Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Grian proved himself to be of worse resolve than he thought. As much as he loath to admit it, he had crumbled in a few days. Sure, he said he’d never regard this Scar as somebody to love. He still doesn’t. But lord, has he broken some…internal rules of his. 

Rules , the things Grian promised on a whim he wouldn’t do; wouldn’t feel. Half of the time, they’d go unnoticed in favour of personal choice. This time, despite everything, he still stared at the man; still thought about how much he’d love to keep him safe. Keep him close. Feelings still shone through as if never hidden behind layers of protection, and it burnt. It killed him to associate a stranger with his dear. 

Luckily, Grian was free of that during his time away—no pressure or fault to be had. He just hadn’t estimated how much worse it’d be to see Scar after all the shock had worn away. Yes, because grief still dug into his heart—squeezing it and closing up his ventricles—but really, it was more because of how filthy Grian felt even considering the person he had seen that day as anybody he knew. It coated his mouth, seeped through tissue to weave its way into his brain and nag. It never went away. 

He had originally promised to himself it would be a longer affair, taking his time to plan and prepare before getting rid of Scar and moving on. And, it nearly was, in Grian’s defense. It wasn’t his fault he was so incredibly bored and so uncomfortably watched. It wasn’t his fault he got tired of unwelcome hands running down his arms; holding him as he did anything. Really, Grian would argue if that damned makeshift family wanted him to get the job done faster, they shouldn’t have literally poked and prodded him every time he sat down to think. 

Dragging his feet up the hill and through the little path that led up to the storefront, Grian decided he fully gave up. Getting anything done without Scar around was impossible at this rate, they were unapologetically present and intolerable when they knew there wasn’t anybody there to watch. 

The lines and swirls knitted through the fibre in the wood stood out as he made his way inside and to the back. It was still relatively new to him, and yet he took one glance and padded toward the far right corner, looking at the hatch that sat raised on the floor. He’d never been down there, and yet descending the ladder and finding a living space, quaint and filled with plants, was exactly what he’d expected. Grian knew this place, really, whether he’d lived in this world or not.

So, no, it looked like it wasn’t going to be a long affair. In fact, as he reached the bottom, he watched as Scar etched another mark onto a makeshift calendar on his wall. A mark that sat three boxes after the day he arrived—which, helpfully, was circled by what seemed like shaky, adrenaline-fueled hands. In other words, Grian might as well have not left at all. 

A feeling much like shame racked through Grian’s body as he cleared his throat. It manifested in the form of being watched , being stared at and ridiculed as he knew he was. Grian knew what they expected. He knew he couldn’t deliver. Skin dripped off unceremoniously as he tried to move his left hand to wrap around the sheath, the weight searing the flesh that enclosed around his way out. 

He couldn’t do it, not right now. Not like they wanted him too. Not when Scar looked at him like that, smiling and rushing his feet faster than they could shuffle to stand before him, “Well hello there!”

Grian forgot how much he missed that voice. 

Nails lightly scratched Grian’s scalp as hands mussed his hair—he couldn’t get himself to mind too much. In front of him, a man with lovely eyes and a toothy grin looked down at him. A nice pressure settled on Grian’s head, his wings lifting to gently brush against Scar’s sides. He really ought to move. At some point. Probably. Maybe.

If he was lucky, he’d never have to move. If he was lucky, he would be able to get out of this without killing Scar—without plunging a sword into his heart right now, like the Watchers wanted him to. As it stood, Grian wasn’t quite sure he’d be able to handle burying his body again.

Then again, it’d be more than burying it, wouldn’t it? The blood would need to be washed off the floors and his clothing, he’d really rather have Scar’s wounds stitched and cleaned before he laid him to rest, and the whole funeral would need time as well.

The gentle heaviness that sat on Grian’s head moved, settling on his shoulder and effectively pulling him out of his line of thinking. As he looked up at the man again—brows furrowing as he tried to remember exactly when he looked down—the expression on his face was so much more untrue. It sat solid and unchanging on his face, a smile lightly disguising a worried twinkle in his eye, “So, G…! You—Well, you haven’t been here for…for—Ah, for,” the breathtaking green left Grian for a moment and he almost deflated completely, his spine working against his heart to keep him straightened, “For—Haha, why I’m not a hundred percent sure but…a long while!”

“Oh, I—Uhm, I don’t think it felt too long.”

What once floated with expression and loudness now quietened, voice becoming no more than a whisper, “Guess not. quite a while to leave me alone, though, don’t’cha think…?”

