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Grian’s grotto is surrounded by spore blossoms and dead bushes, as gifted by Joel (they were meant to tricks, cruelty wrapped in sweetness that humans craved in the deepest crevices of their hearts) They are well cared for. Grian was never stupid enough to fall prey for the simplier tricks. He never thanked Joel despite Joel’s prodding. Joel can see now that the words ‘thank you’ may never have fallen from Grian’s lips, but the dead bushes are planted and watered in hopes they may grow again. The spore blossoms hang above the roof, spore’s drifting down like dreams. They’d have landed on Grian’s shoulders and really there were many better, more convenient places to place them but Grian chose to show them. The ‘thanks’ pulsates around the plants and the grotto and Joel steels himself to walk in. Joel’s wings flutter in delight despite trying to keep his face straight. The sight makes something lighter.
Scar had gifted Grian poppies and lilacs. They are not blessed by magic, within the day Grian has died, they have already begun to shrivel up. They are not dead yet. That fact says enough alone.
Joel steps on the flowers as he walks up to Grian’s home. They crunch under his foot and he grins, tips of his mouth curling around his cheek as the beauty slowly drains. The flowers are still alive, Joel is a faerie himself he knows the rules. He knows that rejecting a gift, curses the giftee, he knows allowing the gift to die is a rejection. It used to be a fun game. Joel can even imagine the spring in his skip as he knocks on Grian’s door and Grian sees and cries out loud before trying to breathe life back into the flowers.
Joel isn’t skipping now.
Grian isn’t sat inside ready to bring the flowers back to life.
Joel white knuckles the lilies he holds in his left hand and looks at the home. It’s made up of dirt and grass and he raises his head, hesitates (as if about to knock) and opens the door. He’s never required an invite. It was all for pleasantries. Grian insisted on it and after one week, learning the ins and out of Grian was an insatiable game.
Grian sits in Joel’s palace. He’s holding a cup of tea in his hands but he’s yet to take a sip. Smart, one part of Joel’s mind whispers. Annoying, the other part screams. Grian dances to the fae’s games well. He knows their tango and it’s tantalising, mesmerising and exciting. Every part of Joel is alive with delight that for once there is someone who can play.
The summer sun is liquid gold in Joel’s veins. Everyone wants a drop of it and few are willing to pay the price for ambrosia. Grian looks at honey, and tells Joel he doesn’t care as long as the bees don’t sting him. Joel wants to know how well Grian knows to look after bees. He isn’t a beekeeper. Joel feels the burn underneath his skin to know just how long it will take for Grian to feel the sting.
Grian stirs in another spoonful of sugar. There isn't the shimmering bond to suggest a connection yet. He looks up to Joel and asks, “Is it true that we are approaching a summer fae holiday?”
“There is one in a few moons, yes. Very short, you shouldn’t have to worry about it,” Joel placates.
Grian only tilts his head a little. “Should I be worried about any new neighbours?”
Joel takes a sip of his own drink, “For Scar maybe? He’s made it through the past six or so without dying. We have a plan. A friend of ours, hella clumsy and it’s his first hundred hour celebration. If the world wants to cause any of us suffering he can take the brunt of it.” Joel smiles and it’s sharp. His teeth are sharp, he sharpens his canines to look like a feral dog.
Grian places his china cup of tea on his china plate with a soft ‘clink.’ “What are the celebrations if you excuse my curiosity.”
“Well the world gifts us life, the ability to coexist with it. However no matter how much we return, we take more. So, in honour of what the world gives us, once a millenia, for one hundred hours, the world can take from us. It can take our causes for wealth or our lives. Sometimes it takes nothing at all.” Joel took Grian’s tea and had a slow sip.
Grian is smirking. He looks up at Joel. Joel looks away and finishes his sip. He doesn’t remind Grian that fae food and drink isn’t binding to the fae. That just because Grian didn’t lose this round doesn't mean he’s won.
“So do you just hole up for one hundred hours?”
“No, of course not. What do you think we are? The winter folk? We share gifts then go and party while there’s some real risk. This year, Scar and I want to raid this ancient temple where monster killers live.”
A monster killer of course, is no match for a fae. Even when one is high on adrenaline is prone to making bad moves. There’s too many pleasantries and the hunters only know how to swing. Being drunk? That’s the faerie’s life. They can tango with their feet fallen off. It’s about the thrill, not the actual danger.
Grian laughs, stands up and picks his bag up from where it sat on the hook of his chair. “Well, I would rather not have to get acquainted with more fae. I must admit getting you to realise tricking me is a slow task. I’d rather not start from scratch.”
Grian’s house is exactly how he left it. His bookshelf is still undusted, his spare clothes are still laid on his bed waiting for the man who won’t be coming home. Joel brushes past all that. His fingers itch to feel the fabric, to connect in the final ways he knows how. His magic crackles and hums as he looks at the many title Grian owned. He recognises a few.
There are no folktales. Joel can’t help but giggle at the thought. Joel knows what people say about the fair folk. He knows that Grian cannot simply remember unless it’s muscle memory. The further into the house the more confusing everything begins to get. Books glow, illuminating the dark house from the runs written on the spine.
Joel crouched in front of them. He reached a finger out to brush over the spines. It repelled him, not letting Joel close enough to touch. He pulled his finger away, eyes blown wide at the faint pink burn on the pads of his fingers. He pushed himself up and sneered.
Grian had not been an idiot. Joel had already known this. That was the extent he knew about Grian it seems.
There is a photo of the three of them, merely two weeks before the one hundred hour mass minesweeper game. Scar and Grian and Joel are all smiling. It’s covered in a fine layer of dust from where it sits on the shelf but it’s facing outwards. As Joel makes his rounds around the house, gathering the remains he’s permitted to keep before the home is burnt, he keeps seeing it in the corner of his eye.
The photo was taken two weeks ago. Joel hadn’t realised how much he’d forgotten what Grian looked like until he stopped and looked at it. He doesn’t remember the occasion, just that Scar insisted they took it.
Joel left his lilies beside the photo and walked out of the house. He stood outside and struck the first match. The fire is tiny but when Joel throws it into the house, it swallows the home instantly, taking all the books and every unknown with it. Every part of Joel that longs to run in and dig up anything that could still bind the two is stuck in an unmoving body.
He stays through the night. Joel stays until all that remains is twigs, wet moss and twine. Then he turns away from what remains, content that there is nothing else about Grian that can be stolen from him.