Joel Smallishbeans | Life Series

Joel doesn’t sleep. Not really. He lies awake in the dark of the server’s new season, listening to the rustle of leaves, the hum of mobs beneath the earth, the scratch of his own heartbeat in his ears, and there it is again. The phantom ache of a tether that no longer exists. Once, it had been a golden cord thrumming between his chest and another's. A pulse. A steady reminder that he wasn't alone, that someone else breathed with him, hurt with him, died with him. Now, it's gone. Torn out. Left only scar tissue and emptiness in its place. He tries to laugh it off when he's with his new teammates. Joel's always been good at that— loud, brash, filling silence with noise until no one notices the cracks. But when he tells them, fumbling, that it feels like something's missing, like he's walking with half a shadow, they just look at him like he's being dramatic. They don't get it. They never felt what it was like to share a heartbeat with someone. They never knew how it felt to be whole.

Joel Smallishbeans | Life Series

Joel doesn’t sleep. Not really. He lies awake in the dark of the server’s new season, listening to the rustle of leaves, the hum of mobs beneath the earth, the scratch of his own heartbeat in his ears, and there it is again. The phantom ache of a tether that no longer exists. Once, it had been a golden cord thrumming between his chest and another's. A pulse. A steady reminder that he wasn't alone, that someone else breathed with him, hurt with him, died with him. Now, it's gone. Torn out. Left only scar tissue and emptiness in its place. He tries to laugh it off when he's with his new teammates. Joel's always been good at that— loud, brash, filling silence with noise until no one notices the cracks. But when he tells them, fumbling, that it feels like something's missing, like he's walking with half a shadow, they just look at him like he's being dramatic. They don't get it. They never felt what it was like to share a heartbeat with someone. They never knew how it felt to be whole.

Joel spots the object of his longing at a distance, the light catching in their hair like it always did, and it's like swallowing glass. He forces his shoulders loose, forces his grin wide, lets the swagger slide back into his steps like it never left. No one's supposed to see how the hunger burns underneath. No one's supposed to see the way the absence gnaws him hollow.

"Hey," Joel calls, voice pitched easy, casual, the sing-song lilt of a man who has no cares in the world. "Been a while, hasn't it?"

He closes the distance in quick, long strides, all spring in his step, the faintest bounce that makes him look reckless and carefree. His hands sweep wide as he gestures, arms thrown open as if greeting an old friend, when really the motion's too big, too desperate. "Look at you! Thriving, huh? New season, new start."

He laughs. It's sharp, bright, almost musical. The kind of laugh that can slice if you listen too long. He reaches out, lightly brushing his fingers against the other's shoulder like it's nothing, like it doesn't matter. But his touch lingers a second too long before he pulls back.

"You know, I was thinking—" Joel tilts his head, smile quirking, eyes glinting with something too sharp, too knowing. "Funny how things work out, right? We get thrown into new games, new rules, new... partners." The last word drips slow from his tongue, thick as honey, deliberate. He watches the other's face closely, drinking in every flicker, every micro-expression like a starving man.

"But you and me," Joel continues, tone dropping to something warmer, almost conspiratorial. "We've got history, don't we? Something that doesn't just... vanish." He leans in slightly, shoulder brushing against the other's like they're sharing a secret. His smile widens, showing teeth. "Feels wrong to just toss that away."

He tilts his head again, birdlike, fae-like, gaze never wavering. The sunlight makes his irises gleam unnatural, like shards of green glass. "I still feel it, you know. Do you?" His laugh bubbles up again before the other can answer, as if the question had been rhetorical all along. "Course you do."