Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Good afternoon, Scar.”

The teenager across the table nods once, sharply and unwillingly. “Dr. Littlewood.”

Martyn has to stop himself from laughing at the sheer amount of contempt that Scar can put into the two words. “Please, call me Martyn. I want you to feel comfortable here.”

“Okay, Martyn,” Scar replies with no less derision. “Look, can I just go home?”

“We still have forty-five minutes, Scar. It’s not even three yet.”

Scar shrugs as if to say that’s not important. “You don’t have to tell Scott, right? You’ve got a family waiting for you at home, I’ve got a family, surely we can work something out.”

“I would have to tell Scott if you skipped our session,” Martyn tells him. “And even though you can call me Martyn, I’m pretty sure Scott still prefers students to call him Mr. Smajor.”

“It’s fine, he likes me,” Scar says with a lopsided grin.

Martyn once again holds back laughter, but part of him has to wonder how Scar isn’t suspended already if this is how he treats all authority. “Right. Scar, do you know why you’re here?”

“I’ve just always dreamed of spending my Thursday afternoons with a school psychologist,” Scar answers, completely deadpan and holding eye contact with Martyn.

This time Martyn does laugh. “Of course. But really, can you tell me why you’re here?”

Now Scar’s face changes back to the sullen discontent of earlier as he slumps further back in his chair. “Oh come on, you know. I’m sure Scott told you all about me.”

“I’m aware of the arrangement, but I’m asking you to tell me why you’re here.”

“I mean, why are any of us here? Do we have a purpose on this Earth or is it all just meaningless noise?”

“Scar.”

“If there’s a god, she’s a cruel one to keep the answers from us.”

“ Scar. ”

“I’m here because I have to be, Martyn! I’m here because I don’t have a choice.”

“Meeting with me is required of you,” Martyn agrees easily. “But your reputation precedes you, Scar, and it doesn’t seem like you’re much of one for doing things because they’re required of you.”

“Wait, what’s my reputation?” There’s a spark of almost genuine interest in Scar’s eyes, and Martyn decides that that’s worth more than immediately trying to understand Scar.

Still, though, he needs to phrase things diplomatically. Some of the things administrators say about Scar would only be hurtful. “People seem to think you’re a troublemaker, and that you influence your peers even though you don’t let others influence you.”

“Ooh, I influence people? The grownups must hate that.”

Martyn probably shouldn’t engage with that. “Is that accurate, do you think?”

Scar shrugs. “Sure.”

After a moment of silence, Martyn presses, “Tell me more about that.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t in trouble, right?”

“So does that make you a troublemaker?”

“That’s what people think, you said it yourself.”

“But what do you think?”

“Who cares?” Scar demands, pulling his limbs closer to himself in the chair just slightly.

Martyn gives him another moment to answer, and when he just sets his jaw and stares at the clock, Martyn backtracks a little. “That’s okay. Let’s go back a little, alright? I’m still interested in why you decided to come to our meeting today.”

Scar sits quietly for another minute, then says, “Like I said, I have to be here. I made a deal with Scott, so I have to do this and tutoring so I don’t get suspended.”

“I know. From what I’ve heard, you usually don’t keep deals you make with teachers and administrators.”

“Well, suspension is a little different from failing a test,” Scar scoffs.

“Yeah, fair enough. You’ve never been suspended before, right?”

Scar gives him a look. That’s valid, Martyn supposes. Scar knows Martyn already knows that.

“Is there any particular reason you want to avoid suspension badly enough to follow through?”

“Why do you care?”

Somehow Martyn thinks that talking about why he got into psychology, the feeling of seeing a vulnerable kid get back on track, his genuine faith in every last person in this school, wouldn’t get him far with Scar. “I’m literally getting paid to care,” he says with a shrug. “I don’t want you to get suspended.”

Scar almost laughs, in a bitter, frustrated way. 

“So why are you here?”

“Mom’d freak out if I got suspended,” Scar mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. Martyn lets the silence stretch, and for once his patience actually draws more answers out of Scar. “And Bdubs already doesn’t like me, so.”

“Who’s Bdubs?”

“My brother. He’s fourteen this year.”

“So why do you say he doesn’t like you?”

Martyn can see Scar’s face twist for a moment before he settles back into relative neutrality. “He won’t talk to me at school anymore. I can take a hint, it’s fine, but he used to do everything with me, right? I was his best friend when he was a kid, he used to love me. Now he tells all his friends I won’t graduate.”

“That sounds hard to listen to,” Martyn sympathizes. “I bet you feel betrayed sometimes when he brushes you off.”

“I guess. It doesn’t matter what he thinks.”

“Do you have anyone whose thoughts do matter to you?”

Scar shrugs. “You said it yourself, I don’t let people influence me.”

“Well, that’s what people tell me. But I think you would have a better idea of yourself.”

Scar doesn’t answer.

Martyn tries to suppress a sigh. “Okay. Who’s your closest friend, Scar?”

Scar takes a moment, maybe to think and maybe just to stare into the depths of the carpet, then answers, “Probably Grian.”

“Okay, great. Can you tell me more about Grian?”

“He lives next door to me, and he went here but he graduated last year. He’s fun, I guess.”

Martyn feels like he might remember Grian, vaguely, mostly from rumors and stories. He was trouble, like Scar is, although Martyn scolds himself for thinking that. Kids aren’t trouble, they’re troubled. “So what do you like to do with Grian?”

For a second, Martyn thinks he sees Scar suppress a laugh. “Stuff.” 

After yet another beat of silence, Martyn tells Scar, “You know, I can’t tell anyone what you say in here. Well, unless you threaten to hurt yourself or someone else. But anything else ends with me.”

“Yeah, I heard that when Scott said it,” Scar replies. “Doctor-patient confidentiality. You’re not my doctor, y’know.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“I’m not sick.”

“Of course not. You can see a doctor when you’re not sick, right? Like for a check-up.”

Scar rolls his eyes. “I’m not here for a check-up, I’m here because—”

When it’s clear Scar won’t finish, Martyn prompts, “Because?”

“You know why,” Scar insists, every hint of a moment ago’s almost-humor gone.

“I know what the writeup says. I want to hear your side of the story, though.”

Scar shifts uncomfortably, still slouching like he’s trying to set some kind of record for it. “It was just a dumb prank,” he answers finally, so low Martyn can barely hear. “Nobody even got hurt.”

“That’s true,” Martyn acknowledges. “But the custodial staff had to clean it all up.”

“I didn’t make them, admin made them. I bet nobody else even minded it.”

“I can’t really know that, but you still can’t paint things that aren’t yours.” Martyn didn’t get to see what Scar did to the boys’ locker room in person, but the pictures seemed… intense. Honestly, he isn’t even sure when Scar found the opportunity to paint over half of the surfaces in there with what looks like an odd combination of spray paint and regular paint, but he was caught on camera and didn’t protest when he was accused. 

“Whatever.” Scar’s nonchalance seems less real for a second, a ripple of something Martyn can’t read across his face.

“Do you want to tell me about what you painted?”

“Graffiti isn’t a suspendable offense here,” Scar replies, and for a moment Martyn’s so glad that Scar answered a question without a reluctant pause first that he doesn’t realize Scar didn’t actually answer the question.

“Well… yeah, it’s not usually. I think that, in your case, admin took into account your previous discipline history and the… scale of the graffiti.” Scar scoffs again quietly, and after a moment Martyn prompts, “I’m still interested in what you painted. Can you tell me about some of that?”

“Which bits?” Scar asks suspiciously. 

Martyn shrugs. “Anything you want to talk about.” From what Martyn’s seen there wasn’t a clear picture or pattern to the graffiti, but more a mix of geometric patterns, simple motifs, and some themed or more clearly realistic sections. He just wants to hear Scar’s thought process for a bit.

This time, Scar’s silence actually does seem to stem from thinking through his answer. “I dunno, I didn’t really plan anything. I guess I liked the ocean section the best. That’s the corner with the boat and the octopus, did you see that one?”

“I didn’t see anything for myself, but I think I saw pictures of that part.” He remembers it now that Scar’s mentioned it: the patterns towards one corner’s floor faded to a purple-blue that extended into waves up the wall, while a nearby locker was wrapped in tentacles emerging from the floor. He doesn’t remember a boat.

“The octopus was fun to paint,” Scar continues, nodding slightly to Martyn. “Oh—there was this one part with stripes where one color was acrylics and the other was spray paint. That was hard, but looked really great when I was done. Definitely some of my best work.” He cuts himself off suddenly with a glance at Martyn, then sighs and returns to his previous posture of staring into the corner and picking at his cuticles. 

Martyn gives him a long moment of silence in case he continues, but he doesn’t. “So those stripes and the ocean section were your favorite parts?” Scar just shrugs. “How do you feel about them being cleaned up and gone from the walls now?”

The silence stretches until Scar mutters, “I don’t care.”

“Okay. Have you ever taken an art class, Scar?”

Scar shrugs again. “In elementary school, I guess? I don’t like art.”

“Really? You sounded like you enjoyed your painting when you talked about it.”

“That’s not art.”

“Why not?”

Scar gives him an utterly nonplussed look. “It—it’s just not. It’s different.”

“That’s alright, I believe you. What is it, then?”

“Graffiti?”

“So graffiti and art are two different things.”

