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    Summary

    "You're rutting?"

    Dumb question. Obvious answer. Grian asks anyway, and Scar's mouth becomes all teeth, blunt, but shining in the dim light. His effort to keep his tone light is waning, but valiant.

    "Not yet. Great time for you to walk that lovely everything-you've-got-going-on right back up those stairs before I do something regrettable."

    Rut's rougher than heat. Scar, to make matters worse, is red. He's definitely got something right prefacing anything smelling like that, especially at the start, with a warning. Here's the thing, though. Scar's helped Grian with his heat, and named a llama Pizza, and has dark brown hair falling into his face and is chiseled like a greek statue and smells like heaven in hell, looking worried out of his mind beneath the pretty red dusting his cheeks. Grian steps down the stairs and approaches Scar, making to grab his shoulders as if to drag Scar with him.

    "Come on, we're not doing this down in the mines."

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