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Mordecai's death

The Silence of the Living Room

The days following the funeral were not peaceful. They were quiet, but it was a heavy, suffocating kind of quiet that felt like being submerged in deep water. At the park, the gears of the world kept turning because they had to, but the engine was misfiring. Benson hadn't yelled in seventy-two hours. He sat in his office, staring at a stack of clipboards, his hand hovering over the "To-Do" lists that still had Mordecai’s name typed at the top of the rotation. He couldn't bring himself to cross it off.

In the kitchen of the main house, the atmosphere was even grimmer. Muscle Man sat at the table, staring into a bowl of cereal that had long since turned into a mushy, unappetizing paste. Hi-Five Ghost hovered beside him, his translucent face etched with a permanent frown. Usually, the room would be filled with the sound of "My Mom" jokes or the frantic clicking of buttons from the living room. Now, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator.

"I can't eat this, Fives," Muscle Man muttered, pushing the bowl away. His voice was gravelly, stripped of its usual boisterous energy. "It tastes like cardboard. Everything tastes like cardboard."

"I know, Mitch," High-Five Ghost whispered. "It’s weird. The whole house feels... empty. Like the air is thinner or something."

Skips walked in, his heavy footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. He carried a toolbox, but he wasn't heading toward any specific repair. He just seemed to be moving to keep from standing still. He looked at the two of them, his eyes weary. He had seen many things in his long life—he had watched friends grow old and pass, had fought gods and demons—but the suddenness of this had left even the immortal yeti shaken.

"Where’s Rigby?" Skips asked.

Muscle Man jerked a thumb toward the ceiling. "Hasn't come out of the room since we got back from the cemetery. Not for food, not for the bathroom, nothing. I tried to knock on the door yesterday to ask if he wanted to watch the Strong Johns marathon, but he just told me to go away. Except he didn't say 'go away.' He used... much stronger words."

Skips sighed, a sound like grinding stones. "He’s hurting. We’re all hurting, but for him, it’s like losing a limb. I’ll go check on him."

"Good luck, man," Muscle Man said, resting his head on the table. "I don't think he’s in the mood for one of your 'I’ve seen this before' stories."

Skips didn't respond. He climbed the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. When he reached the door to the room Mordecai and Rigby had shared for years, he paused. He could hear a faint, repetitive sound coming from inside. It wasn't crying. It was the sound of a joystick being flicked back and forth, followed by the dull *thwump* of a fist hitting a mattress.

Skips knocked softly. "Rigby? It’s Skips. I brought some of those grilled cheese sandwiches from the place you like. Benson even paid for them."

Silence. Then, a muffled, cracked voice replied. "I’m not hungry. Leave 'em on the floor if you want, but I’m not opening the door."

"Rigby, you have to eat," Skips said, his tone firm but gentle. "And you have to come out eventually. The park... it needs to get back to a routine. Benson is worried. We’re all worried."

The door flew open with such violence it hit the interior wall with a bang. Rigby stood there, and the sight of him made Skips’ heart ache. The raccoon’s fur was matted and dull. His eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by dark circles that made him look like he hadn't slept since the day of the incident. He was wearing one of Mordecai’s old hoodies, which was far too large for him, the sleeves trailing past his hands.

"The park?" Rigby hissed, his voice trembling with a mix of rage and exhaustion. "You want to talk about the park? Who cares about the park, Skips? The leaves can stay on the ground. The grass can grow until it covers the roof. I don't care! It doesn't matter anymore!"

"It matters to us," Skips said. "It would have mattered to him."

Rigby let out a harsh, jagged laugh. "Don't do that. Don't do the 'what he would have wanted' thing. You don't know what he wanted! He wanted to win that stupid tournament next month! He wanted to finally ask Margaret out for real! He wanted to... he wanted to be alive!"

Rigby slammed his fist against the doorframe. "He was twenty-three, Skips! You’ve lived for hundreds of years! Why did he have to go? Why him and not... not someone else?"

Skips looked down, unable to meet the raccoon’s gaze. "There is no 'why' with these things, Rigby. I’ve lived a long time, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that death doesn't follow a script. It’s not fair. It never has been."

Rigby’s anger seemed to drain out of him all at once, leaving him hollow. He slumped against the doorframe, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor. He buried his face in the oversized sleeves of the hoodie.

"I keep waiting for him to walk through the door," Rigby whispered, his voice small and fragile. "Every time I hear the floorboards creak, I think, 'Oh, there he is. He’s gonna tell me I’m a loser for sitting in the dark.' And then I remember. And it’s like... it’s like being hit by the cart over and over again."

Skips sat down on the floor across from him, his massive frame taking up most of the hallway. "The first few weeks are the hardest. The silence is the loudest part."

"Margaret called," Rigby said after a long moment. "She’s been calling every hour. I can't talk to her. I can't look at her. Hearing her cry makes it worse, because then I remember her speech at the funeral. About how she loved him." He looked up at Skips, his eyes shining with fresh tears. "He knew, right? Even if she didn't say it, he had to know."

"I think he knew," Skips said softly. "In his own way."

"I didn't say it," Rigby sobbed, the first real tears finally breaking through. "I spent all my time making fun of him or getting him into trouble. I never told him he was my best friend. I never told him I wouldn't have made it a week in this park without him. I just... I just let him think I was an annoying jerk."

