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The voices were surprisingly quiet today.
No whispers reminding him of how badly he’d messed up. No bitter self-deprecating thoughts scraping at the edges of his mind. Even the swords themselves had fallen silent, their usual presence dimmed.
The Icedagger’s familiar chill wasn’t gnawing into his bones.
The Venomshank wasn’t leaking that slow, suffocating poison into his thoughts.
Ghostwalker’s numbness hadn’t crept over him, and even Firebrand’s gnawing guilt—the one that usually screamed the loudest—had dulled into something faint, daresay almost bearable.
It was strange.
After the events with the Firebrand, he’d surprised even himself by accepting Griefer’s offer to hang out. Maybe it was desperation, maybe it was just exhaustion. Either way, he found himself standing in rooms he never thought he’d set foot in—rooms lit by laughter, music, and celebration.
He’d even gone so far as to show up at Mayor Thaniyel’s party, thrown in honor of his son’s freedom from that grotesque fate—no longer stuck being a Bubonic Plant.
Despite it feeling wrong to stand there among people who were laughing, celebrating life, while he carried the weight of every blade and every mistake strapped to his back— It was was okay.
Because he had Griefer by his side throughout the party. And so after everything; Griefer had told the hero to take care of himself. Going as far as pointing out that he should take a rest. Atleast for one day. As the thought stuck— during the party, he even managed to witness the now-half-plant man finish a whole cake all for and by himself.
Player's lips tug into a fond smile, remembering the sight. Only to shake his head, trying to focus:
Self-care day.
He paused in front of the shelves stacked with snacks, eyes flicking from the glossy packaging to the crumpled paper in his hand. The list was neat, practical—vegetables, rice, chicken, oil, seasonings. Everything essential. Everything that screamed responsibility. The kind of list Kitchen Wizard himself had drilled into him, complete with notes about “balanced meals” and “actual nutrients.”
Player tightened his grip on the list. Vegetables, rice, chicken.
Then his other hand reached out anyway, grabbing one bag… then two, because balance was important, right? If he was going to buy vegetables, surely he deserved chips to counter them out. That was how nutrition worked… probably. How was he supposed to know? He doesn't remember eating actual food that wasn't gulped down mid-battle.
He reminded himself; if Kitchen Wizard could lecture him endlessly about cooking techniques, measurements, and the importance of a “proper broth base,” then he had every right to lecture himself about treating his own mental health.
Or at least, that was the excuse he decided on to justify the creeping pile of snacks. If the Wizard ever found out what Player had been doing to himself all this time—skipping meals, running on fumes, living off salt packets and stubbornness—he’d probably get an earful longer than the recipe list he was carrying.
The paper crumpled deeper into his fist as the cart slowly, inevitably, filled with shiny wrappers that caught the fluorescent light like treasure hoards.
Each crinkle of plastic sounded suspiciously like guilt, but he ignored it, tossing in another pack for good measure. He could already hear Griefer laughing at the sight, but… well, maybe that wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
Player remembered his friend’s unimpressed face bathed in moonlight the night before, sharp features softened by the pale glow. His own head had been resting against Griefer’s shoulder, the kind of position he never would’ve admitted to enjoying, while the man gave him a scolding—one that felt less like nagging and more like a reality check wrapped in warmth. Griefer’s voice had been stern, sure, but also stupidly soft, ringing steady through the tranquil hush of the night.
("Y0U KN0W... Y0U SH0ULD T4K3 C4R3 0F Y0URS3LF M0R3, PUNK."
"...Huh?"
"H4H? D0N'T 'HUH' M3. Y0U 4ND 1 B0TH KN0W Y0U'R3 N0T T4K1NG C4R3 0F Y0URS3LF 3N0UGH," A frown making it's way to the other man's face, pulling away just so Player can see. "W3'R3 N0T STUP1D. Y0U KN0W? 3V3RY0N3 C4N S33 1T 1N JUST 0N3 GL4NC3."
"Griefer, look— it's nothing serious. Really."
"W3LL, 1M B31NG S3R10US. G3T Y0UR SH1T T0G3TH3R. 0N3 R3ST D4Y W0N'T HURT.")