If it hadn’t been himself who made Scar talk like that, all of his usual energy and theatrics leaving his tone, Grian was sure he would’ve killed whoever had. As it was, that was most definitely not the most intelligent option. Internally, he made the executive decision to hold off on that self threat, for now. 

Scar’s hand fell as it was shook off, and Grian strode past him and farther inside the kitchen area behind them. It was welcoming, an archway letting anybody in. He wouldn’t let himself get weak over a man’s feelings, even if he was so similar to his beloved. Grian adamantly refused, and so he cut the string and let it unweave itself, falling to the floor as he made his way further into the room.

—

Maybe Scar was a bit frustrated. Maybe he was a bit hurt, too! Couldn’t blame a poor guy for that, could’ya? He just didn’t like how dismissive Gri was acting. Nothing wrong with that, surely. Some may call it immature, to be acting how he was, but Scar called it being responsibly in control of his feelings. All of ‘em, yup.

All of them , every single one, even as he turned to see Grian crossing his legs and leaning back on his counter. All of them , even as he watched his darling turn on the demeanour he put on whenever his true intentions were getting a little too obvious, “Well, you did tell me to come back.”

And, maybe not every single one as Scar inched forward to be standing in front of G, looking at his too sharp teeth and untruthful upward pull of his lips a bit too hard as he spoke, “I suppose I did.”

Wind blew from up above as they stood; as Grian stared down at him. Scar—as much as he loved a person there with him, taking up space and breathing and being alive—needed something. Something to work off of and build conversation out of. 

Gri, the sweet thing, had done nothing to save him as the seconds passed well into a minute. Nails tapped on the counter and eyes watched him. They observed and dug into his skull, scraping their way past grey matter to reach everything inside of his thoughts. They latched onto every movement and breath greedily, drinking in the flutter of Scar’s eyelashes and darting of his eyes. For as dark as they were—black, it seemed at first glance—he believed Grian’s eyes were the fullest and most colourful he’d ever seen. A part of him really couldn’t get himself to care if they stared.

It continued to be felt as Scar averted his own gaze, looking around at the environment around them as if it would throw him a bone. Nothing sat miraculously in the room that could be spoken about, nothing stood out that was interesting, and nothing could be made into a joke, question, or topic of conversation. Truly, the room hated him, and would not throw him any bones. 

What would have been an inappropriate amount of time for any type of silence between any two persons had elapsed four-fold. It was thick and sludge-like where it sloshed around them, and it did not want to leave or let them go, if the consistency that slowed down every pull of muscle in the room was any tell. At some point in their pathetic silence, Scar had given up completely. He could improv, surely! Surely. “Ahem—So, Gri!”

Amusement laced G’s expression, “Scar.” 

“...So, good news—Great even, just ama y zing—You—You, my good sir, are back!”

“Uh huh.”

“And as any decent host would—I mean, low bar, considering the situation, but—As any decent host would, I have—Well, I have prepared,” He paused his stuttering to take a glance around, and thank god for the bowl that sat, clear and elegant, in the corner. It held what he wanted, technically—something to distract them both—and no way was he not going to jump on that, “I have prepared a nice little snack!”

“Ah, as any decent host would, yes?” Gri’s eyes traced Scar as he made his way over, head tilting and smile still everpresent. Even if he knew it was nothing true, he’d be a fool to argue it wasn’t adorable.

“As any decent host would! Here, here, try!” 

Grian took that chance to lean backward as it was swung into his face, nose scrunching and a little scowl taking over his face, “Right. Okay—Okay. What is that ?”

“...It’s a cherry?”

“Is that a question or a statement?”

Scar sat for a moment, debating how worth it shoving a berry down Gri’s throat really could be if it meant whatever wrath he’d face afterward. His decision was put off, as tossing it in was a bad idea, even to him, as his dearest began to speak, “Is it…is it safe?”

The cherry loomed ever-closer as Scar leaned in, an offended gasp leaving him, “Why, of course it is! Do you trust me that little?”

“Ha. Yes.”

“Ouch—Y’know what? I’ll prove it! Just c’mere, G. Give it one little taste and I’ll prove my cherries are—”

What looked to be undiluted horror took over Grian’s face, “No—No, no thank you—”

“—Just as amazing as they always have been! C’mon, open wide!”

Unfortunately for both of them, at that moment his better judgement did not come through, and soon the tiny red burst of flavour was being pushed past lips and into teeth. Something similar to a gag was let out of Grian’s throat as he chewed, “Why is it soggy?”

