Hermitcraft oneshots

.•⦁ Imaginary friend ⦁•.

Alternative title: Not your fault
Genre?: comfort? Idk
Notes/prompt/idea:
Request: nope (ik I'm slacking off)
Ship: none
TW: death
(tell me if I missed any?)

So- I have camp in a day and I won't be able to write anything, so I thought I'd finish at least the cat Grian oneshot. But I didn't anticipate how much time I had to write it so I didn't finish. :/

But still hope this is okay- the end is iffy cause this was finished late at night.
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"Help! This zombie is still on me! It has some weird looking sword!!"

"What does it look like?!"

"I don't know- obsidian maybe?"

"Don't die!"

"AHHHH"

"Cleo? CLEO? Where are you??!!"

There stood the one and only Joehills.

Without his best friend.

She was dead.

Cleo was dead.

She fell from a cliff, being pushed by the swipe of an obsidian sword. And just because he was so thoughtless and expected her to be fine. She didn't come back...

Everyone was devastated.

Some took the loss harder than others. Some stayed at home, some drowned themselves in work and yet others mourned her death by living as she would have wanted them to.

But Joe was the one who took it hardest, by far. The first couple weeks shutting himself up in his room, not coming out to speak with his friends or kids, not eating, and not taking care of himself in general.

He felt so guilty that he hadn't helped her. Even when she had complained that the sword the zombie had hurt, which was an unusual thing because she was a zombie herself.

He hated the fact that he could've helped her and he didn't. 

So he stayed up in his room. Alone. No one checking in because they assumed he needed space.

When his admin checked on him at last, he was disheveled and looked like a truck of 100 pounds ran over him.

He was worried for his friend, he looked so malnourished and tired, but Joe insisted he was fine.

He was starving himself. Just because of the death of his best friend. He knew everyone had taken it very hard, but he expected Joe of all people to take care of himself like Cleo would've wanted him to.

He knew he needed to keep an eye on the poet, and he decided to come by every day to take and deliver some food.

Whenever X came over, Joe felt relieved to know he was cared for and loved. He just couldn't get the guilt out of head.

Luckily the talks they had helped him cope. They shared all the stories of Cleo they could remember. The funny ones, and even the sad ones.

Joe wanted to make sure Cleo lived on in memory, and X being there to help him through this hard time was a big help.

He started coming out of his room more and more as months went by, taking better care of himself and his house.

His heath improved and so did his confidence, and yet later he interacted a few times with other hermits.

He visited his best friend's grave every day at noon, always bringing flowers with him, and sometimes taking other hermits to share stories about her in front of her grave.