And maybe—just maybe—he was right.
A creeping sense of déjà vu washed over him, heavy and unpleasant. He’d been here before—different aisle, same mistake. Last time, he’d grabbed the wrong bottle— the whole kitchen blew up and the chef had given him the kind of look that could sear a hole through stone.
He seriously didn’t need a repeat of that lecture.
Player grimaced. No way was he letting some slip up repeat itself. He slid the bottle back onto the shelf with deliberate care, as if the act alone could erase his almost-mistake, then crouched slightly, eyes scanning along the rows of labels like a man on a mission.
It should be somewhere there—somewhere among the endless shades of crimson—was the exact one he needed. The correct shade. The right brand. The one that wouldn’t get him killed by the Wizard’s disappointed stare.
“Figures…” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair before moving forward again. “Swords help me if I mess this up twice.”
So here the tale-told hero was—basket in hand, weaving through aisles with an expression caught somewhere between determination and disbelief. For once, it wasn’t overflowing with items he needed for adventure stacked like bricks of survival. No, this time he was actually picking up groceries meant for real meals—vegetables, spices, even a suspiciously healthy-looking loaf of bread. The kind of things that suggested he was finally, maybe, trying to live rather than just endure.
—
Spoiler alert: Player might have underestimated himself.
Actually, underestimated was putting it lightly. He had walked into the store with the mindset of a guy on a mission: one basket, grab ingredients, essentials, maybe buy a few more things along the way since he needed balance.
Simple. Efficient. Foolproof. Even with him writing the list down he rehearsed in his head— The usual for many, but not too usual for the hero. And so for a while, he stuck to it. The first basket was neat, organized, respectable. A responsible buyer's basket.
But then—he passed by the snack aisle a second time.
Player reached for a bag of chips, glanced down at his basket’s more “respectable” contents, hesitated for a moment… then tossed it in anyway. He wasn’t about to suddenly transform into some perfect home cook who prepped balanced meals three times a day. Not after months of starving himself half the time and running his body into the ground the other half. Honestly, forcing a sudden change like that would probably do more damage than good—even if he wasn’t exactly a doctor.
(And really, if the amount of self-neglect and battle scars he’d racked up by now wasn’t already a warning sign, then what was?)
The hero paused, considering. Then, with the kind of logic only exhaustion could justify, he grabbed another bag—different flavor, of course. Diversity was important in a diet. It would… help him eat more. That counted as progress, didn’t it?
He stood there for a beat longer, the faint echo of Griefer’s voice in his head calling him out for the excuse, Player glanced down a bit at the easy access pocket on his backpack, glaring at where Griefer's callcard was before sighing and rolling the cart forward.
—
A few steps later, he spotted discounted instant noodles. And hey, drinks were on sale too, so he made sure to go buy a few packs of bloxy cola for himself and Witch Brew for Griefer. Slowly, without realizing it, he shifted from normal ingredients and grocery shopping to something akin to a dragon hoarding.
By the time he snapped out of it, his basket was creaking under the weight. With a grimace, he upgraded to a cart, telling himself it was just for convenience.
..Except now the cart had chips stacked like a fortress, towers of soda, and enough candy to fuel an army. The original basket looked pitiful beside it, reduced to a tiny island of eggs, rice, and vegetables drowning in a sea of junk food.
Not like he gave a shit, he probably won't eat all of that anyway.
And when even the cart overflowed, he picked up two more baskets.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could already hear Griefer’s voice mocking him. That smug, drawling tone pointing out the ridiculous state of his cart.
Player groaned under his breath, shoving another bag of cookies into the pile, trying to ignore the phantom commentary. He knew it wasn’t real. Just his brain supplying the usual banter on its own, because apparently, Griefer had carved out permanent rent-free space up there.
But then—like some sick cosmic punchline—the universe decided to mess with him. When Player reached into the easy-access pocket of his bag to check his inventory index and make room for yet another snack, something else slipped loose. A familiar battered card fluttered down onto the polished grocery store floor.
The call card. Griefer’s.
