Chapter Text
“Cuphead!” Mugman cried, running over to his brother, who had just returned from the fair. He chuckled. “Gee, Mugs, miss me that much –“
“Cuphead, it’s Elder Kettle.”
The cup’s eyes widened. He grabbed his brother by the wrist and pulled him along. “You’re sure?”
“What do you mean, of course I’m sure! He said it himself!” The two dashed frantically across the first Isle, its residents watching quizzically as they dashed by. Of course, the brothers didn’t notice this. Nothing was in their sights besides their home, and their grandfather.
Cuphead threw open the door and rushed upstairs, Mugman not far behind. He found Elder Kettle’s bedroom door and opened that a bit more quietly. The kettle lay in bed, an oil can on his bedside table that appeared unused for some time. Cuphead wondered if he could even use it anymore.
“Boys, I thought I told you… not to run up the stairs,” Elder Kettle wheezed. “You could trip… and fall… and break…”
“Well, what if you… you know…” Mugman trailed off. The kettle chuckled squeakily. “Kicked the bucket while you took your time? I’d at least die happy knowing you weren’t going to spill everywhere.”
“Gee, that’s a little morbid,” muttered Cuphead. “Well, it’s the truth. I might as well get on giving it after lying to your faces for years,” Elder Kettle sighed. The brothers hummed in response, still not sure how to feel about something that should have been resolved months ago. “You’ve been a great grandad, anyway,” Mugman finally murmured. The kettle rocked slightly from side to side, a gesture that passed for shaking his head.
“You’ve got rose-colored glasses, my boy. I kept you away from the world at every opportunity, didn’t tell you what was in the forest, or in the observatory on the hilltop. I let you go off to the casino, just like I did –“
“That’s not true,” Cuphead interrupted. “You gave us enough warnings about the casino to fill a whole book with ‘em!”
“But when it came to prevention, you slipped right past me. That Devil knew what he was doing with my deal, making me weak by taking my soul…” he trailed off. The brothers stared, confused. “But he hasn’t taken your soul yet,” Mugman vocalized.
“Not taken, no. Just…” he stopped saying coherent words as the brothers realized his mouth had locked up. They grabbed the oil can and slid it under Elder Kettle’s mustache so that they could get his mouth working again. He sputtered as the oil went into his mouth and spat it out. “I… don’t have much time, boys,” he muttered slowly, trying not to overwork his jaw, or what passed for a jaw on a kettle. “I never figured out… who would care for you, or… where you were to go… cocky to the end, I suppose…”
“We can still live here,” Cuphead suggested. “Everyone can take care of us when we need it. Me an’ Mugs can handle ourselves otherwise.”
“Mugs and I.”
“Huh?” Cuphead asked.
“Not ‘me and Mugs.’ Mugs and I,” Elder Kettle elaborated, quieter than before. He laughed shakily. “See, you can handle yourselves in a scrap, talk a crazy man off a ledge, but… at the end of the day… I never taught you a thing… just kept you inside, and… preached without practicing…” he trailed off, his voice growing quieter and quieter, until with a small squeak it faded completely. His eyes remained half open, like he was caught in a photograph seconds before falling asleep. Mugman’s hands, still gripping Elder Kettle’s, began trembling. Cuphead put his own hand over them, and his brother finally looked up with shiny, overflowing eyes.
“Mugs, we oughtta… tell everyone. At least, we need help to… you know…” Cuphead rambled. “I’ll go to… the farm, the garden, the observatory…”
“Wait, wait,” murmured Mugman. “We’ve got to take this one step at a time. What if… no one cares enough to come to a funeral?”
“… All right. Well, I know we need at least one thing to put Elder Kettle to rest, so… let’s just start there, okay Mugs?”
Mugman nodded. “Let’s go.”
—-
After over a year of things going along as they once did, Moe and his compatriots had become a little more acquainted with those around them, perhaps even more than they had in the times before everything went into a spiral. Included in this roster of relatively friendly neighbors were the cups, and it wasn’t uncommon for them to visit, maybe pester the farmers for a sampling of their crops. However, today their mood seemed strangely somber, and Moe’s immediate thought was that whatever they’d come to say or ask, he wasn’t equipped to respond to it.
“Boys,” he addressed shortly.
“Mister Tato, we’ve got a… situation,” Mugman murmured. That was odd. They’d never felt the obligation to address him so formally before.