“It is not soggy!” Though, as the pit was spit into Gri’s hand and thrown weakly at his chest, Scar seemed to vaguely remember having them out, laid in the bowl, for a bit too long.

As if the glass could answer for crimes that were not its own, a glare from the elf dared to melt it to the countertop. He didn’t really have much for food, but the one thing his guest loved was gross and soft and how was that ever his fault? 

It would never really matter how much Scar huffed and puffed, not if he actually wanted to make it up to his sweet. Nobody held quite as big of grudges as that man, as little as he was, so it was act now or die later. Scar would rather not die later, if he were being honest! It wasn’t ever his cup of tea, so he really should move on swiftly.

—

Grian didn’t mind just watching him, looking on as Scar locked his eyes on the fruitbowl as if it held all the answers. He didn’t mind, until he looked at something other than emerald eyes. Now, let it be known, Grian knew traditions; he wasn’t surprised to find what he did adorning the other's ear. However, he was a bit peeved. A tiny bit mad, nothing big.

Hanging on a thin, gold hook was a feather, cream with orange— barn owl , his mind seared into his thoughts, much too familiar with that fact. The issue that arose as it swayed gently hadn’t been that Scar had one of the feathers from this universe’s Grian. With no amount of thinking could he really say what the problem was, but it was there. It elbowed desperately at his heart in an attempt to pump blood as fast as it was able, and it sucked whatever it needed to from the rest of himself to get it to work. Grian’s mouth ran dry and his eyes stung with every blink; his muscles went weak and his resolve crumbled slightly. 

The feather was old, grotty, even. It wasn’t cleaned properly, and was in horrible need of a replacement. It taunted Grian subtly, begging to be ripped off. What was the point of giving something like that out if you knew it wouldn’t last? There wasn’t one. It made everything all the more frustrating as Scar spoke again, as if nothing was ever wrong. 

“On that note…! I was—Well a little bit after I found you, I decided ‘ When Gri is back, I’ll really need somewhere nice and safe for him, huh?’ and so, I did a little something!”

A firm, warm grip grabbed onto Grian’s hand, encompassing it entirely, and the ground reached him far too fast as he was dragged forward. He couldn’t really see where, what with all his lack of vision from getting up so fast, but it was definitely somewhere new as hardwood floors became soft, thick carpet. He came fully back a couple moments after Scar finished throwing them into a little twirl, “Tada! See it, G?”

“I see it.” 

“Mhm! I think it’s wonderful. You’ll have a little space to—If you want to get away, instead of runnin’, you could go here! Your area to relax, you know?”

Slowly, his eyes took everything in. It was a small room, luckily, with a large bed to his left in a little alcove in the wall. Across was a desk, empty as the rest of the space—save for a large painting of a sunflower field. A dresser sat below the art, in front of him. Of course, as it was Scar, plants overwhelmed every corner they could, but it was nothing Grian didn’t find he loved. If he was stuck here until he finished this job, a nice room was a lovely gift.

He took in the air of the place hungrily, letting out a sigh laced with exhaustion, “Fantastic. Thank you, Scar. I think—I think that might be all I need, thanks.”

“Great!” The happiness that emanated off of Scar was brilliant. It was, unfortunately, just as brilliant as he was whirled around and crushed into a hug. Frustratingly, even with how much it should have had him relaxing, with how warm and friendly the gesture was, it was truly hard to focus. As Grian circled his own arms around the man, the weighing feeling that this wasn’t ever his to have crept in again. His breath lightly shook the plume, staying in his field of vision all the while.

Hands touched broad shoulders covered with a lovely dark purple shawl, pushing them back and out of the threshold of the room, “Great. Thanks, again, Scar—It’s really quite nice. I think I’m gonna rest now, though, bye!”

A small noise of surprise left his mouth and Grian pushed him out fully, closing the door as soon as it was sure not to crush the poor dude. Though, at this point, he wasn’t sure he’d be too distraught. Not to say he was a sadist, no. But, really, Scar was getting on his nerves. His heart constricted and beat against its bars far too fast, and nothing about how warm he felt during their conversations—figuratively or otherwise—was helpful to his job. That mixed with everything else, and Grian felt he might literally crumble with everything going on. 

Grian could really only deal with a man who affected him emotionally like that for so long—before he had to do something about it, that is. And, in his justification, he didn't want to! He would rather do anything else, honestly. But there was only so long he could go praying to a god he didn't believe in before he wanted to bash this Scar's skull in. There was only so long he could go before that god got fed up with his damn groveling and begging, and then he'd be forced to kill and sacrifice Scar to said god on the highest altar available!