The one with his messy, barely legible scrawl mix of numbers and letters across the back of the card scribbled "D0N'T L0S3 1T, PUNK"
Well, atleast he wouldn't have to worry about bantering with just himself anymore.
But still. Woops.
The card briefly lit up before Griefer came crashing down, landing directly in front of the hero with a pose. Thank the swords Player had his arms full with three baskets and a shopping cart; if he’d bent over to pick the card back up, Griefer probably would’ve fell on him.
Player let out a snicker, unable to help himself. He could tell—oh, he could most definitely tell—that Griefer had practiced that landing. It wasn’t just a jump; it was precise and an admittedly smooth move, like he’d been rehearsing in the mirror for weeks. A flip, a twist, then that classic three-point superhero pose that every rookie thought was cool.
And to his credit? It did look cool.
Of course it was a Griefer thing to do. All flash, all style, like he was auditioning for the lead role in some big cinematic blockbuster. The dramatic fall from above, the landing pose that screamed “look at me,” and even the way his vines and leaves rustled at his back, moving in perfect rhythm as though he’d timed the gusts from the grocery store’s air conditioning to cooperate.
For a second—just a second—Player actually wondered if Griefer had scouted the building beforehand, choreographed the whole performance, and bribed the AC unit into working with him. Because it was that precise.
‘He’s right in front of you. Say something.’
Player shifted the weight of his absurdly overfilled haul against his hip, one arm trying to keep a fortress of chips from sliding off the cart, the other still clutching his list like a lifeline. He raised a brow, the corners of his mouth twitching up into something dangerously close to a smirk.
“Really?” he drawled, tone deliberately slow, as if weighing each syllable. “You’ve been practicing that in your crib while I was gone or what?”
Griefer didn’t budge. He stayed frozen in that ridiculous landing stance, shoulders squared, head tilted just enough to catch the fluorescent lights overhead like some budget spotlight. The grin tugging at his mouth ruined any chance of taking him seriously, though.
"J34L0US 1M C00L3R TH4N Y0U, PUNK?"
Player’s heart gave an annoying little stutter, beating faster—way faster than it had any right to—his mind replaying the scene when Griefer came striding right out of the call card as if the damn thing was a stage curtain. But the hero quickly willed his heart to a stop, shoved his feelings deep down he hoped even the swords whispering in his head wouldn’t be able to dig it back up.
'Damn it player. Keep it cool.'
Player rolled his eyes, though the tips of his ears betrayed him by heating up. “Yeah, keep dreaming.” He shoved his cart forward as if the motion itself could drown out the flutter in his chest. “The day I start taking pointers from you on ‘badass entrances’ is the day I forget how to walk in a straight line.”
Griefer rolled his eyes once, closing it as he dusted himself off with the casual flourish of someone pretending that the landing wouldn't have scuffed any other normal robloxian's knee, then swung his crowbar up in a sharp motion—blocking Player from the 'enemy' he was called in to fight against.
(Except there wasn’t one.)
Griefer tilted his cap up, finally—finally—using his damn visionary organ to look at what was actually in front of them. A gleam emenating from his eyes that made the half-plant man totally badass if it were in an actual battle, or any situation that wasn't this one.
Griefer planted his feet firmly, crowbar ready, and as if on cue, bellowed, voice echoing through the aisle:
“YOU’R3 OURS! L3T’S T4G—”
The sentence stumbled out of his mouth and broke apart mid-shout. His jaw clicked shut so fast Player swore he heard it. Griefer stood up straighter, crowbar slackening until his hand let it fall naturally against his leg. He blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.
Maybe the enemy was planning a sneak attack on Player— He still had to be wary. So Griefer's gaze darted to the left. To the right. Forward.
People.
Just people.
And then even more people.
A middle-aged woman with a basket of fruit staring at him like he’d grown two heads. A kid tugging on his dad’s sleeve whispering “Papa? What's wrong with that guy?” under his breath. An employee frozen halfway through stocking cereal boxes, holding a box of cornflakes as if he was caught mid-robbery and not doing the daily routine of stocking up things.
