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Mangrove is a stubborn wood.
In the tepid sun it splits and warps, chipping beneath his axe; unlike birch, which parts butter-smooth from the underlying flesh, mangrove bark falls away in fragments. Within minutes his fingers bristle with splinters, needle points of fire that pierce the edges of his awareness. Warning signs.
He ignores them.
Summer afternoon slinks through the clearing on silent haunches, thick and heady where sunshine dapples against the forest floor. Its shimmering heat wraps his throat in a chokehold; Grian bends low beneath that relentless hammer, sweat pooling at the small of his back, beading along his forehead until it clouds in his eyes. Blinking it away only brings temporary relief– every few seconds he's forced to release his grip on the axe handle, wipe his brow dry, and return to scraping wood off the mangrove logs. Scrape, release, wipe. Scrape again.
Rinse. Repeat.
His hands aren't good for much, but they're good enough for this– the steady strip of bark below blade, the patient back-and-forth as he eases each shard away from the log's cambium. Molding, shaping, rigging dripstone to the top when it rests bare and exposed in the brittle grass. Above him the sun consumes its pinnacle, cloudless and agonizing; Grian readjusts his fingers, flexing the stiffness from each joint, and hunches over once again.
Caught in the inextricable gravity of this focus, the crackle of dying brush behind him fades into warbling birdsong and his own puffed breaths– nothing more than an afterthought. Once again, Grian pauses; once again, he stretches his wrist, flicking at the stiffness, the dull ache inside each tendon–
A low whistle shatters the hazy dream.
Grian leaps clear out of his own skin, heart pounding a jackrabbit's pace against his sternum. He twists as he flails, axe dropping from his fingers, ankle catching the log he'd been using as a bench, sparks scraping along the outside of his thigh. With a jolt, the world tilts on its own wild axis, and Grian tumbles back-first into dessicated dirt.
Dried grass crunches beneath him as the breath slams from his lungs, cinching his chest in a vice he can't even gasp from, staggering the pulse in his veins. Above him, the trees spin, a nauseating merry-go-round of leaves and sunshine, cut only by the dark silhouette of–
"Scar!" Grian chokes, clawing for a lungful of air. It whistles on the way in, rasping against his esophagus; he coughs, incredulity warring with indignation. "What are y– are you insane? I could've killed you!"
Again floats between them, delicate and unspoken; a malicious pall dimming the burnt-sugar sun. Fractals of tension spiral over the line of Scar's shoulders, tightening the shadows hiding his face– but as he steps forward, further into the clearing, they peel back, swarming to muddle beneath the birch trees once more.
In their place stands Scar, shirt unbuttoned and hanging in loose waves of fabric over his chest. His undershirt is soaked with sweat– Grian jerks his gaze to the side, warmth scrawling high over his cheekbones.
"You didn't look very murderous from down there," Scar comments, voice light as he fumbles with the strap of the pack slung over one shoulder. He sets it down with a thump, letting whatever's in it roll to rest against the makeshift bench. Grian eyes it, curiosity sparking up his spine, but before he can ask, Scar is leaning over him, eyebrows creeping into his hairline. "Are you still working on these walls?"
Grian's face folds into a scowl before he can smooth it back out. "Looks can be deceiving, you know," he snaps, digging his elbows into the ground and levering himself back up into a proper sit. His stomach twists at the abrupt motion; Grian sets his jaw and busies himself with brushing away the crumbs of dirt clinging to his clothes– short, sharp motions meant to soothe the lingering heat in his cheeks. "And yes," he adds, glaring up beneath his lashes, "I am– or I was, until you decided to scare the actual life out of me–"
"Oh, relax," Scar says, "You're fine, everything's alright." One hand waves in a nebulous gesture somehow encompassing them, the forest, and everyone else forced to play this game. "It's just me!"
Hot irritation wells up Grian's throat, tacky and sour, blooming against the porcelain walls of his teeth. He opens his mouth on reflex, something annoyed and barbed poised on the tip of his tongue–
Only to shut it with a snap as Scar drops to the ground beside him, fingers grasping for the seam of his abandoned pack. Both of them wince at the pop of Scar's aching joints– the sudden, echoed release of pressure in Grian's own knees sends a rush of blood to his head, scattering stars across the surface of his vision.
When it clears, Scar is aiming a soft, fluttering smile at him. Despite everything, some of the rigid tension in Grian's spine unravels.
Still: "I can't relax. We need to be defensible, Scar– this peace isn't going to last."
"I know, I know," Scar says, rolling his eyes as he tugs on the pack's latch. His voice dips into a well of faux-solemnity, but it's tarnished by a crackle of humor around the edges. "'Peace was never an option,' I get it."
With calm, laser-pointed precision, Grian digs his nails into the meat of his palms until they bite through skin.
