Joel is pretty damn good at avoidance. You could call him an expert, he does it so much.
He's so good at it, in fact, that he's multitasking. Not just moping. He's getting wood for his latest build, thank you, so it's not his fault when he doesn't check his communicator— he's swinging a blummin' axe around, he doesn't have time to think about meetings, or Empire trades, or—
His communicator pings again.
—or a certain, tiny Sheriff.
Joel sighs. There goes not thinking about it.
...Deforestation is a valid coping mechanism, innit?
(He tries for a laugh. It doesn't quite reach his eyes.)
His stare bores holes into the rough bark, his knuckles straining around the handle of his axe. Joel curses under his breath.
He doesn't know how to face Jimmy.
That's the issue, isn't it? He could see him, could visit, but he won't. Not right now, not in the next— whatever. Doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, 'cuz Jimmy's alive and that's what's important, right? Joel's being stupid.
He's being stupid because, because. It doesn't make sense that he's still so— hollow and suffocating inside. That his lungs still tremble and seize like he's inhaled smoke, his throat tight and hands clammy when he's unoccupied for too long. It's stupid. It's stupid.
Because Jimmy's fine now. He's walking around as the Sheriff of Tumble Town again, shorter where Joel got taller and if it were any other day, Joel thinks he would be laughing at the thought again.
He swings his axe with more force than necessary, basking in the crack-splintering of wood.
He's not laughing now, though.
He does it again, like he's hammering the thought into his head, over and over: Jimmy is fine. He's alive.
It wasn't meant to last.
The tree falls with a thud, leaves rustling in its wake. His arms ache. Joel's been at this for hours.
He grunts as he heaves up his axe, looking for another tree.
He doesn't get it. He doesn't get it.
His body aches with a grief he can't place, a kind of pain he's never really had to feel until Jimmy, until Grian. He feels a bit like a ghost, some days, and that's. Not very god-like, is it.
He's the god of bloody lightning, or whatever it is he went with, and yet when he hears thunder on stormy nights his skin crawls and his eyes burn and all he can think of is, is—
Tree trunks splinter and collapse under his hands. One, two. Again, and again, and again. Until there's nothing left, until his mind quiets, until, until.
Joel leans against the rough bark, his chest heaving with exertion.
…Yeah. Just that. He's not freaking out, he's not.
Joel lets out a frustrated noise, "What's wrong with me?" He balls his hands into fists, gritting his teeth. "There's no point to this."
How's he meant to explain this to Jimmy, then?
How's Joel meant to say that he can't look at him, can't tease or poke fun because even just thinking about him hurts. That he can't help but mourn him when he's right there and that he doesn't know how to stop, how to face him and not see a ghost.
He'd get that look on his face, the kicked puppy one that Joel always caves to, that one. And Joel will feel bad, because he knows he can be an ass but he's not a monster, and he hates, hates when Jimmy's face crumples like that so—
So seeing him isn't an option. Not right now, at least.
Joel sighs, slowly peeling himself off the side of the tree. His head hurts.
He looks over at the fallen wood, dark oak mingled with leaves and grass. His mind, if only for a moment, flashes with a mansion. Fire.
Joel shakes the thought away, scowling as he goes to scoop up the logs. Stupid brain.
Jimmy's right there, just a nether portal away. He's fine, and so is Joel.
…So is Joel.
He stuffs his materials into his shulker boxes, puts them in his inventory with a sigh.
Right. Next batch.
(His communicator pings, one more time.)
(hey joel, it reads. hope youre alright.)
(It stays unread for another week.)
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