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Harsh rain is all that Player can see around them. Holding onto the rim of their signature Roblox hat, they run through puddles of the ground, soaking their already worn down sneakers. There's no end in sight, their vision hindered by the downpour. It’s dark outside, stores lined up against the streets long past their open hours, windows black as the sky above.
Bizville’s a huge area with many, many buildings.. but none are open. Not now, not in dead of night. They can’t run inside a shop and wait for the rain to pass. No, instead they’re stuck outside in the pouring rain, looking wildly for any form of shelter, whether it be a bus stop with a roof or a sheltered alleyway. They’re soaked from head to toe, worry settling deep in their gut that if they spend any longer outside they’ll catch a cold.
The thought of sickness horrifies them. More specifically, the thought of being quarantined.
That’ll only delay them from getting the swords.
They’re tired. Exhausted. It’s an awful storm— wind blows from all sides, their hair whipping around and sticking itself into every inconvenient crevice on their face. Their bag, along with the weight of the SFOTH swords, slows them down, forcing Player to fight with gravity to lift their feet and move forward. Sharp bullets of rain pelt onto their face, their shoes leaving fat marks in the mud, feet sloshing through puddles as they look for anything to take shelter in.
The nearest building is an apartment complex, worn bricks stacking up to a total of five looming floors, bright orange lights peeking through closed curtains. The building is no different than it's surroundings— the same cracked sidewalks, the same plants and flowers that every other store uses for its greenery, and bricks. Player is sick of seeing bricks —but what catches their eyes through the constant, murky-red is is a flight of stairs hiding underneath the archway of the apartment. White, painted wood outlines the open entrance, acting like a big red circle and arrow, practically screaming 'SHELTER HERE!'. It’s enough to hide them from the weather, Player decides. Sure, they might get kicked back into the rain by security or a patrol group, but by then the rain would surely have passed.
Wait.
They abruptly come to a halt. The rain continues to slam onto them as their mind processes a very important fact.
Noobador lives here.
Surely he wouldn’t mind a visit. They know what time it is, but being a father of two loud kids Player assumes he’ll be up.
They hustle over to the metal stairs, gripping the railing so they won’t slip and fall on the steps in case their wet shoes decide to trip on themselves.
.
They bang on the door. Hard.
A familiar, shirtless man in baggy red shorts answers, staring at Player for a good second.
“You look..”
“Awful? Yeah. I figured.”
It’s silent as they both stare at each other. Player's looking up to meet Noobador eyes with an expression akin to a sopping wet cat— which could also be taken literally —as Noobador stares down with a grim face, squinted eyes, deep in thought.
It’s not the first time Player’s randomly showed up at his door. The first time was much more awkward, Player dropping by like they ran through a wall of fire with their left arm scorched from a launcher rocket incident.. plus a head injury that Noobador had to take care of for them.
It’s a good start that, instead of appearing half dead, they’re only shivering from being drenched by the storm.
This time around it felt more.. natural? As natural as it can get with someone standing on his doorstep shaking, at least. Normalised is the right word for this, maybe. Even if this is only the second time.
The tension from Noobador’s body releases as he makes his decision, his shoulders falling. “If you’re asking to stay the night, you can sleep on the couch.”
Player exhales, kicking off their mud-caked shoes and dragging their feet over to the sofa.
PWOOMF
They’re still sopping wet. Logically thinking, they should wring out their clothes to prevent the couch from getting damaged, but they really don’t care at the moment. Instead, Player eases into the cushions, pulling up their legs and curling into themselves.
Their eyes turn glassy, staring into the wall. A content sigh escapes their mouth as they shift their arms, resting their head over them.
.
Two kids poke their head around the corridor, lured in with the smell of tomato sauce and the sound of chatter.
Red opens his mouth, but Blue slaps her hand over before he can speak. “Shh! Player’s here again.” Her hand drops, and Red remains quiet in silent understanding.
Noobador breaks the silence, “RED, BLUE, COME HERE!” Then, softer, he adds, “I need you two for a minute.”
The twins’ heads turn in horror, leaving a quick glance to the still-bodied hero— double checking that they were still asleep —before dashing over to stand post at Noobador’s side. He’s hovering over the counter, a pot sitting on the stove as it boils , sticks of spaghetti straws sticking out of the top.
