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When Scar first spied the beginnings of a bridge stretching across from the dark oak mansion to his base, a cold pit settled in his stomach. Bridges were an attempt to reach out, bridges were for bringing people together.
And to put it rather simply: Scar did not want to be brought together with Grian again. Not after the cheating, not after the lies, the heartbreak, the trouble. He didn’t want any of it, didn’t want to see the glint of mischief or adoring affection in his dark eyes ever again.
But yet, a bridge was stretched across the gorge, a sad and ugly thing, with the so-called “Bad Boys” dancing across it, sloppily throwing wheat seeds across. There was no care put into tucking them into the earth or watering them, simply spreading them across and expecting them to grow without care.
The carelessness was the first sign for Scar of poison in this bridge, a venom undercutting any kind word or gesture of reunification.
He couldn’t take another lack of apology, another attempt at closure passing him by, a love dashed by the rules of the universe they were in yet again. It was an endless cycle he felt, of putting his life in Grian’s hands, and giving his heart up to him, handing it on a silver platter. Bowing his head down and awaiting the swing of an executioner’s blade with a smile. And it always ended the same.
That was the definition of insanity, he’d heard once. To keep doing the same thing over and over again and expect a change.
So he’d learned never to trust Grian, not anymore. After he put his life in his hands time after time again, felt his sweet touch and his desperate punches, and loved it all the same- he couldn’t do it anymore. So he wouldn’t. Not this time, not again.
….
The stones scraped against Scar’s arms as he brought them towards the pile he, Cleo, and Bdubs were making to block the new nuisance coming closer and closer toward their base.
This bridge was not one of friendliness, Scar knew that for a fact, and from the glances he’d exchanged with Cleo, he knew she felt the same way. The taunting retorts of Joel were yet another dead giveaway- the man couldn’t tell a good lie to save his life. So thus, Scar was building up the stones, brick by brick. An impenetrable wall.
Walls like this were what Scar wished he could’ve had during his last lives. Maybe if he’d known, maybe if he hadn’t opened himself up, maybe then things would have been different.
He knew this to be false, though. The rules of the game dictated so. The rolls of the dice of the universe had simply not landed in his and Grian’s favor, hadn’t landed in anyone’s really. Games like these were always meant to end in violence and bloodshed, heartbreak and tears. And yet he came back to them, over and over again, hoping that maybe this time could be different.
Once again, Scar longed to feel the rush of adrenaline in his veins, the blood on his hands, the calloused hand of a fellow companion in his, limbs entangled on desert nights. He ached for the loyalty, the devotion, the love, crawling in his chest like a wild animal. Once again, he wanted to be back in that desert, if even just for a moment, just to feel Grian’s hand in his, just to be what they once were. The universe may have ripped them apart and brought them back together with the ties that bound them together, but they couldn’t have what had lived in died in the desert.
It was a silly thing, he thought, to yearn for someone like this. A silly and stupid thing, just as fleeting as the scent of fresh-cut lilacs and poppies on the air had been. He knew how it’d end, and how it had ended, so what was the point of wishing anyways?
Sacr looked up, over the crumbling stone, to see Grian standing, just watching him. Staying still, those dark eyes boring into Scar’s very being, as if he expected him to throw back an insult or start some sort of chat.
Scar didn’t meet his eyes.
` Instead, he went back to placing the stones, brick by brick, building up a wall. One so large that he’d never have to look into the eyes of the other man again.
….
Scar knew death like the back of his hand. He knows what it is to burn, to drown, to have your insides turned to mush from a sonic shriek. He knows fall damage and zombie bites, and he knows bleeding to death, your skull cracked open in two.
And Scar knows explosions. So of course, it was not something unfamiliar to feel the particles of his body ripped apart, torn to shreds, dying in a charred and bloody mess, the result of a TNT minecart.
It’s not unfamiliar for him to wake back up in a bed, panting as he tries to keep himself under control, though his ears are ringing and his heart is pounding and he wants nothing more than to run, nothing more than to go home.
It’s not unfamiliar for a name to be on the tip of his tongue, threatening to leave his lips in a shallow scream, his voice scratchy as he processes what has just happened to him. He’s been blown up by a TNT minecart.
Joel’s just gotten his boogey kill.