Or maybe not anything that literal. The point was, Grian was fed up and tired and miserable . It clawed him toward the ground, pushing against him as he dragged himself to sit on his bed and breathe. His lungs filled with it, too, replacing comfort and familiarity with a burning. It spread throughout him, rushing his blood and oxygen to move , to work through his body and make him lightheaded.

Perhaps he was just a bit worked up! A little more than a bit, truthfully. Though that did not, in his expert opinion, excuse the childish breakdown he was beginning to have. Grian wasn’t having a good time, he didn’t want to be here. Not with this stupid man or these stupid clothes or these stupid eyes on him. It was cruel and mean, and he really ought to focus on breathing, shouldn’t he? He should—he could. He might.

It looped itself through his bronchi, tightening knots to secure itself as it made a home in his alveoli. It expanded and grew and didn’t stop. A hand—his hand, Grian’s—came up to cover his mouth. It stopped it from coming out, it kept it in and kept it quiet. It forced it to stay where it should, even if that meant blood trickling from where his teeth made contact with his fingers.

His knees made contact with fuzz, seemingly finding the ground to be much more suitable a place to lay—damn them, really. It felt right, though, as his forehead touched carpet as well, wings wrapping fully around himself as they shook with his body. The panic flashed under his skin, setting fire and scalding him from within. A sting bloomed from behind his eyes, and he wanted nothing more than to rip them out, gouge them, as something salty streamed down his face and caught on his lip. It pooled and dripped, melted like tissue falling off of bone. 

What was Grian saying about not having a good time? ‘Cause he was not having a good time. It wasn’t nice of them, it wasn’t nice of them at all. And, maybe, it wasn’t nice of Scar either. Why wouldn’t he have thrown that damn feather away? Why wouldn’t he have? He should have. He didn’t care about it, he didn’t, but god knew Scar did. And that meant he still cared for Grian; must have meant he was even more relieved to see him crashland than anything he showed outwardly. And that, that means he’ll care when Grian kills him. 

When he kills Scar.  

Which has to happen, it was always going to happen. Grian knew that. Of course he knew—so did his body, persistent shallow breathing and accelerated heartbeat that seemed eager to keep up for the next few hours closing in. His outsides mixed with his insides.

Grian knows how Scar works. And he knows full well how much his subconscious will start screaming at him ‘ something’s wrong ’ soon. He knows Scar will ignore it, of course he will. That man hopes far too easily, afterall. He started to chase it, at some point, and Grian should be more grateful for that.

He should be more grateful that hope consumes Scar. Hope charmed him, it kissed his knuckles and guided him in a waltz like it was taking him somewhere. It spun him and smiled and held him. Hope captivated Scar; lured him in with promises of safety and security. Grian knew, with how soft his love looked during times of hope , that it left him warm and certain—It was lifeless. 

With a deep inhale, ribcage pinching a nerve, he straightened out and let his head hit the mattress behind him. Grian needed to get this done, and needed to do it fast. Maybe, then he’d be allowed a break. A break from the eyes that looked down on him with pity right now. A break from the hands that began tracing along his chest and guiding him to breathe. He’d do anything for this to be his beloved instead. If he closed his eyes—and if it weren’t for the nausea that’d creep up at the mere suggestion of pretending Eros could ever be Scar—he might have a shot at imagining it.

Then again, if he did ever try to replace her with Scar—internally or otherwise—he was sure to never hear the end of it. Eros vaguely tolerated Grian’s love as it was; lived with the delusion it was infatuation. If she knew, if she finally accepted it wasn’t, then nothing good would come out of it. 

She was possessive at best. 

As satisfaction replaced false empathy in the eyes lingering in his peripheral, he felt warmth on his cheek. It was soft, fleeting, and the comfort of finally being alone followed it. Maybe Grian’d be able to tamp down his emotions a little bit, now. If only barely.

Nails touched his lip, pushing past to wedge between interlocked teeth. They chipped from shear force as he sat there, calming down and thinking; just trying to be . A headache blossomed in the side of his head and behind his eyes at some point, he couldn’t track when, and his voice was horribly ragged and small as he whispered to himself, “Maybe, if I find a way…If I can—If I’m able to find a way to get him back…bring him…back…”

Something akin to a pathetic groan left Grian’s mouth as palms dug into his eyes, leaving his vision black. It did not help that as he stood—much too fast—it left him without sight, ringing in his ears, and his body giving out and stumbling as he collapsed on the bed. The world, or maybe that god he was talking about earlier, didn’t really like him today. Or these past million days. 