“Uh… well, why don’t you tell the both of us inside?” he offered. “Might… rain, or somethin’.” They nodded, and the three of them approached the small farmhouse in silence.
“Moe, do you think the night will be too cloudy to – oh! Cuphead and Mugman. What a pleasant surprise!” Weepy exclaimed. “I’ll make some tea straightaway. Oh, but Cuphead, you like coffee, don’t you –“
“Weepy, they’ve got somethin’ important to say,” Moe interrupted. Weepy stopped in his tracks and came over to join the others at the kitchen table.
“I see. Terribly sorry to ramble on, ah, what is it you wanted to tell us?” he asked, hands folded delicately on the tabletop. The two exchanged glances and both their faces tensed.
“It’s… it’s Elder Kettle,” Mugman started. “He’s… well, he… he-he…”
“He died just a few minutes ago,” Cuphead finished bluntly. Moe’s eyebrows went up in surprise, and Weepy bit his bottom lip as it quivered.
“Oh, dear…” he murmured, voice wobbling. “Oh, dear, dear, dear… I can’t imagine how you’re taking this…”
“What do you need us for?” Moe asked. “That is, uh, what can we do for you?”
“We-we don’t wanna impose!” Mugman denied quickly. “We just… the-the body’s… g-g-gotta go somewhere…”
“Oh. Cripes,” Moe muttered, watching the cup narrow his eyes to keep his tears at bay. “Well, if you… need a hole dug, I can -“
“Moe! You could say it a little more respectably!” Weepy cried.
“No, it’s alright, mister Weepy!” Cuphead insisted. “We do need a… a grave, and… we were wondering if we should… have a funeral. We don’t have much money, but surely we can just invite most of the Isle over to pay respects, right?” Now it was the former debtors’ turns to trade glances.
“Well, Cuphead, that’s a lovely idea, but…” Weepy trailed off. “You see, the Isle’s getting to know the two of you quite well, you know that. But your grandfather, he… was never very close with any of us. Oh, we were… acquaintances, back in the day, but then –“
“You guys sold out and left him cheated and alone,” Cuphead finished, head propped in his hands. “Yeah, I get it. You don’t have to sugarcoat it. Our old man reminds you folks of bad times and better days, and you’d rather not go pretend to mourn a guy you’d feel guilty about pretending to mourn.”
“Why, I – Cuphead, your grandfather was –“
“Quit it, the kid’s not an idiot,” Moe ordered, standing up. “I’m sorry about your pops, I really am, but that would be one painful funeral. Come on, I’ve got a spade in the shed. Let’s lay the old guy to rest.”
—-
If it weren’t for Mugman’s tight, trembling grip on his hand, Cuphead would probably be biting his own finger off trying not to cry. As it was, he’d opted to grind his teeth against his bottom lip, and with luck he wouldn’t mark up the porcelain too bad. His other hand was busy holding his now late grandfather’s cane.
And finally, to Cuphead I give my cane, for it was once your greatest ambition to possess it. It is my hope that this will remain a symbol and reminder of your ceaseless spirit. Never let that spirit dwindle, my boy…
Cuphead had vague memories of wanting the walking stick, when it would serve as a sword in several of Elder Kettle’s rousing tales, making a younger Cuphead believe a crutch could be legendary. The old man could really sell a fantasy if he wanted to. Unfortunately, the greatest of these fantasies was all too ignorantly accepted, past the age when the brothers should have known better.
“All right, that’s about six feet. Any deeper and I could bury myself alive. Wouldn’t that be a first-rate relapse.” Moe hoisted himself out of the makeshift grave he’d dug, and turned to the boys. “You need help getting him in the ground?”
Mugman shook his head. “That’s all right, mister Tato. You’ve done enough. We don’t mean to be a bother.”
“Eh…” he trailed off, watching the brothers’ tense expressions. He sighed and his own tight formality dropped. “Enough with the mister. I ain’t worth that. … Well, I’d best get back to the farm. You boys know where you’re going?”
Cuphead managed a shrug. “We’ll spend tonight here. After that… we’ll think of something.”
“Alright then. Weepy an’ I ain’t… parent-types, but… Psy’s bed’s up for grabs ‘til he’s back from that mainland convention next week,” Moe offered.
“We’ll think about it. Thanks, miste– er, Moe,” Mugman muttered, stumbling over his words.
