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The wooden gears of his mechanical door creaked and groaned as they pulled the slab of pine open. Mumbo watched from the front step. The door swung slowly towards the living space. It didn't catch on the rug that decorated the floor. It didn't bang back against the wall. Instead, it came to a gentle stop.
Moment of truth. He tapped the rune drawn on the brick walls of his cottage. It flashed a brilliant red, and then the gears began to spin again, just visible near the hinge of the door. Once more, it inched its way back to closed, shutting with a dull thud.
It'd worked.
It'd actually worked.
“Yes! Oh my gosh, yes!” Mumbo laughed, giddy with success. He repeated the tests, tapping the rune to open the door, then tapping it again to close it. Each time, the door moved smoothly, the flow of power from the rune to the system constant. Months of studying the ins and outs of magic, and he'd finally got the interfacing to work.
He had to show Scar.
Tall grass brushed his thighs as he set off into the woods surrounding his cottage. Spring had settled well into the elf's domain, wildflowers blooming in the fields and birds and squirrels darting through the trees above Mumbo. The sun was just beginning to dip in the sky—probably around five in the afternoon, though he'd stopped keeping track of such things when he left the castle—which meant Scar was likely to be returning to his own home for his evening meal.
To Mumbo's left, the stream gurgled, water running fast from the recent rains. He knew this stream well, and drifted closer to follow it uphill to the great oak at the center of the forest.
Fairies clustered around some of the calmer sections of the stream. They paid him no mind, and he tried not to stare. It was not long ago that they'd hidden from his presence, or later, that they'd flitted about his face like gnats, the glittering light of their magic burning into his eyeballs.
Scar had laughed, then, as he did about so many of Mumbo's observations. “They've decided you're not a threat, and now they're curious. They'll grow bored after a month. Humans rarely hold their interest.”
He'd been right. Mumbo'd been a bit hurt when they'd finally given up on him, but the relief of no longer having to worry about accidentally swatting them more than made up for it. People told tales about fairies back in town. They told tales about elves, too, which seemed to have largely been made up, but that hadn't stopped him from worrying about having his name stolen and getting spirited off to Fae for any offenses he may commit.
(Scar insisted that these fairies couldn't whisk him away to Fae. He had a twinkle in his eyes when he said it that spelled mischief, though, so Mumbo had never fully believed him.)
The stream bent sharply to the right. A few rough planks spanned the gap, and these Mumbo crossed to the far bank. Here, the air was sweet with the scent of cinnamon and sugar. It was this scent he followed, past the giant mushrooms strung with lanterns and to the base of Scar's tree.
Even after a year living here, he'd never stopped being in awe at the oak.
It was humongous, towering far above the rest of the canopy with gnarled roots taller than he was. At first, he'd thought it all natural growth, but these days the intentionality of the magic was all too clear to him. It was evident in the way the twin trunks tangled artfully together, making perfect space for the rooms inside, or how knots in the roots formed natural stairs, leading him to the arched doorway at its base. Scar's fingerprints were pressed into every groove of the bark, every leaf bathed gold by the dying sunlight. Mumbo had thought the castle impressive, once, but it was a sad lump of rock compared to this.
Climbing the worn wooden steps to the entrance, he noted how the lanterns embedded in the roots burned emerald. They were reacting to Scar's magic, which meant he must be home.
If that wasn't evidence enough, he could hear crashing from deeper in the tree as he approached. “Jellie, no! Chocolate is not for cats!”
Mumbo smiled to himself. He no longer bothered with knocking on the exterior of the open doorway, instead stepping over the threshold with confidence born of a standing invitation. "Scar? Everything alright up there?" he called.
"In the kitchen!" Scar shouted back, his voice echoing through the curved halls of the tree. Mumbo followed the gentle stairs to the upper level. With one hand, he traced the smooth wood of the walls, warm and welcoming under his touch.
He was greeted in the kitchen by an all too familiar sight. Bags of flour and sugar bearing the names of far-off kingdoms sat open on the table, pushed to the side to make room for a bowl with a spoon sticking out of it. Jellie was crouched at the base of the table, her giant head poking up over the edge of the counter, prevented from getting at the dough only by a scarred hand on her forehead.
Desperately holding Jellie back was Scar.
