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The first thing Grian felt at Scar’s interference was simple irritation. That constant, festering disappointment in the hero. Knowing that Hot Guy would never do what needed to be done. Would never do what Fun Guy was willing to do. (What he never wanted Cute Guy to do.)
The second thing Grian felt, horribly, was familiarity.
It wasn’t the same. Not even close. Grian was holding the weighted handle of a gun in his hands, not the sleek shaft of a bow. The target before him wasn’t stuffed with straw, instead it whimpered and whined and was, technically, a real living person. A criminal that very, very much deserved to die, for hurting what was his-
Grian also wasn’t the same.
His skin was mottled grey and blue with the infection, his eyes black and festering, his body sprouting with bits of fungi that smelled sickly sweet and buzzed in his mind. A reminder of the thing that had consumed him. Of the sculk. Of the dark and the nothing and the drowning. Of Scar failing to save him.
Scar, who was now trying to save someone else.
Grian could feel the hard coiled muscle of the hero’s chest pressed against his back. A rough, broad hand was settled over his own, brushing the finger he had settled on the trigger. Hot Guy’s face was close, so close that his breath tickled the shell of Grian’s ear.
In another world, this could’ve been another day of training. This could have been Hot Guy and Cute Guy. This could have been practice bows and paper targets and Scar’s warmth and security pressed against him as those hands guided his own and Scar whispered advice just to him.
Now Scar whispered something else, in a quiet, tense breath.
“Don’t. Please.”
The audacity of heroes.
Scar wasn’t even truly stopping him. There was nothing he could do if Grian’s finger pulled back just a little, and the trigger clicked, and this whimpering piece of scum’s brains were blown in bright splatters over the concrete. It was a vivid enough image to crave.
Grian’s whole body sang with the violence of it all. That roiling, festering thing that congealed in his nerves and dripped from his skin. He wanted to laugh. Instead he tilted his head far back until it rested against a broad shoulder and his depthless, glittering eyes met those of Scar.
“Oh, honey,” Grian crooned, in a voice of saccharine and arsenic. With his free hand he reached up to cradle the side of Scar’s cheek, fingers brushing absently over the familiar jawline. “I’m afraid you’re not the boss of me anymore.”
“They don’t deserve it,” Scar tried.
“Oh I really think they do. They tried to kill you, darling.”
“Everyone tries to kill me,” Scar countered. His eyes were soft and liquid. His free hand moved down, resting against Grian’s waist, settled chastely on his hip. It was a touch that would have made the old Grian turn red with the intimacy of it all. Now he just found it faintly amusing. “Even you.”
That made Grian pause, fingers stopping from where they’d been trailing over stubble thoughtlessly. Scar’s touch was a burning, heated thing. Grian couldn’t tell if that quality was annoying yet or not.
“Especially me,” he decided finally, words thick and heady.
He watched the way Scar exhaled, and leaned down. Their faces were so close, their eyes fixated on each other, their touch intimate, and Grian found that the warm breaths against his face didn’t make him feel as much as they used to.
Their lips brushed, just briefly, soft and uncertain.
That’s when Grian smiled and pulled the trigger.
He delighted in the way Scar flinched as the shot rang out, loud with cut-off whimpers, and then Scar was recoiling completely, eyes wide and horrified at the splatter of blood and brains on the brick wall. Personally, Grian thought it looked rather nice, when taking into account the pathetic corpse at his feet.
Scar was still backing away, hands shaking. “Why- Why did-,” he said, and he turned on Grian, and his eyes were so stupidly lost that Grian found irritation rising up again. “Why would you-?”
“I told you,” Grian said, something twisted in his voice, even as he smiled. “I’m not yours anymore. I’m not your partner. I’m not your loyal little dog. I’m not your Cute Guy,” he stepped forward and ticked off each point as he said them, letting Scar back up into the wall, caged in. “That hero died abandoned by the one who was supposed to save him. No, I’m someone else now.” He pulled the pistol up again, letting it rest under Scar’s chin. Scar’s body was tense, unmoving, eyes searching Grian’s as if there was anything there to find that hadn’t already drowned. “I’m someone dangerous.”
Grian let that sink in for a moment.
Internally, he weighed the pros and cons of how satisfying it’d be to just blow Scar’s brains out right here. With a bullet, he should clarify.
It would certainly put an end to all the annoyances. To the disappointment, and the lingering expectations, and the tight knotted bundle of something confusing and nebulous inside him.
But… No, it was too soon to kill his favourite toy, much funner to leave him in the agony of grief a little longer. Much better to rip down everything Hot Guy had tried to build up and leave him floundering in the mud.
So Grian let the gun drop, smoothly clipped back to his thigh.
He considered Scar again, still pale and shaking, looking past Grian at the artwork of a corpse. Carefully, he pressed a hand against Scar’s solid chest, right over his heart, and when he had Scar’s attention again he smiled. Reached up on tiptoes. Planted a quick, chaste kiss against Scar’s cheek.
“See you again soon, sweetheart,” he whispered, for just the two of them, then pushed off and strolled away. He could feel Scar’s eyes on his back, and he told himself it didn’t still make his skin crawl.
Whatever. Scar could try as many times as he wanted to stop Grian, but he wouldn’t succeed.
Grian wanted to ruin everything that Hot Guy was. He wanted to pick apart the hero and mount his pieces on the wall. He wanted to- to- to finally have some conclusion to this ugly, festering thing inside him. That was screaming and crying in agony, that was weeping for something it had lost. That made Grian feel silly things like regret and longing and grief, muted by the infection in his brain.
He hated it.
He hated how more than violence, more than revenge, more than the blood that splattered the walls, Grian just wanted to feel Scar pressed against him one more time. The ghost of their proximity, back in the alley, still tingled as phantom sensations underneath his skin.
He might take a knife to it later, see if he could carve the feeling out.
He probably wouldn’t succeed but… it would still be fun.
Fun Guy laughed, and moved on, and left every ugly thing behind him.