“Hey,” Noobador starts, “Watch the pasta. Don’t let the kitchen burn down. The spoon’s right here— just mix it every couple of minutes.” He grabs the spoon, handing it to Blue. “And be careful with the water. Don’t flick it onto each other. If I’m not back by the time the noodles go soft, come find me.”
.
.
.
Player stares at the wall, fidgeting with their own fingers.
It's nice, they think, being able to come over and lay down for the night— no questions asked. Even though their past visits came with them being injured— which Noobador pestered the hell out of them for —the majority of the time spent at the luchador’s dwelling was silent. It’s great, actually, because being forced into conversation with a migraine isn't on their bucket list.
“Hey.”
Noobador’s voice brings Player out of their trance. They blink away the fog from their brain, looking up.
“Go shower. The warm water will help you. Plus, you stink,” he comments, the last bit said jokingly. He pushes a cloth towards Player, dropping it in their arms. “Take the towel. You can borrow my clothes when you’re done.”
“Thank you,” they breathe.
.
The hero steps out of the bathroom wearing an oversized, black, cotton shirt that's four sizes too big for them.
They inhale slowly, leaning on the wall and taking the moment to process everything.
They're safe. They’re clean, they have a roof over their head, and it’s quiet. Not a crushing silence, no, it’s comfortable. It’s welcoming. It's warm, fuzzy, nice..
..and Player wants to soak up every bit of it.
It’s not raining anymore; the hurricane-level storm has long since simmered down to a light trickle. They could leave now, but… Player wants to treat themselves. Just for a little bit. The thought of Shedletsky calling their name lingers in the back of their mind, but Player allows themself to be selfish. Selfish enough to take a moment for themselves, to let their inner chaos die down— even if it’s just for a single night.
Player returns to the couch. Finally clean and warm, they close their eyes.
To rest— to sit down and cool off from the outside world —it's a high-end luxury Player’s failed to afford ever since their journey started. They’ve never had the time to care for their own wellbeing. Sure, they had distractions to keep their mind off the hushed whispers in their head, but they were always temporary.
But now? As they lay on a couch that isn’t theirs? It makes them forget that those foul voices even existed. The low buzz filling their head begins to lure them into a numbing daze.
Player’s mind wanders to Noobador. Their relationship with him is.. it’s good. It’s not temporary, that being proven many times over where Player ran to his open arms for help, but he was someone Player could look to in times of need— someone they trusted. Out of the many people Player’s met on their journey, they gravitated towards Noobador. They don’t know how they've come to trust him. Maybe it's because he has kids; maybe it's his bold personality; maybe it's something else entirely.
Maybe it was the overwhelming yearning to receive care from him. The yearning to stick by his side, to stay under his wing when things become too much for them.
.
They wake up surrounded by warmth. Their fingers twitch, brushing over soft fabric. It's dense, thick, and heavy. They could sink into its comfort forever if they could.
Distantly, they hear the sound of forks clattering against plates— scraping, sharp clinks of metal against porcelain. It’s an unpleasant noise, yet it grounds their foggy head to reality.
The smell of pasta wafts through the air.
They finally crack an eye open. It doesn’t take long until they remember where they fell asleep.
With difficulty, Player pries the blanket off themself to swing their feet over the couch, their feet easing onto the ruffled carpet. They push off the couch with a wobble, their stance unsteady as they grow accustomed to their own weight— which, frankly, wasn't a lot.
Player follows the sounds drifting through the thin walls. Their palm pushes against the wall for support as they stumble over.
They enter a second room, greeted with the sight of the family eating dinner. Red looks up, flashing a big, wide smile at them— his face smothered in tomato sauce —before shoving more food into his mouth. Blue simply waves at them.
They look down.
There's a plate on the table. A plate of buttered noodles for them, devoid of its signature red sauce.
How the hell does Noobador know they don’t like tomato sauce?
Their eyes threaten to start watering.
“You slept through the entire day, by the way,” Noobador starts. “You arrived Thursday. It’s Friday.”