With the bedsheets—soft in touch and earthy in colour—being rumpled under him, Grian curled up and his wings fluffed. Knees met his chest and forehead tucked in. He’d really rather not have to kill Scar, he’d really rather defy the gods. And, he quite literally could, if he tried.

If he put some planning in, “It’d just take a bit of—It’ll need a bit of reworking…”

“And if…If I figure out how to do that…he won’t—We won’t be alone…”

—

The days that passed weren’t incredibly interesting to Grian. They danced around each other, not daring to get closer but nevertheless letting themselves get comfortable. He’d like to believe, partly, it was because of his meddling in their relationship. That being possibly, maybe , taking advantage of the fact Scar so very obviously cared for him. 

It wasn’t his fault, really. Scar’d been the one to wear his heart on his sleeve, Grian was just making use of that fact. It took a few days for him to get used to wings flashing in his peripheral or a voice popping up behind him, it seemed, but Scar was fairly good at adapting. Given Sol’s favouritism, he’d probably been subject to a bit of stalking beforehand.

Not that this was stalking, for the record. It was simply observing Scar, honest. He needed to get a feel; find what he was interested in to quicken up the job. The job , which Grian was making no progress on as of late. Sure, he’d gotten Scar more at rest with him and learned some behaviours—he liked little entertainments, spending time with people, moments of quiet with another body sharing air with him—but that didn’t mean much. Not when Grian had no clue what exactly he wanted to do with that information. It didn’t matter when he didn’t have a plan or idea to make up for the time lost.

This lack of goal had made him impatient. On one particular day following their uneventful week, Grian had gotten antsy, and so bothered—whether that was the eyes nagging him or his feathers twisted and digging into themselves, who’s to say—that he’d come up with a tiny idea. And, if he was lucky, maybe he’d be able to get something else out of it too. 

The couch was rather soft as Grian sat, wings pressed against the back cushions to stop their incessant fluttering, and elbow rested on the arm. Opposite to him, Scar leaned forward, grabbing the front of his shawl and tracing the pattern of poppies that sat along the bottom hem.

Fingers splayed out on the space between them as Grian tipped toward the elf, curiosity winning over as he stared with wide eyes, “Why poppies?”

A thud sounded as Scar’s foot hit the coffee table in front of him, jumping back at the sudden voice, “Oh, sweet baby Jellie!”

“Hey, Scar.”

He didn’t seem too pleased with the hello, grabbing Grian’s hand as it waved monotonously and pulling him forward. It rubbed his wings across the couch, a small wince being let out as grime rubbed into sensitive nerves, “Gri, Gri! You cannot do that to a man!”

Grian maintained he was not very greedy. Usually, that is. Today, he let himself have the grace of giving the hand tangled with his a small squeeze before pulling away. It was warm; alive, “Well, my deepest apologies,” His eyes wandered back to the red adorning purple, gentle flitting disturbing the air behind him, “Do I get an answer?”

“An…answer—Oh! Yes, yes! Of course, yeah. Yeah—I guess it makes sense you don’t remember.” 

The response was pulled along, dragged out as eyes looked the other man up and down, “Remember?”

“Well,” Brows furrowed as Scar’s eyes drifted to the flowers, surprisingly not fake, “So, yeah—You gave them to me! Stole my silly little cloth one day and came back with cute little flowers threaded through it!”

Scar continued, hands motioning as if sewing a piece of clothing back together, “Said you’d give ‘em to me no matter when or where!”

“Oh. I, uhm—I kind of—I forgot. I forgot about that,” Grian’s voice thinned, a frown weighing down on his face, “That’s stupid, though. You’d know.”

Always one for theatrics, Scar’s hand shot up to his heart, “I thought it was a nice send—sentim—ah, centime—a nice gesture! And…besides, I promised I’d do the same.”

“...What, throw a poppy at me?”

Grian was quite aware of the fact he was being dense. He knew, surely, it wouldn’t be a poppy. It wouldn’t be throwing. It wouldn’t be so superficial. Accepting anything sweeter than that would make things harder , though. Everything would become so much more complicated and painful; Grian would really rather not deal with that. This was not his Scar. He was not his.

Scar’s smile faltered for a moment as he spoke, all quiet and soft like this meant something; acting as if this could ever mean anything, “Something like that.”

