Chapter Text
Grian shields his eyes from the wind and the sand that it brings up, eyes squinting to protect him from both the sunshine and the mineral.
The desert feels… too empty without Scar here.
Glancing aside to Pizza, the llama slowly chewing on its lead absently, Grian lets out a small sigh.
“Should’ve sealed up those holes,” Grian thinks to himself, turning to look up at the build he and Scar have been living in together ever since they decided to take the desert for themselves. “…What do you think, Pizza?”
The llama huffs, spitting out tiny pieces of thread that have frayed under its relentless chewing.
“I wonder what he’ll do next,” Grian wonders aloud. Scar is on his red life now, and that means everything has to change—no more sitting together in front of a campfire, leaning against Scar as he tells stories of his time as a travelling salesman, voice slowly crooning Grian to sleep.
No more, because Scar is red, and when people go red, they are compelled to burn bridges, to wield their weapons in anticipation for a fight. That’s what those who’re on their red life are meant to do.
The knowledge shouldn’t make him feel so… lonely.
“Grian?”
Grian turns. Somewhere along the line, Scar’s gotten better at sneaking around, because he’s only a few steps away, red flowers gripped tightly in a held out fist.
“Scar.”
The first thing he notices is the red of scar’s eyes. A tell tale sign of what he is meant to be now.
“I got these for you,” Scar says, waving the flowers out for Grian to take. He does, slowly inhaling the sweetness of pollen, the rich earthy scent of the forest.
The second thing he notices is the red of Scar’s cheeks. Flushed and burning.
“Thanks,” Grian says. “I think I have enough glass to craft up a vase.”
He goes to turn, to head back inside but stops partway. Turning his back to Scar is a bad idea, isn’t it? But then again, he owes Scar his life—hesitation like this is meaningless, if Scar wants to kill him then that’s their contract fulfilled, isn’t it? Grian will be able to just move on.
…He…
He will be able to just move on, right? Does he want to?
“Grian,” Scar asks, voice soft and hesitant.
“Yeah?”
“Can we still be friends?”
The question is quiet and earnest, Scar’s voice catching as he says the word ‘friends’. Like he’s afraid Grian will say no, that he’s going to leave him behind like they haven’t just… built a home together here.
“Of course we can,” Grian says, softly. Then, a little more louder, a bolster to his voice as he points at Scar with the hand not clutching flowers. “I promised you my first life, so you’re stuck with me until I die, buddy.”
Scar’s resounding grin is both bright and lop-sided. “Guess I have to make sure you never die then, huh, G?”
“Worry more about keeping yourself alive, please.” Grian says. “If you die now, that’s it. I can’t exactly give you my life if you’re dead, can I?”
Scar hums, somewhat affirmingly. Like he might agree, or like he’s just going to make out like he does to appease Grian.
“Anyway, I put all your stuff in a chest for you, come on—you need to put on your armour.”
“I could do that G, but first, come and see what I stole from the crastle?”
Grian looks from Scar’s grin, to Pizza the llama, and then to the skies.
“Scar!” He whisper-shouts, voice catching in his throat with the edges of a delighted cackle. “Why were you stealing things from the crastle before you got all your gear back?”
“I wanted to bring you back a present, Grian.”
Grian’s face feels warm in a way that he wants to equate to the climate of the desert, but can’t .
“You got me a present?” He mumbles.
Scar nods, emphatic, as he rummages through his inventory, placing a jukebox down on an empty block of sand. “I bring you the best thing known to man, Grian. I bring you the joys of music. ”
Grian’s smile turns knowing. “I’m not paying you to listen to the music Scar.”
“Wha— Grian. I would never charge you, you’re my loyal ally here in the sandlands, you get all music free of charge. Everyone else, they’ll pay, but not you.”
Grian stares him down.
“We can’t create a monopoly on music Scar, jukeboxes aren’t hard to make—”
Scar blinks across to him. “Why Grian, I take it back. I am going to charge you to listen if that’s going to be your attitude.”
“I’m not paying for music, Scar.”
“Sure you are,” Scar says, with a grin. He holds his hand out, palm facing upwards for Grian. “Come on, pay up.”
“What happened to being your precious ally?”
“ Loyal ally,” Scar corrects. He beckons Grian with the outstretched hand. “Come on, time to pay up, G.”
“What am I even supposed to pay you with, Scar?” Grian asks, bewildered.
“How else would a man pay for music, Grian?” Scar asks, waving his hand even more obnoxiously than before. “We’re going to dance.”
Grian squints at the jukebox, then at Scar, before letting out a loud hum, contemplating. “What kind of music is it?”
“Hm?”
“Well, I’m not going to dance if the music is bad, Scar. I need a sample of the song before I agree to pay for the rest of it.”
Scar rolls his eyes, inserting the disc into the jukebox with a flick of his wrist. Somehow, it settles inside without him stumbling, almost as if with practiced ease.
The jukebox breathes a soft, dulcet symphony into the desert air, delicate as piano keys melt into others. A gentle whistle echoes alongside it, pairing together in a duet with the rest of the music.
Grian’s lips part slightly as he stares at the jukebox.
“Well?” Scar prompts.
“You better not charge everyone else this way,” Grian mumbles, as he reaches forward for Scar’s outstretched hand.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, G.” Scar pulls him closer to him, a loose chuckle working it’s way up his chest as Grian stumbles forward. “That’s a one of a kind G-man special right there.”
Grian can’t find a way to unlodge the words he wants to speak from his chest, so he settles on placing a hand on Scar’s shoulder instead. He lifts his wings as Scar settles a hand below the curve of his back where cartilage meets skin, letting the man pull him closer towards him.
Scar is not… a graceful dancer. He watches his feet as they move more than he watches Grian, but that’s fine. It lets Grian watch relatively unnoticed, to pick out the faint lines on his forehead, deep with concentration, the crinkle of skin around his eyes as he smiles—
The music loops over, but Grian is too focused on the way Scar’s crimson eyes gleam in the few times he actually looks up to pay it much mind.
Twice, his feet are trampled as they move in a way utterly uncoordinated, and Scar will yelp ‘sorry, I’ll get better at this, I promise G’, as if he’s expecting this to be a new part of their lives, as if they’ll click the disc into their jukebox and dance together as the sun begins to set.
‘Yeah,’ Grian says each time, voice soft and barely heard above the music. ‘We both will.’