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Scar finds Grian on top of his moon observatory, because of course he’s perched up there. Grian’s always liked high places.
He’s just put the finishing touches on his dark corner of Midnight Alley— which is looking amazin’, if he does say so himself— and wanted to show Grian to see what he thought. But Grian hadn’t been anywhere he could usually be found, whether that be in his starter house, the G-Train, or even in one of his little stripmines. Scar had almost messaged the whole server before he remembered that Grian had started spending his nights watching the moon grow larger and larger and fished out another stack of fireworks to go check the observatory.
And there he is. He isn’t even looking through the telescope bit; just perched on top of the structure with his face turned up to the sky. With the moon so large it casts his face in an eerie glow. It’s pretty. (Grian is just generally pretty, but Scar usually pretends he doesn’t notice.)
He tries to make as much noise as possible when he lands so Grian isn’t too startled, but earns himself a squawk anyway. “Scar!” Grian says, and flushes a little. His wings, extended behind him, ruffle in the way they do when he’s feeling self-conscious. “What are you doing still up?”
“Oh, just finished up the bit of Midnight Alley you let me have,” Scar says brightly, and settles next to Grian with a careful distance between the two of them. “Was looking for you! Wanted your opinion on some of it— I think there’s a couple tweaks I can make, but I don’t want to get too nitpicky if you think there’s anything major to be done.”
“It’s your build,” Grian says, with a smile Scar recognizes as fond. “I’m sure it’s amazing.” He can’t say the word quite like Scar, but the effort is there, and Scar feels his chest warm with the compliment.
“Still!” Scar gestures downward. “It’s your base, so you get final say on any of it.”
Grian laughs, and his wings flare out a little bit behind him, feathers spreading at the tips. Because Scar’s paying attention, he catches the stiffness of their movement, and frowns a little.
“What’s that face for, Scar?” Grian asks, teasing a little. “Did you set a trap in the alleyway that I’m about to get caught in?”
“Whaaaaaat?” Scar laughs, and he knows it sounds a little forced when Grian tilts his head in confusion. “No! No, genuinely, I didn’t. I just.” He sighs. “Are you okay, Grian?”
He knows the answer to this question, actually— no, he’s not. Grian hasn’t been okay since they returned from the Last Life server, and has gotten even worse since they noticed the moon was starting to get bigger.
The trouble is, Scar is pretty sure he’s not supposed to remember the things that happened on the Life servers. He doesn’t really remember much at all, actually. The memories of Third Life are strongest, but sparse— he remembers the creeper and the desert, he remembers quiet nights spent waiting for something to happen, he remembers TNT traps and kneeling in the shallow river waiting for Grian to cut off his head. He remembers even less of Last Life except for the crushing loneliness that followed him back to Hermitcraft and resulted in him sticking close to any member of Boatem for over a week before that hungry animal was finally sated.
Sometimes, he passes Grian and Pearl discussing things in low voices that cut off and turn into clearly forced conversation when they realize someone else is nearby, so he reckons they remember at least some of it, if not all. But some of the other Hermits, like Bdubs and Impulse, he knows they don’t remember any of it. So he figures his little pieces of memory are some sort of weird glitch.
Grian is just staring at him, and Scar looks steadily back until Grian’s shoulders and wings droop. “I’m fine,” he says, but he doesn’t sound too sure about it.
“You’re moving real stiff,” Scar notes. Grian blinks in surprise at him. “I have eyes, G, I’m not blind. I know you’re not sleeping and I know why.” He doesn’t like it, but now is not the time for that argument. “Have you been drinking enough? Stretching?”
There’s something guarded in Grian’s eyes, and Scar aches at the thought that Grian is surprised that he cares. Even without everything that happened in the Life servers that complicated their relationship, Scar’s always admired Grian, and considers him one of his closest friends. It hurts to see him hurting.
“I’ve been stretching,” Grian says finally. “Sometimes. I’ve been doing a lot of flying.”