“..Oh. Thanks for, uh.. telling me.”
They don’t mean to sound inconsiderate. The tired tone in their voice hasn’t worn off, halving how much gratitude they express. They’re just surprised about it because, usually, they don’t sleep so soundly. It's no less of a shock that they slept longer than 5 hours, on top of receiving zero night terrors. They feel the need to add, “Sorry- I really am grateful, my voice just- it sucks. I’m not trying to be mean—”
“No offense taken,” Noobador says, waving a dismissive hand.
Player pulls out a chair, sitting down and beginning to eat.
The fork reaches their mouth— the pasta’s neither overcooked nor undercooked. It’s legitimately perfect pasta.
Tuning into the background noise of Red and Blue,
“Red,” Blue pokes at her brother.
“Remember when we went up to Blackrock Mountain? And there was that wolf that followed us around?”
“Yeah,” Red grins. “It totally wanted to eat you. That's how wolves work.”
“It did NOT! It was literally the smallest thing ever, it couldn't have bitten me even if it tried. Plus, you were with me.”
A pause.
“I really wanted to pet it..”
“...”
Player keeps silent, their attention occasionally stolen by Red and Blue’s conversation.
“Sorry it’s just spaghetti,” Noobador speaks up. “I would've made something else, but our budget is running dry.” His nose wrinkles, fork scraping across his plate. He then grumbles to himself, mouth twitching into a frown at the sour reminder of his money situation,“Second time this week we’ve had pasta because of it.”
Player looks up, surprise decorating their face, “You cook? Like, genuinely? Full meals?”
“Yeah. Forced myself to learn after Red and Blue moved in with me. Didn’t have the chance to make a better dish because the last guy I got commissioned from scammed me. He paid half of what he owed and just.. vanished.” Then, under his breath, silent enough for the kids to not pick up, “He was an ass.”
Player nods solemnly in silent agreement.
.
Dinner begins to wrap up.
Noobador slides over and takes Player’s plate, the kids hopping off to take their own dishes to the sink.
Naturally, Player offered to help,
“I can wash the dishes if you’d like—"
“Nope. Go to the couch.”
They couldn’t help but feel relieved.
They’re in a warm home, they have a place to sleep, and they have a full stomach. They can’t ask for anything more— this is the best thing that's happened to them in months. A chance to lay back, to dump their problems outside the doorstep, to slide off all the weight piling up on their shoulders so they can feel like the world isn't collapsing around them, even if it was just for one night.
They trudge through the carpeted floors, flopping back down onto the couch, tossing the blanket over their body, preparing to sleep. Their heavy eyes beg for it.
Well. They were going to sleep until Red and Blue crawl on the couch, settling next to Player and making themselves comfortable. Noobador follows suit, plopping himself down on the other side of Player.
Literally none of them have any sense of what personal space is.
Their actions earn a confused grunt from Player.
“Movie night,” Noobador says as he moves his arm, reaching for the remote, then tossing it to Red. “Figured you’d join us since you’re here.”
Ah. They see no way out of this.
Player shifts around to get into a comfortable position. Their head rests on Noobador’s chest, their arm slung across him as their chest deflates. Red pulled up the blanket for all of them, and the warmth from all the combined body heat was too hard to not melt into.
And despite it feeling like the whole world is pushing against them, a small part of Player believes that everything's going to turn out okay. A part that they’re not doomed by the narrative, that they’ll be okay in the end, that they’ll keep their mind, that they won't fall into an endless pit of depression.
They’re surrounded by people who care as they stare at a screen of colorful cartoon characters. Red and Blue hug them from behind, Player’s face squished into Noobador’s frame.
Their craving for comfort that was once shoved down is now unearthed from the depths of their soul. After so long of refusing rest and care, they don't fight the way they melt into the arms of Noobador, their defenses crumbling in front of their own eyes.
They slowly drift, distantly feeling a heavy arm pull them closer, sliding the shared blanket over their body and swaddling them. Player finds that they don't mind, easing into the shared body heat, their heavy eyelids fluttering shut as the movie in front of them drones on.
This is nice, they think. Player's mind slows, their chest rising slower each passing minute as their breath falls into a steady, calm rhythm.