Elves were said to possess an ethereal beauty. Mumbo had seen players dressed as them at banquets he had been forced to attend, wigs tied back in complex braids, fake ears coming to a fine point, an otherworldly dusting of glitter on their cheeks. The elves in these plays were always eloquently spoken, as wise as their many years would suggest. They breathed magic; they cared not for humans. They were cold and unwelcoming to trespassers.
None of these were ways he would describe Scar.
Not that Scar didn't look like an elf! He had the ears, and his hair was long, though he wore it in a bun right now. Magic danced around him, a shimmer in the air with every movement of the four-legged wooden chair he rode. He was far from ugly, too—ever a smile on his face, with deep green eyes the color of the forest he made his home.
But Scar had always seemed to be so alive. Nothing like those stuffy stories. Mumbo could hear the air catch in his throat as he laughed, see the flour smudged on his robes or (if he were a braver man) reach out and feel the skin of his hands, rough from working the earth.
"—the rest in the cabinet, okay?" Scar was saying. Mumbo was startled to find the remnants of a bar of chocolate shoved into his hands. He didn't have time to process Scar's request, though, before he had twice his weight in cat barreling towards him.
He scrambled for the cabinets carved into the wall. Jellie was close on his heels, slipping her head under his arm in pursuit of the forbidden treat. This was not Mumbo's first time dodging her attacks, though, and the fact that she couldn't get her paw above his head made it easy enough to slide the package onto the topmost shelf.
Sighing, he slammed the door shut. "Thanks for that, Scar." He turned back around to the sound of Scar's snickering from the counter.
"You are most certainly welcome! I know how much you like your Jellie playtime."
The cat in question, having been denied her treat, nuzzled up against Mumbo. Begrudgingly, he scratched behind her ears. Though her sweet tooth was concerning (even if Scar insisted eating cakes was normal for giant cats), she was awfully cute. A purr rumbled in her throat, and Mumbo felt himself smiling.
He glanced up at Scar, who had simply been watching them. His cheek rested on one chocolate-stained hand against the counter. "What brings you here, Mumbo? I wasn't expecting you for dinner. I would have prepared something more filling."
Food, one of the many contradictions that made up Scar. Reportedly, he could live off moonlight and dreams or some such whimsical thing, but preferred baked goods instead. He traded with the merchants who sometimes became lost in these woods for ingredients. Mumbo was glad for it. He made a mean cookie.
"Oh, I'm alright. I've still got rabbit stew on the fire at home," Mumbo said. Then, remembering his new door, he exclaimed, "Right, home! You know the magic-engine interface I've been testing?"
Scar perked up, dropping his hand to his lap as he sat up straighter. "The thingy with the runes and the gears? The one that ripped your door off its hinges a few weeks ago?"
Not his greatest memory, that. He'd considered giving up on this whole magic nonsense and slinking back to his old life as an engineer, where everything made sense.
(Thankfully, he'd had Scar to remind him that these things took time, and also that he'd hated working at the castle enough to pack his bags and flee into the wilderness. Where would Mumbo be without him?)
"Yes, that one. I've got it working!"
"Really?" Scar grinned, far brighter than the lanterns that floated above them. His eyes were wide as he leaned closer to Mumbo. "Please tell me I can see it right now."
"I—er. Yes. Yes!" Facing the brunt of Scar's full attention (something he got more often than he deserved, in his opinion), Mumbo fumbled for his words.
Gods, what a fool he was.
A clear note rang out, like a fork against the rim of a glass. On the side of the counter, previously hidden by the grain of the wood, a rune glowed a light blue. An ice spell of some sort, Mumbo guessed. He recognized the central glyph from one of the first spells he'd tried to use, a cooling spell for his house copied from one of the dusty old books of Scar's library. There was still a patch of freezing-cold air in the corner to this day.
Scar was pulling his hand away from the rune. "There, dough should be fine to chill for a while."
A furry head rubbed up against his palm, which had stilled with his thoughts. Ah, yes. Jellie. He yielded to her demands, letting her get cat hair all over the sleeves of his (admittedly, already dirty) tunic. "Is she not going to eat it?" He gave Scar a pointed look.
"Not if she comes with us! C'mere, Jellie, you wanna go for a ride, don't you?" Scar patted his leg, and she parted with Mumbo, trotting back over to her owner. Without hesitation, she began lapping at the chocolate still melted onto his fingers. He laughed. "That tickles!"
