MCYT Oneshots

We Could Still be Friends (Last Life x Watcher Grian) (Read TW)

(Note: this was written during the first episode of Last Life, when the series had not ended and the first death had not yet happened. Hence, the information is inaccurate to the actual events of Last Life)

Trigger Warning: self harm and suicide. You have been warned.

"We can still be friends, Mumbo."

"We can still be friends..."

Grian plucked a yellow flower from the ground beside him, twirling it in his hands. The soft petals shone golden in the sunlight, and, with a smile, Grian placed it in his hair. Maybe he started with only two lives, but maybe that meant that the darkness inside of him wouldn't infect this world, this new world, like it had every other.

Cheerful smiles and waves were thrown to him, and Grian's mouth curled up in a smile as he stood up, preparing for a new life in a new environment.

Last Life had begun.

His pickaxe clashed against the obsidian, bouncing off harmlessly. The iron splintered. His blistered hands jarred with the impact. The obsidian stayed intact.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The endless cycle of metal against rock, metal against volcanic glass, over and over again.

This was his punishment. This was the price for defying them.

"So, have you given up yet?" A soft, almost sympathetic voice murmured. He knew to not be fooled. He knew what lay behind that mask of fake kindness and sincerity.

"Never." He breathed, the iron pickaxe striking obsidian once more.

His grip tightened on the wooden shaft with anger, rage at the watcher across the room from him. He bit down his anger, his frustration, and continued on the obsidian.

Clash, clash, clash. The sound of his pickaxe against the volcanic glass. Clash, clash, clash. The sound of his endless pain, stuck in this obsidian chamber, with the watcher's observant eyes on him.

He never wanted this. He never wanted this forever loop, stuck. He wanted to scream his frustration, his anger, and strike down the watcher with the goddamn pickaxe in his hands, to rip the evil being beside him to shreds and embed splinters-

"That's it, Xelqua, embrace the violence." The watcher cooed. "Embrace the violence, and become one of us."

"Don't. Call. Me. Xelqua!" Grian screamed, turning and hurling the pickaxe at the watcher, who dodged it swiftly. The iron embedded itself into the obsidian, and the purple and black material covered the metal swiftly. He paid no heed."My name is Grian." He whispered. "My name is Grian."

A purple glow emanated from his hands. The crackles of the watcher registered only in the back of his head as Grian stared, in disbelief, at himself, at the deep purple veins that wrapped around his hand, forming the broken rectangle, and at the dark purple wings that sprouted on his back.

"Welcome home, Xelqua."

He watched the chaos unfold around him. One death. One death of a member, once bearing seven lifes, now all stripped away from him, was all it took for chaos to arrive. It's happening again. Grian thought, horror numbing his mind. It's all happening again. The darkness. The chaos.

You thought you could escape, Xelqua. A faint voice whispered in his ear. You thought you could run. Look where you are now...

His sword came up to protect his head, on instinct only, because why would he want to protect himself when he brought this fate upon this world. He should be dead. He should have been the first one to die, not Scar, never Scar.