"Ow!" Scar yelps, letting go of the pack to shake out his hands. The look he shoots Grian is nothing short of comically betrayed. "Aw, c'mon, Grian, it's just a joke." Calloused fingers rub the indents, massaging at his palms– and Grian's, by virtue of their soulbond– until the pinch of Scar's brow smooths out.
"I don't think we'll last very long if we take our safety as a joke."
"You've gotta lighten up a little," Scar says, ignoring the incredulous glance Grian throws him in response. "No, seriously," and now Scar pauses, fingers stilling where they tap at worn fabric, eyes shifting to pierce right through him– Grian's breath stutters, lungs freezing in his chest. Throat tight and full of knots. When Scar speaks, his voice is low, throaty, and blunt with a deliberate kind of honesty. "You should really take a break. If my stomach is anything to judge by, you haven't eaten yet today."
Grian blinks. "I'm fine," he protests, a response so ingrained it slips off his tongue without hesitation. And it's sincere– these last few hours have passed by in a mindless, scorching haze, nothing but the labor of his hands and the strength in his back as he hauls each spiked log into place along their growing walls. That iron concentration has been his shield all morning; now, as Scar points it out, the curtain draws back, revealing Grian's stomach: a hollow, aching cavern, gnawing at its own lining.
Nausea clambers up his throat; Grian reels with it, swaying punch-drunk in the grass, fingers shaking. All of him, shaking– fine tremors that skitter up and down his spine, contracting each muscle in a jerky feedback loop. Dense fog drapes over his mind, cloudy and uncertain; when had this started? How had he not noticed?
"There it is," Scar murmurs, reaching out to steady Grian by the shoulder. His hand is a warm brand through the fabric of Grian's shirt, still damp with sweat– it shoots right through him, twisting in his sternum. "Yeah, I think it's definitely time for a rest– if you pass out, I'm probably passing out too."
"I was fine," Grian croaks past the clumsy haze, fumbling for– something. Reflex tugs his hand up to linger over Scar's, but he can't quite bring himself to close the gap. Instead it hovers, trembling and useless, as Grian struggles to set one clear thought in front of the other. "I really should–" he swallows, dry and cottony. Drags reluctant eyes back to the walls that still need leveraging, walls that will keep them safe. "Scar, I really need to finish this up–"
"Nobody's on red." Scar says it simply, with a glimmer of kindness Grian doesn't deserve. "So I think it can wait for another few hours."
The raw heat of his palm withdraws from Grian's shoulder; simmering air rushes in to fill the gap, but it's still cooler than the singes lying beneath Grian's sleeve. He stares ahead, blind and burning, until a rustle in his periphery hooks his attention– when he turns, Scar is rummaging through his pack, tongue peeking out between his teeth.
What he draws from it is a green-striped sphere, a little smaller than his own head, waxy and glistening. Scar's triumphant noise scratches the air from the back of his throat; he tosses the pack aside, settling the melon– because it's a melon, what on earth– in his lap instead.
"What is that," Grian doesn't ask, voice flat.
"A melon," Scar replies, nonchalant. He rolls the melon over in his lap, eyes tracing its curve, then holds out his hand– curling and uncurling his fingers in the universal sign for gimme. "Hand me your axe, will you?"
"Where," Grian says, "did you get a melon?"
Scar doesn't look up, voice still chipper when he answers. "Oh, I found it!"
"Where."
Now Scar shoots him a glance, consternation flickering behind the sunswept glow in his eyes. "Uh– well, I just found it lying around, you know–" he flicks his fingers to the south, lips tugging up in a dazzling smile– "in that direction-ish."
"You found a melon just lying around." Grian's eyes narrow. Maybe his head is muddy, stomach collapsing in on itself, hands trembling– but he's not an idiot. And these are tricks he's already more than familiar with, tricks he's memorized by heart. "You– you absolutely stole that. Who'd you steal this from?"
A slow, wicked edge creeps over Scar's grin. "From the Jolly Ranchers," he admits; halfway through the sentence he devolves into helpless snickering. Mischievous delight weaves in between the syllables: "Oh, come on, it's not like they need it! I checked, they've got plenty of food."
"Scar–" Grian groans, pressing one hand over his left eye– but Scar's laughter is infectious, rooting deep in his lungs to send little hiccups floating through the air between them: fragile, sparkling soap bubbles, the delicate language of his own reluctant fondness. Around them the clearing brightens, honey gold and sweltering, shadows shifting with the sun's luminous, gradual descent.
Without warning, a hand lands on top of his knee, a light squeeze of steady pressure. Grian's head snaps back up, his own hand falling back into his lap as he traces the line of Scar's arm up to his face.
Scar's smile has gentled, rounded out by degrees– though his eyes still retain that roguish spark. "G? Mind passing me that axe so we can split this thing open?"
