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Another Life SMP. Another death game.
Grian counts them down as the timer starts.
Meets Scar’s eye.
And runs in the opposite direction.
Grian had decided well before the start of Limited Life that he wasn’t teaming up with Scar anymore.
They’d talked about everything, after Double Life. Grian had apologised. For a seemingly endless number of things. For the Warden, for painting a target back on their backs with the fishing rod shenanigans, for acting like Scar was a burden, for sneaking around with BigB, for all of it.
And Scar had laughed.
“It’s fine, G, it’s fine! I appreciate it, but you really do worry too much.”
Grian had felt his feathers bristle, the hair on the back of his neck rising. “How can you say that? Was it— was it not a big deal to you?”
“I mean, no? Don’t get me wrong, it was fun, and I treasure the fun moments, I do! That’s why I keep going back to those servers with you,” Scar had said, with a lopsided grin. “But it doesn’t really bother me when it all goes wrong, not after the fact, anyway. It’s all a game, right?”
Grian had swallowed, not meeting Scar’s eye. “Right. All a game.”
He feels something twist in his gut at the thought, now sitting beside a river, filling a bucket of water. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get how Scar can move on from each of the Life servers so easily. How he can start Limited Life with his face to the sun, a little nervous about dying but nonetheless hopelessly optimistic, making his own fun the way he always does, collecting passive mobs with no real purpose and scamming their friends. As if this series could go as horrifically wrong as the last and he’d be no worse off in the long run.
It’s— he knows, logically, that it’s more complicated than he’s making it out to be, but it feels like Scar doesn’t care. Doesn’t care about everything that weighs Grian down like his heart is made of stones. And it stings.
Scar was able to move on from all the pain and hurt of Double Life (and every series before that) so easily.
So why can’t he?
Well, if Scar’s decided not to care about previous Life servers, Grian’s not going to care either.
At first, it’s a release, a relief. He’s been carrying enough guilt to sell it by the shulker box. Over Double Life, the cactus ring, squeezing lives out of Scar in Last Life, the cactus ring again. (He's not sure he'll ever fully forgive himself for the cactus ring. He's not sure he knows how.)
Until the absence of guilt begins to feel like emptiness. And the emptiness feels like anger.
He’s not sure what he’s angry at, exactly. Scar, a little bit, for turning his emotional world upside down, changing the chasm in his gut to a burning fire that he can’t explain. The universe, a little bit, for putting him through all the horrors he's seen and carried around with him like a dutiful llama. But he's angry at himself, mostly, for feeling so weighed down for so long and for what? What was even the point if Scar didn’t care?
So when Jimmy and Joel ask him if he wants to be a bad boy, well.
The fire in his gut quite likes the sound of that.
Grian looks out across the burning forest at the distant hill near spawn, flames crackling around him, licking at the wood beneath his feet. Dark eyes find Scar, and even from here, he can see his wild smirk, hear his laughter echoing across the treetops.
Jimmy is in front of him, perched atop a chest, panicked. “Grian, I don’t know who did it. Look at them on the mountain over there, Grian, look—“
Grian sighs, swallowing a bitter, hollow laugh. “Oh, it’s Scar. Look at his face.”
Scar. Oh, Scar.
Apparently, Scar’s still doing just fine. Well, even. He’s got friends. He’s got Cleo, and Bdubs. Which is good. Good for him. That’s great. Why wouldn’t it be?
Grian bites his tongue, breathing in the smoke, feeling the heat on his face. For a moment, he thinks he catches Scar’s eye, carefree mirth dancing in reflections of the firelight. Until Scar’s head turns away, looking at Pearl and BigB, cracking one joke or another.
It makes Grian’s heart ache for some weird, stupid reason. He feels his hand curl into a fist.
“Grian?”
Grian jumps at the hand on his shoulder, immediately putting a hand on his sword, whipping around to face whoever’s come near him. Scott flinches, taking a step back, looking concerned. “Grian, are you alright?”
Grian stiffens, swallowing. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, too quickly, not meeting Scott’s eye. He wordlessly swaps the sword for a water bucket, pushing past him. He feels a pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach and—
No.
No, bad boys don’t feel guilty. Bad boys don’t apologise.
He keeps walking.
“I can’t believe Etho replaced me with a cow! A cow, Grian!” Joel huffs as they survey the damage from the fire. “Does our soulbond mean nothing to him?!”
Grian rolls his eyes. “Oh, poor heartbroken Joel. Poor sad boy.”
Joel fixes him with a look, scoffing. “Please, as if you haven’t been weird about Scar since the season started.”
“Hey. I’m weird about Scar always.”
The other laughs, shoving him playfully. “That’s true.”
“I— Joel, that was a joke!”
“You’re a joke!”
“Well you’re a— you’re a stinky poo poo head!”
Joel rolls his eyes. “Right. At least I’m not delusional, then.”
Grian pouts, doing his best to look unaffected. “Whatever. You can think whatever you want, I don’t care about Scar.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. ‘Cause I’m a bad boy.”
Joel’s face lights up. “Yeah. Yeah! Bad boys don’t have feelings.”
“Nah, nah nah nah, exactly. We’re not those sensitive, romantic bad boys. We’re proper bad boys.”
“We’re bad boys!” Joel declares. “Meaning I don’t care about Etho.”
“And I don’t care about Scar,” Grian agrees, gripping Joel’s forearm. “Bad boys.”
“Bad boys.”
“Did you hear Scar turned down Pearl’s offer of bamboo? For a trade?” Jimmy says, plopping down beside Grian, passing him a piece of freshly baked bread.
Grian shrugs, taking a bite. “No. Why would I care?”
“Oooooh. That is cold, dude.”
He feels the corner of his mouth twitch, twisting. “Is it bad?”
“Yes, actually. Maybe. It’s a bit concerning. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Tim. Eat your bread.”
Jimmy doesn’t look fully convinced. “Okay? Look, I— I know we’re bad boys, but I want to make sure you’re not doing bad—“
“I’m fine, stop your fussing,” Grian insists, waving his free hand dismissively. “Scar and I have gone our separate ways, and even if I end up killing him with my bare hands, I’m not gonna stew over it. He’s got it coming.”
“If you say so,” Jimmy says mildly. “Honestly, I’m not sure what’s scarier. You two together, or the two of you when you’re apart.”
Together, Grian thinks. Definitely together.
Joel returns to the scorched mansion with bad boy jackets, bad boy sunglasses, and an extremely vague and ominous explanation as to where they came from: “Cows may have been harmed. Maybe.”
Grian sits on the end of his bed while the others sleep, keeping watch with nothing but wind and smoke for company. His fingers trace the embroidery on the back of the leather jacket Joel made for him, mindlessly following the grain of the threads.
He doesn’t think about Scar. He doesn’t. He definitely doesn’t.
He takes a deep breath, and pushes one arm through the sleeve. And then the other. He pulls it onto his back, adjusting the shoulders. He flips up the collar— no, no, that’s way too much, he smooths it back down, allowing himself a small, cocky little smirk as he admires the studs.
He smiles to himself, looking out across the (somehow) still burning forest.
Scar can cause all the trouble he wants. Scar can run headfirst into all the tragedy he wants.
Grian doesn’t care.
He’s a bad boy now.