Chapter Text
There’s a certain coldness in his ceramic body that Mugman can’t escape anymore.
It started with passing out for a few moments as Cuphead left the first time after their scuffle and had him heaving for air as he woke up minutes later. Their fights have never created such a numbing atmosphere in their home before. Mugman knows it’s his fault, but he doesn’t even get any more chances to fix it.
Nowadays, whenever he tried to broach the subject of their fight, he’d be met with disturbing quietness from his brother, alongside a sense of faintness. His thoughts would become airy and light, slipping from the grasp of his consciousness.
He goes to a doctor a week later to check if it’s his organism's problem, but the professional and examination results come up with nothing.
He goes to his therapist, makes an early out-of-schedule appointment, and almost collapses again, darkness clouding his vision when he tries to speak about it, the biting frost right at the edges of his touch. There’s something Mugman is missing, something intertwining with the fight, his brother, his bodily state, and this situation-
He’s forgetting what warmth feels like. It’s too familiar to the aftermath.
“Mugman? Are you quite alright?”
The only time the iciness leaves is when he’s at the casino working or when he meets up with Gabriel, the charming professor he had encountered weeks ago. His presence is a strangely nourishing balm to Mugman’s overloaded mind.
Despite Mugman’s accompanying caution and curiosity during their first encounter, their fragile deal soon developed into an interest-fuelled friendship. Their meet-ups were sparse, but each one had Mugman yearning for more, replaying each session spent translating texts or paying closer attention together to metaphors and symbols he had found.
It’s not to say he trusts the other man per se, but he pushes the skepticism away to focus on his more primary goals, such as the research on Calix Animi.
“I’m fine. Just a bit off my game lately.”
Gabriel looks back up from his folder of aged, yellow papers, the edges of his mouth smoothing down into a flat line, turning into a grimace or a frown. His steady voice turns down in volume, a thread of concern heard from his research partner.
“If you’re sick, we can move this session to next week. You’ve been pulling on your sleeves a lot and seem to be experiencing intervals of shivering.”
As if on cue Mugman let go of the sleeves of his beige turtleneck, cheeks burning up lightly into a rosy color in embarrassment. He was fidgeting from time to time in spite of his willpower to appear fine, no matter the personal circumstances.
“I’m not sick.”
Gabriel only frowns further, the parchments forgotten to focus instead on the mug, the being’s gaze trailing over Mugman. There was a gleam to them of emotions he couldn’t discern, maybe a flicker of pity, worry at best. The chance of Gabriel caring for him was an uncomfortable vision, despite how Mugman’s mind longed for it.
Longed— no, not longing, he wasn’t interested in Gabriel, he was- Maybe he was just a touch starved for affection, nothing more.
“If you’re sure… then let me check your temperature.”
Mugman only groaned in response, flushing further at the words. He watched Gabriel seamlessly grab his leather bag, ruffling through it shortly before bringing out a blue thermometer in perfect condition. He must’ve made some sort of noise as Gabriel casually pulled his face closer, dark eyes zeroing in on his face, pressing the device to the porcelain forehead.
“Do you just bring a thermometer around each day in that bag of yours?” The mug asked with a somewhat controlled expression, restraining himself from bursting into astonished giggles or wheezing.
“No, I merely had a feeling I’d need it today. It’s one of my little miracles I suppose.”
Gabriel smiles simply, as always bathed in white and gentle colors, underlining his patience and serenity.
Little miracles, huh?
It’s a shame miracles don’t happen to people who desperately need one- but don’t deserve it.
King Dice paces around the hardwood floors, the faint sound of glass clicking against each other in an accompanying rhythm against his movement. His expression marries a dissatisfied grimace, annoyance and concern pouring through his facade like acidic liquid. The unusual emotions are making him act out of turn more than expected, the man's hands itching to grab at something just to smash it in pieces.
The Devil watches him, almost in a lazy way, waiting for the moment his partner snaps out of his stupor. His tail thumps one more time against his wooden desk where he's sitting, yellow eyes burning into Dice in feigned impatience.