Trust, Grian has discovered, lies in the tendons. Roping, strained, an aberration of his fingers stretching over each bruised knuckle, mapping the valleys in between. It lingers the way blood cloys– tacky, stained, scarlet. Nothing truly washes it clean. When trust winds beneath your ribcage, the inevitability is that, at some point, it tangles; a helpless snarl of red puppet threads weaving through ventricles and veins.
And as much as Grian has tried to tease it out, claw for relief, it remains; stubborn, unyielding, a tree unbowed to the storm. The ship in a bottle. A butterfly, frozen in amber. His own two battered hands.
He passes Scar the axe without hesitation.
Scar plucks it from his fingers with easy grace, running a thumb over the handle’s rough wooden grain. As he shifts, the melon rocks, upset by the motion– it shivers on the precipice of his lap, pauses, then tumbles over Scar's crossed legs, rolling to a stop on the ground in front of him. Scar leans back, lips pursing as he studies it, hefting the axe in the well of his palm to consider each angle.
Then, with a shrug, he raises the axe above his head. Iron glints at the apex of its arc– and plummets again in one clean blow, reverberating throughout the clearing. Within the surrounding trees a bird startles, crying out as it launches from its branch with frantic wings. The blade itself slides an inch to the right of true center– but it sinks deep into the rind all the same, splitting the melon open to reveal glistering red insides.
For one heart-stopping, suspended eternity, gore seeps into the dry grass.
Grian's flinch is an ingrained thing, a holdover from another life– a game that has since defined him in every new one after. His eyes flutter shut against the onslaught of memory, the blood-spatter on cacti and stray stone, the clumping of sand– and he squeezes them until amorphous shapes burst across the backs of his eyelids. When he gathers himself enough to crack them open, the vision has passed: it's only a melon.
Scar is already setting the edge of his axe to the larger slice; it splits with a wet thunk, separating into two messy quarters. Wiping the blade of the axe on the grass beside him, Scar sets it aside and wraps his fingers around one slice, holding it out to Grian with an expectant wrinkle of his eyebrows.
Grian stares.
"What?" Scar waves it in front of his face, a teasing smile tilting the edge of his lips– but above it his eyes are intent. Serious. Gleaming in the molasses afternoon. "I went through all this trouble to steal from the Ranchers and you aren't even going to eat this? Grian, you wound me– I'm trying to provide over here, like any good soulmate–"
Grian's laugh punches out of him in one great, shocked whoop. "Alright, alright!" He reaches forward to pluck the melon slice out of Scar's hands. The rind is tacky against his fingers; when he sinks his teeth into its flesh, juice spills over the edges of his mouth, watery and sweet.
Grian's throat tightens as he swallows it all down. Crisp, clear, tingling on his tongue; the cotton-fog blanketing his mind begins to lift. Hands steadying, shaking tapering off. His stomach, which had been shredding itself into churning strips, finally settles.
Beside him, Scar bites into his own slice, humming a tuneless note as he chews, gaze darting over the wall Grian's half-constructed. But he doesn't comment, not even for a compliment– and unexpected gratitude wells in the sticky pit of Grian's stomach, clenching his lungs; all speech robbed, held hostage by the nectar of a simple melon, stolen for the two of them.
One melon can't patch the stress fractures crackling between them; no amount of sugar can wash away the sand still coating the back of his throat. But despite it all, Grian takes another bite, chewing slow, tender, savoring the flavor as it slides down his tongue. Scar rewards him with the flash of a quick, pleased grin when he turns his head, tilting to the side.
Between them settles silence, honey-thick and burning the same colour. Not quite comfort, but– familiarity. Companionship. Scattered wildflowers, dusted gold with afternoon's slow death. It can't last. Won't last– Jimmy and Tango are already on yellow, and death comes fast in these worlds. One has to prepare for it. But Grian can't force himself away from this spot, this quiet moment of respite.
Because that's what this is, isn't it? The two of them, together– one shared life, one shared hope, their pain and trust intertwined. Mangrove bark beneath his fingernails: needle points licking at his skin. A stolen moment for them both, before the noose winds tight around their necks.
"Scar?" Grian's voice is tentative, quiet; to speak any louder would shatter this soft, hazy glow they've carved out for themselves.
Scar's eyes flick to rest on his. Just as hesitant, just as quiet. Wary.
"Thank you."
Unsaid is this: we are two threads in a tapestry woven from nothing but our agony and our fear, and you have brought me a gift. A spot of light in the darkness. Your hand guiding mine. We are both going to die, and I love you. I will always love you.
One day, he'll pluck each word from his gut and pour them into Scar's calloused hands to weigh against his heart. But for now, this is as close to honest as he can bear to fly.
Scar must have picked up this language somewhere along the line, because his eyes lose their tempered edge, gentle warmth growing in the laugh lines that spread beneath his lower lashes. That minute tension drains from his expression– the half-smile he regards Grian with is small, but so genuine in its affection that it threatens to blind him.
"No problem, G," he says, and turns back to his slice of melon.
