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Summary
Mumbo had always been the sort of man who appeared halfway translucent in lamplight, tall and thin as a page marker, his face drained of color except for the stark ink-black slash of his mustache and the anxious flutter of his eyes. He worked too late, slept too little, and lived in a house so small that “roommate” felt like a generous word for the arrangement. The creaking wooden cottage was barely large enough for one person, let alone two grown men pressed together like forgotten books on a narrow shelf. Every night, after Mumbo finished hammering away at article drafts in their living room, he would slip into the single bed he and Grian shared, more out of necessity than intention, and Grian would roll close, warm chest against cold back, a quiet presence clinging to him like smoke.
They were friends. At least, that was the name Mumbo had given to whatever strange gravity held them together.
This work is a gift to my lovely friend @ahllohehn on Tumblr. The AU Scarlet Quill belongs to him as well.