"I think she'd eat your food less if you didn't let her lick your hand clean."
Scar paid no attention to Mumbo, continuing to coo at Jellie. "Aw, was that tasty? You can't have any more, baby, you'll throw up. Yes, you will, yeah!"
The distraction at least gave Mumbo a moment to mentally prepare for what was about to happen. When the doting over Jellie had gone on long enough, he coughed once, drawing Scar's attention back to him. "So, are we leaving?"
"Of course, of course, just—give me a moment here." Scar grabbed Jellie by the scruff. She calmed down and settled on the floor. The legs of Scar's chair warped and bent, circling around her waist as it transformed into a saddle.
The first time he'd seen this happen, he'd been terrified Jellie was about to be eaten by some horrible vine creature. (He'd also been lost in a dark forest, so circumstances had predisposed him to fear, but still.) The motions had grown familiar over time—how Jellie braced herself as the weight of the chair shifted, how magic sparked in the air like it might catch and burn the whole tree down, how Scar's expression softened, eyes shutting as he concentrated, fingers twitching as if pulling at invisible strings.
Seeming satisfied, Scar opened his eyes again. He smiled at Mumbo, a touch more sinister than he'd like. "Come on, now. You're not going to make poor Jellie wait for you, are you, Mumbo?"
Mumbo sighed. There was a reason, he thought, that people used horses for transport and not giant cats. He clambered on behind Scar, grabbing hold of the branches looped around Jellie's waist for stability. "Can we at least go down the stairs this time?"
"Where's the fun in that?" Scar flashed Mumbo a grin over his shoulder. With a click, he urged Jellie down a side hall and out towards an opening onto one of the branches.
It was a long way down to the forest floor, as he knew from experience. Mumbo shut his eyes tightly, squeezing his thighs in a desperate attempt not to fall off. Jellie picked up speed, and then the air was rushing around his ears as they fell, fell, fell, and hit the ground with a jolt.
He hadn't screamed this time, which he felt was a strong improvement.
Jellie didn't pause to let him get his bearings about himself, setting off at a trot as soon as she made her landing. Unlike a horse, which sensibly tried to stick to something resembling a path, Jellie leaped over the rough terrain without a second's hesitation. She'd balance precariously on ridges before springing to the fields below, kicking up pollen that forced Mumbo to let go of one hand to sneeze. It was a bumpy, jerky way to travel, and his many debates with Scar about the matter had yet to have the slightest impact.
Fairies scattered as they jumped the stream and headed downhill to Mumbo's house. Scar provided running commentary on the plants and animals they passed—"That mint patch is spreading," or "Was that an owl call?" or "Look, a badger!" There was no pressure for Mumbo to speak, which was nice, as he was too focused on trying not to feel nauseous to take more than brief glances at the underbrush streaming by.
In the fading light, he didn't realize how close they'd come to his cottage until Scar brought Jellie to a halt. Mumbo wasted no time sliding off her back. The soil beneath his feet was wonderfully stable. "I mean it this time, I'm never getting on that cat again."
"Aww, but she was so well-behaved today! She didn't even try to stalk any birds." Scar's chair creaked and snapped as it disconnected from around Jellie. The process was disconcerting, like a snake uncoiling from around its prey, but he watched it keenly anyway. He'd yet to figure out where the runes were on the chair. They had to be on there—you couldn't channel magic from Fae without a rune—but so far he'd never been able to spot them.
(Scar refused to answer when Mumbo asked. "Magicians never reveal their secrets," he'd said, like he hadn't taught Mumbo everything he knew about magic.)
Some of Mumbo's tools were still scattered around his front steps from when he'd been working earlier. On sore legs, he trudged over and scooped up his notebook and sticks of chalk, shoving them, along with his miscellaneous wrenches and drivers, up against the wall.
"Ta-da," he said, gesturing at the door as he turned back to Scar. "My door."
"Show me how it works!"
"You just press this…" Mumbo groped for the rune, harder to see in the twilight. He'd need to be better about setting a lamp out.
He found it, the little circle lighting up his hands with its glow. The door swung open to his living room, warmed from the modest fire that still crackled in the fireplace. He straightened. "And the door opens! It's the same to close it."
