The Hermit Journals - Hermitcraft

Love is But a Luxury - Joe x Doc

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Heck yeah, rarepair time! I've been binging Joe's vids so I was very much inspired to write this. It's a different style than usual, so I hope you like it!

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Meandering his way across the mountains with shulkers stacked perilously in his arms, Joe was running out of breath. He needed a break, and as he dropped the boxes on the ground, he realized where he was. The split mansion, where he could hear the sound of construction coming from Bdubs' side as well as Tango's telltale music taste. From the other house on his right, Rammstein blasted from Doc's speakers at full volume. It was a total music battle, and as Joe watched from behind the houses, he couldn't help but be intrigued. 

Bdubs worked away at the interior of his side, while Doc was tinkering with something on the bottom floor of his house. Reaching through one of the boxes, Joe's hand grasped around the cold wooden handle of an old telescope. It was ancient, but it would do. He gazed through the lens. There was the hybrid himself, his labcoat lazily draped over his shoulders as he messed with what looked to be a fancy steampunk-style watch. 

Doc turned around in his seat, his mechanical eye locking on Joe's telescope in the distance, making the poet drop everything in a spook. Heat sunk deep into his cheeks, but he refused to let it stay. He slapped his face over and over again until it was numb.

He was the lone poet in the winery,  a man of elegance and pride. And as he listened to the chaos from the twin halves of Grian's old mansion, he got a feeling that he should head back. Shoving the nearly rotting telescope back in one of the shulker boxes, he prepared for the long trek back to the Strait of Joebraltar. At least at the mouth of Goat Bay, he'd find a boat waiting patiently for his arrival.

Each step was shaky and unstable, his steps going in frantic twists and turns as he tried to keep his balance. He saw Doc in his peripheral vision partway through, nearly dropping the boxes. His breath hitched as he regained his composure, running faster from the valley and out to sea. 

Stepping into the boat, he stacked the boxes neatly until it was completely balanced with him in it. He pushed his flimsy wire glasses further back up his nose, preparing for the journey back to his winery. The misty bay filled his senses with a serene sense of joy as he rowed patiently across the sea. 

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That night, the poet sat at his desk under the sea, ink-soaked quill in one hand and paper in another. He scratched his nose with the tip of the feather as he looked over what he'd written. It wasn't his proudest work, but he still enjoyed it nonetheless. 

A mind of mystique, where darkness prevails,

A place where only courage can reach,

A storm of beauty beyond the icy veil,

But bravery is a luxury, one not all can have.

Perhaps the world is cruel,

Or emotions void of hope,

But confessions are a gruel,

That none are quite so fit to take.

Maybe one day things will change, rise up as the tide,

And that beautiful mind of mystique will finally be seen,