“You’ve been pacing quite a lot tonight.”
The being comments lightly, watching the scale tip over and return to its rightful place again and again. Eventually the silence is too much and the Devil places a few bets.
“Is it about the imps again?”
King Dice comically rolls his eyes, the agitated pace he's put on is beginning to be unnerving. He was going to graze a trail into the wooden floor at that point.
“Is it the party we're having soon?”
“No.”
His boss only stares further into the man, looking him over in repeat until he focuses on the right hand sleeve cufflink that King Dice is fiddling with every moment or so.
“Of course. It’s about the brothers.”
The Devil sighs in an exaggerated motion, the nerves seeping out instantly. He was far more familiar with the idea of relaxing Dice out of his ‘mother hen’ state rather than an unknown stressful element.
“They’re fine Dice, as usual. Did they do something without my knowledge? Did one of the patrons try to kidnap them again?”
“It’s not that. There's something wrong with them lately.”
King Dice sighs quietly, folding his arms against his chest, hard shells crumbling against persistence. His shoes shuffle in place for a moment before the right hand man moves and drops himself into his partner's lap without a warning.
“I don't follow.”
“They’re acting strangely. Avoiding one another.”
“So? Just a sibling fight, happens every once in a while.”
He lets out an inaudible huff at the Devil's words, the frown on his face deepening. There was an unsettling pit of worry digging deeper and deeper into his stomach each time his boss tried to reassure him.
But there was something wrong with Cuphead and Mugman. He just didn't know what exactly.
“It’s different this time. There's something unnatural meddling there.”
“Like what?”
The being allows his employee to think for a moment, somewhat curious of the response. This newfound thread of care woven over the mugs wasn't new per se, yet it isn't something Dice seems to quite realize or accept. King Dice caring for the two wasn't anyone's business but his own and for once the Devil wasn't going to tamper with things.
“I used my eyes on them.”
“Seriously Dice?”
“It was for a good reason! Besides, I actually saw something that proves my suspicions.”
More like motherly worries, but sure.
“What did you see?”
“Their most deepest desires were muddled. I couldn't see them. Mugman’s used to be living forever with his brother and travelling the world in search of his ancestors, while Cuphead’s was, unsurprisingly, living comfortably with tons of money, with Mugman, wherever they wanted.”
The Devil narrowed his eyes at the knowledge, momentarily brought out of his disinterest. Changing desires? While it wasn't necessarily uncommon for a soul to switch its intimate cravings and needs, it was strange to hear it happen to two people at the same time.
“And I might be wrong, but there's– Cuphead’s soul looks strange. It feels dimmed somehow. I can't find any reasons for it or why it's happening. It gets greyer everytime I look.”
Dice pushes himself back into the warm fur, ignoring the amused look his employer gives him.
“How about this, next time Cuphead gets on his shift, I'll have one of my little demonic shitheads examine him for any curses or negative influences. Would that settle your fresh parental instincts?”
“There is nothing parental about what I'm doing for them.”
King Dice lies, ignoring the mere idea of acting as a worried parent. Cuphead and Mugman are more than old enough to take care of themselves. Yet, even so, he feels more calm knowing one of them would be checked over.
Despite the Devil's unhappy groan, the worker leaves his partner's lap, heading out of the office.
His nerves are still going haywire, tugging at his attempts to calm down.
A hollow sense of cold fills his senses when he realizes that his paranoia was correct.
Bloodied Cuphead sneaks by the side of the walls, using one of the casino's side exits.
If anyone ever asked him again after that, if he truly didn't care about the mugs, he still would've told them no.
But the coiling anger he feels at seeing Cuphead hurt stays all the time.
“Your brother’s worried sick about you, moron.”
The man scoffs, lifting his sleeves quickly and readjusting his view of the cup. Cuphead wordlessly listens to the shuffling beside him, watching from the corner of his eye the moving blur of posh purple and white. It’s easy to let the adrenaline seep out now, the finally gone tension making his whole body sag as much with relief as exhaustion. He was drained, with more injuries than he cared to count and a semi-truthful explanation to give.
