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When Grian wakes up, he feels being yellow before he Knows it. It’s in the way his fingers curl into his jumper, the feel of stone underneath him, the world that hums and spins around him, all his, never his.
He’s in a little stone box, curled into a corner, a chip of rock digging into his ribs. Outside, faint moonlight shines through the small waterfall placed in front of his cage. The stone is cold.
Grian coughs, attempting to pull himself back together. He had been sick, it’s true, but sickness is relative. Creating a fourth world, opening his ribcage and pouring his soul into it, had left him drained. He’d made it through two weeks, but there was only so much one Watcher could take.
Still, he wonders absently, why does this feel different? There should have been some indication of weakness. He shuts his eyes (all of his eyes) and points of color float behind his eyelids. Memories his body knows, in new aches and blossoming bruises, but his mind does not. He reaches out, feeling clumsily for the first one, blue and gold.
“Um, I’m sorry for killing you, and–” Scar’s face is distorted behind the stream of water, and even more distorted by the fresh bruise on his cheek. Figures shift behind him, lost in the rush of water and Scar’s almost-repentant voice.
“This isn’t a confessional, Scar,” Martyn laughs, and his head appears at the edge of the box. “He’s supposed to tell your fortune!”
“Oh!” Scar’s expression is unreadable from his point of view, but his voice is confused. “Should I–”
Grian opens his eyes again, sighing in exasperation. Of course Scar killed him somehow. It’s a given in these games. He sighs again, uncurling himself from his sitting position. He winces as his joints protest and burns he didn’t know he had brush against the raspy fabric of his jumper. He wonders if his sunglasses had survived whatever chaos had occurred today– he’d been so careful to tuck them away in a chest, wrapping them in a bit of wool. He’d never admit it to Joel and Tim, but he quite liked them.
Grian opens his inventory with a touch, frowning in bemusement at the sheer amount of leads that he… wasn’t quite sure he’d had before. He pulls out his pickaxe and breaks the stone, freeing the water to wash into the little cubby hole and all over his boots, Void take it. Grian grimaces and wades through the little waterfall, getting thoroughly soaked in the process. Great. Now he’s cold, wet, injured, and Void knows how far from Bad Boys Manor. He takes a moment to squeeze as much water as he can out of his jumper, shivering in the cold night. Once he’s dry (read: still very, very damp), he climbs the makeshift ladder out of the little hole and stands blinking in the moonlight.
Well. At least he’s sort of close to the mansion. The Bread Bridge takes up the horizon, the dark mass of the mansion looming over it. It’ll be a long, miserable trek back, though, and all too late he realizes he doesn’t have his sword. He’d tucked it away in the same chest as the sunglasses, assuming he wouldn’t need it. Stupid past Grian.
He’ll just have to avoid as many mobs as he can see. Grian starts the walk into the forest, ducking behind trees and scanning the darkness for telltale green or the white of bone. He’s so exhausted he stumbles over various stones and branches, making far more noise than he should.
This comes back to bite him when he mistakes the rattle of bones for the crunch of leaves, and an arrow finds its way directly to his shoulder. He keels over immediately, clutching at the base of the shaft to stem the blood flow and cursing every god he knows of. Grian shuffles behind a tree trunk, hoping it’s too dark to see where he’s gone, and that the skeleton will move on. That… does not seem to be the case, as the rattling gets closer, and Grian grips the handle of his pickaxe tightly.
The pale skull appears at the edge of his vision, and he strikes out wildly with the pick. As it connects with the skeleton’s cheekbone, an arrow punches its way through the ribs simultaneously, and it collapses to the ground in a pile of bone dust. Grian stares for a moment, uncomprehending. His mind moves as slow as molasses, hindered by exhaustion and confusion. Who— what?
His rescuer appears, in a truly atrocious outfit of blue and gold stripes. Somehow, it makes Grian’s head hurt.
“What are you wearing?” he blurts, rubbing at his eyes with one good arm.
Scar blinks, cheerily unfazed. “Well, hello to you too! Yes, you’re welcome for saving your life, no need to pile on the praise.”
Grian rolls his eyes, tipping his head back to rest against the tree trunk. “I was fine.” Scar eyes his shoulder meaningfully, and Grian shoots him a glare right back. “Don’t give me that.”
“Didn’t say a word, G! Swear it on Jellie.” Scar holds his hands up in mock-surrender.
“What do you want, Scar?” Grian’s more tired than he has any real right to be, considering he spent the entire session taking a metaphysical nap. It comes out as irritation and snappiness. Scar, as usual, takes it in stride.
“Well, I couldn’t help but notice you were makin’ your way back to Bad Boys Manor over there! I was thinking I could escort you back, make sure you’re settled in, all of that–”
“Thanks, Scar.” Grian interrupts, pulling himself to his feet and forcing his expression not to change as screaming hot lava is poured over his shoulder. Surreptitiously, he leans back against the tree, letting it support his weight. “But I’m fine to get home on my own.”
Something imperceptible changes in Scar’s expression at the word home. Grian thinks, were it anyone else, he wouldn’t have noticed.