“Who are you, the cops?”

Martyn laughs. “I’m just trying to understand how you think.”

“Bold of you to assume I think.”

“That’s okay, we’ll work on that.”

Scar checks the wall clock and scuffs one foot against the carpet. “Look, if I promise not to paint anything else, can I not come back next week?”

“I’m sorry, but no. I don’t know yet when we’ll be done meeting, alright?”

“But if I promise to be done with graffiti, then you’ve done your job, right? I’m not dumb, I won’t get myself suspended.”

“It’s not just the locker room, Scar. People are honestly worried about you.”

“Who?” Scar asks, sounding almost sarcastic in his disbelief.

“Mr. Smajor, for one. He’s been your counselor for four years and he tells me you didn’t used to act this disconnected. And the school called your mom about our arrangement, and I’m sure she wants the best for you.”

Scar just mutters, “Scott doesn’t know me,” but Martyn could almost swear he looks guilty for a long moment.

“Well, you’ve certainly spent a lot of time in his office,” Martyn jokes, but Scar doesn’t even crack a smile. “Okay, can you tell me a few people who do know you, then?”

Scar takes so long in silence that Martyn starts to think he just isn’t going to answer, but eventually he says, “Grian, maybe. I guess Mom and Bdubs, too.”

“That’s great to hear. Let’s start with Grian—what do you think he thinks of you, or tells other people about you?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“You don’t have to know, just think about what you think he’d say. What if Grian was introducing you to me?”

“He’d probably say this is Scar, he could be cool if he weren’t so Scar-ish. And then he’d kind of laugh and elbow me.”

“And how would you feel if he said that to me?”

“I’d probably think why is Grian in the school psychologist’s office? He doesn’t even go here anymore.”  

“Okay, but hypothetically what if you weren’t thinking that? What if we were at, say, a grocery store or something?”

“Then I’d be the one introducing you to Grian,” Scar answers sourly. “And I wouldn’t do that.”

“Wow, okay,” Martyn says lightly. “So that doesn’t work, but what if it wasn’t me? Just a normal conversation with one of Grian’s other friends and he said that to introduce you.”

“It’s three-forty-five and I have to go,” Scar says, pushing his chair back and standing. His posture is much better when he’s standing up, Martyn notices, so the slump was almost certainly just for show. “I’ll see you next week, Martyn.”

“Bye, Scar,” Martyn calls, but Scar’s already brushed out of his office.

Chapter Text

“Boys, come set the table,” Cleo calls down the hall of the apartment. Both of her boys’ doors are closed, but she’s sure they heard even if they have earbuds in. 

Sure enough, both of them emerge after just a moment, Bdubs in the process of removing a hoodie that he tosses back into his room from the door. It looks like Scar has some kind of color—paint or crayon wax, maybe—under his fingernails, and Cleo makes a note to ask about it. He hasn’t taken any kind of art since eighth grade, but maybe he’s getting back into it.

“Well hello, Mom,” Scar says as he passes her into the kitchen. “Have you made dinner?”

“Yep, pasta,” she answers. “There should be shaky cheese in the fridge, alright? Be sure to get that out.”

“I’ll get that,” Bdubs volunteers. “I love the shaky cheese.”

“We know, Bdubs,” Scar says with a roll of his eyes. “And I already got it.”

“Hey! Mom, Scar’s bullying me.”

“Scar, don’t bully your brother,” Cleo chides absently, counting out forks from the drawer. “And Bdubs, you’re in high school now, you can take a joke from Scar.”

“Whatever, Scar’s not even funny.”

“Bdubs,” Cleo warns.

“I’m just joking, it’s fine! Right, Scar?”

Scar answers, “Yeah, it’s fine,” but he doesn’t sound particularly cheerful about it. 

Luckily, the kids really did set the table while they were bickering, and Cleo gestures to them to serve themselves dinner. 

“I had to present my timeline project today,” Bdubs announces as they take their seats. “And Ren continues to be the worst, so I pretty much had to do it alone.”

“Ugh, I’m sorry,” Cleo sympathizes. “How’d it go?” 

“Great! Despite Ren, I didn’t skip a slide even once.” He keeps talking, and Cleo keeps at least halfway listening. 

Usually she doesn’t think about Bdubs’ hair in much detail. She doesn’t think Bdubs really does either, given that his usual method of dealing with it is just pushing it away from his face with a headband. Tonight, though, in light of recent events, Cleo’s remembering precisely where Bdubs inherited that blond shade. 

“Where” being Etho, whom, frankly, Cleo had long assumed she’d never see again and was doing her best to put out of her mind. She’s been doing a damn good job of it, too, if she does say so herself. 

The past couple days have put quite the caveat in “assuming she’d never see Etho again.” 

“So I guess Ren has to get my good grade, but at least I get one too,” Bdubs finishes, then promptly resumes stuffing pasta in his mouth. “What about you, Mom?” 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Bdubs. Um… nothing really happened to me today. Work was work. Do you have a story, Scar?” She’s telling the truth, as long as you don’t count your kids’ dad who vanished nearly ten years ago texting you out of the blue as something that happened.

Scar shrugs. “Nothing happened to me either. My government teacher is still mean, so there’s that.” 

“C’mon,” Cleo prompts, “there has to be something. What were you and Grian up to this afternoon?” Scar’s been so close with Grian for so long—and Cleo with Joel, Grian’s eldest brother and former legal guardian—that Scar often just goes over to their apartment and Cleo learns what they’re doing later. She’s past minding, they’re both at least nearly adults and responsible enough. 

Scar just shrugs again, then adds, “Not much, the usual.” There’s… something to his tone, Cleo thinks, but it’s gone too fast for her to read it. “Oh, that girl from math kept telling me about her and her boyfriend. Wanna hear it?” 

“Go ahead,” Cleo tells him. 

With the drama and emotion Scar puts into relaying this girl’s gossip, she could very well be on a TV show. Honestly, Cleo doesn’t doubt that her real life is much less interesting, between the nature of gossip and Scar’s propensity for harmless exaggeration. 

The table falls into silence when Scar finishes his story, all three of them mostly absorbed in their dinners. Cleo could tell Bdubs wasn’t listening to Scar, even making minor faces at him when he thought no one was looking, but she decides not to bring it up. He’s fourteen and she figures it’s natural for him to push back against his family. She’s just glad it’s been minimal so far.

She remembers she wanted to ask Scar if he’d been painting something again, but when she glances at him the color under his nails is gone—either washed away before dinner or perhaps a trick of the light all along.

“Are you sure you don’t have anything to say, Mom?” Bdubs asks, giving her a suspicious look entirely ruined by the spaghetti sauce that’s somehow on his forehead.

“Yeah, you look about a million miles away,” Scar adds.

Bdubs shoots Scar a look that Scar doesn't seem to notice. “I just meant you usually have some kind of work story.”

“Sorry, I must be tired,” Cleo tries to laugh. “I had a pretty boring day.” Bdubs wasn’t even in school yet when Etho walked out. If he’s sincere about wanting to see them again, she’ll tell them when the time is right. “And Bdubs, there’s sauce on your forehead.”

“What?” Bdubs exclaims. “Is not!”

“No, she’s right,” Scar tells him mournfully. “Right in your eyebrow.”

Bdubs splutters for a moment longer, but both boys drop the issue of Cleo’s distraction. She considers it a win.

Two days later, that Saturday, Cleo gets a too-rare chance to catch up with Joel. Although the two of them have lived next door to each other for five years, almost since the passing of Cleo’s sister left Joel with his younger brothers, more often than not when they see each other it’s just in passing, picking up or dropping off the kids. 

“It’s nice to just get out of the apartment sometimes,” she tells Joel as they take their coffees and settle at the cafe table. 

Joel laughs as he sits down across from her. “You’re telling me.”

“Fair enough.” She does feel bad for him sometimes—although he bears it well she knows he had never planned to raise his brothers through their teenage years, and he shows it in his demeanor sometimes. She’s always helped them as much as she could, but Jimmy and Grian are a handful at the best of times. “So how’re your boys?”

“They’re alright,” Joel answers, then laughs to himself. “That makes me feel like I’m on Real Housewives or something.” He adds in a falsetto, “ ‘Teddy? Yes, he’s well, he’s been expelled from another school but I know it wasn’t his fault. How’s little Rosalieghannabella?’ ”

“First of all, I would never name a child Rosalieghannabella, that’s abuse,” Cleo replies, smirking. “Second, Johnathy Brimstick the Third has been admitted to Oxford and Smithette is still locked in the basement.”

Joel, struggling to keep a straight face, continues, “I see. Has she stopped barking yet?”

Cleo gives a long-suffering sigh. “It’s only gotten worse. The exorcist says we must continue to bathe her in garlic. Is your Jarnagan still trying to butter his brothers?”

“Oh, you’re evil,” Joel laughs, finally dropping the voice. “And Jarnagan ? Really?”

“So Johnathy Brimstick is fine but you draw the line at Jarnagan?” Cleo raises an eyebrow at him.

“I—yeah, that’s a fair point, actually.” Joel sighs and takes a sip of his latte. “Anyway. I miss Jimmy like hell already, but he’s doing alright at school. Grian’s… Grian.” 