Griefer’s head whipped around again, scanning every aisle, every corner, every shelf. There had to be an enemy. There was no way—absolutely no way—he misread the signal. He’d just done a whole dramatic entrance, a practiced speech, and landed in a grocery store like a one-man action movie trailer… for what?
But everywhere he looked, all he saw were stares. Awkward silence pressing in on him. Shoppers edging their carts away like he was some kind of feral animal that had wandered in off the street.
He straightened, vines twitching in restless irritation, and the air of confidence he always wore like armor began to crack under the weight of a hundred questioning stares. Even the automatic announcement over the intercom—“Cleanup needed in aisle five”—sounded like mockery aimed directly at him.
The kid was still whispering. The cereal employee finally blinked and carefully, slowly, slid the box of cornflakes onto the shelf like if he made any sudden moves, Griefer might pounce.
Griefer groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
And then—faint but unmistakable—the sound. Player. Snickering first, then outright choking on laughter he could no longer contain.
Griefer froze. Heat crept up his neck and into his cheeks, a faint pink that spread fast as he sputtered, scowled, and finally swung his arm up to jab an accusatory finger right at his so-called ally.
“Y0U!” he barked, voice cracking somewhere between outrage and embarrassment. “D0N’T Y0U D4R3 L4UGH AT M3!”
Even more stares from the people shopping which, of course, only made Player laugh harder—baskets rattling against his arms, cart shaking as he wheezed and doubled over.
The more Griefer tried to salvage his dignity, the faster it crumbled. He stamped his foot, words tripping over themselves in his mouth.
“Y0U S3T M3 UP! Y0U KNEW! Y0U—Y0U—Y0U PL4NN3D TH1S, D1DN’T Y0U?! Y0U S3T M3 UP T0 F41L!"
Player blinked, trying to speak through his fit of laughter.
“What? No I didn’t.”
“TH3 H3LL Y0U M34N Y0U D1DN’T??” Griefer jabbed a finger at him, voice rising with every syllable. “Y0U US3D MY C4LLC4RD F0R…”
He trailed off, lips pursing as he gestured vaguely at the ridiculous sight before him: Player with a shopping cart stacked to the brim and three baskets dangling from his arms like overburdened ornaments.
“—F0R WH3T3V3R Y0U’R3 SH0PP1NG F0R!” he finished, indignant.
Player opened his mouth, but before he could get a word in, Griefer was already shoving his crowbar behind his back—(seriously, where the hell did it go? Does he use velcro on his back to his crowbar or something?)—and grabbing hold of him with both hands.
“Hey—HEY—wait—” Player protested as Griefer shook him, hard enough to rattle the baskets against his sides and make the tower of chips in his cart wobble dangerously.
“D0 Y0U H4V3 4NY 1D34 H0W STUP1D 1 L00K3D JUST N0W???” Griefer snarled, jostling him with every word.
Player snorted, his grip tightening on the cart to keep it steady. Smirking just to ragebait the already embarrassed Griefer, keeping a flat tone as if stating something obvious:
“Buddy, I think you looked stupid way before the landing.”
“SHUT 1T!”
The harder Griefer tried to salvage the scene, the more it spiraled. His foot stomped again. His finger jabbed the air, then Player, then the ceiling—like the ceiling itself might testify in his favor. "1T W4S SUPP0S3D T0 B3 EP1C! Y0U RU1N3D 1T, Y0U J3RK!”
Player gasped for breath, tears pricking his eyes, grin stretched so wide it hurt. “Epic, huh?” He hiccupped a laugh, straightening only slightly. “Yeah. Epic embarrassment..!"
The cart wobbled again. A bag of chips slid off the top, hit the floor, and burst open with a pop, showering their shoes with crumbs.
The crowd watching from the aisle gasped, like they’d just witnessed a crime. An old man muttered something about hooligans. One of the staff groaning as they have to clean up the mess.
Player groaned, adjusting the weight of the baskets on his arms. “Dude. Self-care day. You said to take a day off, so here I am!”
Griefer froze mid-accusation, blinking at him.
"Y0U.. Y0U'R3 4CTU4LLY T4K1NG MY 4DV1C3 4ND R3ST?"