Wings fluffed up behind him, extending and shaking themselves out. Grian was going to say something, he had a plan. He was going to get Scar exactly where he wanted him, ask him something; tell him to follow. As it turned out, nothing worked with him on this scheme. His clothing was hanging messily off of him, uncleaned, and his hair was rumpled and greasy. His feathers, too—they were a mess. And having that, all of that , with fumbling like this, was not helping Grian’s heart from squeezing. It did not help the itch or irritation, hands folding into fists, and mind struggling not to become completely restless. 

And, of course, Scar had to notice the worst of it. The one thing in particular that Grian was not willing to fight as of right now. His head tilted as Scar raised his hand and touched it to a wing. voice tight with awkwardness as he spoke. It stuck out, then, how they both tried ignoring the appendage impatiently pushing itself further into the warmth, “Ah—G, I think you’ve been…neglecting these?”

Deep breaths left the winged man, in and out as he hung his head and tried not to show how horrendously bothered he was by a few specks of dirt in between plumage, “Mhm.”

“...Can I—Help…?”

“Mm.”

What looked to be the closest a human expression could get to a question mark morphed Scar’s face. He nodded slowly, unsure and confused. Grian wanted to be a lot more annoyed as he was pulled forward gently. He tried to be more against it all as he attempted to push himself away from warmth. Turns out, it was rather hard to deny closeness that you desperately needed. 

Sighing into the comfort, Grian did not proceed to tuck his head into the other man’s chest, and he definitely did not let himself get closer. He still needed to do what he originally came for, after all. There was a plan, at first, to bring Scar somewhere…easier…to clean up. Or just ignore and leave be, preferably. Right now, though, maybe it could wait. If Grian let it be, there was a chance Scar would be less suspicious of him. Preening had always been a sign of trust, it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing he was using that for something less intimate as a true love or best friend.

His hands were clumsy against down and feathers, second guessing themselves and pausing when Scar wasn’t quite sure what to do. It wasn’t too much of a disturbance for Grian, he had reluctantly taken to having a little rest, and the behaviour was so Scar that it was nearly soothing. At some point, he’d need to let it out. Tongue would have to work against tiredness and words would have to push through the world that seemed all too fuzzy as of right now. 

He insisted on another few minutes, which became much more than a few, which morphed into an amount of time Grian wasn’t too worried about figuring out. It was a longer duration than should have passed, however, and the fluff that covered his ears and painted his vision was fading enough that he really should do something. Looking up, cheek smooshed pathetically against a warm, breathing chest, Grian readied himself. 

Or, at least, tried to. Unfortunately, that damned feather stood in the way of his vocal cords working. There might have been a small grudge held since he first saw it, a small grievance with the earring, but he’d honestly thought it dissolved. Considering how any content or sleep rushed out of his body at first sight of anger building up, that apparently wasn’t the case. Grian was really starting to believe it was a cruel joke against him at this point. Maybe Sol was having a laugh.

Huffing, Grian buried his head back into Scar’s chest, talking just enough it could be heard, “So.”

Scar startled, arms seemingly malfunctioning as he tried not to death grip his wing. Somewhere along the line, he’d taken to petting rather than preening. Grian supposed he did a good enough job, they weren’t attempting to flutter and shake out debris they’d never get, and his brain wasn’t focused almost entirely on the aggravation. A chin pressed against his head as the calming vibration of the other man talking took over, “You need something, sweet?”

As per the standard he’d begun to set for himself, Grian did not feel his heart beat faster. He was not affected by a nickname, and he was never going to allow himself to be. Begrudgingly, warmth was left behind to look at Scar in the eyes, “What do you think of a fire? Like—Tonight. For something…to do.”

Arms tightened, wrapping around him fully, “A fire—Oh! Oh my gosh, like a bonfire?!”

“Like a bonfire, yeah.”

Grinning, Scar nuzzled against the crown of his head. So much softer than she could ever be. “Well, if there’s nothing else to do, songbird, let’s go see what we’ve got for this fire of yours, yeah?”

—

Grian was beginning to realize that he really hadn’t thought this whole thing out. At all. Sure, his whole plan was ‘ take Scar somewhere easier to kill him and then stab ’, but he didn’t think that was too horrible of an outline until right now. When he didn’t know how to get Scar to turn his back to him. Well he had, technically, as he spun and extended his arms outward, “Ba yu m! Bonfire complete!”

But that didn’t really count. See, to have time to draw his sword and actually run it through the guy, it’d take more than a millisecond of flair and theatrics. Which left him to deal with the predicament that was Scar’s hyperactivity. And it was definitely a lot.