Scar crept closer, squinting at the rune drawn onto the bricks. The lines were shaky, Mumbo knew. Amateurish. An inefficiency that would eventually wear out the mechanisms due to the poorly controlled flow of power. As much as he'd learned not to be nervous about Scar, he still found himself holding his breath, waiting for the critique he ought to know wouldn't come.
Instead, Scar traced a finger over the rune, inches from where Mumbo's hand hovered. The gears groaned against each other, loud in the quiet, as the door shut once more.
"This is amazing," Scar breathed. He gazed up at Mumbo, mouth hanging open in shock. "And anyone can trigger the rune?"
"Theoretically? I haven't had much opportunity to test," Mumbo replied with a laugh. "I'm planning to add another set on the inside."
"Imagine everything you could do with this! Power a plow to till the soil. Make an ax that chops trees on its own. Pull a carriage without wheels." Scar tapped a finger on his chin. "I wonder how much we could sell this for?"
"Scar!" Mumbo swatted his hand away, slight annoyance tempered by the joy that was listening to Scar snicker.
Scar held up his hands in surrender. "Joking, joking!" A stray ray of sunlight found its way through the trees, illuminating him from behind. He looked radiant as his expression softened into something warm that Mumbo dared not hope to name. "I'm proud of you, though. At this rate, you'll be better at magic than I am."
"Stop it," Mumbo whined. His heart couldn't take it when Scar was like this—holding everything in was like looking at the sun and having to pretend not to blink. "I don't even know what I'd do! My house is built. I'm not going to die of starvation. There's not much else, is there?"
The expression of horror on Scar's face was almost comical. He glanced around at the area surrounding Mumbo's cottage, the ground scraggly and dotted with weeds. "You don't think there's anything else you could do?"
"No, not really." Mumbo grinned. He couldn't feign nonchalance if he tried, so he didn't bother, just trying to push to see how far Scar would let him. "Everything around here looks perfect, doesn't it? Idyllic, really. Like a picture book, or, or a fancy tapestry, or a—"
"You can't leave the garden like this!" Scar waved his hands and the expanse of sad dirt.
"I've hardly got a green thumb."
"I'll do it, then! Do you know how much time I've spent thinking about what I'd do with this space? It's embarrassing, that's how much. You've got such a nice variation of shady and sunny spots and plenty of space to work with, and you've—"
"Ignored it completely?" Mumbo leaned forward into Scar's space, shutting him up. "Y'know, I thought humans were supposed to have more appreciation for the 'divine will of nature.'"
Scar scoffed. "That only applies when nature isn't ugly." He retreated from Mumbo's front step to the center of the clearing around his cottage. "Here, you go in and eat dinner, okay? I'll be out here plotting this out for a while."
A pang of guilt shot through Mumbo. "Scar, really, you don't have to."
"Shush, none of that. I'm magicking you up a beautiful garden to match your beautiful house, and you're gonna like it, mister!" Scar thrust out his finger at Mumbo. As much as he tried to school his expression, he seemed on the verge of laughing.
"Alright, alright. Let me know if you want any food, yeah?"
Scar waved him away, already deep in his observation of something. The soil, maybe, or the sad, trampled grasses that grew out of it. As much as it was horribly rude to abandon Scar outside, he knew better than to try and pry him from his work. He slipped inside his house, allowing himself a moment of shameless admiration of how nice Scar looked today, profile dyed golden by the setting sun, before shutting the door.
The business of the evening was now routine. Stoke the fire. Stir the simmering remnants of his stew. Sweep the worst of the dust out the back. Settle in for dinner, then wash the plates, then quickly wash himself.
He'd never been anyone of much importance. High-ranking enough to be expected to attend events, low-ranking enough that nobody missed him when he slipped out early. It'd been a big adjustment when he'd first had to do everything by himself out here, but now he found it comforting. There was a pride to be taken in knowing the weight of each brick, the length of each thatch on his roof, having shaped a new life all his own.
Even with spring well under way, the cold seeped through the walls at night. He changed into his warmer set of sleep clothes and placed another log on the fire. Outside, all was dark, save for what could be seen by the pale light of the moon.
Exhaustion was a physical weight pulling him down. His bed, tucked into the other room, called to him. Still, as the fire dimmed from a roar to a steady flame to embers, he took the chance to check on Scar out the window.