Then, slowly, he tilted his head, one brow arched high under the brim of his cap. Rephrasing his words.
“Y0U W4NT T0 SP3ND Y0UR D4Y 0FF… W1TH M3?” His tone dripped with mock suspicion, the judgy look on his face almost cartoonish.
Player hesitated. The obvious answer perched on the tip of his tongue—no, of course not, don’t flatter yourself—but he could already imagine the way Griefer would wilt, embarrassed all over again. And after that landing stunt? He’d had enough humiliation for one day.
So instead, Player nodded, forcing his shoulders into a casual shrug. “Yeah, totes do.”
Silence.
Then Griefer squinted, his lips twitching. “W3 L1T3R4LLY JUST HUNG 0UT Y3ST3RD4Y.”
“…So?” Player shot back, feigning innocence, though his grip on the cart tightened a little too much.
And oh boy. Things started to turn 180° faster than he could ever counter or parry an attack.
That was all the opening the former Bubonic Plant needed. His grin unfurled slow and wide, red fangs catching the fluorescent lights overhead. He leaned in just enough to be irritating. “4WWWW. M1SS3D M3 0R S0M3TH1NG? TH4T’S CUT3.”
And damn. Player could feel it—the heat threatening to crawl up his neck, into his face, the kind of warmth he had no business feeling right now. He ducked his head quickly, pretending to check the groceries in his cart, hoping Griefer wouldn’t notice.
Of course, Griefer noticed everything.
The smirk only grew sharper.
Player ducked his head, pretending to check if his tower of chips was still balanced. It wasn’t. But it also gave him an excuse not to look at Griefer’s smug grin. Also picking up the scattered chips across the floor on his way.
“Dude, don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered. “I’m just being nice. Like the very nice guy that I am.”
Griefer leaned closer, shadow spilling across the cart. “N1CE? T0 M3?” He tilted his head, voice lilting with mock disbelief. “1N TH1S 3C0N0MY? W1TH Y0UR L0N3 W0LF P3RS0N4L1TY? 3V3N 1F 1 KN3W B3TT3R, TH4T S0UNDS L0T L1K3 Y34RN1NG, H3R0.”
Player huffed, pushing the cart forward, wheels squeaking under the weight, but Griefer sidestepped easily, shadowing him like it was second nature. His steps were annoyingly casual, that familiar swagger in every movement, eyes glinting red with mischief that screamed trouble.
“Y0U KN0W,” Griefer drawled, tapping his crowbar lazily against his shoulder, the metallic clink echoing through the aisle like a warning bell, “1F Y0U M1SS3D M3 TH1S MUCH, Y0U C0ULD’V3 JUST S4ID S0.” He gestured broadly at the fluorescent lights, the shelves lined with cereal, the startled shoppers still peeking from behind their carts. “N0 N33D T0 DR4G M3 1NT0—” his hand swept theatrically across the store, “—TH1S DOM3ST1C GR0C3RY D4T3. 1 M34N, WH4T C4N 1 S4Y? 1 KN0W 1M H0T.”
Player nearly tripped over the cart.
"It's— Not a date!"
But Griefer just ignored him.
“Y0U 3V3N B0UGHT MY DR1NK 0F CH0IC3." The man points at the pack of Witches Brew in Player's shopping cart.
"YOU B0UGHT THAT F0R M3, D1DN'T Y0U? 1F TH4T 1SN’T L0V3, TH3N WH4T 1S?”
Player’s face went from pink to crimson. He could practically feel the heat rolling off his skin. “It’s called being considerate!” he snapped back, glaring at him without actual heat in his words.
“T00 L4T3,” Griefer sang, grinning ear to ear, loud enough for half the aisle to hear. “W3’R3 0FF1C14LLY TH3 CUT3ST C0UPL3 SH0PP1NG T0N1GHT.”
That shut him up. Heat bloomed traitorously across his cheeks again, and he shoved the cart forward faster, hoping motion would hide it. Because Griefer's words were supposed to be teasing. But with the way he said it made butterflies flutter and dance inside of his stomach and chest.