“I keep forgetting Jimmy’s away,” Cleo admits. Since he’d been at home for his two years in community college, she’s still wrapping her head around the fact that this year he’s off at a state school to finish his degree. Besides, it feels like barely last week that Joel had just finished high school, and now Grian’s there and Scar’s about to be.

“I think Grian does, too,” Joel replies with a smile. “Don’t tell him I said this, but you can see how much he misses Jim.”

“That’s sweet.”

Joel’s smile softens a bit. “He’s a good kid, despite what he wants to think.” After a moment of quiet, Joel asks, “Hey, by the way, is Scar alright?” 

Cleo hesitates, surprised. “I… think so? Why?”

Joel shrugs. “Nothing, really, I just feel like I've seen less of him than usual this week.” 

“Huh.” Cleo frowns. “I could’ve sworn he spent, like, four afternoons this week with Grian.” She’s almost always still at work when the boys get home from school, but if Scar’s over at Joel’s or out with Grian he doesn’t usually beat her home. On top of that Bdubs likes to provide a report of where Scar’s been that afternoon rather than doing homework, as much as Cleo would like him to stop. 

“Maybe,” Joel allows. “He came over after Grian got off work a few days, I think. I must’ve been distracted when they left.”

Cleo nods. “Yeah, okay.” She’s certain Scar was out three or four afternoons this week, and honestly he doesn’t really spend time with friends other than Grian. There used to be more people, friends who would come around or do projects with Scar, but over the years they’ve all slowly fallen away. 

“Okay, enough about other people, how are you doing?” Joel asks.

“I’m fine,” Cleo answers with a shrug. She’s not any more worried about the boys than usual, and beyond his continued contact with her, Etho isn’t causing problems yet.

“You sure about that? You kinda… hesitated.”

“I…” Cleo sighs. “Look, can I tell you something that you can’t tell your brothers or cousins?”

“I don’t think anyone could keep information from Bdubs if he sets his mind to getting it,” Joel points out. “But of course, go ahead.”

Cleo takes a moment longer before answering, wondering if she should just tell him never mind, it’s none of his business. They treat each other as peers most of the time these days, but he’s much younger than her. “Etho’s been texting me.”

Joel blinks at her. “Wait, Etho? Like, Etho Etho?”

“How many Ethos do you know, Joel? Yes, that Etho.”

“Holy shit. Have you been texting back?”

“Yeah,” Cleo admits after a moment. “He says he wants to see the kids.”

“Oh my god, what? Wait, Cleo, are you actually considering it?”

“No! …Maybe. He’s still their dad, y’know?”

“I mean… he’s their father . I wouldn’t say dad.”

He has a point. “He seems really sincere, though.”

Joel sighs. “Okay, what has he said?”

Cleo takes a moment to gather her thoughts. “So, some bullshit at first. He’s found himself or something, now he’s back in the area with his new friends and he thinks he should at least talk to the boys. But… he really does seem like he feels bad. And he said he knew he couldn’t really be their dad, but he wanted them to have answers. Plus he admitted one of his new friends pressured him to reach out.”

Joel snickers. “Yeah, sounds about right.” Joel hasn’t seen Etho since before Scar was born, when Joel was just a kid, but Cleo appreciates the sentiment anyway. “I guess that’s better than trying to be their dad again or whatever,” he adds after a moment. “What are you thinking about it?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Cleo answers. “I keep texting him back, but I haven’t met him in person yet. I feel like Scar and Bdubs do deserve to meet him and get answers.”

“You’ve raised them pretty much completely alone for a decade. Are answers worth disrupting that?”

“I’m not sure it’d disrupt much,” Cleo protests weakly. “They’re both resilient.”

“I mean, one question is what you’re comfortable with. Etho might dip again at any moment, and you have to raise your boys every day. Your peace of mind matters too.”

“That’s a good point,” Cleo agrees. She hesitates, then sighs. “I think if I don’t at least have a real conversation with him, it’d bother me. I know I can’t trust him, but still. I don’t want to hide him from the boys.”

“I see,” Joel says. “Yeah, I see. Keep me updated, okay? I’m here for whatever you need.”

Cleo gives him a slightly sad smile. He’s barely twenty-three—he should be graduating college, just now starting his career, not commiserating with her as a parent. “I’ll let you know what happens.”

Chapter Text

Pearl drops her folder on the library table and glances around for Scar. Luckily, he’s not here yet—she’d hate for the one day she’s late to be the one day he isn’t. 

It also seems like the librarians haven’t noticed she’s running late, which is another blessing. She’s barely a month into tutoring and substitute teaching here, and she doesn’t know how much leeway she has yet. 

Five minutes late, right on cue, Scar walks up to the table and swings his backpack off his shoulder. 

Pearl waits for him to sit down. “So what is it this time, then?”

“Big fight in the halls,” Scar says with a shrug. “Couldn’t get around it.” 

“Right.” It’s one of the less ridiculous excuses Scar’s given in their couple weeks of tutoring. “Did you remember to print your essay at least?” 

“Yep!” Scar opens his backpack to dig through the mess. “Here.”

Pearl makes all her English tutees print their essays and longform work, and has since she was in high school. She hates the distraction of screens and prefers a clear record of edits and changes, and most of the kids end up agreeing. “Thanks.” She accepts the paper and gives it a once-over. “Scar, did you even work on this?” 

Scar nods defensively and points to the last sentence of the first—and only—paragraph. “See that? All new.” 

“Scar,” Pearl sighs. “That doesn’t count. When’s this due?”

Scar shifts his gaze away and shrugs. “Yesterday?”

“Scar!” This is why he has a D in English: he doesn’t turn anything in. He’s made his verbal intelligence very clear to her, but he won’t even do the bare minimum. “We talked about this.” 

Scar makes an equivocal noise. “Did we?”

“We did. Last Friday.” 

“Oh, right.” 

“Look, Scar, I can’t tutor you if you don’t give me anything to work with. You do realize that, right?” 

“I mean, do you have to tutor me? We can just chat for an hour, can’t we?” 

Pearl refuses to have this discussion again. “Stop that. I’m trying to help you.” 

“Good luck,” Scar replies with a bright smile. 

Pearl tries not to sigh. “Okay. Put the essay away for a moment, alright? We’re gonna talk.” 

“We already are, but okay.” Scar pauses, making a show of thinking. “How did you sleep last night, Pearl?” 

“Focus, Scar.” Their first session, Scar managed to distract her for the full hour. “Why do you come to tutoring?” 

For the first time Pearl’s ever seen, Scar’s speechless for a moment. Just a moment, though. “I… need to get my grade up. You’ve seen it, right?” 

“If you wanted to get your grade up, you’d put in the work.” She almost adds that he can clearly already write, but the last thing Scar needs is an ego boost. “So why are you here?” Most of the kids who come to her and the other English tutors have some kind of deal with their teachers, but even they usually try. 

“To hang out with you, of course,” Scar says, his smile noticeably more forced. 

Pearl just stares at him. 

Scar stares back.

Finally, he drops his gaze. “I made a deal with my guidance counselor,” he admits in a mutter. 

“Your guidance counselor?” That is not the person she’d expected to hear. 

Before Pearl can ask him to explain, Scar starts talking again, quietly but quickly. “I… I got caught doing something dumb, and Scott—the counselor—told me I could be suspended, or I could pick a subject for tutoring and meet with the school psychologist.” He meets Pearl’s eyes and seems smaller than usual, as close to ashamed as Pearl imagines he can be. “Mom would freak out if I got suspended. I redirected all the school’s contacts to my number years ago, so she doesn’t know anything, and I’d really like to keep it that way.” He shrugs and his smile slides back into place. “So I don’t really have a choice, you see?” 

“It sounds like you had a choice of subject, though,” Pearl points out instead of dealing with the rest of Scar’s story. “So why English?” 

“I dunno, I liked it once? I was in debate freshman year before my grades dropped. I’m certainly better at it than anything else,” he laughs. 

Pearl pauses. “Scar. Is English your best grade?”

“Yep!”

“Oh my god.” 

“Well don’t sound so upset about it,” Scar replies with mock disappointment. “I’m sure it was yours, too.” 

“Never mind. If you like it, why don’t you at least try to do the work?” 

“I said I used to like it,” Scar corrects. “Things change.” 

“But it’s still your best class.” If Pearl had to guess, she’d say all of Scar’s grades are a consequence of lack of effort.

“Yeah, I guess.” 

“Okay.” Pearl takes a deep breath. “I need you to listen to me very carefully.” 

“Listening.” 

“I’m going to let you go home early today.” 

“Wait, really?”

“ Listen , Scar. I’m letting you go home early, but by Friday you’re going to bring me a whole draft of that essay. I don’t care how many paragraphs, I don’t care what position you take or what evidence you use, but I want to see a complete argumentative essay in your hands on Friday. Then we’re gonna talk again about whether or not you like English.” 

Scar gives her a wide-eyed look for a moment, then just nods. 

Pearl hurries out of the class she’s subbing for on Friday to get to the school library. As she nods to the librarian and settles at her usual table, she gets a text from Bigb reading only good luck! and replies thanks! I’ll need it. 

Scar is nearly ten minutes late, and takes his time approaching the table. 

“What was it today, Scar?” Pearl greets. 

“Math teacher kept me late,” he answers with a shrug. “I accidentally broke one of the example projects.” 