And Scar has the sinking feeling that he knew all along this was going to happen.
Whatever small hope was born in his chest dies here as he realizes that of course, it was a trap. He knew this, of course, knew it all along, but perhaps some part of him was hoping for an attempt at an apology.
An attempt at reconciliation perhaps, one that he could shoot down out of the sky, a falling paper airplane. Maybe he wanted to see if there would be any sadness in Grian’s eyes, any emotion at all. Maybe he wanted to be hurt again, hurt by either a callous throwaway response or something foolish of the sort.
Scar knew that he couldn’t be loved again by Grian, to be close to him. But maybe being hurt or to hurt him in return, having his fist in his teeth and a knife in his chest would be better.
The snake eating its own tail, the cycle of hurt continuing, but if he couldn’t be close through love at least the blood on the ground and his fist would come from the heart.
It was pathetic, he knew. But as Scar walked up the hill, to see the celebrating bad boys and Cleo beginning to burn down that stupid mansion, its planks going up in flames, Scr didn’t say a word.
He simply stood there, the flames hot enough to feel across the gorge, smoke filling his lungs. Bdubs had a sense of triumphant joy, but Scar just sat there, quiet and still as a ghost.
A ghost of a man stood in front of a burning bridge that night, watching the sun he had flown so close to long ago, back when his heart still beat. His sun as he attempted to put out the flames, sparking and destroying everything in their way, before finally giving up. His sun that had betrayed him, killed him, loved him, hurt him.
As the fire burned destroying the bridge, and everything in its path, futile efforts to save it abandoned, Scar simply just watched on.
….
The next day, Scar wandered out to the smoldering remains of the bridge. He’d already brought back the enchanter, a prize for Cleo and Bdubs. It was a tradition at that point, tradition to take it, and feel the magic crackling through his veins as he ran away.
But yet despite obtaining his reward, he returned to this burnt ruin, unsteady and creaking, as if it was screaming to get off. It only made it more alluring though, balancing along the burnt beams like a tightrope before he sat down in the center, dangling his legs over the gorge below.
He could easily be shot from here, but the danger didn’t matter to him. Another hour and he’d be on yellow, finally ready to get to work. Finally ready to have blood stain his hands once more. For now, though, he was just content enjoying his final moments of peace before the hourglass in his heart ran out.
The wind blew through his hair, carrying with it the scent of smoke as he gripped onto the beam, feeling the ash crumble below his fingers. His hands were coated with the soot, and he was aware that it’d likely stain his pants, but he didn’t care all too much.
In this, however, he ignored the light footsteps coming towards him from the other side of the bridge. He didn’t realize somebody else was even on the bridge until a lone figure in a red sweater sat down beside him.
It was Grian.
Scar was startled, jumping back slightly at the new presence. He’d abandoned the cheap leather jacket, it sitting in a pathetic pile down beside where Grian sat.
Sacr looked away, not meeting Grians eyes as he scanned him with suspicion as if expecting him to strike at any moment. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, after all. A surefire sign of danger- if you counted hot guys dangerous, that was.
Eventually, he heard Grian relax beside him, realizing he was likely not up to much trouble. At this point, if one of the two reached over, they could push each other off of the bridge.
But yet, they didn’t.
“Scar?” Grian said, sounding like both a question and a statement at the same time. Scar, what are you doing on this bridge? Scar, you realize I could push you off, right? Scar, you’re putting my life in your hands again. Scar, I wish we could just go home.
But of course, this was just an interpretation. Scar knew not to trust his own mind’s ramblings- his various lives had taught him that.
“Grian.” he said back- no emotion, no other sentences, nothing else.
The Grian in question opened his mouth to speak, before closing it again, knowing there wasn’t really anything he could say at this point. Instead, he gently took Scar’s hand in his. It was a loose hold, as he fully expected Sacr to flinch away. It was deserved, really.
But Scar didn’t move away, taking Grian’s hand and giving it a small squeeze. He didn’t look back at Grian, just staring out over the water, up at the sun that slowly set above them.
There was no hope here, he knew that. No hope at all in what they had. But as he held Grian’s hand on the burnt bridge by the ruins of the broken wall, Scar took what little solace he could find in his love’s presence. It was all he could do.