“Still,” he says. “A Cocker would never leave someone on their own in the woods!”
“Please pronounce the ‘L’ in Clocker, Scar,” Grian groans, rubbing his eyes again. “And you definitely would, I’ve seen you do it.”
“I’m a changed man, Grian!” There is sincerity in his voice, and Void Grian wishes that he didn’t know Scar so well. Because this is a plea. Let me take you home. Scar hides it behind his conman’s smile and silver tongue, but Grian can hear it in the same way he can hear his heartbeat in his inner ear.
“Fine,” he says, and hates the relief in his voice. “Take me home.”
Scar perks up immediately, smile somehow becoming even more blinding. “Don’t you worry about creepy crawlies, Grian! You’ve got a trusty HotGuy to keep you safe!” Grian doesn’t deign to respond. He reshuffles his wings, folding them tightly against his back. They’re full of dust and debris, and he can even feel some loose feathers. He’ll have to preen later.
But that can wait. Scar stands, one hand outstretched, and, without thinking, he grabs it. The weight of Scar’s hand in his own is so familiar, so natural. He can almost imagine they’re allies again. Grian swallows back the weight of words in his throat, instead choosing to listen to Scar rambling about the design of the Clockers’ mountain base, occasionally pulling out his bow to strike down a stray zombie.
A cold breeze brushes against him, and he shivers, tucking his wings in closer. Scar notices immediately, with that annoying sense of when Grian’s mildly inconvenienced, and asks, “Are you cold?”
“It’s n-n-n-not that b-b-bad,” Grian says, teeth chattering. Scar frowns, letting go of Grian’s hand and stepping closer. He misses the warmth. He places a hand on Grian’s forehead, pulling back almost immediately.
“Void, G, you’re burning up. I thought the whole point of this was to take a recovery day?”
“I w-was feeling better,” he protests weakly, though it’s not strictly true. It’s hard to know exactly how to feel when you’re a formless entity of the Void, but Grian knew that he needed more time to rest. He had wanted to get back, though, join in on the fun again. He had toughed through sickness before, after all.
“I don’t have a blanket or anything…” Scar looks around, as if one would suddenly materialize out of thin air. He looks back at Grian, a considering light in his eyes. He moves closer, and Grian freezes. He can’t attack me, we’re both yellow.
“Is this okay?” Scar’s arm slides around his shoulders, careful to avoid agitating the arrow wound, and tugging Grian a step closer. His body heat wasn’t quite enough to stop Grian from shivering, but it was certainly better than nothing, considering the way his cheeks were heating up.
He nods, jerkily. “Um. Yes. This is… this is fine.”
“Good!” They start walking again, slower this time as Scar matches his pace to Grian’s. “We’ll have to go by Entertainment Mountain and walk the Bread Bridge. You’ll get to see how it’s coming along!” Grian just nods, preoccupied with… other things. Like not thinking about how close he and Scar are at the moment.
“You know,” he says abruptly, trying to ignore himself. “I almost thought you were going to kill me there. Then I remembered we’re both yellow.”
“Ah. Yep. That.” Scar’s step stutters. Grian has to crane his head back strangely to get a look at his face, making his shoulder throb. The corner of Scar’s mouth is twitching, pulling down in something that’s not quite a wince. Grian raises an eyebrow.
“Nothing!” Scar says, high-pitched. “Everything’s fine and normal, shouldn’t you worry about getting home?”
Grian, wisely, decides to leave it at that.
They make their way up the pillar to Bad Boys Bread Bridge awkwardly. Grian nearly slips a few times, and nearly brings Scar down with him once, but they make it to the top of the bridge with no further mishaps. The mansion itself is waterlogged, and Grian vaguely remembers something about Joel making a submarine in the mansion. It makes enough sense that he decides not to question it.
Scar hesitates as they reach the roof of the mansion that’s unflooded, and Grian takes that as his cue to slip out from underneath his arm.
He turns. “Well. Thanks for bringing me back?”
Scar opens his mouth. He doesn’t say anything. The moon silvers his hair.
Finally, he blurts, “Are you just planning to leave that arrow in your shoulder all night?”
“I can do it myself.” Grian feels around the wound, expression twisting slightly as he prods at it.
“I want to help.” It’s soft, softer than it has any right to be, and it makes Grian’s teeth grit. It shouldn’t be like this.
He can’t help himself. It’s second nature; Grian knows Scar, Scar knows Grian. “Fine. Just– just get it over with.”
Scar pulls a roll of rough cloth bandages out of his inventory, and slowly makes his way over to Grian, like he’s a wild animal about to bolt. Grian sits, letting his primaries brush over the dark oak wood of the mansion. Scar sits behind him, a familiar scenario that has Grian subconsciously relaxing. He can’t help but think of the last time Scar had cleaned his wounds. It had been his eye, just after he’d shown Scar they were soulmates. He had cleaned out the eye with such gentleness it had made Grian weak in ways he couldn’t afford to be.