The hero thought staying silent would've been the solution. But no. Instead, Griefer only laughed louder, throwing his head back like Player had just handed him the best joke of the day. The sound echoed between the aisles, easy and unrestrained, earning a curious, annoyed glance or two from nearby shoppers.
Player groaned and shoved the cart forward, rattling wheels squeaking like they shared his frustration. He pushed it almost like a shield, something to wedge between him and that grin, that stupid smug grin that clung like static.
“Could you not—” Player muttered, voice low, as if saying it quieter might erase the embarrassment.
But Griefer was already strolling up beside him, matching his pace with infuriating ease. One hand in his pockets, the other hand fiddling with his crowbar, shoulders loose, like he had all the time in the world. He didn’t even need words—just that grin, sharp and playful, fangs flashing every time Player dared glance at him.
A beat passed.
And then Griefer opens his mouth to speak. Drawing it out.
"S0000.. WHY'D Y0U N0D S0 3NTHUS14ST1C4LLY WH3N 1 4SK3D F0R C0NF1RM4T10N TH4T Y0U W4NT3D T0 SP3ND Y0UR R3ST D4Y H4NG1NG 0UT W1TH M3?”
"I did NOT nod 'enthusiastically'." The hero scoffed out before quickly adding “And I nodded because saying no would’ve made you look pathetic,” a little too quick, a little too defensive.
Griefer barked out a laugh, sharp and delighted, like Player had handed him a gift wrapped in ribbon.
“SUR3 SUR3.” He leaned in, walking close enough that they were walking side by side. “S0 WH4T Y0U'R3 S4Y1NG 1S—Y0U C4R3 3N0UGH 4B0UT MY 3M0T10NS T0 PR0T3CT TH3M?"
Player huffed, eyes fixed firmly ahead, jaw tight, still flustered as hell. “Don’t twist it.”
“0H, 1M G0NN4 TW1ST, WR1NG 1T T1LL 1T DR1PS” Griefer’s smirk curved wide, fangs glinting in the fluorescent light. He tilted his head just enough to catch Player’s eye, daring him to look away. “F4C3 1T, PUNK. JUST 4DM1T Y0U M1SS3D M3."
“You’re imagining things. Hearing voices like back then the first time we met or whatever.” The hero spoke, rolling his eyes, trying to brush it off as nothing.
Griefer’s grin sharpened, eyes glinting with the kind of mischief that promised trouble.
Griefer hummed, thoughtful, clearly savoring every second of Player’s embarrassment. “4M 1? 4S F4R 4S 1M C0NC3RN3D, 1 D0NT H4V3 TH3 V3N0MSH4NK 0N M3 R1GHT N0W. B3C4US3 Y0U'R3 TH3 0N3 TH4T H4S 1T.” he pointed out. Leaning even closer, just enough that Player averted his gaze when he did.
“That’s—no. That’s not what I meant.” The hero scoffed, voice dropping lower with every word. “I don’t care about your emotions.”
“0H SUR3 MR. 1-D0NT-C4R3-4B0UT-Y0UR-3M0T10NS, WH4T 4B0UT TH4T T1M3 WH3N Y0U T0LD M3 Y0U H34RD MY V01C3 1N Y0UR H34D— L4ST T1M3 W3 HUNG 0UT?” he drawled, stepping just close enough that Player felt the faint brush of his sleeve.
“Y'KNOW, Y0U’R3 BLUSH1NG, H3R0.” Griefer commented, grin splitting wider as he tilted his head just enough to catch Player’s expression out of the corner of his eye.
“I’m not blushing!” Player snapped, louder than he meant to, which only made it worse. The heat on his face flared hotter, undeniable.
And Griefer, of course, only laughed harder.
Player’s grip on the cart handle went tight enough to whiten his knuckles. He swallowed hard, forcing out a weak, “It’s just… hot in here.”
“UH HUH..” Griefer pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, his smirk slow and dangerous, his gaze flicking over to the air conditioning at the side of the store, currently blasting out cold winds. He dragged the pause, cocking his head to the side, grin wide and wolfish like he’d just found the perfect string to tug on, but ultimately decided that maybe Player was (probably) already embarrassed enough.