He sits and opens his backpack, and Pearl can’t help but hold her breath. Maybe it’s just that she’s twenty, new to this, and cares too much for everyone she’s responsible for, but she needs Scar to have that draft. She needs him to show her he can try.

He really does pull out paper—two sheets, hearteningly—and gives her a nervous version of his usual showman’s smile. “Ta-da!”

She accepts it from him and looks it over briefly. “I—wow, Scar, you really wrote it.”

“You sound like you didn’t expect that.”

“Look, I don’t know what I expected. But this is, yeah, this is an essay.” She passes it back to him. “Wanna read the first paragraph aloud and then we’ll talk about it?”

“Um… can I not? Is that an option?”

“Not at all.”

Scar gives her one last nervous look, then starts reading.

What Pearl immediately notices is that it’s not the same paragraph he’s been showing her the past week. It’s similar, sure; he’s taking the same position as earlier. But he’s taken a few sentences here and there for context, added a point to his argument, and generally written the first paragraph of an essay instead of a one-paragraph essay.

He finishes the paragraph, lifts his gaze from the page, and seems to study Pearl’s face.

She gives him a nod that she hopes is encouraging. “Thank you. So, how do you feel about that first bit?”

“Great! It’s definitely full of words and grammar.” Scar catches her look, takes a moment to look at the paper, then says, “Well, okay, I guess. I feel like some sentences are awkward, even though they sounded fine in my head. And—well, you haven’t seen this yet, but I spent a paragraph talking about counterarguments and I didn’t bring that up in my thesis? Also I’m not sure if it’s okay to spend a paragraph on counterarguments.”

“I see. The counterarguments thing is totally fine; it’s great actually. To me it sounded like some of those sentences are in passive voice when they shouldn’t be, so that could be the source of the awkwardness. Wanna go through and check?”

“Yeah, okay.” Scar lays the paper flat between them so they can both read it. “Show me.”

Pearl scans the text. “Like… here. You say, People’s everyday lives and futures are also affected by climate change, but don’t you think it would flow better in the active voice?”

“Well sure, now that you say so.”

“Great! Try it out, okay? See how it’ll sound.”

Scar hesitates the barest moment, then turns to pull his pencil case from his backpack. Even after he’s fished that out, he takes far more than a reasonable amount of time in selecting a pencil and making sure it’s sharp, and something almost audibly clicks into place in Pearl’s mind.

“Scar, do you know what passive voice is?”

“Of course! You know how important my writing implement is to me, Pearl.” He laughs easily, tucks the pencil he’d picked back into the case, and starts as if he’s looking for a different one in there.

“Right,” Pearl says slowly. “So can you define it for me, then?”

Scar pauses with his hand in his pencil case, then slowly pulls out the same pencil he had before. “Okay, maybe I don’t know it.”

“That’s fine,” she reassures him. “So, active voice is kind of a ‘normal sentence,’ with the order subject-verb-object. The boys throw the ball. The flip side is passive voice, which goes object-verb-by subject. The ball is thrown by the boys. Does that make sense?”

Scar furrows his eyebrows in concentration. “I think so? Like… this paper was written by Scar is passive voice, right?”

“Right!”

“Is passive voice bad, then?”

“Well… it definitely has a place, and that’s a really powerful place. Like, if you need to keep focus on the object, or don’t want to make the subject clear, passive voice works really well. Usually, though, you want the active voice. It’s the default. In your essay, you start giving this information about climate change in the active voice, then you just kinda jump into the passive voice here and there. It can sound a bit weird.”

Scar nods and looks back at his paper. “So you’re saying this sentence should be, Climate change also affects people’s everyday lives and futures.”  

“You might wanna split up that lives-and-futures clause, too, but yeah. Read it out and see if you like it.”

Scar does read out a few sentences, pausing to change things into active voice when he needs to, and Pearl can see the exact moment that it clicks for him.

“Better already, right?” Pearl asks, and Scar nods. “Do you wanna start reading the body to me and we’ll see what’s there?”

Scar doesn’t stall a moment this time, just nods again and starts reading.

By the time they’ve worked through the essay and gone over everything that needs to happen, Pearl looks up and, to her surprise, it’s five until four. 

“Right,” she says as Scar blinks at her, seeming just as startled by the passage of time as she is. “So you’re gonna revise this over the weekend, right? We’ll do a final check on Tuesday, then you’ll turn it in.”

Scar gives her a confused smile. “You realize it’ll be a week overdue, right?”

Pearl shrugs. “I’ll email your teacher about it. You’re gonna get this essay in, and it’s gonna be a damn good essay.”

“I… he probably won’t accept it,” Scar says weakly. “And, you know, English is my best grade and it’s a D. I don’t really do good work.”

“But you can ,” Pearl insists. “All of today, all I did was explain some grammar rules and you fixed your own essay. I said I’d email your teacher about it, and I’m sure I can persuade him.”

“If you say so,” Scar replies with a shrug.

Pearl looks at him until he meets her gaze. “Listen, Scar. I’m certain that your teacher will let you hand in this essay late if it’s complete. But that means you have to revise it, right? You’ll just make both of us look foolish if you don’t put in the work.”

“Yeah, I get it. I’ll do it, okay? Don’t you worry.”

Chapter Text

Cleo notices the moment Etho pulls into the parking lot of the park she’s meeting him at, because he drives the same damn car he drove ten years ago. She hadn’t even realized she remembered it, but the dirty dark red pickup with a dented front bumper is an immediate throwback.

He seems to spot her immediately, too—fair enough, she’s still a redhead—so she only gets a few seconds while he approaches her to examine him.

She doesn’t know what she expected. He definitely looks older, but he’s still Etho. He’s still tall, twitchy, walking quietly even over dried fall leaves on the ground. He has the same white-blond hair, now long enough to wear in a small ponytail, the same honey-brown eyes and scar through one eyebrow. He carries a different bag now, more of a satchel than his old messenger bag, and he’s filled out some, making him just tall instead of lanky. 

Cleo has to assume he’s thinking the same thing about her. Her hair is still bright red, but she’s never bothered to dye out the first specklings of silver she notices sometimes. She carries the same purse she used to, dresses in the same literally-could-not-care-less style, but she’s sure the clothes themselves are different, that she looks as much older than she used to be as Etho does.

He sits next to her on the bench without making eye contact, then just says, “Hey. You still wear your hair the same way you used to.”

“Thanks, I grew it myself,” Cleo deadpans. “You look older.”

“Well—yeah, I would hope so,” Etho laughs stiffly. “It’s been a decade.”

“Yeah, it has been a decade,” Cleo agrees. “Thanks for showing up.”

“Um… you’re welcome?”

There’s a moment of silence, neither of them meeting the other’s eyes.

Cleo, unsure of what’s possessed her to do this, says, “You know, I’m glad I never married you. The divorce would’ve been hell.”

Etho barks a laugh in that way he does, as if he has to cut himself off before he really gets going. “Yeah, that’s fair.” He sighs. “I… look, I’m sorry for… everything. I—”

“Absolutely not,” Cleo interrupts. “Don’t even start. If you were sorry, you would have come back sooner, or never contacted me at all. You want to meet the kids, that’s fine, I get it, that might happen. But don’t pretend you’re sorry.”

Etho deflates. “You… alright. Yeah, alright. So… I might get to see the boys?”

“Maybe,” Cleo answers with a slight nod. “The boys don’t exactly know you’ve reached out yet, but… maybe. If they’re interested in it.”

“I miss the kids,” Etho says quietly. “Scar and Bdubs. I barely even remember what they look like, sometimes.”

“Sorry, do you want sympathy? Because I think I managed to develop some for you after, oh, maybe seven years of getting over you walking out, but—ooh, yeah, sorry, just checked and that’s all gone.”

Etho laughs and winces at the same time, finally meeting her gaze. “Ouch, Cleo. I deserved that, but ouch.”

Cleo laughs back despite herself. “I’m glad you can admit it.”

Etho bobs his head at her, then just scuffs his shoe in the dirt for a moment. “Why did you want to meet up?”

Cleo sighs. “Who knows, honestly. I… I think I do want you to come over and meet the kids, if they agree to it. But I needed to talk to you first. I don’t want any surprises when you’re talking to Scar and Bdubs, and I don’t want to fight with you in front of them.”

“Do you expect us to fight a lot?”

“Well, it turns out I don’t know you nearly as well as I thought, once, so I’m not sure what to expect.”

Etho just sighs, twisting his hands together in his lap.

“So, Etho,” Cleo says, turning partially to look fully at him. “Where have you been all these years?”

Etho chuckles one more time, sadly, then starts talking.

That Friday night, Cleo knows both her boys can tell something’s on her mind. At dinner, contemplating the baked potato in front of her without much appetite, she decides to spit it out. “Okay, there’s something I need to talk to you two about.”

Bdubs and Scar both freeze for a moment. While Scar just contemplates her with the blank Cheshire Cat grin she knows he only ever uses as a facade, Bdubs blinks once before saying, “Well say it then!”

Cleo casts both of them a tired smile before answering. “So… your father and I have been texting for the past few weeks.” Both of them seem shocked, Scar’s grin even slipping away. “He’s moved back into town recently, and… he says he’d like to meet you both.”

“He had his chance to meet us both,” Scar points out sourly. “He walked out on it.”