“Don’t mention it, kid. Really.”
—-
Hours later, after a patted-down mound of dirt had been made a permanent feature of the backyard, Cuphead sat up in bed, a candle burning on his bedside table, unable to sleep. He’d had his straw pinned between his teeth for the past half hour, nothing in his head besides his soul, drinking and feeling the warm substance circulate back up to his head in an endless loop. He jumped as this equilibrium was broken by a knock at his door.
“Cuphead? You awake?” Cuphead spat out his straw. “If you’re awake,” he answered. Mugman pushed open his door, clearly having just finished crying.
“I can’t sleep,” he murmured. “Elder Kettle… his room is right across from mine, and… and…”
“Oh,” said Cuphead, understanding. “You want to switch?”
“No, it’s not that, well, it kind of is, but it’s more about… he’d always be there for me. Every time I had a nightmare, or started spilling in my sleep, he’d always know about it somehow, and I knew that no matter what happened when I was sleeping, it’d be fine. But now, you know… I know he’s not there.” Cuphead smiled a little. “Mugs, I’m right down the hall. I’m no Elder Kettle, but –”
“Cuphead, could I sleep with you tonight?” Mugman interrupted. Cuphead sat up more, surprised by the request. “Golly, Mugs, I dunno if that’ll work. We could bump into each other, or one of us could push the other out of bed, or… it’s just kinda dangerous is all.”
“Please…” Mugman murmured. “You know neither of us are going to sleep very well anyway.” Cuphead mulled over the proposition, and conceded that his brother was right.
“Okay,” he said. “But you’re sleeping closest to the wall. I can’t have you fall on the floor and get broken again.” Mugman nodded and Cuphead got out of bed, letting his brother slide in before getting back under the covers himself.
“We’ll get someone to come by and check on us, maybe even someone we can stay with…” Cuphead reassured dully, putting his straw back in his mouth. Mugman hummed in muffled response. Cuphead had given him two of his three pillows, which his brother was thankfully tired enough not to notice. “M’sure Wally wouldn’t mind having a couple’a kids to look after…” muttered Cuphead after some thought. He heard Mugman’s breathing slowly even out as he fell asleep, and went back to his soul-drinking delirium, hoping that the small action of swallowing would keep him from falling asleep himself. Unfortunately, coupled with Mugman’s slow breathing, the rhythm of his soul spinning through his straw, down his throat and back up into his head worked away at his eyelids, until he could no longer keep them open and his vision plunged into warm darkness.
---
“Wakey wakey, Kettle.”
Kettle? Was that his name? He didn’t have much time to consider the prospect before he felt three sharp simultaneous jabs in… him. Somewhere. He vaguely recalled what a body was meant to look like, and couldn’t pinpoint where he might be feeling the pain. He couldn’t feel where he ended. However, he could see, now at least, and figured out where he should be looking. Once he laid his eyes (at least what he was sure were eyes) on the source of the jabs, everything came back.
“Devil,” he breathed, his voice barely a whisper. The creature before him grinned. “That’s me. Been a while, hasn’t it?”
“I… I hardly remember you,” Kettle muttered, baffled. He was surprised he even remembered what the Devil looked like.
“Eh, it’s fine, I ain’t all that memorable,” the Devil reassured him with a quizzical grin. Kettle scrunched up his face skeptically, noting that he had more to manipulate than before. “I imagine you’d have been a better liar,” he returned. The Devil laughed. “If you’re imagining that, then I probably am.”
“Why am I here?” Kettle asked, finding himself able to stand up. On what, he wasn’t entirely sure. “I fulfilled my end of the deal.”
“You’re one funny guy,” the Devil remarked, an office forming around them. “I’m brewing up a new vessel just for you, and you’re askin’ why you aren’t screaming in eternal confusion and suffering right now? Bad move, mister. If I was Dice, you’d get your wish right now.” He snapped his fingers and a small imp appeared with a box of cigars. He took one and lit it, blowing a large cloud of smoke into the room. “But I ain’t Dice. So we’re gonna have some fun instead.”
“What do you mean a new –”
“Later, later. Look,” the Devil ordered, gesturing in front of him. The cloud of smoke didn’t dissipate, instead hanging in the air as a scene slowly took shape within it. Kettle squinted, trying to discern what he was looking at before widening his eyes. “Are those… my boys?”
