Work Text:
Stolen Moments
🖤 💛 ❤️
In the moments between (What moments there are), there are truths undeniable, which can never be denied. Martyn’s base does not have a bed. It is very cold outside. There’s a warden prowling through the river at the bottom of the ravine, guarding the entrance to his base as it is. And when morning comes, Cleo will break the bed (Like they always do), and Martyn’s next death won’t respawn him in his own base, but way across the map. Because Martyn’s base does not have a bed.
There are some truths that are deniable, which will very much be denied. The crook of Martyn’s arm against their back, for one thing. The soft circles he traces between their shoulder blades with the palm of his hand. It’s a little too hot beneath the blankets, but survivable, sure. Few things are survivable once Martyn gets involved, but at least she never worries in the bedroom. Martyn is allowed to sleep here, and he is allowed to touch. Lightly, for cuddling. He smells like cows from butchering them for his daily food over by the Homewreckers’ mid-century modern manor. And horses, from poking around Box, where Ren’s always there to regale him with tales of wonder and adventure. He smells like chips of sulfur from the Nether blocks that make up his base. What do I smell like? Cleo wonders, groggy and absent-minded. Maybe a little leather, from the friendship bracelet she made alongside Scott? Flowers, from the ones they pieced into crowns to wear atop their hair?
Boundaries have been set to ensure that’s the end of it. And this is undeniable. It will not be denied.
Martyn’s drifting along the cusp of sleep. His face is turned towards them, though. Cleo cracks their eyelids open just enough to study the dark circles that ring his eyes. Tufts of grass are tangled in his haystack hair. He needs a bath, but they all do; no judgment here. That warden in the river’s made it a real uphill battle to fill their buckets up again, let along bring down the soap. Boat Boys have tried it. Cleo caught a glimpse once of Joel, whooping and streaking bare naked as he slid down the dirt hill, while Etho watched from much higher up the cliffs in full armor, a fishing pole in hand. Was that his plan, y’think? That he could snag his runaway soulmate on the hook and pull him to safety before the warden could boom?
Scott’s been going for water. He rolls up his sleeves, dresses in full gear, and creeps when he’s getting close. Cleo pointed out that he could just use the water from the farm and mix it with a little soap, y’know - get by on that - but he made a face at the thought of mud sticking in his hair. He might still be over there in his house right now, scrubbing clothes against a wooden board. He used to have a proper washboard, but Pearl took that in the divorce. By breaking into his house and stealing nothing else but the one thing she knew would really get under her soulmate’s freckled skin.
Martyn’s a pain, Cleo reflects, even as his warm body’s pressed against her, but he’s not been thieving, I think. Martyn does tease, but at least he’s open about it. Attention-seeking. Makes it easy to keep an eye on him, you know? If he’s been skimming supplies off the top, Cleo certainly hasn’t noticed… but then, that’s why we build secret Red Life bunkers, isn’t it?
Martyn’s still dressed. Not in his hoodie, but in a white undershirt that smells of sweat, though Cleo’s seen him wash it enough times to trust he bothers to do so when there’s not a warden stalking him like prey down where the water runs. The tough fabric of his trousers can’t be very comfortable, but he didn’t complain or even ask if he could take them off. Just stumbled into Cleo’s base with the backpack containing every little thing he managed to yoink from his base, slumped into a chair, and stared at the ceiling for two minutes before he properly said ‘Hello’ and shucked most the armor off. Cleo wonders if that’s what she is to him, in some way. A safe place to run when the world outside is bitter, and where Martyn feels comfortable picking up supplies before bounding off again to face a big and scary world.
I’m all right with that. At being the landing pad. So long as touch stays superficial, it’s good for the goose and the gander alike.
Martyn’s low, soft breath suggests he’s still awake, but drifting fast. Idly, Cleo studies his fingertips. Martyn’s head rests atop his arm, and of course he’s got the other one slowing movement on her back. A sort of bellow echoes outside the house then - something like a honk and something like a whinny - and Martyn’s fingers tighten in a ball. So he is awake. Cleo shifts against their pillow, blinking in the evening glow of low-burning torchlight.
“Tch. Glen and Schmoobles are still going at it out there. Nipping.”
Martyn exhales. His breath is warm. Fresher tonight than usual, actually; Cleo crafted him a toothbrush and shoved it in his hand, telling him to use it if he wanted to last much longer in her base. “Mmhm… I think they just snort and bite to show they care. Reminds me of someone else I know.”
“Har har… I’m serious. It’s your turn to put their blinders on.”
“Mmuh,” he huffs. There’s thickness in the blankets. It feels like a real comforter in a real home. Cleo likes them thicker… She prefers the weighted kind, which spins a lot of “buried underground” thoughts through their head, but this works just as well. And, well… the extra puffiness makes it easier to separate herself from Martyn, when she wants to. He’s being good tonight, but sometimes, you’d swear he’s got snakes for hands: wriggling. When Cleo parts their eyes again, low-burning torches make the shadows flicker on the walls. Outside, crickets chirp-chirp-chirp… chirp-chirp-chirp.
Martyn’s weight presses on the other side of the mattress as he sits up. “Let’s go move a donkey,” he mutters to no one, and crosses the bedroom barefoot. Every step of skin scraping wood sparks the back of Cleo’s neck. She scrunches tighter in the blankets, wrapped in a cocoon.
It’s fine. No one sneaking in. Just Martyn walking off. It’s night. There are no monsters nearby, even though they’ve both been waging war just to fall asleep.
Martyn lets himself out through the creaky front door. His feet scuff through grass and flowers, and Cleo can hear him clicking his tongue at Glen. Calling Schmoobles by name. Both donkeys huff, grunting back at him, but Martyn keeps his voice low and even anyway.
“Hey, hey… Yeah, that’s it. Look, there’s enough for both of you. You don’t have to fight.”
He’s good with them. Not that it really matters. Cleo uncurls, stretching limbs across the double bed in all directions, then rolls over in a way that tightens the blankets nicely up. Martyn keeps talking to the donkeys. Cleo hears their whines and stomps as he separates them, tying them to different positions on the wall where they won’t nip and kick each other. And then… quiet.
… Is he not coming back? Cleo hones her focus. It’s night outside. Pretty thin moon. What’s Martyn looking at? His communicator, catching up on messages to friends? His base, floating out there in the ravine?
She doesn’t know. It’s a couple more minutes before trekking feet wander back to her again. The same squeak of the front door. The pat of bare soles against the wood. Cleo could ask him what caught his attention for a moment too long. Why he went so quiet, unmoving, on the other side of the wall. The mattress dips as Martyn climbs back on, and Cleo reluctantly sheds enough of the comforter that he can comfortably crawl beneath it once again.
“Thanks for roleplaying with me,” she murmurs in the quiet. “I know it’s not a good look.”
Martyn hums. “Aw, Cleo… It’s just the game we play. You’re so-? … Well, c’mere, you. Yeah, that’s it. There we go…”