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factorialsotherfandoms · 4 months

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Canon-adjacent (implied no respawns, or at least heavily impaired respawns, but otherwise canon-ish setting) platonic husbands philza and missa with philza getting himself into a good deal of bother.

TW: needles, blood, major character injury, implied temporary major character death, panic attacks

The mob was new. Of all the things that could do such harm to Philza... there's a lot of them, if he's insufficiently careful, but this one was new. New, and unpredictable, and now very dead.

Very dead, but having left a giant gash from Philza's ribs on one side, to his opposing hip. It's bleeding - heavily - but nothing a potion can't fix.

Philza puts pressure on the wound with one hand, and searches his bag with the other. He grabs a couple of potions - it's a nasty looking wound, and he's already feeling weak - drinking them or pouring them on it as the bottles dictate.

He gives them a second, then another, and the wound doesn't close.

Before he's even had the chance to think /shit/, or /poison/, or /what the fuck was on that mob's stupid scythe/, he has both hands on the injury. His first hand - the hand with his communicator on - is looking pretty gorey already. He puts pressure, realises it's barely helping, then slips his hands around.

He grabs the edges of his skin, pinches them together, and he thinks /okay, fuck, what do I do now?/

For once, Philza does not have an answer. He's a good distance from spawn, his communicator is soaked in blood to the point he isn't sure it'll work and he's very sure he can't see the screen, and if he moves he'll bleed faster. There's also the niggling knowledge in the back of his mind that his thinking is impaired, that he's poisoned and it's likely to have more effects than just preventing his wound closing, that right now if he acts on anything he comes up with then he'll do something extremely dumb.

There's no winning, not when he's having thoughts like that.

Staying put is a shit plan, it's a completely shit plan, and he's pretty sure all versions of him would agree. No matter how he holds the wound he's still bleeding, blood bubbling out between his fingers. If he stays here, in a random glade, a couple of hundred blocks north of the closest build, he's going to die.

If he gets up, if he tries to walk those few hundred blocks... With where the wound is, every single step is going to shift it. He won't be able to pinch the wound closed as he is now, and with every step any healing that's miraculously happened will be undone. He might even tear the damn thing more. He's a couple of hundred blocks north of the Hide and Seek Arena, and nobody's even going to be there at this time of day; if he tries to walk, he's going to die.

What else? What else? He tries to bash his communicator to life, just in case. He keeps the HOLD switch on when he doesn't need it, usually. With his ring finger he manages to reach said switch, and try to flick it. The blood has gotten into the mechanism, disabling it. And with HOLD on... Even if the other buttons escaped the worst, they'll be disabled to. If he gets out of this, he's begging Tubbo or Aypierre or Pac or /someone/ to redesign the damn things, make them blood proof. He's not going to get out of this, though.

He's going to die, and it's going to fucking suck.

Those are, as far as he can tell, his options. None of them are survivable, but at least if he's walking he's /trying/ to live. It'll kill him faster than waiting for help, sure, but Philza's never been much good at standing still.

He pushes up from the tree, and gets eight steps before his knees buckle beneath him.

His hands fly from the wound to catch himself, then back to it to close it back up.

Philza might not be thinking straight, and he might not be good at sitting still, but he's nothing if not stubborn. He grits his teeth, and pinches the wound closed, and drags himself to his feet.

He makes it ten steps, then fifteen, then a whole thirty before he can only make it four. With every attempt his vision grows a little darker, his heart a little faster, his teeth set a little harder into their grimace.

He still gets back up, and gets back up, and gets back up until -

Until he can't any more.

In a hazy blur Philza tries his comms again - still not working - before letting go with one hand. He bleeds even faster without it, yes, but like this? He's too exposed, too exposed, and he can hear the wolves coming. Wolves who might be fine, but might also be looking for an easy meal.

Even dying his instincts kick in; Philza drags himself into a more defensible position, and clamps his fingers around the wound once more.

His body already sprawled on the floor, it's impossible to fall further when his eyes slip shut. Vaguely, vaguely, he's aware of his fingers falling limp, away from the wound and /ah/ he thinks /well, we had a good run, didn't we universe?/.

The universe doesn't answer, or if it does Philza's too far gone to hear it. Maybe the acceptance should scare him, but as he lays beneath a tree, it feels warm, it feels gentle - it feels like coming home.