“Nuh-uh, my boys, Kettle,” the Devil snickered. “But sure, let’s call ‘em yours.” He let Kettle watch the two sleep for a little. If he could sweat nervously, he would. Goodness, they’re going to get themselves hurt, sleeping like that…
“They would, huh?” the Devil responded. “Bet you’ve had that thought more times than you could count.”
Kettle nodded. “You made them so fragile. I should have known you’d make the only people that loved me so… losable.”
“Yeah, you should’ve. Well, desperate folks tend to forget lots of things. But you know, even grumpy ol’ monsters like myself feel bad sometimes. And hey, your boys are pretty damn careful for their age. I’d say they’ve earned a reward of sorts.”
Kettle stared, confused and suspicious. “A reward,” he repeated flatly. The Devil nodded enthusiastically.
“Oh, yes! There’s so many things they just can’t do, bein’ cups an’ all.” Kettle’s eyes widened as he put together what the Devil was getting at.
“You mean…”
“That’s right! Wouldn’t you love to see them run around, having the time of their lives, not a care in the world… without you?” Kettle downcast his gaze as it all became clear to him. Everything he’d ever wanted to do with them, to watch them do… and he was an outsider looking in. “Now you’re getting it, Kettle. I just want to do something for you and the boys, you know… out of the kindness of my heart.”
Kettle sighed, glad he hadn’t the strength to be angry. He was moreso made guilty by the fact that he wanted to be angry at all. “At least they’ll finally be able to live,” he muttered. “They don’t deserve the life you gave them.”
The Devil grinned. “Don’t be so glum. I said I’d do something for you, too. And what I’ll do, well… those boys are gonna need the extra durability.”
---
Cuphead’s eyes started hurting, and he blinked the sunlight out of them as he realized it was morning. He was horribly tired, and the cracked ceiling above him started to blur as his eyes closed again.
Wait. The ceiling?!
Cuphead jerked into a sitting position. How long had he been tipped over?! And how was he not spilled everywhere? His bedsheets were strewn around him, and it was clear he’d fallen out of bed. If that was the case, he would have cracked somewhere. He put his hands to his face, trying to feel out any cracks before stopping cold. His face didn’t feel right. It gave beneath his fingers, like it was partially melted. Unless he just had that many cracks, in which case…
He frantically tried to feel out any other cracks, still feeling nothing besides the strange, melted consistency, until his fingers came into contact with something else. A texture that he was familiar with from the few times Ribby had convinced him to spar.
Hair…
Something snapped in Cuphead and he scrambled to his feet, steadying himself as his head started spinning. He dug through his desk drawer until he found a small hand mirror. He pointed it to his face, and simply stared a moment. It was still him, certainly, but he felt like an outsider looking in on someone else. The mop of dark hair, the dull-toned skin, it didn’t feel like his. His reflection started blurring, and Cuphead realized his hand was shaking. He dropped the mirror onto the desk, and almost fell back to the floor before he was reinvigorated by another thought: what about Mugs?
He turned to his bed and yanked the covers off his brother, a small indiscernible noise escaping him as he saw that his brother had undergone the same fate.
“Mugs! Mugs! Wake up, will you?!” he cried, shaking his brother awake. Mugman’s eyes cracked open groggily. “Cuphead… what’re you – gah!” he exclaimed, his eyes shooting open. “What happened to your face?”
“It happened to yours too, Mugs,” he panted, finally getting ahold of his breathing. Mugman blinked a few times, then sat up in shock as he caught sight of his arms and legs, both of which, he realized, were the wrong color. “Good gosh,” he gasped. “You don’t mean to say we’re…” Cuphead nodded and handed him the mirror. Mugman stared for a moment. He put a hand to where his cracks would normally be, and found nothing. Just smooth skin. “How did this happen?” he asked absentmindedly, seemingly still trying to convince himself he wasn’t dreaming. “Why did it happen?”
“I don’t know,” replied Cuphead defeatedly, running his gloved fingers through his hair curiously. “But I’d bet my bottom dollar the Devil’s got something to do with it. Trouble is, he ain’t around…”
“Then we’ve gotta get the next best thing,” replied Mugman.
“Mugs, he won’t be any help. It’s no secret he doesn’t like us, and it’s not like he still gets news on the Devil’s every move,” Cuphead reasoned.
“No, but if there’s one fellow who could guess at the Devil’s intentions, why he did this… it’s Dice.”