At first, he assumed the elf had fallen asleep. Mumbo had heard not a peep from him all evening, and were it not for how he kept catching glimpses of Jellie's gray tail stalking past the cottage, he'd have thought Scar went home to grab something and got distracted. He was certainly still here, though, hunched over in his chair with his back to Mumbo.
Mumbo had half a mind to go wake him when the ground shifted.
It was with the soft rustling of wind in the trees that the clearing in front of his cottage was flattened. In the moonlight, the plain dirt shone like the finest silk, the color of cornflowers and periwinkles and all the wildflowers he'd seen since coming here and not yet learned the names of, its slight divots and rises seeming to smooth out like so many wrinkles in fabric.
At the center of it all was Scar. The moonlight shone strongest on him, like it too adored him. A few hairs that had slipped free of his bun stood on their ends. Now that Mumbo knew what to look for, he could see that the relaxed slope of his shoulders was not that of sleep, but of magic, leaping at the chance to be woven by his fingers.
All around him, sprouts burst from the ground. Mumbo had to hold back a gasp. This sort of plant magic was possible, sure. It's how he'd grown enough vegetables to last the winter, coaxing more and more magic through the plants until they'd exploded with the violence of their harvest.
But not without runes.
That didn't seem to stop Scar, though, new buds and saplings breaking through the earth with each twitch of his fingers. They bowed towards him in deference as they reached upwards for the sky.
Mumbo's skin buzzed. This felt like something he shouldn't be seeing, something intimate. He couldn't tear his eyes away, though, crouching by the window like a child on the winter solstice to see if the creatures of the woods really would bring him a gift. Scar's magic filled the air, and he wanted to drown in it. Even if the sight of it scorched his weak mortal body to ash, he wanted to watch.
Enraptured by the weaving of new life from nothing, his breath slowed, and he fell into a sleep haunted by dreams of flowers dancing in the moonlight.
He awoke the next morning with a sore back.
The hard edge of his windowsill dug into his neck. Songbirds called to each other through the trees, and light streamed through the window onto the wooden floors beneath him, where he'd apparently fallen asleep the previous night.
He rubbed the gunk from his eyes and yawned. It didn't feel like he'd slept at all. He must have, because some of his memories were obviously dreams—the terrain shifting, the plants spiraling up at Scar's command—but he felt no better rested for it. A cup of tea would be the thing to get him awake. Then he could get started on installing the interior glyphs on the door, like he'd planned too.
There was a pitcher of fresh water on the table, pulled from the well out back yesterday. He stood up, grabbed his kettle from where it hung above the fireplace, and filled it. All it took was him tracing the rune on the lid to have the water beginning to boil.
He set it down near the remaining coals from last night's fire. As he stood up, he glanced at his door, wanting to give himself another pat on the back for the job well done.
His attention was drawn by the burst of color outside.
Rose bushes crowded around his window, red and white and gold. All thoughts of tea forgotten, he staggered outside, not even bothering to slip on shoes.
The clearing had changed overnight. Where there was once only dead leaves and dirt, soft moss now padded the earth beneath his feet as he descended his front step. Bees lazily drifted between patches of flowers that blanketed either side of the moss path. Herbs were clustered together near the cottage, rosemary and thyme and basil and so many others, their calming scents wafting through the air.
Up ahead, towards the end of the path, was a tree. It was sat on the edge of the garden, its branches spreading wide as it extended up towards the canopy, only the ring of mushrooms that circled the clearing separating it from the wild grasses beyond. The trunk twisted and knotted around itself like an intricate braid. Though it was of a modest size compared to Scar's home, it was obviously his work.
The man himself was lying beneath it, Jellie curled up nearby. His chair lay abandoned to the side. He had his hands behind his head with his legs stretched out in front of him, a peaceful smile on his face. As Mumbo approached, he cracked an eye open.
"Good morning, Mumbo," he said. His voice was hoarse. "I made you a garden."
Mumbo lowered himself to the ground beside Scar. "You've more than done that. This is—I don't even know where to begin. I don't deserve this." He didn't deserve any of the gifts that Scar had so graciously bestowed upon him—his kindness, his advice, his humor—but certainly not this.