“So,” Scar says, breaking the silence. “What were you doing back so early? Joel told us you’d said you’d be back tomorrow. Tomorrow, as in, when the sun rises and not in the middle of the night.”
Grian half-shrugs with one shoulder. “Dunno. Just… wanted to get back, I suppose.” Scar hums in acknowledgement before Grian feels a stabbing pain and hunches over, gasping for breath. His vision fuzzes over, but he can dimly see the bloodstained arrow placed beside his thigh. Grian squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the waves of pain to pass.
When he finally feels like he can breathe again, he straightens back up slowly, feeling blood damp on his jumper. When he glances over his shoulder, Scar sits, hands hovering uncertainly, eyes wide and glassy in the moonlight.
“I told you,” Grian rasps. “Just get it over with.” Scar swallows and nods. Grian places his head in his hands as he sets to work cleaning out the wound. It doesn’t hurt as much after a few minutes, and he musters up the energy to speak.
“What about you?”
“Huh?” One of Scar’s hands has pulled down the neck of his (thankfully) baggy jumper, exposing his shoulder. His hand on Grian’s bare skin makes feel a lot of things that he really shouldn’t, and he chokes back the tremor in his voice when he replies.
“Why were you out so late?” Scar hmms, seemingly considering the question.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he finally says, and Grian hears the ripping sound of bandages a moment before Scar begins to wrap his shoulder.
“Liar.”
“What?” Scar sounds genuinely shocked, like he hasn’t been called a liar several thousand times before.
“You’re lying.” Grian doesn’t explain how he knows– one, he doesn’t want to, two, he doesn’t have to.
“I– you–” Scar splutters for another few moments before Grian, unreasonably tired and already sick of the excuses that Scar would blurt, reaches awkwardly behind him to cover Scar’s mouth with one hand.
“I’m not interested in excuses. Just tell the truth.” He pauses. “If it makes you feel better, I won’t tell the others?” The others in this case being the other Bad Boys. Grian has never been the most particularly loyal person when it comes to secrets.
Scar falls silent, and Grian removes his hand. He stares ahead at the shadowed walls of the mansion, hoping for a proper explanation.
“I was waiting for you.” The admission knocks the breath out of Grian’s chest.
“Oh,” he says quietly. He wants it to mean something. He wants it to mean something so badly it makes his chest ache. He wants nothing more than to turn around and to have Scar pull him into his arms, where he’s always belonged. Grian wants more than he can ever have.
“How did you know I’d be back?” It seems like an inane question; Grian knows Scar, Scar knows Grian. It’s something he says anyways, to try and pull Scar’s questioning gaze off his back. I won’t. I can’t.
Grian and Scar– they’ve always been… volatile at best. Gasoline. A match. Even when they were together. Especially when they were together. Grian has promised himself over and over again, staring at the stars, forming the words on his lips: I won’t try again.
Whatever it is they have, it always leads to ruin.
That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want this– Scar’s eyes, Scar’s hands, Scar’s mouth. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t fall and fall and fall. It doesn’t mean Scar will be there to catch him.
“I know you, Grian. You always push yourself too hard. I wanted to make sure you weren’t too hurt.” Scar’s hands and words are gentle as he cuts the end of the bandage with the sharp edge of his sword– and Grian isn’t even scared, doesn’t even flinch, what is wrong with him?
“Thank you,” he says, far too sincere and far too raw. I won’t. I can’t. His wings shift and splay, silver and black, shadows and moonlight. He listens to the sounds of Scar tucking away the medical supplies, and wishes for things that can’t be true.
“You should go,” he manages, “before Joel and Tim wake up. Timmy’s an early bird, comes with the… ah, canary-ness.” He shuffles to face Scar, keeping his shoulder still.
The other man makes no move to go. His eyes flick to Grian’s face, away, his shoulder, away, down, away.
“I– um, your wings.”
“What about them?” To avoid meeting Scar’s eyes, he looks down at his wings, feathers ruffling.
“They look like they’re dusty. Uncomfortable.” They are. Grian runs a hand over one, smoothing the feathers back down.
“I could preen them for you,” Scar says all in a rush. He always manages to leave Grian breathless, and he’s sure it shows on his face. They sit in silence, Scar waiting for an answer and Grian grappling with the weight of such a question.
He remembers–
Scar’s hands on his wings, gritty with sand, both of them giggling, red, green, happy–
The chilly air of Last Life, remembering sticky blood on his hands, twigs in his wings he never bothered to remove–
Double Life, Scar combing through his feathers, his hard eyes at the words secret soulmate–
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Grian says softly. Scar’s hands pull back from where they lay in front of Grian, balling in his lap instead. “You should– you should go.” I’m sorry.
Grian cannot rely on Scar to catch him.
“Right. Yes. I’ll– I’ll just… go.” Scar stands, and just like that, he’s gone, hurrying back over Bread Bridge.
Grian wants to cry. It always ends in ruin. Everything you do ends in ruin. He wants to scream. He wants to yell come back, I’ve changed my mind. Gasoline. A match. Grian wants, and wants, and wants.
I won’t try again.