Scar leans closer— just a little, not enough to cross the line he’s drawn between them— and clicks his tongue. “Have you been crash-landing?” he asks. “Cause there’s enough dirt caked in your feathers to make a whole new farm.”
That, at least, startles a laugh out of Grian, and Scar smiles triumphantly. “I guess I haven’t preened them in a while,” Grian says. “Been losing track of time with all of this moonwatching.”
That’s about what Scar expected. He says nothing, just folds his hands in his lap. If they were still in Third Life, where Scar hadn’t yet known how intimate it was to ask to preen an avian’s wings, he would just offer to help, knowing Grian would accept. But they’re not in Third Life, and Grian doesn’t know Scar remembers how his feathers feel under Scar’s hands. And it’s rude to ask— Scar knows better now.
Grian pulls one of his wings around him carefully— the tips of his primaries brush Scar’s shoulder— and starts straightening out his own feathers. “So,” Scar says, to make conversation. “How’s the moon?”
“Moon’s big,” Grian says, plucking a bent feather from his wing and beginning a small pile in between them. “Bigger by the day.”
“Well, that’s not good,” Scar says lightly, and Grian laughs.
“No, it’s not,” he says. “I think we’d better start thinking of what we’re going to do if we can’t get it to—,” Grian cuts himself off with a hiss of pain, dropping his wing from his grip.
“Gri?” Scar asks, reaching out in worry.
“Stiffer than I thought,” Grian says, through gritted teeth. Scar rests a hand on his knee and squeezes gently, trying to offer comfort.
There is a long moment where Grian steadies his breathing, and then he closes his eyes and exhales. “Scar,” he says, and the words sound like they’re being forced out of him, practiced and bland, and Scar almost flinches away. “If you promise to do exactly as I say, and promise to be really, really careful… can I ask you to help me?”
Oh. Oh. Grian’s offering. That’s… a staggering display of trust, especially after everything that’s fallen between them. (Not that Grian knows Scar knows— Scar has been very careful not to say anything.) “Of course,” Scar says softly. “I swear on Jellie, I will be extra careful and gentle.”
Grian goes nearly boneless in relief, and Scar tries to steady his hands as he scoots backwards a little bit. When Scar studies Grian’s wings, he sees they’re not actually in as bad a shape as he thought— sure, there’s a few broken feathers that look uncomfortably out of place, and they’re dirty, but readjusting most of them should ease Grian’s stiffness.
“It’s pretty easy,” Grian mumbles. “You just gotta straighten out the bent ones. Try to, um, brush away the dirt as much as possible. They’re really sensitive so… no nails, if you can avoid it?”
“Got it.” All things Grian said last time, except for the nails thing— that must be new. Scar keeps his short, so it shouldn’t be an issue.
He keeps his touch feather-light (ha) as he starts from the marginal coverts, gently guiding them back into place. It’s muscle memory that returns to him nearly instantly, remembering just how Grian’s feathers are meant to lay so that they’re the most comfortable for him, gently brushing away the grit caught in between them. Grian shivers a couple times, and Scar resists the urge to brush a hand down his spine to soothe him— it’s no longer them against the world; that’s not something he gets to do anymore.
He’s at the scapulars when he finds the first feather broken beyond repair and he hesitates. “Grian,” he says quietly. “There’s a broken one right here.” He touches it gently and feels Grian’s body tense under his touch. “Can I pull it for you?”
Grian’s hand slips under his wing— it’s moving much better now, Scar is pleased to note— and feels around for the feather. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah, please do.”
Scar nods and rests a hand on Grian’s shoulder as he ever so carefully tugs it out. He sets it off to the side and gently readjusts the surrounding feathers before moving on.
“You can pull it whenever,” Grian says, and Scar’s hands pause in the feathers right at the base of Grian’s left wing.
“I already did,” he says, and Grian looks over his shoulder in confusion.
“Huh?” Scar realizes what’s happened the minute Grian’s eyes meet his. “I didn’t feel it at all.”