There's something on the tip of his tongue, some memory just out of reach, some deep-set knowledge he really must know.

He doesn't chase it, he simply leans into the warmth and tries to let go.

"Phil!"

... Missa?

He might be too weak to hear the universe, but not the terrified scream of his husband.

It drives Philza, that flicker of a scream. He manages to get one arm under himself, push up, and-

And he doesn't even get to see the terrified man sprinting towards him, as his vision stays black and his body collapses back to the floor.

---

Philza doesn't expect to wake, not to silence and certainly not to soft Spanish sung by a hoarse voice. Whatever pillows his head is oddly shaped but warm, though everywhere else is freezing despite the weight of blankets. An arm is draped over him, and fingers brush through his hair.

He's also in a fucktonne of pain.

The singing hitches like a sob and - yeah no, that's not an angel, Philza's somehow fucking alive.

He'll take it, but it fucking sucks.

Memories are difficult, fragmented. He's...

He's supposed to be holding shut the wound in his side and /fuck/!

Limbs like lead, Philza tries to move, tries to pinch his bleeding flesh shut once again. It's hard, it should be impossible, but he's Philza Fucking Minecraft and he refuses to die!

He refuses, but one of those arms shifts, tries to stop him. Someone kisses the top of his head, shifts to hold his hands, whispers "you're alright, you're okay" in a gentle tone.

The singer, the singer whose name sits beneath his tongue and Philza can't quite grasp it, but he knows they are /wonderful/, /amazing/, his entire fucking /world/.

Well, maybe not all of it, but a massive fuck-off chunk of it at least.

And it is alright, he is okay, until something catches against his wound.

White hot agony, trailing up and down his entire spine.

Philza... Philza doesn't tense, doesn't scream, doesn't fight - his instincts are strong and his instincts have saved him before and he's just an injured, mutilated bird in the hands of a predator and for a moment all he knows is fucking pain and PLAY DEAD.

He doesn't tense at the pain, he goes limp. He can't even choose how his breathing catches - stopped in his throat, wings slack, body slack, unmoving and unresponsive as can be.

Someone calls his name, but blind pain and blind terror are winning, as in the certainty that he must survive. His name comes again, more frantic, then as a scream-

A scream.

A familiar scream that isn't his own and-

Oh, /fuck/, humans don't play dead in the same way, do they?

Through the pain and the fear and the hands on him it's hard, it's so hard - harder still when he hears running feet from else where and everything he is screams /predator, predator, predator/ - but he does it.

Philza takes a deep, loud, gasping, purposeful breath, forces his body to lock again, forces himself to stop playing, to breathe.

The wonderful voice above him stops screaming and starts sobbing, fingers tracing his jawline as he sobs over and over again.

The running feet stop, and there's a discussion in quick, panicked Spanish - too quick for any Philza, but especially for an injured one - before other hands are touching him, pressing him, assessing him.

His instincts are desperate but Philza remembers the screams before. The fight is exhausting, harder than it should be, but he forces himself to keep breathing, keep breathing, keep breathing. Just for the voice, just for the wonderful person who owns the voice and he knows means the world to him.

He tries to stay awake, he really does, but there's only so much he can do. He's tired, and breathing is /exhausting/, and the lovely voice belonging to a stupid but brilliant man isn't singing to him any more, and the longer he's here the more he realises he must actually, legitimately, be safe.

Safe, what a funny idea. But a nice one.

Philza gives in to temptation, and lets himself fade.

If he's safe, he can let consciousness be someone else's problem.

---

Philza wakes next to a warm pillow, and frozen blankets, and the distinct smell of honey tea. There's no singing this time, but familiar fingers trace his cheek and Philza feels them and thinks /Missa/.

There's a steady bip bip, and a sting, and his existence is cloudy with painkillers.

All of those sensations - every single one - adds up to /probably/ a good thing.

This time, awake, Philza manages to open his eyes. His vision is blurry, but the light is dim, and he's able to drink in the image of his husband above him sipping on a steaming mug.

Missa's eyes gaze vacantly into the distance. Philza does not chase them down. Instead he reaches up a shaking hand, just about managing to make it high enough to stroke Missa's cheek.

He sees Missa blink, and look down, and whisper "Phil?"

Philza can only gather so much strength, but he smiles his soft smile and mouths back "Missa".

