Season 1 Flower Husbands on their journey of learning to love themselves and each other and trying to help each other heal. Book 1 is completed and chapters will post every week! Title is from Hold On by Chord Overstreet [Unless I think of a better one or someone suggests a better one] Cross-Posted on Ao3!

Welcome, peoples, to my book of Hermitcraft oneshots, incorrect quotes, and correct quotes. ;) (I drew the cover btw)

The Hermits shared a bond of trust and camaraderie, but there was one thing that had remained a mystery-Xisuma's appearance beneath his ever-present space suit. He had never once removed his helmet or armor in front of anyone. The curiosity surrounding it grew over time, with whispers of what lay under the suit. No one was more intrigued, or concerned, than Keralis. Keralis had always been the observant one, noticing the subtle signs that something wasn't quite right. Xisuma's movements were stiff, and the suit, though impressive, looked increasingly worn. The helmet, especially, appeared to be in desperate need of repairs, and the weight of the armor surely took a toll on his body. Keralis couldn't help but worry. Staying in that suit for extended periods couldn't be healthy, no matter how resilient Xisuma was. The pressure of the heavy armor and the way the helmet seemed to restrict his movements only added to his concern. Despite the mystery, Keralis never pressed. He respected Xisuma's privacy, knowing that trust was sacred among the Hermits. But that didn't stop him from wondering: What if there was more to the story? What if Xisuma wasn't just hiding his appearance, but something deeper-something personal? The thought nagged at Keralis. The space suit was an enigma, and Xisuma's insistence on wearing it at all times only fueled his curiosity. What would it take to get Xisuma to take it off, even just for a moment? He wasn't sure, but one thing was clear: Keralis would do whatever he could to ensure Xisuma wasn't silently struggling in that suit, even if it meant confronting the one mystery he couldn't quite solve. art is not mine

Tired of the normal humdrum of city life, Keralis sent out an open invite to go camping with him. The first person to reply-much to his surprise-was Xisuma. He hadn't expected a quick response, especially since he assumed Xisuma was drowning in work, but the message read that he and his brother, Xavier, would love to come. Not long after, Wels and his brother, Hels, replied just as quickly, saying they wanted to join as well. Great. The next group to chime in was Team ZITS-Zedaph, Impulse, Tango, and Skizz-who announced they'd be bringing a giant camper.

Winters had always been cruelly cold-biting, relentless, the kind that seeped through fur and bone alike. Even for an arctic fox, even for Etho, there were nights when the snow howled louder than instinct could answer. The white stretched on forever, blinding and empty, and the cold pressed in until movement itself became a careful calculation. Etho moved low to the ground when the wind picked up, shoulders rolling smoothly beneath his thick coat, paws placed with deliberate silence. His ears flicked constantly, swiveling for danger, for prey, for anything that meant warmth or shelter. When he paused, he curled his tail tight around his body, the plume of it tucked neatly over his nose to trap what little heat he could keep. Some winters were harsher than others. On those nights, instinct drove him closer to the edges of human territory. He lingered in the shadows, cautious but desperate, pale fur nearly vanishing against the snowbanks. The scent of smoke, wool, and cooked food tugged at something older than fear. He never approached boldly-only careful steps, a lowered head, eyes sharp and watchful, ready to bolt at the slightest threat. Finding a human willing to share warmth wasn't comfort. It was survival. Etho would settle near the fire but never too close, limbs tucked beneath him, muscles coiled even as exhaustion weighed heavy. Sleep came in short stretches, ears twitching, body primed to flee. Yet the heat soaked in anyway, thawing stiff joints and numbed paws, keeping him alive long enough to face the next dawn. Winter always passed eventually. But it never stopped demanding its price.

Prince Ren never asked for a crown, nor the weight of titles. All he wanted was to play music-gentle, aching melodies strummed on delicate string instruments. He preferred lutes carved from silverwood and dark rose, guitars that hummed like whispers in the wind, and a weathered ocarina shaped like a teardrop, soft blue and always warm in his hands. The music was his comfort, his rebellion, and his quiet prayer. When the castle halls echoed with the fury of yet another war-when his family shouted about borders, bloodlines, and broken alliances-Ren would slip away. He would wander down secret paths only he remembered, through the whispering trees and into the Outcast: a forgotten grove hidden beneath a blanket of old magic and ivy. There, surrounded by peace and silence, he built a sanctuary. His instruments were stored in hollowed trunks, carefully wrapped in velvet and tucked away from the wrath of his father, who believed music was weakness and tried to destroy every string Ren cherished. Beyond the grove, just past the moss-covered stones, was his garden-his true kingdom. It bloomed wildly with flowers the color of fire and dusk: deep reds, scarlets, and wine-dark crimsons. Vines heavy with red fruit twisted through the branches, fragrant and sweet, tangled like forgotten lullabies. The air was thick with the scent of crushed petals and ripe berries, warm earth and song. And in the heart of it all, Ren would sit and play. Unbeknownst to him, the sorrow in his songs, the ache in every note, stirred something old and hidden beneath the soil. His music, filled with longing and beauty, began to call to magic itself-something ancient, something listening, something waiting to be found.

Martyn was born blind and has always relied heavily on his hearing to navigate and understand the world around him. He walks with a cane, and his eyes are always closed-he doesn't even know what color they are, nor has he ever thought to ask. For him, the world has always been cloaked in darkness. That began to change when he discovered a small spark of magic within himself. With time and practice, he learned to use it to "paint" mental images of people and places in his mind. Through subtle differences in tone, mood, and cadence, he could distinguish colors-hearing the warmth of a sunset in a laugh, or the chill of blue in a hushed whisper. Over the years, he also honed his ability to read body language-not through sight, but through sound. The shifting of feet, the rhythm of someone's breath, the way fabric brushed against itself as someone turned-all of it became a symphony of cues that told him what others could see with their eyes. Martyn often kept to himself, sitting quietly in the corner of a room with a Braille book in his hands, lost in the raised dots beneath his fingers. Most people didn't approach him. Whether it was discomfort or uncertainty, he had grown used to being left alone. But that all changed the day a new transfer student joined the theater program. Curious and unafraid, they noticed Martyn sitting by himself and, rather than shy away, felt drawn to him. For the first time in a long while, Martyn's quiet world began to shift-not just with sound and magic, but with the unexpected rhythm of connection.