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When Pizza dies, Grian doesn't cry.
It's not his animal after all, and though he feels the numb shock spread through his veins when the last arrow hits its mark, there's really no reason for him to be upset.
He's more worried about Scar.
The man is taking the whole thing very matter-of-factly, all things considered. Laughing and threatening murder is nothing out of the usual, but there is something in that crazed expression that's not quite right. Something about the tense set of his shoulders that speaks of a feeling that runs deeper than insanity and bloodlust.
Scar is acting unaffected.
Grian knows there's more to it behind the red of those empty eyes.
.
.
.
.
.
He's proven right when he wakes to a strange sound.
Barely audible, it takes Grian a moment to recognise it for what it is—soft sniffling, coming from Scar's side of the room. Immediately, he understands and his chest twists, a rusty orange mixing with grey and tying knots beneath his sternum.
Scar said he was okay. Grian knew he was lying.
Sighing and swinging his legs over the side of his bed, he pads across the dusty floor and approaches the other. In the darkness, he can just about make out a person-shaped lump of blankets.
Sitting down next to it, he places a hand on the lump. It's shaking.
"Scar," he says, and Scar jerks under his touch.
Spreading his fingers, Grian trails them along his body, making out the shape of his upper arm, then moves down to his back and rubs circles over the bumps of his spine. Taking a breath filled with hesitance, he reaches out and lifts the blanket from where he imagines Scar's head to be.
Obscured with dark hair, his face is pressed into his pillow, a hand reaching out to tug at the strands as his body trembles. Grian strokes his cheek and Scar sits up, hugging himself, something painfully unlike him in the way his eyes fix themselves on the flimsy bedding.
Sympathy squeezes Grian's throat. Trying to sound as gentle as possible, he asks, "Scar, what's wrong?"
He knows what's wrong, of course he does. And normally, he would offer to hunt down and kill everyone involved, fulfil his duty as Scar's servant with fire and TNT. But right now, he doesn't think that's what Scar needs.
Grey cheeks stained with salt, he doesn't look like a scary red life. He looks sad, and it's not fear that grows a tender kind of care in Grian's chest. It's not the debt that makes him press his fingers to his face and caress it until he turns his way, eyes still low, tears steadily dripping off his chin.
Grian is Scar's servant. But right now, what Scar needs is a friend.
A whimper is followed by scrunched up brows, but no reply. Grian stays patient, hands continuing to wipe water away from his face, until Scar eventually mumbles out an answer.
"Pizza."
Though expected, the word is uncharacteristically tiny on his tongue, and Grian pauses. Scar's voice is high, unusually so, and now that he looks closer, something about the unguarded honesty of his despair is—different.
"Scar, can you look up for me?"
The shift in his voice to something simpler, more gentle is subconscious, and so is the lightening of his touch as Scar raises his head.
"Pizza." A sob stifled into his knees, he repeats, voice pitching even higher, "Pizza."
Lower lip wobbling, droplets rolling down his face, there is something about the particular colour of Scar's misery that Grian doesn't understand. Crying is a normal part of grief, but something about this is off. He doesn't understand what is up with Scar, why he's acting so weird, almost like—
Like a child.
Oh.
In front of him, Scar emits another sob—and he looks small. So very small.
And Grian decides, he doesn't have to understand.
Scar is an adult, and Grian will never treat him as anything less, will never doubt his ability to make well-informed choices any more than he usually does—but Scar's pet just died. If he needs to not think, if he needs to pretend to be a child to deal with this, if he needs to be taken care of—
Well. Grian will take care of him.
Schooling his expression, he lets a soft smile grow on his face and tries to look at Scar the way he would a kid. Reaching out to move a strand of hair away from his face, he asks, "You miss Pizza, huh?"
Hiccuping, Scar nods.
"Miss Pizza." Another breathy sob runs up his windpipe, "Miss Pizza."
Grian does not know what to say to that, what he could possibly say to make it hurt less, so he leans forward and wraps his arms around Scar, "I know you do."
Scar shudders in his arms and an aborted wail is suppressed against Grian's shoulder. Grian hugs him, puts every inch of care, of love into his embrace and feels like he's grieving with Scar. Scar's animal died, but Grian would put an arrow through every other person's head, just so he would never have to see Scar cry again.
A muffled humming reaches his ears then, and an entirely new type of second-hand sorrow kindles a fire in his heart.
"Shh, it's okay," he soothes, pressing a kiss to just above Scar's ear, hearing his own voice grow hoarse. "It's okay. Everything will be okay."
Listening along for a few minutes, he tries to follow the tune that his friend is humming. Something high-pitched and whimsical, the melody is a rock on the shore, worn and smooth in its familiarity—clearly having been sung many a sleepless lonely night.
It takes a few attempts, but he gets the tune and Scar stops humming, letting him take over and burrowing his head deeper into his shoulder instead. He does not make another sound, but his back shakes and Grian holds him tight.
Outside, the cold wind of the desert beats against their base, scattering grains of sand into every crack of the ivory walls. As the darkness coalesces into shapes and obscure silhouettes, the stars flicker in and out of view atop the inky expanse. It's quiet, and they're alone. The world is against them, and they're alone.
Grian does not, could never understand Scar. But he owes him his first life, and maybe, he might be content with giving just a little bit more.