“WH4T3V3R Y0U S4Y, PUNK."
Player hated that his face was burning even hotter now.
—
"Hey, Grief."
The hero called out after they finished doing groceries. Now Brad is stuck with holding plastic bags full of chips. And so is Player with a few more plastic bags and a shopping cart.
("DUD3 JUST L3T M3 H3LP Y0U C4RRY TH0S3 PL4ST1C B4GS."
"I can carry them all by myself just fine."
"1 C4N L1T3R4LLY S33 Y0UR 4RMS W0BBL1NG."
"Pffft.. No it's not.."
"JUST L3T M3 G3T S0M3 0F TH3 D4MN3D B4GS!")
But then the staff had stepped in. A polite cough, a pointed glance, and a gentle but unmistakable request that they “dial it down a little, please.” Apparently, two idiots arguing with mostly tagged words and snark across the snack aisle wasn’t ideal for the overall shopping atmosphere.
So the whole performance had been cut short.
That was why he’d called out. Just to… fill the silence. Keep it from settling.
Griefer glanced over, eyebrows arching in curiosity, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as if ready to pounce on whatever came next.
And suddenly Player realized he hadn’t actually planned what he was going to say.
“Y34H?”
Player hesitated, weighing his words like they were heavier than he wanted to admit. His fingers tightened on the cart handle, knuckles pale, before he finally let the thought slip out.
“Why are you still here?”
The question hung in the air longer than it should have, hovering between them like a misplaced checkpoint marker. For a moment, Griefer’s smirk faltered, brows pulling together as though the hero had just spoken in a language he wasn’t supposed to understand.
“WH4T? WH4T D0 Y0U M34N, ‘WHY 4M 1 ST1LL H3R3?’” Griefer’s response came out a little louder than necessary, a half-second, very confused. He threw his arms out, nearly dropping a good amount of chips from the bags dangling from his arms.
“1’M ST1LL H3R3 B3C4US3 1 H4V3 N0 1D34 H0W T0 G0 B4CK”
Griefer’s words ended off with a shrug, casual, almost careless—like he wasn’t admitting something that carried far more weight than he wanted it to.
“S0 1’M M4K1NG TH3 M0ST 0F 1T… BY 4NN0Y1NG Y0U.”
The smirk was there, sharp and cocky as always, but a beat too quick, too practiced. His fallback armor. The grin that told everyone what exactly was his personality.
(Another reason—one he’d never say out loud—was that something inside of him warmed whenever he stayed close to Player. A steady heat that curled at the edges of his chest, blooming with a stubbornness he couldn’t snuff out. Not that Griefer would ever admit to that. Let alone say it in front of the hero’s face.
Because how could he explain the way it happened? The way his own body betrayed him, sprouting flowers he had no control over—petals pushing through, alongside the vines growing out of his skin, delicate and soft where he was supposed to be rad, cool and dangerous.
They bloomed and unfurled whenever Player leaned just a little too close, whenever a compliment slipped past the hero’s lips, whenever he offered reassurance in that quiet, unshakable way that made Griefer’s defenses wobble.
Even worse, the flowers bloomed when Player wasn’t there—when Griefer caught himself thinking about him during long silences, or waiting while the hero was out chasing down another one of those cursed SFOTH swords. The blossoms pressed insistently against his ribs like a secret he couldn’t contain, each petal a reminder of feelings he refused to name.
—
"D03S TH3S3 V1N3S M4K3 M3 L00K C00L?"
"Yeah, sure."
The amount of times he wanted to kiss the other man during their hangouts was embarrassingly too much to count.)
Player raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Wow.. I never really realized how you went from trying to kill me to just being a thorn on my side. Kind of a downgrade if you ask me.”
“D0WNGR4D3?!” Griefer says. Realizing their transition of being enemies to friends. Trying to save face and reign the conversation again by continuing their playful banter. “TH1S," Griefer gestured vaguely at himself.
"—1S QU4L1TY. 100% PR3M1UM GR4D3D GR13F3R S3RV1C3 Y0U'R3 G3TT1NG, PUNK. PE0PL3 W0ULD K1LL T0 B3 0N TH3 R3C31V1NG 3ND."