For now, Grian settled. Grass tickled his wings and wind wrapped around him as it blew through the small opening they’d found in the forest. It wasn’t terribly far from the clearing Grian had been to time and time again by this point, actually. The same flowers were dotted throughout greens and browns, and the same types of trees hung over them. The only difference, it seemed, were the reds and oranges that fought and intermingled with the air.

Distantly, he heard Scar sit next to him, shoulders brushing and warming skin that was now no longer allowed to be embraced by the wind. The reach of Scar’s voice seemed so small, even with their proximity, “You look rather…out of it!”

Smoke filled his lungs as he inhaled, “Do I?”

“You do!” Scar’s hand poked at Grian’s, interlocking and heating it up when it opened up for him, “It’s like nose—Uh, hm—Nostalgia!”

Legs found their usual spot folded against his body, knees touching Grian’s chest as he hugged himself. If he tried, and got astronomically lucky, Scar would stop looking at him. It was infuriating, the green of his eyes shouldn’t have reflected the fire so well, and the little crinkles in the corners seemed much too lovely. In another universe, he’d want nothing more than to cradle Scar’s face and pass over them with his thumbs. Smile lines were contrasted nicely against light, and his scars were just beautiful. He was beautiful.

Aesthetically, of course. The similarities his flower shared with this man beside him did not make them the same, and Grian wouldn’t ever stomp on his beloved’s heart like that. It didn’t stop him from smiling back at the elf, however. How else was he going to get that blade through his back if not forcing Scar to have disgusting faith in Grian? 

Holding that smile was a bit harder as Scar leaned in an indecent degree; the warmth of the fire worked its way through Grian’s cheeks tenfold in that moment as words were muttered sickeningly sweet into the small gap between them, “So, what’cha thinkin’ ‘bout, G?”

Was it really his fault how fast he answered Scar? He thinks not. If it wasn’t for the space between them, maybe it wouldn’t have even been heard, “You’re just like him.”

Air rushed to fill space between them as more distance was made. Scar’s eyes remained blank, like the rest of his facial expression had morphed into, until something pained and heavy worked to try and fight away the facade. Grian would concede that this one might have been his fault. He would also admit that hearing Scar fumble to reach out and grab his words—desperately moulding them into something solid and uncracked—had his own heart being nipped at by guilt, “Hm. and, uh—Who—Or, uhm, no—Why’s that?”

Realization flooded through Grian’s head, cold and oppressive, that this probably wasn’t the best way to keep trust between them. Opening and closing his mouth a few times, attempts at sentences dying and tapering off fast, a whispered response finally came out, “No—No. I mean, ah—You’re just like you were before. It’s, uhm—I was just trying to say that…this is…nice.”

“Oh…you think?”

“Mhm. I think it’s lovely.”

Something akin to a nervous chuckle left the taller man. Their voices matched in tone, in volume, as they mumbled replies neither of them believed in through the air. It pierced it, wedged through and climbed into the other’s ear. Scar broke that rhythm, “Well! That’s quite—That’s amazing, my sun. Glad you’re having fun.”

Breathing was the only thing audible in the little bubble they’d made for themselves. It was loud, as blaring as silence when you were alone and it rung through your eardrums. Grian turned his gaze downward, much too tired to stare at a man who shouldn’t be alive. A man who won’t be in due time if things went right. Even so, he was good at knowing when eyes were on him, and he could feel it. This time, the unpleasant prickling was joined by a warmer pair, one much more welcome to Grian. 

Being able to hear a soft, deep voice speak instead of the usual suggestion of sharp, whispered words, was even better than just a gaze on him. It bypassed the whistling of the breeze as it tried constricting his muscles, kissing his skin and freeing him of the cold, “Y’know, I remember hearing this really pretty song once.”

His body swayed closer to Scar’s, a movement he swore was only to hear him better, “Uh huh?”

“And, let me tell you, Gri, it was the most wonderful thing I’ve heard in a long time.”

Grin returning, Grian’s voice rose slightly—With it, so did a teasing note in his words, “Will I ever get to hear this beautiful song?”

Scar’s eyes dipped down as Grian’s lips stretched, returning back up as he stumbled through his words, “Oh, ah—I don’t remember how it goes, really!”

“Kind of ridiculous for you to get nervous. Especially ‘round me, right now.”

In an attempt not to outwardly pout, Scar huffed and puffed up his chest, smiling down at Grian, “Right, yeah—Ahem.” 