Mugman is going to be so fucking mad.
It’s a shallow thought, only passing by with a twinge of guilt before being replaced with a cold brush of indifference, tinted by bitterness.
If he still even cares.
He still doesn’t look up when his hands are swiftly tugged forward to assess the damage. He doesn’t flinch when this time he’s pulled toward the sink, the blood being washed off. The next alcohol-soaked gauze pad only forces him to bite back a pained whine.
It’s too similar to before. He wants it to stop.
“Stop fussing, Cuphead, I’m trying to take care of your injuries.”
Dice rolls his eyes at the stiff younger one before clicking with his tongue and pressing on more gently with the treatment. It doesn’t help Cuphead’s overlapping thoughts, both yelling at the same time “He cares for you.” and “You’re pathetic”.
It’s getting harder for him to hold back his hiccups.
It doesn’t get any easier as Dice ends up wrapping up his arms, now leaning against the bathroom cabinet with him. It doesn’t settle the guilt when Dice pushes his head to lean onto his arm, the gloved hand then leaving to move in a comforting way against Cuphead’s back. He’s not sure why he lets it happen. He’s not sure how it helps.
“Not even gonna comment? Really? You should be glad you hadn’t gotten any blood on my shirt.” It’s a teasing quip at him, trying to see if he’s even capable of speaking in his state.
“Fuck off.”
Cuphead half mumbles, half groans, forcing one of his eyes open to glare at the other. It's hard for him not to flinch, the expression King Dice is making so off-putting and yet warming at the same time.
He's watching the hero with caution and worry, despite the fact he snickers openly at the cup's cursing, just a tint relieved.
“There we go.”
He nods self-satisfied at bringing Cuphead out of his dull state, before squinting at him ever so slightly.
“So? Am I gonna get any sort of explanation for this or will I have to wring it out of you somehow?”
Dice asks, both suspicious and thoughtful, waiting for any response he can analyze and work off. He knows by simply asking the employee, he won't get the full truth, but he's worked with Cuphead for long enough to be able to work around his stubbornness.
It's simultaneously a terrifying and a warming thought to realize that Dice without many sources can get under Cuphead's layers, digging out the thoughts and truths he has buried, to meet the unstable parts of the cup's being. He can understand Cuphead. He can see his vulnerability. He can protect him if truly necessary, even from himself.
It's not like they're friends though, they're just simply employer and employee.
“I got into a fight.”
Cuphead says eventually, looking away from the other to freeze his gaze, staring at the ceiling.
“That much I can see. Did you— Are you getting into fights intentionally again?”
It's the more worried tone that gets to Cuphead, unfolding his guilt and laying it out like an object before him.
Dice doesn't get an answer to his question, the younger one keeping eerily quiet, making Dice scowl, and forcing a different question.
“Does it have to do with your brother?”
When is it not connected to him?
Cuphead wants to counter back, but only ends up with a clogged throat, forcing him to respond quieter. His body shivers involuntarily against the cold bathroom sink, the feeling in his wounded sides returning slowly. He was sure he smelled like grime and fire, and drying blood, probably a moment away from being dragged to a shower.
“We fought. Around- about three weeks ago. We haven't made up still.”
“Still? It was that bad huh.”
Cuphead nods, unable even to lie to the man. Being in this situation was embarrassing. Having to rant to an ex-enemy and current boss of himself was downright humiliating .
He felt pacified. Similar to a weeping child, shamelessly venting to his mom about how another kid pushed him into the dirt.
“We uhh– We had- We started talking about Chalice, about our ancestors, about– Well I'm sure you know already.”
He bites his tongue abruptly, the trembling of his voice chords coming to a halt, void of sound. He was spilling his guts out to King Dice. What the fuck .
He should've been finished off by one of the rotten demonic creatures he fought earlier. He should've spared everyone the trouble of taking care of his useless self.
He should've, he should've, he should've.
He should've done anything else, but seek out help from people who deserved better than Cuphead.