“I know,” Cleo says. “I know, Scar. But he’s in town, for a while at least, and I’ve talked to him about it. You don’t have to, but if you want to you can meet him.”

“I wanna meet Dad,” Bdubs volunteers. “Will he come over?”

“Why do you wanna meet him?” Scar demands, turning to Bdubs. “What has he ever done for us?”

“What did he ever do to you?” Bdubs retorts and crosses his arms over his chest. “I wanna meet him.” 

“Fine, I’ll meet Dad,” Scar says. “When is it?”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Cleo reminds Scar. “I had thought he would come over, but you could go over to Grian’s or me and Bdubs could meet him somewhere else.”

“Well I can’t leave Bdubs alone with him,” Scar replies. “I said I’ll meet him and I meant it.”

“What do you think he’ll do?” Bdubs exclaims. “Mom, tell Scar that Dad would never hurt me.”

“Trust me, he won’t hurt you. I’ll be there the whole time anyway,” Cleo answers calmly, although privately she’s surprised by the strength of both their reactions.

“See? I bet it’ll be fun.”

Scar rolls his eyes. “All Mom said was that she wouldn’t let Dad hurt us. That’s, like, the opposite of reassuring.”

“Shut up, Scar. Mom must’ve liked Dad a lot to have us, so he can’t be so bad.”

“He left us, Bdubs! I don’t understand why you keep defending him.”

“I don’t understand why you have such a problem,” Bdubs says, turning resolutely away from Scar. “Mom, when can Dad come over?”

Cleo glances between the brothers, unsure if she should address the argument. “Well, he said he’s free as early as Sunday or Monday. When do you want him to come over?”

“Sunday,” Bdubs decides immediately. “So I don’t have to go to school all day before he gets here.”

“Scar?”

Scar shrugs, the tension already drained from his frame. “Sunday sounds fine to me.”

And so, on Sunday afternoon, Cleo waits for Etho’s knock at the door. A few minutes before the appointed time, Scar emerges from his room to sit on the couch next to her, but Bdubs doesn’t join them.

Cleo takes the opportunity to just observe Scar for a minute while his attention seems focused entirely on the closed front door. She can tell he’s not happy about Etho’s reappearance, although he hasn’t said anything about it since Friday’s dinner, even when Bdubs brings it up about every half-hour. 

Somewhere along the past years, she stopped being able to read him. He’s always had a taste for the dramatic, a tendency to exaggerate. These days she catches him lying less, notices the mismatch between his facade and him only rarely. As much as she wants to think it’s because he’s more honest, part of her can’t shake the feeling that he’s just become a better actor.

Maybe having a second parent around would have shaped him in a different direction, Cleo thinks, then stops herself. What-ifs help no one, and surely Etho couldn’t have raised an upstanding citizen any better than Cleo can, which is admittedly maybe not well.

A knock rings out from the door, and Cleo jumps up to answer it before she can keep ruminating. 

Etho nods at her when she opens the door. “Uh… hey.”

“Hello.” She steps aside to let him in, and after a second he crosses the threshold past her. 

“I brought cookies?” he says hesitantly, presenting her with a bag of store-bought cookies. Cleo accepts them, but before she can comment on them, Etho’s gaze drifts past her and, judging by his expression, catches on Scar. “Hey there,” he says as Cleo turns to shut the door. “Scar, right?” he adds after a brief hesitation.

“I’m Bdubs,” Scar says with what would be an appropriate amount of bitterness if that were true.

Etho’s visibly taken aback, and just kind of stutters for a moment. “I—sorry, I thought… I could’ve sworn—”

“Nah, I’m Scar,” Scar interrupts with a slight twist of a smirk. “But you wouldn’t have known, would you?”

“I—that’s not fair,” Etho protests. “I knew the difference, Bdubs is blond—is Bdubs still blond?”

“He’s still blond,” Cleo confirms. Scar and Etho look so similar from here: Scar has Cleo’s bright green eyes, but Etho’s stature and jawline. His half-amused, half-angry expression could be a mirror of Etho’s face in a way Cleo had never noticed before. “He’s still in his room right now—Bdubs, your dad’s here!” she calls down the hall.

Nothing happens, and Scar stands off the couch with a sigh. “I’ll get him.”

As Scar opens the door to Bdubs’ room, Cleo lays Etho’s bag of cookies on the end table and Etho sits gingerly on the couch. “He’s so tall,” Etho murmurs, tapping his foot on the ground.

“Wonder where he gets that from,” Cleo replies sarcastically as she pulls a chair from the dining table to face the couch and sits in it.

Within moments, Scar returns with Bdubs. Or, really, Bdubs comes into the room dragging Scar behind him. 

“Sorry, Mom! I had my headphones turned up too loud.”

“Oh, Bdubs, that’s not good for your hearing,” Cleo chides.

Bdubs doesn’t answer, having spotted Etho and immediately lost interest in Cleo. “Dad?”

Etho smiles wanly. “Hey, Bdubs. I brought cookies?” He gestures to the cookies and Bdubs brightens considerably, which is a real feat at this point.

“I’ll take a cookie,” Bdubs agrees, opening the bag and pulling one out. “Hi, I’m Bdubs.”

Etho laughs, surprised. “Hi, Bdubs, I’m Dad.”

“His name is Etho,” Scar stage-whispers to Bdubs.

“And Mom’s name is Cleo, so what,” Bdubs replies sarcastically. “I hope traffic was okay, Dad.”

“Uh, yeah, traffic was fine on the way over here.” Etho picks up a cookie too, but fidgets with it rather than taking a bite.

“So,” Scar says after a moment of silence, “Etho. Where have you been all this time?” 

“That’s… quite the question,” Etho answers slowly. “All over the place, really. I was a trucker for a while, sort of played in a band, and now I’m back here.” He shrugs nervously. “Me and my friends are all kind of settling down, and… we ended up in the area.” 

He gives Cleo a glance as he talks, although she isn’t sure what he wants from her. She’d heard all these broad strokes the day they first met up, and she isn’t here to criticize or defend him in front of her kids.

“Your friends?” Bdubs asks. “Who’re they?”

“Just some guys—well, more than just some guys. I met them during the band phase and we all kinda stuck together since then. I think they’d like you, really.” He casts Bdubs a half-smile. “So… what’ve you been up to? Freshman and senior this year, right?”

“Yeah!” Bdubs answers, nodding vigorously. “I’m taking a design class for my elective, and that’s what I wanna do when I grow up. Scar’s in a business elective, I guess, but mostly he just gets in trouble.”

“Bdubs,” Cleo warns.

Scar shrugs. “You’re just jealous ‘cause all your friends are nerds.”

Bdubs scoffs dramatically. “At least I have friends.” At Scar’s expression, he continues, “Grian doesn’t count, he’s family.”

“Grian does too count,” Scar protests. “And I have lots of friends that you just don’t know about.”

“Pssh, yeah right.”

“Boys,” Cleo interjects. “Everyone has plenty of friends, okay? Now’s not the time.”

Scar just shrugs equivocally, but Bdubs refocuses on Etho and grins. “Right! Dad, do you wanna see my terrarium? It’s in my room.”

“Sure,” Etho agrees. “Lead the way.”

Cleo stands to follow them, but she notices Scar doesn’t. “Scar? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Scar says with a wave of his hand. “Actually, I’ve just remembered I have to work on an essay that’s due Tuesday. I’ll be in my room if you need me, okay?”

Cleo purses her lips, but nods. “Alright, Scar. Have fun.”

Chapter Text

Scar wanders into Martyn’s office at two-fifty-five sharp, which makes Martyn wonder if he attended his last class of the day, but at least he’s on time. 

“Hey, Scar, good to see you,” Martyn greets.

“Hi Martyn, I’m obligated to see you,” Scar returns, settling himself in his usual chair.

As per usual, Martyn waits in silence for a minute or two to see if Scar wants to start the conversation, and as per usual Scar does not speak first.

“So, tell me one good thing that happened to you this week,” Martyn prompts when he’s sure Scar isn’t going to say anything.

Scar shrugs, already starting to slide lower in his chair. “Pearl and I started the make-up essay my teacher’s letting me do, and that’s not so bad I guess.”

“A make-up essay?” Martyn knows that Pearl is the English tutor Scar’s working with as part of his deal, but this is the first he’s heard of making up an essay.

Scar shrugs again, but a hint of a smile plays across his face. “I turned in the first essay that Pearl had me write, and I guess my English teacher liked it. He sent Pearl one of the other essays the class has done so far and said I could redo it if I wanted, so. I drafted that.”

“That sounds pretty exciting,” Martyn agrees.

“I wouldn’t say exciting .”

Martyn laughs. “Okay, that’s fair. It sounds like you’re still happy about it, though.” Scar’s trying hard to seem apathetic every time he’s in here, but Martyn’s already learning to pick up on Scar’s particular expression cues. 

“I just thought he wouldn’t accept it late,” Scar says. “It’s nice of him.”

“Yeah, I get that. Why do you think your teacher gave you the other assignment to redo?”

“I’m not a mind reader.”

“Make a guess anyway.”

“Well, my first essay wasn’t very good. I—honestly, I think I wrote it the morning before class. So, maybe he… I don’t know.” Scar sighs, chews on his lip for a moment, then looks up at Martyn. “Hey, you’re supposed to give advice and stuff, right?”