Grian rested his cheek on his knee, sing-songing his words, “Gonna get bored. I paid for a performance, not this .”

“I’m getting there! I,” Clearing his throat, a very true attempt at singing was made as he stumbled through lyrics, “ I…can show you the world…Shining, shimmering, splendid. Tell me, princess —Or, uhm, prince? Ah— Now, when did you…let your heart …decide…”

With Scar trailing off, Grian pushed air in and out of his cheeks, looking at the man. He truly deflated now, whining halfheartedly about not remembering the words, “Certainly didn’t take me to a whole new world.”

“I tried!”

“Not sure that’s exactly how it goes, though.”

Shoulders straightening at that confession, Scar looked up with the prettiest glimmer in his eyes, invading personal space once more, “Oh! You’ve heard it?”

“...Somewhere.”

Like this, Scar really did resemble that of a dog. A very happy one that wanted as much attention as it could get. He faced Grian, always, and remained looking no matter what. There was always that smile, too. It stayed and acted as if it couldn’t leave, as if it were stuck and nothing could make it disappear.

It was all very endearing, yes, but couldn’t have been worse in this scenario. It still remained that this was a trip to kill Scar. The sword seared a hole in his clothing and flesh where it sat on his hip, now, and it caught up to Grian that this wouldn’t last much longer. It was coming to an end, and that meant he really, really , needed to hurry this up.

Fingers began wrapping around the hilt, preparing to just get it over with, even if Scar might overpower him. It didn’t matter, really, it would get done either way. He’d hunt the man down if he needed—if he must. As cold seeped into flesh, new sounds disturbed the air. Sounds that came in the form of a pleasantly amused voice, “Well, if you know it, could you finish it for me, G?”

Nose scrunched, “Ha! Not a chance.”

Scar took hold of his shoulders, gently shaking as he rested his forehead on Grian’s, “Awh! C’mon, c’mon!”

Eyes stared at him again, lovely and delighted, as they sat there. It wasn’t going to happen tonight, at this pace. Grian really couldn’t when he was this tired. Tomorrow, he might be able to. Or the next day, or the next. Anything other than today. And, maybe, there was a chance he knew this would happen. Grian’s hand shifted to find the pocket on his right side.

“Hey, Scar—”

“Well—”

Interrupting one another, they stopped. Scar snickered, leaving his personal space and looking down at Grian. His tone never strayed from it’s usual, teasing and happy, “Yes, G?”

“No—No, no, nothing, you can talk.”

“Hm, nothing ? Nothing at all?”

Cold air surrounded Grian’s hand as he rushed to get out of his pocket, “Nothing, not important, a hundred percent nothing to worry about. What were you saying?”

Grian really didn’t want to talk anymore. He took everything back, he really shouldn’t have come here. There wasn’t even a reason to be stubborn about this, but he embarrassed himself and interrupted the man, his legs ached beneath him, and he was so exhausted. Patience was not on his side right now and he’d rather crawl into a hole and die than talk. It was a stupid idea anyway.

Cocking his head to the side, Scar squinted and pressed further. He drawled, “G.”

Upon receiving nothing but a frown and silence, Scar continued, sighing dramatically, “I insist you start!”

Grumbling, Grian rolled his eyes, “Right, fine. I just wanted to, uh," The light presence in his pocket weighed more than ever right now, “Know when we were heading back.”

An ‘o’ formed on Scar’s mouth, his head tilting to look up at the sky. Stars hung like little crystals and the moon shone beautifully down on the small world. Light was mostly blocked by the trees, unable to fight past branches and leaves, but it was there nonetheless. Grass crunched beside him as Scar appeared in his periphery, standing tall, “I suppose we could head back now, if you’re tired!”

Scrambling to join him, the much shorter man stood as well. The usual joined him, ringing and black clawing up from his legs to his ears and eyes for a moment. They fell off after a moment, but having a steady hand on his back for the few seconds of unpleasantness was nice. “Great! Great.”

—

The grace the bed brought on Grian was wonderful. It held him much gentler than rock and soil ever could, and it had the scent of flowers and fruit—the scent of somebody much too familiar. 

His main mission was a failure, the eyes burning into him made that more than apparent. Grian’s other mission, the one much more impulsive and stupid, also didn’t work out, though. It may have been a tad selfish in nature, but it was something he had really hoped to get done nonetheless.

Pulling it out of his pocket and straightening it out, a dark, pearlescent feather sat in his grasp. 

Next time, maybe.