“I must just be a natural at this,” Scar says, with a smile that feels a little forced even to his own face. It’s a bald-faced lie— Scar got pretty good at tugging Grian’s feathers out without making him wince while they were in the desert, but it was absolutely a learned skill, the exact right force needed to do it without pain. Which Grian knows, because he narrows his eyes at him. Scar knows the game is up when Grian’s wings flinch out of his hands.
“You remember,” he breathes, and Scar pulls his hands back instantly, knowing Grian is talking about more than just how to preen his wings.
“Not— not everything,” he says. “Not clearly, either. More like— like flashes of memory. Dreams.” He dreams about Last Life a lot. He dreams about the desert more often. “But, uh. Yeah. I remember.”
Grian just stares at him. “You remember,” he repeats, numbly, like it’s the only thing stuck in his mind.
“I knew you did,” Scar says. “And Pearl does?” He smiles a little when Grian nods, dazed. “I’m glad you’ve had someone to talk to about it.” Grian’s not moving away from him, so Scar dares to reach out and rest a hand over his. “Do you want me to keep going? You can say no. I won’t be hurt.” Well, his feelings won’t be hurt. He won’t exactly like seeing Grian remain so sore, but if Grian doesn’t want Scar touching him, he doesn’t want to argue.
But Grian just exhales and says, “You can— you can keep going,” and turns his back to Scar again. Scar smiles, knowing Grian can’t see it, and goes back to what he was doing.
The silence between them is comfortable, and Scar can feel Grian getting more and more relaxed as he continues to work, almost cooing softly as Scar straightens his secondaries. Scar hopes he’s still as good as he had gotten by the end of Third Life— he’s probably a little rusty, but Grian isn’t flinching under his touch like he had the first time Scar did this, so he’s probably doing alright.
Scar’s finished Grian’s left wing and has started on his right when Grian finally breaks the silence. “I’m a little surprised you’d agree to do this when you remember.” His tone is light, but Scar frowns and pauses in his movement.
“What do you mean?”
Grian’s wing twitches under his hand and Scar huffs a laugh and starts moving again. “I killed you,” Grian says, as matter-of-factly as he says how large the moon is. “Like… three times. At least.”
Scar knew he wasn’t imagining the panic in Grian’s shout when the charged creeper caught him off-guard outside the Pass’N’Gas. “I seem to recall giving you permission to kill me at the end of the first game,” he says. “As it happens.”
“I didn’t want to,” Grian says, tensing.
“I know you didn’t.” Scar runs a soothing hand down Grian’s spine before going back to his scapulars. Grian shudders at the contact. “But I did betray you, after everything you did to keep me alive to the end of the game. The victory was yours by right. I’m not mad that you won.”
Grian’s silent as Scar continues to work. His wing drapes itself over Scar’s lap as Scar’s hands move outwards, towards the primaries, and Scar idly runs his fingers along the tips of his wings before he remembers. “Sorry,” he says. “I know they’re sensitive.”
“It’s okay,” Grian mumbles. “It’s okay when it’s you.” The sun’s beginning to come up, which is how Scar can see the blush dotting his cheeks.
“You know I won’t hurt you, right?” It feels important to say, even if it breaks a moment they might be having into something different and uncomfortable. “I know this is… this is really big for you to let me do. I do remember that. I’m not going to try to use it against you.”
Grian cracks a smile at that, a real one that lights up his whole face. “Yeah,” he says. “But thanks for saying it anyway.”
Scar smiles back, and reaches out to pet Grian’s feathers with his whole hand, just a little bit, in the way he knows makes him go boneless. Sure enough, Grian melts in his touch, letting out what sounds like an involuntary chirp. “Feels good,” he slurs, smile turned full-force on Scar in the way he must know makes Scar’s breath catch in his throat. “Missed this.”
“Didn’t anyone else help you in Last Life?” Scar asks, catching another broken feather tucked on the inside of Grian’s wing and deftly tugging it out.