---

A few hours and a nap later, Philza is sat against Missa's chest, and curled in his arms. They're both in an exhausted daze, Philza never having really quite left one, and Missa having been running on fear for too long. It strains the stitches a little, but not so much it bleeds, and Philza will live.

He's had the summary of what happened - Missa found him in the woods, bought him back, called for help healing him even as he cleaned and stitched the wound himself. There's talk of the poison, about it being new, and the struggle to synthesise an antidote before they ran out of blood they could give him.

From the haunted look in everyone's eyes, it was a fucking close run thing.

He'll have to thank Pac and Mike later, for that. He's already asked Fit to pass the message on, along with dropping his communicator off for cleaning, upgrade, and repairs, but, fuck, he knows the sort of toll the two are willing to put themselves through for people, and he knows he owes them.

He hopes Mike stopped Pac poisoning himself this time - Jesus Fucking Christ that man will be the death of Fit one of these days - and given the turn around might even be correct about it.

Silver lining - there's now an antidote for the next time someone runs into one of those fucks, and Aypierre is already working on a way to mass produce it.

And then there's Roier to thank, who might still give Missa side eye at times - and what even happened there - but who knows his way around the hospital /and/ seems to have kept his husband something approximating calm, and then Tubbo let slip they'd had to round up blood donations from everyone compatible to keep him alive and make up for the blood loss and, fuck, at this point he should probably get Chayanne to help him batch cook a /lot/ of shortbread to box up and hand around.

And then there's Missa, his Missa...

He's not sure /why/ Missa sang until his throat could barely function, especially when Philza was too unconscious to appreciate it, but...

But it was also Missa who found him, who saved him.

Philza presses a kiss to his fingers, then presses those fingers against Missa's throat.

"Hm?" Missa asks. "Phil?"

"Thank you," Philza shifts his hand, keeping the backs of his fingers against Missa's throat as he strokes along his chin with his thumb.

"I didn't do much," Missa whispers, his voice still suffering.

"You found me," Philza says. "You saved me."

"The... wolves?" his voice lilts slightly on the word - with Philza's communicator gone and head missing a significant proportion of blood assigned to it, they're stuck in English. "They found you."

"They would have eaten me, not saved me."

"No!" Missa's eyes widen, and arms tighten around him. "No, they are good- good boys!"

"I'm teasing," Philza promises, and maybe he is now but it had been a very genuine fear at the time. "I'm teasing, it's okay, I'm okay..."

He's not, he feels like death, and the painkillers he's been given will wear off soon. But, he's breathing, he's alive, and it doesn't look like that's changing any time soon.

Missa curls around him, hugging him close, protecting him from all sides. It's a position Philza is intimately familiar with, having done it so many times for his children.

"I was scared," Missa's voice breaks. "I was scared - you scared me."

"I'm sorry," and Philza /is/, he never - he's never wanted to be the cause of such worry, such fear. "Missa, I- I'm so sorry."

"You were dead," Missa says, the sobs free and almost drowning his struggling voice. "You were dead, in my arms. I held you dead in my arms."

A mistranslation? Philza wouldn't be here, if he were dead, he knows that much for sure.

"I'm right here," Philza promises, rather than call out his confusion; English is hard, and it's no time for a grammar lesson. "You got my dumb ass out of there, and got help. We're okay, I'm okay."

"Don't leave me," Missa answers. "You're- you're- banned! No leaving me, never leaving me."

Philza doesn't think his words are reaching through the tears; he pools his strength, and reaches up, and holds his husband close. Missa's arms wrap around his chest - not tight, moving as he breathes and clinging to that pace.

"We're okay," Philza whispers - despite the exhaustion, despite the pain, despite the catheter still in his arm just in case the bleeding restarts and he needs another transfusion, despite how controlling his body is like piloting sludge. "We're okay."

And maybe, this time, they will be.

#qsmp fanfic #qsmp philza #qsmp missa #hurt/comfort #blood #major character injury #so uuuum I do know what happens here #but I didn't write Missa's PoV so....#i'll let you fill in the blanks #let's just say missa's english isn't that bad...#^-^#I waaaas going to have more scene where they talked after but... idk I liked this #also fun fact - missa has skeleton hands and so can't take someone's pulse #has no surface-level touch in his hands #he can feel pain if his bones break or you scratch them or make weird vibrations but that's nerves inside the bone #has none on the outside and bone too hard to shift with a pulse so...#cannot detect one

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