Which then earned a snort from Player. “I’m sure they’re lining up.”
“Y34H, 1 KN0W, Y0U'R3 W3LC0M3,” Griefer added smoothly, as if Player had just thanked him.
And there must’ve been something wrong with Player. Because his brain—traitorous, reckless thing—chose that exact moment to fixate. Emphasize. Latch onto him.
The cadence of Griefer’s voice, sharp but lazy, like every word was dipped in sarcasm and confidence. The way he leaned just close enough to crowd his space, daring him to flinch. The way his smirk always looked like he’d already without the game starting just yet— dragging Player along whether he wanted to play or not. The fluorescent light above caught in his eyes, glinting like he had the entire world’s mischief stored inside them.
And worse—way worse—was how natural it felt. Like this wasn’t some one-off encounter, but the rhythm they’d been circling around since the start.
Sure, he was doing a self care day because of the man's word of advice but even he himself wasn't sure if he'd pull through with that plan and not just buy groceries, call it a day, then continue on his adventure for the next sword.
Player’s chest tightened before he even realized it, his mind running too far ahead, far enough that he caught himself thinking how different things would be if he didn't accidentally use Griefer's call card.
The heat betrayed him first, creeping up his neck, flushing his ears until he was sure it had to be visible. It wasn’t fair, the way his own body turned traitor on him whenever Griefer’s voice lingered too long in his ears, or when his grin cut sharp in his direction. He gripped the cart handle tighter, the cheap metal biting into his palms like it was the only thing grounding him back to reality.
He wasn’t supposed to think like this. Not about him.
So he exhaled, rolled his shoulders, and buried it under the same mask he always used. Pretend nothing was wrong, nothing was stirring. Pretend that whatever he was feeling for Griefer meant absolutely nothing at all. And maybe if he repeated that long enough, he might actually believe it.
So he did what he always did best— parrying and countering attacks were the same as deflecting and shoving down his emotions, pretending none of it mattered or ever happened.
Player rolled his eyes, forcing his tone flat and dismissive, masking the twist in his chest.
“You really love hearing yourself talk, don’t you?”
His voice came out steady, almost bored—just enough to make it sound like he wasn’t bothered in the slightest. Just another comeback, just another jab in their endless cycle of banter.
But it was alright. Because if he was being honest with himself— he’d take Griefer’s voice over the whispers of the SFOTH swords any day. Those blades had a way of crawling under his skin, clinging to him like shadows he could never quite shake off.
He’d let that man fill the silence any day. Let him ramble, taunt, gloat, laugh—anything. Because every word, no matter how sharp, anchored him more than the cursed whispers ever could. Griefer’s voice wasn’t a chain, it wasn’t venom, it wasn’t guilt clawing at the edges of his mind.
It was loud. Alive. Unapologetically there.
And Player hated himself a little for it, but he knew deep down—if it came down to choosing between the weight of the swords and the weight of Griefer’s presence—he’d choose Griefer every time.
He’d let that man drag him into endless arguments. He’d let him shove his way into spaces he wasn’t supposed to be in. He’d let himself get caught, over and over again, in the pull of that grin and the spark of that banter.
Because no matter how much he tried to deny it, Griefer made the noise in his head easier to bear.
And Player wasn’t sure if that scared him… or saved him.
"PFFFT. 'C0URS3 1 D0."
'...0nly wh3n y0u’r3 th3 0n3 list3n1ng, punk.'
No matter how much both of them denied it, they couldn’t hide it anymore. Not in the glances that lingered too long. Not in the way silence between them wasn’t silence at all, but a hum buzzing with unsaid things. Not in the heat that rose in Player’s chest whenever Griefer leaned too close, or the way Griefer literally blooms flowers because of his feelings— with his smirk never quite masking the flicker of something softer in his eyes during banters.
They could dance around it all they wanted, bury it under insults, drown it in laughter and cheap banter—but it didn’t change the truth pressing against both of them.
It really was that doomed, four-letter word, huh?
Love.
—
Not bad for a hero's first self care day. Right?