Work Text:
Well, gosh. Grian’s gone yellow.
It’s pretty on him, coating the tips of his wings- as Scar’s watched, it’s crept from the ends of the feathers to splitting them evenly in half, a green-gold gradient that shimmers whenever he flares them or turns too fast. Some of the primaries are tattered, others are crooked or half pulled out, but Grian doesn’t seem to care.
No, Grian seems delighted, eyes glittering as he eggs on the battle that’s raging across the idyllic hills below. Scar’s considering telling him that neither the Crastle or the Red Army can hear him, but then Ren gets a particularly nasty hit on Cleo, and Grian screams in shock and elation, cackling and hanging on Scott’s arm as he bounces gleefully up and down.
Well, in that case, he’s not going to ruin his fun, is he? So Scar says nothing, just grins at Grian when he turns around and shouts, “Did you see that?!”
Scar nods- then gasps out an “oh my godLOOK”, pointing frantically back down at the carnage. Cleo is now fighting one-armed , her left one hanging limp with the stitching in her joints almost ripped apart.
Scar scoots closer, something sickly-giddy swirling in him, and Grian’s free hand almost immediately clamps onto his arm, vibrating with warmth and excitement. The bandages feel a little raspy and weird against Scar’s bare skin, but Grian’s holding him tight, Grian’s touching him, Grian is beaming sun-gold and blood-flecked, Grian is down a life and free and he’s still holding tight. Wow. Wow.
Cleo collapses in a pile of re-severed limbs, an arrow jutting from her forehead, and Scott giggle-sobs, wide eyed, as Ren starts to chase after the remaining Crastle crew. Grian pats his arm, a little awkwardly, before pulling his bow out of his inventory, squinting down at the tiny figures wreaking havoc on eachother below.
“D’you think I could get a hit on Ren?”
Scar laughs, taking a handful of arrows from his own inventory and offering them up.
“If you could, that would be amayzin’.”
Grian hears the challenge in his voice clear as day, and takes them from him accordingly- that is to say, he snatches them swiftly from Scar’s fist and spits, “Oh, just you wait, mister. One measly death can’t stop me now.”
Scar pulls out a few more arrows for himself, switching to his bow and nocking one. He aims it in a high arc, towards the setting sun, and fires.
It flies true, soaring up and up and catching, for a moment, in the phoenix-fire sun, before slicing through the air and landing squarely in Ren’s shoulder. Grian’s arrow does the same, piercing his back.
Scar joins Grian in whooping with excitement this time, giggling and clutching onto his shoulder as they watch Ren stumble, looking wildly around for his assailant.
Scar’s very interested to see if he’ll figure it out, but he’s also suddenly occupied with other things- other things being, of course, the armful of Grian he’s just received. He looks down at him, a little confused-
And ohmygod, wow. Grian’s eyes are honeyed and spark like fireworks in the dying-ember light, hands are firm on Scar’s bare back, torn wings are curling softly around him.
And Scar’s been waiting and wanting and patient, contenting himself with innuendos or nudges or spars, but something inside him is tired of the quelling, and it’s now, now, you are his, he is yours.
(Scar apologizes, afterwards, ducking down to hide his burning face. Grian cackles, asks him what for, and Scar wants.
Scar has, now, and lord, it’s sweeter than anything. Grian tastes like salt and gunpowder, sharp tongue and a sharper smile, the blood that sings within both of them.
One day, it will be spilled. For now, they have this.
“Nothing at all, Grian, m’dear.”)