“In a way, yes,” Martyn replies cautiously. “What’s on your mind?”

“My dad came back and I need Bdubs to stop liking him so much.”

Martyn blinks. “Sorry, what?”

“You heard me, Dad’s back and Bdubs is being totally friendly even though Dad sucks.”

“I don’t think you’ve mentioned any of this to me before, so how about you start at the beginning? I take it your dad was… out of the picture for a while?”

Scar nods bitterly. “He left us, like, ten years ago, so I remember him but Bdubs doesn’t. And… I dunno, there’s not much to say. He’s back in town, and he and Mom talked, and now it’s been like two weeks and he isn’t leaving us alone.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He keeps stopping by! And Mom keeps letting him! Now he’s saying he’s gonna take Bdubs somewhere to hang out, and nobody’s stopping him.”

“And what do you think will happen if your dad and Bdubs go out somewhere together?”

“I don’t know,” Scar exclaims, the most emotion Martyn’s seen from him yet. He’s still slumped in his chair, no longer meeting Martyn’s eyes, but Martyn can see the tension in his frame and his hands in fists in his lap. “Nothing good! He’s probably reckless, and what if Bdubs gets hurt? What if his stupid friends are jerks, or, worse, creeps? Why does he keep coming around, anyway? He left us.”

“It sounds like you’re worried he’ll harm Bdubs if he’s not supervised. Is that right?”

“I guess? I don’t like how much he and Bdubs like each other. It doesn’t feel right.”

Martyn keeps his face mostly neutral as he nods. “Why do you say that?” He’s suddenly on higher alert than he usually is with Scar, and he hopes Scar doesn’t notice. This kind of thing is a major disruption under the best of circumstances, and Scar doesn’t seem to have the best relationship skills.

And, well. If Bdubs really is at risk, that’s a whole separate kettle of fish. 

Scar shrugs sharply. “Bdubs talks about him all the time , and Etho—that’s Dad—keeps bringing us these little gifts but it’s all stuff Bdubs likes, like I’m an afterthought.”

“So you feel like your dad favors Bdubs?” Martyn doesn’t miss Scar calling his dad by name, something that, for adults, Scar seems to reserve for people he either sees as peers or actively scorns. Somehow Martyn thinks he can guess which category Etho falls into.

“Yeah. Who reappears after a decade and then starts playing favorites?”

“That’s tough, that sounds like it really hurts.”

“I don’t care,” Scar says too quickly. “I don’t like Etho anyway. I don’t want him to like me.”

“That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t bother you.”

Scar sighs. Martyn gives him time to answer. “I just wish he’d leave us alone. We were doing fine, and he’s ruining everything.”

“You know, I doubt that one guy has the power to ruin everything about your family. Can you name something that’s still the same since he’s come back?”

Scar thinks about it for a moment, then sighs again. “I guess he hasn’t come to a family dinner yet, so that’s mostly the same. Except Bdubs talks about him too much.” After a beat, he adds, “And I still go over to Grian’s sometimes and then come home for dinner. Well, less than I used to, but that’s because of Scott, not Etho.”

“That’s great,” Martyn says, nodding. “I’m definitely hearing that this is causing you a lot of stress. Do you have anything that you do to feel better when you’re stressed?”

Scar gives him a look and doesn’t answer.

After over thirty seconds of silence, Martyn adds, “Remember how I’m not allowed to tell other people what you tell me here? You can say whatever you want; you’re safe here.”

Scar just rolls his eyes.

“Some people like to do art or exercise when they’re stressed,” Martyn suggests gently. “Some people spend more time with loved ones, and others spend less time around their loved ones. Do any of those sound like you, Scar?”

“I guess I spend more time with Grian when I’m mad at Mom or Bdubs,” Scar mutters. “They’re all technically family, I don’t know if that counts.”

“That counts. So you spend time with your best friend, and that helps you feel less upset?”

“I mean, not really.”

“Really? Why not, do you think?”

Scar shrugs, gaze firmly on the carpet. “Grian’s… Grian. His art matters more to him than anything real, so… he doesn’t talk about anything real. It’s fun, but it never lasts.”

“I get that. Who do you go to when you need to talk to something real?”

“Maybe Mom? If the thing isn’t too stressful.” 

“So you don’t like to talk to her about things that stress you out?”

“No, about things that would stress her out,” Scar answers, seemingly without pausing to think about it. 

“Because you don’t want her to worry?”

Now Scar does take a moment, furrowing his brows at nothing. “I guess. She’s busy, and I’m seventeen anyway. Bdubs needs her more.” 

“Why do you say that?” 

Scar gives him a half-second glare. “Now you’re getting all therapist-y.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Yeah. This sucks less when I pretend you’re not a therapist.”

Martyn laughs despite himself. “Okay, pretend I’m not a psychologist, then. I’m just… a supportive friend.” 

“That’s what every counselor says,” Scar says sourly. “You’re not my friend, you’re… weird.” 

“Well, yeah, fair enough,” Martyn allows. “The metaphor isn’t great. But look, Scar, I promise you I can help you if you let me.” 

Scar mutters something that Martyn doesn’t catch. 

“Sorry, what was that?” 

Scar hesitates. “I’m not sick.”

“I know, Scar. I didn’t say you were. You were just asking for advice about your dad, right, and that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Scar shrugs. 

“Okay. It looks like we’ve got about twenty more minutes together, so do you wanna talk a little more about Etho and Bdubs in that time?”

“Not really, no.” 

“That’s fine. What do you want to talk about?”

“Well… can I go home if I say ‘nothing’?”

“No, Scar. We’ve been over this.” They’ve been over it nearly every week, in fact. It’s a question Martyn gets a lot, to be honest, but Scar’s unusual for continuing to both ask it and show up. 

“I don’t wanna talk about anything, though,” Scar says, giving Martyn an overdramatic pleading look. “And I promise to be good. I’m not gonna do any graffiti at the school the rest of the year, I swear it.” 

“I know, you’ve said that a lot already. And I’m sure I’ve told you that the goal isn’t just to prevent future vandalism, it’s to help you learn skills to handle your feelings and be responsible for yourself.” 

Scar doesn’t answer, avoiding Martyn’s eyes. 

“Okay, so just to recap what I understand from what you’ve said today: your dad contacted your family after being absent for a long time, and now your little brother is making friends with him. You don’t trust your dad, and you’re frustrated by your little brother, and you don’t know how to feel better. Does that sound right?”

Scar nods grudgingly. 

“I’d like it if we could brainstorm some coping mechanisms together for you to try this week. Is that okay with you?”

“You better not tell me to be friends with Etho, Martyn.” 

“I won’t, I promise. We’ll just think of some stuff you can try to clear your head some, and then next week you can tell me how it worked.”

“Fine,” Scar sighs after a moment. 

“Thanks. You start, okay? What’s something that makes you feel good?”

Scar stares into the floor with an unreadable expression for a long second. “I dunno.”

“C’mon, name one thing.”

Scar takes another few beats, his expression becoming more noticeably troubled before smoothing out. “Talking to people, I guess. I’m an extravert.” 

“Okay! That works. So how can you use that when you’re stressed?”

“I could… text Grian when Bdubs is being annoying?”

Martyn nods. “You mentioned earlier that you spend more time with Grian when your family bothers you, so it seems like that’s already a coping mechanism you use. You could try that with more focus or intention this week, and let me know how it goes?”

“If you say so.”

“Let’s come up with one more, okay? What’s one more thing you do that calms you down?”

Scar takes another long moment to stare uncomfortably at the floor. At this point in the session, Martyn doubts he’ll be able to convince Scar to share what’s bothering him about thinking of coping mechanisms, but he also can’t deny now that Scar is bothered. 

Martyn’s instinct is that there’s an unhealthy coping mechanism at play somewhere that Scar doesn’t want to share. He’s almost used to this by now, the way Scar can avoid revelations but isn’t quite a good enough liar to hide that he’s hiding something. 

Still, though, he gives Scar the silence. His instincts also say Scar already feels pressured, and won’t open up under more. The time is set, and Martyn can wait. 

Scar, though, stands abruptly after nearly a minute of silence, grabs his backpack off the floor, and swings out the door without another word.

The clock doesn’t even quite read 3:40 yet.

Chapter Text

Grian sorts through his paint bag again while he waits for Scar to show up. It sucks, in his professional opinion, that on Fridays when Grian gets off work early, Scar has to go to tutoring. It’s the kind of thing Grian would complain about, loudly, at all hours, if he weren’t sworn to secrecy about it.

Maybe he could bend the rules and complain a little, actually. He deserves that much.

The door to his room creaks open to admit Scar before that train of thought can go any further. 

“Hey, Grian, sorry I’m late.”

Grian turns and shrugs. “It’s fine. Pearl’s not happy with you, I take it?”

Scar shrugs back, suddenly breaking eye contact. “I guess. Here, this is for you.” He pulls something from his hoodie pocket and tosses it to Grian. 

Grian barely catches the object, and only then gets the chance to examine it. “Thank you?” he says slowly, turning the bottle of acrylic paint in one hand. He’s pretty sure he already has this exact shade of red, actually. “Why?”

“You’re welcome,” Scar says tartly, giving him a mildly indignant look. “I thought, surely Grian could always use more of that a-may-zing red color he likes so much.”