"I think you do." Scar turned his head to meet Mumbo's eyes. They were the same green as the moss around them, as the leaves that shielded them from the morning sun above. "I wanted to do this for you. For a while now, really."
"I—Thank you, then."
For a moment that could have lasted an age, they lay together. Mumbo's head was full of thoughts, none of which he had the wherewithal to sort through. Maybe none of it had been a dream. Maybe this past year had all been one big, long dream, because there was no way someone like Scar could ever look at someone like him with such open admiration in their eyes.
If this was a dream, he might as well try to get some answers. "How'd you even manage this in one night?"
"By expending far more magic than I should have," Scar said with a laugh. At the look of disapproval Mumbo gave him, he raised his eyebrows. "What? Don't tell me you haven't pushed yourself before."
"I feel like this is on a different scale." Mumbo threw his arm out to encompass the whole garden—the tree, the pathways, the rainbow of flowers.
Scar shrugged. "I might have gone a bit overboard. Usually, I at least leave myself enough juice to keep the chair running."
"Would you like some breakfast?" Mumbo asked, remembering his manners. There was no way he could return a gift like this properly, but he could at least be a good host. "I can bring it out, if you don't want to fuss with moving."
Magic sparked off Scar's fingertips as he extended them out in front of himself. He furrowed his brow, the sparks coalescing into a glow that surrounded his body. His breathing slightly ragged, he was soon floating slightly off the ground.
He took Mumbo's hand, like what he'd done was nothing. Like he hadn't just broken the fundamental laws of magic yet again. "I can manage some levitation for a bit, but I'll need you to pull me along."
"Yeah," Mumbo said, swallowing his wonder. "Yeah, I can do that." He dragged Scar along with him as he stood up, careful not to send his legs crashing into anything. His arm slipped around Scar's waist, breath hitching in his throat as Scar threw his own arm around Mumbo's shoulder, pulling their bodies flush to each other, shoulder-to-shoulder.
It was selfish to take advantage of the closeness, but Mumbo was only human, and this was only a dream. With his free hand, he reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Scar's ear. "Ready?"
Scar nodded, resting his head against Mumbo's shoulder. "Lead the way, captain."
Jellie made no attempt to follow as Mumbo began walking them back toward his cottage. With the foliage that rose high around either side of the path, he'd worried about Scar's robes getting tangled in their thorns, but the plants seemed to lean away to grant them passage.
"Have you ever seen moonflowers in bloom?" Scar asked. When Mumbo shook his head, he pointed to a woody vine sprinkled with small white flowers, blooms half-closed. "They open at night and close in the morning. They're supposed to symbolize secretly harbored affection."
"Ah," Mumbo said intelligently. He tried not to let his heart get ahead of itself. This was a dream. That's the only way he could explain… whatever Scar was doing.
Mumbo took a longer route through the garden, veering off on a side path that looped through past fragrant bushes of flowers. He could be forgiven for indulging in this fantasy. Scar pointed out more of the plants as he went. At one point, he snagged a thin, lightly scented purple flower and tucked it behind Mumbo's ear. "Lavender, for devotion." The sprig threatened to fall out with his every step, but he didn't dare move it from where Scar had placed it, the ghost of his touch lingering on his skin.
As they rounded the corner to his front step, vines grasping at where his tools were still shoved against the wall, Scar gave Mumbo a smile, clear like the cloudless heavens above them. "You don't need me to tell you what roses mean, right?"
Not trusting his words, Mumbo nodded. Scar opened his mouth to say something else, but Mumbo didn't give him the chance. He tapped the rune on the side of the door, letting it swing open, and helped Scar down into one of the two chairs at his small table.
"I have water for tea, and some bread and strawberries, if you want any," Mumbo called, already busying himself with retrieving the kettle. Even after Scar released his spell, he could feel magic rippling through the air, setting his hair on edge.
"I'll take everything!"
There were a blessed few minutes where Mumbo didn't have to think. He cut slices of bread, baked a few days prior, and sliced berries to spread over Scar's with a drizzle of honey. When their tea was ready, he brought over two mugs and set their plates on the table.
Scar wolfed down his food in record time, sparing only enough breath to mumble something that might have been appreciation. By the time he was done, Mumbo had barely chewed more than a bite of his own bread.
From across the table, Scar gave him an odd smile. "I know you were watching me work last night."
