles floating down as the hand freezes his arm. It pulls him but he fights back.
It screeches.
His hearts begin to tick down.
Joel throws his body back, left hand wrapped around his right, trying desperately to pull it back, feet planted for support. He screams when his shoulder pops out of place, slowly, slowly he feels the muscle pulling as it comes undone, ripping under his shirt.
Blindly, he kicks forward. The sole of his foot makes contact with something and he frees himself, quickly gathering his bearings before running out of his room. He practically throws himself down the stairs, a jolt of pain shooting up his spine when the heel of his foot plants forcefully on the hard planks.
In his haste, he runs with an empty inventory, shoeless down the stone streets. Lights sparkle around him as every cut and every bruise on his body resurfaces—lighting down his spine, burning coal under his feet.
He runs out of his city, from the overwhelming to the eerily quiet and cold. He hears mobs, all his instincts heightened to the max as survival kicks in. Without a plan or a way to protect himself, he runs through the fields, evading hungry groans and zapping arrows.
Water rushes nearby, raging waves against his thundering heartbeat. His sweat is like sludge, stuck to his brow and slowly dripping, burning up his nostrils and filling his tongue with a bitter taste.
A vine latches from his left shoulder to his right hip, looping back to lasso him back. Thin, wire-like vine that slices through his clothes, sliding cuts across his chest as it pulls him back. Another vines loops on his right upper arm, drawing a hiss from his lips as it pulls on already sensitive muscle. Then one more around his left ankle, like weed growing up his leg with thorns embedding into it.
Despite holding strong on his chest, his limbs waver with every step, hung back closer to the grasp of whoever or whatever behind him. Joel spares no glance, gritting his teeth with white-knuckle fists, pulling his body forward. Every muscle in his body strained, but his determination remains unbroken, until—
Stupidly, he slips on a rabbit-hole, twisting his ankle with a shout. His body slams against the ground, the pain quickly dulled by the sharpness and harness of being dragged through the ground. Rocks and sticks make a mess of his clothes and body, the grass staining his ripped clothes into a mocking green.
Green is safe. Green is good.
Ironic.
How very ironic.
His body folds over a trunk, knocking the wind from his lungs, but his instincts make the most of it, arms rapidly around the base, holding on tight as his body finally stops moving. Whatever is behind continues to pull, pull, pull, but his body stays in place. Bark chips against his face and arms, sweaty palms slide slightly but he holds on.
With brute force and fiery determination, Joel climbs the tree until he is on his feet again, more vines around his body now. There are some around the tree too, trapping him to it but not as firm and without the tension. He presses his forearm across the trunk, keeping himself from fully hugging the tree. He breathes in fire and breathes out smoke, tasting iron and salt on his tongue, skin like wet ash and the rest of his body wails in agonizing pain.
At this rate, he will be torn apart muscle by muscle.
A bloody taste appears on his tongue, his teeth sharpening into the canines of a wolf, sharp enough to tear through muscle. He had. He had—
Joel pulls his body away from the tree as he uses his forearms to push back, the tension of the vines merely growing. Snap, snap, snap, he chants in his head. His plea works when a couple break, though not without a price. The broken ends whips into his back and sides—more cuts, he is almost numb to the pain.
He sobs when he finds his opening, one more cut against his palm before he is running again.
Shaky legs. Soaked in sweat and body. Strangling vines still latched.
Then one more. He feels it, casted like a line. Half a loop, from his left shoulder to the right side of his hip again, then it stops—
A single claw hooks—
It drags a deep line, retracing the path already made, opening his shirt to the harsh wind. He screams into the dark of night. The claw catches on the bone of his shoulder before he finally breaks through it. It snaps, the line breaks, and he wishes he could land.
Instead, he keeps running.
He remembers.
He answers.
He calls.
His soul rattles, screaming into the void so it screams back. Tear stained face, bloodied body, torn muscles— He prays Etho feels not an ounce.
In his fogged up state, Joel realizes too late, unable to stop himself from plummeting off the cliff. From one second to the next, the ground stops existing under his feet and he splashes. Cold shocks his body before it burns, he sinks, he sinks—
Lava.
It burns.
It melts.
He gasps for air when he breaks the surface, losing feeling of his body as he loses himself. Lost in the the dead of night, lost somewhere in the world, he looks up and a thousand burning eyes stare back at him—
The crowd laugh and cheer when he is too weak, when every blink takes longer to recover from. A voice, it calls to him—
Still, he wakes up in darkness, jolted awake with sweat on his brow. His body aches and his lungs cannot quite fill up when he heaves.
Warmth. A light. Dim—
“Settle down. Aren’t you tired?”
No, not darkness. There is the dim light of a candle nearby, Joel does not bother finding it; instead, he finds the voice, follows it until he faces him.
Etho.
His soulmate.
Former?
Etho does not question the silence nor tries to fill it in. Despite their whole thing this Hermitcraft season, Etho is content to not play along right now. Joel almost finds it odd, if it were not for the fact that he feels relief. Relief at the mere sight of him.
Etho chuckles as he hands him a cup of water, “Drink up. Though you had plenty of water already.”
Joel accepts the cup and gulps it down, only acknowledging his thirst once the cup is empty. He looks at Etho with big eyes and a pathetic look, and Etho gives him his cup. When he finishes Etho’s cup too, he clinks the cups, eyes fixed on them rather than his companion. He thinks about Etho’s words, but before he can ask, Etho is sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, watching as always.