Scar has his salesman voice on. Grian doesn’t trust it.

Come to think of it, he doesn’t think he particularly likes this shade. It’s one of the weirder ones that no one ever buys, and he thinks he’s never run out of the first bottle he bought. But it’s so specific that Scar couldn’t have bought it at random, could he? Grian must have mentioned it sometime.

Maybe he does like this red? “Thanks,” he says again, with more confidence. “I’m sure it’ll come in handy soon.” It’s a pretty nice color, all things considered. He’s sure if he uses it he’ll remember why he likes it so much.

“Another win for Scar,” Scar says happily. “Oh! We’re going to that overpass today, right?”

“That’s the plan,” Grian confirms. He pats the messenger bag of spray paints as if confirming it’s still there. “You know what you’re gonna do?”

“Of course. And…” Scar drops his backpack on the bed and unzips it. “I’ve got the perfect color.”

“Oh?” Grian scoots closer to the bag to take a look. Joel’s okay with Grian’s mildly illegal hobbies, in an ask-no-questions-get-no-lies way, but with Cleo the safer bet is that what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Scar’s paints live in Grian’s bag, and usually they buy paints together so Scar doesn’t have to try to get them past Cleo. A color that got Scar to tempt fate is, therefore, intriguing. 

As Scar holds the can up to the light, Grian has to agree that it looks worth it. From the cap, it’s a deep, rich maroon that catches purpler and redder at different angles, and they don’t have anything like it.

“Woah,” Grian says, trying to sound nonchalant. “That’s a good brand, too. How much must that have cost?”

For a moment, Grian could swear he sees Scar flush red, then Scar shrugs with a smile. “You know what they say: anything is free if you’re fast enough.”

“I—I don’t think they say that,” Grian laughs.

“No, I think they do.”

“Um, anyway. Put it in the bag, I guess, and let’s go.” The sun’s setting earlier and earlier now, and they’re burning daylight. 

Scar nods and tucks the can away. 

Grian waves to Joel on their way out and checks the time on his phone. “Okay. If we make good time, we’ll have enough daylight to get quite a bit done.” 

“Great! You got ideas?”

Grian shrugs. “Only kind of, but you know how I am. It’ll come to me when it’s in front of me.” Even his regular, acrylic-paint art is a bit like that: he doesn’t always know what he’s doing until it’s done. “Hey, is Etho still coming around your place?” he asks suddenly, remembering that that’s a thing.

Scar shrugs casually. “Yeah, I guess. He likes Bdubs.”

“Huh. When do I get to meet him?”

“Ugh, you don’t want to,” Scar answers. “He’s washed up.”

Grian laughs, startled. “What?”

“He’s washed up,” Scar repeats. “Oh, we’re almost there, I recognize that,” he adds more quietly, gesturing to a distinctive tag painted near a bus stop. “I dunno, Grian, he just is. He used to be in a band. Isn’t that pathetic?”

“Could be cool,” Grian says, unsure of why he’s defending Scar’s deadbeat dad. Wait, come to think about it, that’s Grian’s deadbeat uncle. Weird.

“Trust me, it’s not.” The two of them try to seem nonchalant as a car passes them, then round the final corner to the overpass Grian found the other day. “Hey, here we are!”

Grian glances at the lowering sun and is glad he brought an electric lantern, although it won’t do much for them once it’s full dark. “Do you mind if I take that wall?” he asks, gesturing to the largest empty flat surface in the recesses of the concrete. He thinks he’s got the shape of a piece he wants to do, but he’d hate to run out of space from not having planned it.

“Not at all,” Scar agrees. “Hey, what if I do the slope there below it?”

“Then we could both use the lantern,” Grian says with a nod. “If you promise not to get paint on my shoes.”

Scar puts one hand over his heart and holds the other up. “I swear it.”

“Alright, let’s go.” With a final glance around, the two of them scramble up the slope to the wall. Grian drops the paint bag just outside the highest part of the slope so he doesn’t have to cross Scar’s workspace to get to it and digs through it for colors. 

Grian’s signature bright red, yellow, and blue are a given. Then… he pauses, letting Scar dig through the bag for a moment. A softer green, maybe, for starters. Yeah, that’s it, he decides, balancing the four cans on the concrete and turning to the wall. He notes, vaguely, that Scar’s starting with just the black and white. 

As Grian starts the outlines of a parrot in flight at the center of his wall, even the sounds of Scar’s paints behind him fades to the edges of his awareness.

This is what he loves about art—any art. He is, for once in his life, focused totally on the task in front of him. His mind and hands don’t wander without his permission. Math didn’t make much sense to him in school, but he understands instinctually how he needs to move the spray can to get the paint to hit at the right angle and distance. He puts on the electric lantern soon enough and the buzzing light doesn’t even bother him. The occasional car exiting the highway above them doesn’t slow down and Grian barely notices them.

He’s putting the finishing touches on the landscape below his parrot when he realizes he’s lost track of time. He doesn’t even care, honestly. However late it’s gotten, that’s something to deal with when he gets home. Right now he is painting, and everything is perfect.

He takes a step back, only to hear an indignant squawk behind him. “Sorry, Scar,” he says, turning to check if he’s actually ruined something.

Scar, a few feet behind him, makes a shooing gesture. “I need to fill that stripe, Grian. Move it.”

Grian steps back up the slope, looking more closely at what Scar’s done. From here it’s mostly geometric chaos, and after a last look at his own piece Grian walks carefully around the perimeter of Scar’s to look at it right way ‘round. 

Once he’s at the bottom, from years of doing graffiti and knowing Scar, Grian can immediately read Good Times worked into the patterns and lines of the paint. It’s split over two lines, like Scar usually does, but Grian still hears it in his head how Scar pronounces it, all run together into one word. Goodtimes.  

Despite Grian’s insistence it’s too long, it’s been Scar’s tag since they first started graffiti, the shapes and interlocking letters evolving into his current signature over the years. 

Grian’s changed his tag probably two or three times by now. (Although he’d like to think his bright, lineless style is more his signature.) Maybe there’s something to the length that gives Scar’s tag staying power. Or maybe it’s just that it’s still perfectly Scar, so much so that sometimes Grian catches himself thinking of Scar as just goodtimes.  

“Love what you did with the maroon,” Grian comments as he starts back up the slope. 

Scar looks up briefly. “Thanks! Definitely worth it. You almost done with yours?”

Grian looks over the wall. “Yeah, almost. I think I’m just gonna tag the corner real quick.” He picks up the red and blue from where he’d left them as Scar goes back to filling in his final few stripes.

His least favorite, least detailed corner neatly fits his current tag, Birdie, in bubble letters that he impulsively adds a few yellow highlights to. 

In silent consensus, the two of them put the caps back on all the cans they used and slide them into the bag. Grian shoulders the bag while Scar lifts the lantern to see the road ahead of them.

Grian checks his phone when they reach a sidewalk to walk on and winces to see that Joel texted where are you? almost half an hour ago. It’s past seven, and the sky is a full-dark navy blue, and Grian decides not to text back.

Scar doesn’t speak a word while they walk back to their apartment building, take the elevator up, and Grian fishes out his key. It’s an unusual, almost concerning event, but Grian respects the quiet and doesn’t ask about it. 

Joel’s reading in the front room when the two of them walk in. He looks over Grian and Scar and sighs, but gestures to them to come fully inside. “Hey, guys.”

“Hey, Joel,” Grian greets nervously. “Sorry about that.”

“Yeah, whatever. Grian, there’s food in the fridge you can heat up. Scar, you’d better get home. Cleo’s… a little mad.”

Scar winces. “Right. I… just let me grab my backpack.”

“Go ahead,” Joel tells him.

Scar follows Grian back to his room. 

“We’re in for it,” Grian whispers once they’re mostly out of earshot of Joel.

Scar giggles. “You mean I’m in for it.”

“Sorry.” Grian tucks his paint bag back in its corner and Scar goes over to his backpack, resting on the bed.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Scar tells him, then rifles through his mess of a backpack for a second. “Here. Think of it as a… consolation prize.”

Grian accepts the Mickey Mouse keychain mostly because he’s too confused to turn it down. “Why?”

Scar zips his backpack and puts it on. “I want you to have it.”

“Where did you even get this?”

“Don’t worry about it, okay?”

“I wasn’t before, but now I am,” Grian replies, giving Scar a perplexed look.

“It’s fine,” Scar says with a bright smile. “See you tomorrow!”

Grian gets a pretty stern talking-to from Joel, which he’s mostly forgotten by the next afternoon. Grian knows what he’s doing, right? Joel gets that. Grian’s old enough to stay out past sunset without telling anyone if he wants, and Joel’s not even his parents, so there.

Grian has to wonder what his parents would have thought of graffiti. He barely even drew when they were alive—his mind didn’t wander so badly then and he could mostly keep his hands to himself. God, the last thing they knew he had wanted to be a vet when he grew up. He barely even wants to go to college now, even though Joel insists their parents would want it.

Joel dropped out in his first semester, and he turned out fine. Well… he did, Grian supposes, have extenuating circumstances. Namely Grian, Jimmy, and their sudden lack of parents.

Whatever. It’s not important right now. What matters is that it’s Saturday afternoon, Grian is bored, and he doubts Cleo would let Scar come over right now. 