“Timmy did a few times,” Grian says, and that sparks jealousy in Scar’s chest. Jimmy and Grian have known each other for years, longer than Scar’s known Grian; of course Grian would trust him with his preening. Scar isn’t the only one allowed to do this. He’s telling himself it’s not fair to be jealous when Grian continues, “But that’s not— I missed this.” He gestures between the two of them, and Scar’s jealousy fizzles as quickly as it had come. “It’s different with us,” he says. “Everything’s different with us.”
He hesitates, and then shifts closer, wing moving out of Scar’s lap and out of his hands. Scar misses the feeling of them already. “I’m sorry you were alone in the last game.”
“You could have fixed that,” Scar points out neutrally, and Grian sighs.
“I could have,” he agrees, “and I didn’t.” He drops his head against Scar’s shoulder, and Scar turns so his face is pressed into Grian’s hair, relishing in the closeness. A weight settles around his shoulders and back. “I don’t think I can apologize for that.”
“I’m not mad,” Scar tells him, and then amends, “at you, anyway.” The moon is still visible at the edge of the horizon, even though the sun is almost fully risen. “Whatever happens with this moon thing,” he says, “don’t leave me alone this time?”
Scar feels, more than sees, Grian shift against him. He presses a kiss to Scar’s shoulder, just near the spot where it meets his neck, and Scar shivers. “Never,” he swears. “I’ll tie our hearts together if I have to.”
Their hands tangle together, and Scar can’t help but lift Grian’s hand to kiss his knuckles, an answer to the kiss on his shoulder. “Aren’t you worried that then we’ll just both die?”
“There are drawbacks,” Grian admits, and laughs when Scar lets out an offended noise. “No, I’m not worried. We both died anyway in that server. We both die all the time.” He leans back so he can look Scar in the eyes, and his hair and his face are almost glowing in the early morning light, and he’s never looked more beautiful.
Scar wants to kiss him, suddenly. On the mouth, with an intent neither of them can deny. But he knows he can’t. It’s not the time. Maybe once this world has or hasn’t ended, he can— but not yet.
Instead, he teases, “It does sometimes feel like you use killing me as a way to express affection,” and laughs when Grian thwaps him with the tip of the wing draped around his shoulders.
“How dare you imply such a thing,” Grian mutters, but he’s smiling. “Well!” The moment breaks, if it was ever there in the first place; Grian stands up, and his wings slide off Scar’s shoulder. “Guess we should go check out what you’ve done with your corner of the alley.” Oh, right. The reason why Scar had been looking for Grian in the first place. He’d almost forgotten, between the moon and the secrets and the feel of Grian’s feathers under his hands again. “Uh, actually— do you happen to have any food on you?”
Scar does have food on him, but Grian hasn’t let go of his hand, and Scar has an amazing idea. “I don’t, actually. Left it all in the Swaggon.” He smiles brightly, knowing it’ll gain him an eyeroll, and then he says, “Come on, it’s not that far! We can swing down, you can say hi to Jellie, and we can have a nice peaceful morning before we go back to the build.”
“I know what you’re doing,” Grian says, eyes narrowed. Scar just blinks at him— who, him? Ulterior motives? Never. “Fine. Fine! Breakfast at the Swaggon.”
As Scar pulls himself to his feet, Grian drops his hand to kneel back down, gathering up the small pile of his broken feathers. “Um,” he says, and stares at them for a second before holding them out. “Here. You can— you can find something to do with these, right?”
Scar stares. Grian’s never given away his feathers before— he feels like he’d remember something like this, if he had! “I— I’m sure I can?” Scar says hesitantly. “Um, like… quills, maybe?” He’s not going to use these feathers for quills. Or if he does, they’ll be like… the most special, treasured quills he owns.
“Great!” Grian takes his hand, presses the feathers into his palm, and then immediately turns and launches himself off the observatory, catching the air with a powerful flap of his wings. It’s rare enough to see him flying without his Elytra that Scar just stands there stupidly for a moment, clutching a bundle of half-broken feathers in his hands, watching him in awe, before he remembers—
“Hey, wait for me!”