"He knew that too, Rigby," Skips said, reaching out a large hand to rest it on Rigby’s shoulder. "He wouldn't have stayed if he didn't know. He wouldn't have bailed you out of every mess if he didn't care. You were brothers. Brothers don't always need the words."

They sat in the hallway for a long time, the immortal yeti and the broken raccoon. For the first time since the ambulance had pulled away, Rigby didn't feel like he was drowning. He was still in the water, but someone was holding onto his hand.

Downstairs, the front door opened. The chime of the bell felt intrusive in the quiet house. It was Eileen and Margaret. They were carrying containers of food, their expressions guarded and weary. Benson met them in the foyer, his movements stiff.

"How is he?" Eileen asked quietly, nodding toward the stairs.

Benson shook his head. "Skips is up there now. We’re trying, Eileen. We really are. But the house... it feels like it’s holding its breath."

Margaret stood by the coat rack, her gaze fixed on the empty space where Mordecai usually hung his jacket. She looked smaller than she had a week ago, her feathers ruffled and unkempt. "I brought some of that coffee he liked. From the shop. I know it’s stupid, but I thought... maybe the smell of it would help."

"Nothing is stupid right now, Margaret," Benson said, his voice cracking slightly. "Thank you."

The group migrated to the living room, sitting on the mismatched couches. This was the room where so many memories had been made. This was where they had fought the Hammer, where they had played countless hours of video games, where they had laughed until they couldn't breathe. Now, the TV was a black, empty mirror.

"I keep expecting him to come down the stairs and complain about the coffee being too weak," Margaret said, sitting on the edge of the sofa. She clutched a paper cup in her hands as if it were a lifeline. "I went to the coffee shop yesterday to work my shift, and I saw a blue jay landing on the fence outside. For a split second, I actually thought... I thought it was him. I almost waved."

She let out a shaky breath. "Then I realized it was just a bird. Just a regular bird."

"He wasn't regular," Muscle Man said from the doorway. He walked in, followed by High-Five Ghost. "He was the only guy who could actually talk me down when I got into a zone. He was a solid dude."

"He was the best of us," Pops added, appearing from the kitchen with a tray of tea. His usual "jolly good show" attitude was gone, replaced by a quiet, dignified sadness. "The park is a darker place without his light. But we must remember, dear friends, that a light that bright never truly goes out. It lives on in the things he touched. In the stories we tell."

"I don't want stories," a voice said from the stairs.

Everyone looked up. Rigby was standing there, leaning on the banister. He was still wearing the oversized hoodie, and he looked exhausted, but he had come down. Skips followed behind him, a silent guardian.

Rigby walked into the living room, his eyes scanning the faces of his friends. He stopped when he saw Margaret. The tension between them was palpable—two people who had loved the same person in different ways, both left with a mountain of unsaid words.

Margaret stood up, her lip trembling. "Rigby, I—"

Before she could finish, Rigby crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face in her shirt. Margaret froze for a second, then let out a sob, collapsing into the hug and holding the raccoon tightly. They stood there in the center of the room, crying for the bird who wasn't there, for the future that had been stolen, and for the hole in their lives that might never fully heal.

The others watched in solemn silence. Benson looked away, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. Even Muscle Man turned his head, unable to watch the raw display of grief.

After a few minutes, Rigby pulled back, though he stayed close to her. He looked at the TV, then at the dusty game console sitting on the shelf.

"He’d hate this," Rigby said, his voice raspy.

"Hate what?" Eileen asked.

"He’d hate us sitting around like this," Rigby said, a tiny, ghost of a smile flickering on his face. "He’d say we’re being 'too sentimental' and that we’re making it weird. He’d tell us to do something productive, or at least something fun."

Rigby walked over to the TV and picked up the second controller—the one he hadn't put in the casket. He held it out toward the room.

"Who wants to play?" he asked.

Benson looked at the controller, then at the clock. It was the middle of a workday. There were hedges to be trimmed, trash to be picked up, and a dozen other chores that were falling behind. He looked at his employees—his family—and saw the desperation in their eyes. They didn't need a boss right now. They needed a reason to keep going.

"I’ll play," Benson said, stepping forward. "But I’m warning you, Rigby, I haven't played this in years. You’re going to have to show me the buttons."

"It’s easy, Benson," Rigby said, his voice steadier now. "I’ll show you everything. Just like he showed me."

They spent the rest of the afternoon in the living room. They didn't talk about the funeral, and they didn't talk about the "cardiac event." They played video games. They argued over who got the power-ups. They ate the grilled cheese sandwiches Skips had brought. For a few hours, the crushing weight of the silence was pushed back by the familiar sounds of the park workers being themselves.

As the sun began to set, casting a warm, orange glow through the windows, Rigby looked over at the empty spot on the couch where Mordecai usually sat. For a fleeting moment, in the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a translucent blue shimmer—a tall figure with a thumb up, nodding in approval.

Rigby blinked, and the image was gone. But the feeling remained.

"Yeah-yuh," Rigby whispered to the empty space.

He turned back to the screen, gripped the controller tight, and kept playing. The park was still there. They were still there. And as long as they remembered, the blue jay would never truly stop flying.