Mumbo almost choked. He fought to swallow the lump of bread in his mouth. "I—I didn't—"
"I'm not mad!" Scar laughed. "I'm happy you were watching. I wanted you to."
"How did you do it, then? Without the runes?" Mumbo had to know. He needed to have an explanation, so that somehow, improbable as it was, this could all be real.
Silence stretched between them. Scar took a sip of his tea, scrunching his nose up at the bitterness. "Come on, Mumbo. You know the answer."
He did.
It was something he'd wondered from the second he'd stumbled across this place, richer with magic than he'd ever thought possible. Deals with magical folk, getting spirited away to Fae—these were all common tropes of the tales he was raised on. And that first night, when Scar took him in from the dark and the growing cold, he'd—
("I'll teach you magic, how to live off the land, if you'll stay here with me." The lanterns outside Scar's home glowed an otherworldly green. All that separated them was the giant mushrooms ringing his tree, looming over them in the gloom. Scar's hand was outstretched.
Mumbo took it. "Yes. Yes, I'd rather like that.")
"This is Fae," he said. He ought to be panicking about this, but strangely, the thought didn't bother him. "You don't need to channel magic from Fae if you're already in it. The runes don't do anything."
"Don't say that! Runes still focus the power, make it easier to channel. It's a useful little cheat. Saves me a lot of energy."
"But this is Fae, right?" Mumbo insisted. "Am I trapped here?" He didn't think he would mind, really, but he felt obligated to act like he might.
Scar frowned. He reached across the table, taking Mumbo's hand in his. "You know I wouldn't do that to you, Mumbo. This is a borderland. A place where the boundaries between your world and mine are weaker." His voice was light, but Mumbo still felt the weight of each word. "You're free to come and go. You always have been."
The implication was clear. If Mumbo didn't want any part of this, of whatever magic Scar was weaving around them, of the steps he was taking over their carefully marked boundaries, he could leave, and Scar wouldn't follow. The mere thought made his heart ache.
His grip tightened around Scar's. "And what if I wanted to stay?"
"I'm not an easy companion to keep," Scar said. He dropped his gaze to their connected hands. "My mind's distractible. My body's fickle. It's not gonna be dreamy moonlit gardens all the time."
"Good." Mumbo cupped his other hand around Scar's cheek, tilted it up to meet his eyes. "I've spent the whole morning feeling like I was dreaming, and I'm sick of it. I'd like this to be real."
Scar's hand tugged him closer, the sprig of lavender falling from behind his ear onto the table between them. Their noses were practically touching. Scar's lips, he noticed, were stained red from the berry juice. He was sure his own cheeks must be flushing the same color.
"Is this real enough for you?" Scar asked. His other hand slid up Mumbo's arm, hooking around the back of his neck. There was a question in his eyes. His smile faltered slightly. He was nervous. Scar, of all people in the world, was nervous Mumbo might reject him. What a silly idea.
Mumbo leaned forward and closed the distance between them.
Scar's lips tasted of honey and strawberries. He was oddly hesitant, hands stilling against Mumbo, like he was afraid he might do something wrong. Mumbo did his best to chase those fears away. He ran his thumb over the scarred skin of his cheek, pouring a year's worth of yearning and desperate admiration into the kiss. Scar's hand tightened around the hairs at the nape of his neck, and Mumbo's blood sang with the rightness of it all, like this was what he was meant to be doing the whole time.
The awkward angle over the table eventually forced him to pull away. Scar didn't let him go far. Their hands clasped together, Mumbo dragged his chair over to Scar.
"Not sure the reality's set in yet," he said and slipped his hand through Scar's hair. It was frizzier than he'd imagined it to be, fingers catching on tiny knots in the strands. A shudder ran through Scar.
"Then I'll have to try again." Eyes dark, he dragged Mumbo back in, sighing against his lips.
(They said some elves did take an interest in humans. They were cast-offs, hearts too rotten for their elfin brethren to care for, and thus forced to seek companionship by preying on poor, lost humans. Their realms were dark and dying. Their skin would crack beneath your fingers. They'd charm you with their magic-tinted words, leaving you a mesmerized husk of your former self.
If Scar had caught him under some charm, Mumbo thought, he'd gladly stay this way until the day he died.)