He clinks the cups one more time then asks, “It didn’t happen, did it?”
A second, then another, then an answer. Quiet, hushed, sweet. “No.”
“I…”
“Ran into the river. I…” Etho pauses, Joel is scared to look. “You were sinking. Almost halfway down when I found you. You… You were so weak and… I… I’m sorry. I should’ve found you sooner.”
That makes Joel look up, unsure if hopeful or confused.
“I had this feeling that you were calling. I didn’t think… Grian… He said it wasn’t supposed to happen—a bug, he called it. Impossible. ” Etho chuckles, dropping his gaze to the side. Joel looks at his naked face, traces the sad smile on his lips, wonders idly about the same things he had thought about back then. How his lips tasted, how it would feel to be held by him, how it would be to be with him. “Grian said it was impossible, and look at us. Still… still tied together.”
“Do you hate it?” Joel asks, quiet and terrified. He feels small and stupid.
Sitting in Etho’s too big bed, wearing clothes that are not his own, holding two empty cups. Staring at his former soulmate—this stranger turned soulmate turned enemy. I love you, Etho had said last game, Joel hung onto the words even if he knew better.
His eyes drop when Etho does not look back, landing on his arms. Scarred skin, burn marks that will stay with them for a while. Not many but some linger, and he feels a patch of skin burn in his own arm. Matching, exactly the same.
Joel thinks about his base, his own bed. He feels tired. The chase must have not been real, but his body is still exhausted.
He must have run circles around the server. Lucky enough to not die to any mob or fall into some ravine. Luckier to still have made his way to Etho as he subconsciously wanted.
Luckiest that Etho found him?
Can he say that?
“Of course I don’t hate it.” The words break Joel out of his trance, head snapping to find Etho looking at him, brow knit. He opens his mouth to say something but Etho gets ahead of him. “You’re tired. And sad, but mostly tired. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I thought you wouldn’t care.”
“Wh–”
“It’s not like you came to me either.”
Etho presses his lips shut, but this time, he holds Joel’s gaze. Joel catches flickering determination in his eyes, specks of fire like the time they had turned Red together. When the Relation-Ship burnt down. He knows that fire, his fire that ignited Etho’s.
“You care,” Joel mouths the statement, hesitation in the background.
“I care,” Etho confirms.
One of the cup rolls between his legs as he drags his now free hand down his face. There is lingering tension on his body with a healthy dose of phantom pain. Etho squints, attentive. Joel worries,
Etho sighs, “I don’t think the soulbound is fully back. I can… feel you, but not like before. It’s like a tug, a weakish one.”
Joel forces himself to relax, even after being told Etho knows , slapping a smirk on his lips. “You feel me? Gee, Eefo, I know this is the first time we are spending alone since Double Life, but—”
He still wavers.
Coward.
“No, no, finish that,” Etho taunts, crossing his arms over his chest in a challenging stance. He quirks an eyebrow, lips mostly a line.
Joel tosses the other cup beside his thigh.
“Come on,” Etho says, and Joel can begin to pick up the laced taunting in his tone, “finish your statement, Joel. I want to know.”
The smile appears eventually, enough to soothe some strain—physical and emotional in equal parts. He finds it odd to be able to stare at his face for so long. He almost laughs at his past self for holding onto those glimpses and brief moments too tightly, so close to his chest. If only past Joel knew he would be able to openly look at Etho's maskless face, he wonders how things would have played out back then.
He still finds it hard to believe.
“But…” he starts, but comes out short with no continuation.
“What if I kissed you? We don’t have to talk. We’re not very good at talking.” Etho offers, and Joel clutches the sheets tight. Etho smirks, “Breathe, Joel. You know how to.”
“Don’t use the soulbound against me!”
“I’m not.”
“You are!”
“You are being dramatic. Have you considered that you are just so easy to read? Or maybe, just maybe I know a little about you? Enough to know your tells.”
“You don’t know anything about me. You haven’t talked to me since Double Life, and the times you have, it’s always been around others. You can’t know me. Double Life was so short. You—”
Etho leaps closer, right knee pressing down on Joel’s right thigh, looking right into his eyes. Heat. Again.
This is how they died. Back in the portal. Surrounded by raining lava, burning up, staring at each other with defeat and acceptance and feelings that went unspoken.
Joel remembers that moment. Has it engraved in his mind, carved with chisel into his very soul and heart. Etho’s face dulled the pain back then—Etho’s presence lights up the fire this time.
A hand cradling his face, slightly cool against burning skin, dizzying heat all around him. The cup rattles as Etho tosses it with the other. Joel finds it hard to breathe, finds it hard to break from the fire and cold of Etho’s eyes, he finds himself entranced and trance and so happily content to be where he is.
Lips scorch his, just a touch that has them breathing into each other. A sigh, relief, satisfaction. Etho goes for another, longer, lingering. His body pushes forward too, free arm wrapped around his side, messing up the sheets under them even more. Joel wants to kick them off, but he also wants to push back, kiss him back like he has always dreamed about.
Rather, his head falls back as heat trickles down from the corners of his lips to his jaw, pooling around his neck. He closes his eyes and he sees red, shallow breaths and sighs as lips nip on skin. His body stutters when Etho kisses the underside of his jaw, trailing up under his ear where teeth teases shudder from his lips.
Wet lips lock on his again, leaving his neck burning without attention.
Joel kisses back, a new kind of burning that numbs his mind. The night stays sleepless but the memories are quieter after.