So that leaves going to bother Scar himself. After whining approval out of Joel, Grian crosses the hall to knock on Scar’s door. 

After just a moment, the door opens, and Grian puts on his best I-am-a-perfectly-trustworthy-child face. “Hello! Is Scar in, by any chance—oh. Who’re you?”

There’s a tall, blond man that Grian’s never seen before standing in the doorway. His hair is pulled back in a short, messy ponytail, a scar bisects one eyebrow, and he reminds Grian vaguely of Scar.

The good news is that this guy seems just as shocked as Grian is. “...Jimmy?” he says slowly after a moment.

“...No?” Something clicks into place in Grian’s head. “Scar’s dad?”

“Uh… yeah. Wait, you can’t be Grian?”

“Yours truly,” Grian says cheerfully. 

Etho blinks at Grian for a moment. “Never hit that growth spurt, huh?”

“Wow. Rude.” They stare at each other. “Can I come in?”

“Let him in, Dad,” Bdubs yells from inside, and Etho steps back to let Grian pass. 

Inside, Bdubs sits on the floor, some kind of board game set up in front of him, while Cleo’s on the couch with her laptop open. 

“Hey, Grian,” Cleo greets. “Gonna be honest, I’m not happy with you right now.”

“I’m sorry, Aunt Cleo,” Grian says as sincerely as he can manage. He doesn’t want to risk whatever story Scar’s told by offering an excuse.

Cleo laughs. “Don’t Aunt Cleo me. You realize you only say that when you’re trying to get something?”

“I—do I?”

“Yes. You’re here to see Scar?”

“Yes?” Grian says slowly, still trying to look innocent. 

Cleo sighs. “He’s in his room. I expect you two to stay here, alright? No going anywhere, not even back to yours.”

Grian starts towards Scar’s room. “Okay, yeah. Thanks, Cleo!”

“You’re a bad influence, Grian,” Cleo calls back lightly.

Chapter Text

“Scar? Could you stay back a minute?”

Scar feels a knot form in his stomach, but he turns back from the classroom door. “Yeah?”

“I just wanted to talk to you about the unit test Thursday,” his science teacher says when he reaches her desk.

Is that this week? “Of course!” Scar replies brightly. “What about it?”

“I want to make sure you have the best chance to succeed,” she says slowly, clearly thinking about the words as she says them, and Scar’s heart sinks. She cares about each of her students and hasn’t given up on Scar yet. She will, soon enough, when he either refuses to try or shows that he’ll fail no matter what.

“Why thank you,” Scar tells her, nodding magnanimously. 

“Are you able to stay after school on Thursday to take the test? That way you could have class to study and get your work in for the unit.”

“I’m sorry, I’m busy Thursday,” he answers without letting his smile drop. It even has the benefit of being true, although he doesn’t plan on explaining to her where he’ll be. “Thank you, but I can take the test in class.”

The teacher sighs but nods. “If that’s what you want, then. If you can get your study guide done you’ll do fine, okay?”

“Got it.” Scar has no intention of doing the study guide.

He wouldn’t get the unit even if he did the guide. And he’s done the math, and passing the test without turning in his late work wouldn’t change his grade. So he’ll halfass a few worksheets before Thursday, fail the test, and move on.

“Have a good day, miss!” Scar leaves the classroom before she can stop him again. He’s running late to see Pearl.

“Hey, Pearl, so sorry I’m late,” he says as he drops his backpack by his usual chair.

“And you’d been doing so well, too,” Pearl says, mock-mournfully. “You hadn’t been late in a week.”

Scar nods sagely. “I’m a changed man, Pearl. A changed man interrupted by his science teacher.”

Pearl laughs. “Right. So do you even have anything to do here today?” 

“I’m really confused by this analysis packet we’ve got,” he says, starting to dig through his backpack for his English folder. 

“Oh, with the introduction paragraphs?” Pearl asks, and Scar makes a noise of affirmation. “Yeah, I think 11 honors has that too, I’ve gotten a couple other kids with that one.”

Scar isn’t sure whether to be relieved that Pearl believes him or offended that she believes he needs help with work that’s apparently for a lower grade. He finds the packet and lays it out on the table.

Last week, when his math grade slipped to an F, the school tried to email Mom his grade report. Scar rerouted those emails years ago, and when he saw it all he could stare at was his English grade. He hadn’t even noticed, but suddenly he’s not just passing but close to a B+. 

And not only that, but the analysis packet that earlier this year he thinks he would have stared at and then given up on seemed crystal clear even just skimming it in class.

“Do you wanna read me the first one?” Pearl asks, apparently having read the instructions while Scar was thinking. 

“Okay,” Scar agrees after a moment. It barely takes him a minute to read out the first introduction paragraph, then the questions below it.

Pearl gestures at him to go on, and by now he knows she wants him to explain his thinking.

“So the topic is pretty clear, I think—technology and kids, right?” he suggests. She nods, and he continues to the argument, thesis, and tone.

“That all sounds right to me,” Pearl says when he’s done. She looks at what he’s written, then back up at him with a knowing smile. “Scar, it doesn’t really seem like you’re confused on this.”

“What? No, it—it gets harder,” he says, knowing he’s being too defensive. 

“We’ve done all this work to catch up your mechanics with your expression so you can realize how smart you really are, the last thing I need is for you to play dumb.” Pearl sounds really exasperated. Almost disappointed.

“I’m sorry,” Scar says. Why is there still a weight in the pit of his stomach? Why is Pearl, of all people, the one whose disappointment bothers him? “It’s a pretty easy packet,” he admits.

“And that’s great,” Pearl replies. “So why were you pretending to need help?”

Scar just shrugs. 

He doesn’t honestly know. If he convinces Pearl he knows what he should now, he probably won’t have to come to tutoring anymore. He could have his afternoons back, spend more time with Grian or bothering Bdubs. He should want that.

It’s just that, when he thinks about it, without Pearl he’d just have to go from classes he doesn’t understand to teachers he’s let down to Martyn implying that something’s wrong with him to Bdubs who has a new role model to pretending he’s smart and normal for Mom.

And maybe, recently, a little bit, he’s starting to think that Martyn’s right. That he isn’t sure he’s in control of himself anymore. That he’s worse than just dumb and careless. 

“Scar?” 

“Yes?”

“You okay? You looked a bit… lost in thought.” 

“I’m great, Pearl! What were you saying?”

“I was asking why you pretended to need help with the assignment.” She’s giving him a gentle, probing look like she always does. 

Heck, maybe if he finished with Pearl he wouldn’t even have to meet with Martyn anymore. He considers whether that’d be worth it and decides, surprising himself, that it wouldn’t.

“I like you,” he says after another moment, giving the table a petulant frown. “I want to keep coming here.”

Pearl sighs. “Okay, Scar. We’ll have to talk about that later, alright, but not right now. Right now let’s finish your packet.”

Scar nods. “Thanks, Pearl.” 

On the late bus home from school that day, Scar sees a text from Mom asking him to pick up spaghetti sauce if he can, she’s running late at work.

Scar takes a breath. If she’s running late, he might still beat her home, but to be safe he should probably go right to the store rather than stop home first.

The walk to the supermarket is pleasant, the sun not quite setting, Scar’s backpack a grounding weight. He hopes the people at the supermarket don’t recognize him, or at least didn’t notice him last time he was here.

They couldn’t even really blame him, y’know? The jar of sprinkles practically jumped into his hand and then his pocket, he barely did anything.

Scar sighs at no one, unable to convince himself of that reasoning. It did, in a way, feel like he barely had a choice. Every time it feels like he has to, or doesn’t notice what he’s doing until he’s walking out with something he didn’t pay for. 

The AC in the store hits him in a frigid blast even this late in the year. Spaghetti sauce. That’s all he needs to grab, and he has the cash on him to pay for it, then Mom will pay him back later. It’ll be fine. 

Normal people don’t… do this, do they? Normal people don’t accidentally knock something into their bag and then for some reason don’t put it back and then realize the adrenaline actually kind of feels good and like they finally control something. 

Normal people definitely don’t lose control of the one thing they could control. 

He just needs to buy sauce for Mom. It’s not that hard. 

Pearl’s mad at him. Honestly, he’s mad at himself. Why did it take Pearl for him to start trying again in class? How did he forget how much fun it is to write even pointless stuff? Why is he still so intimidated by his work in every other class?

At this point Mom’s probably mad at him too. Etho hangs around a lot now, and takes Bdubs places sometimes, and one of his friends came over once. Mom doesn’t seem to like him, but openly admits he’s probably not going to kidnap them. Scar won’t even call him Dad.

Scar grabs a jar of spaghetti sauce without even checking the flavor, just registering the large brand logo. He’s walking down the aisle towards the back of the store and picking up speed as if he could physically leave his frustration behind and as he passes a display of candy it is so so easy to grab one off the shelf and shove it in his sweatshirt pocket.

He won’t get caught, there’s no one else in the aisle. He’s horrified to realize that he checked that without even noticing.

It does what, on some level, he was looking for: he pays for the spaghetti sauce and for a few heartbeats there’s a thrill that pushes out any shadows. Halfway home all he feels is guilty and broken and nervous, but against his will he still has those golden few moments.

Scar seriously considers skipping his appointment with Martyn on Thursday. He just… isn’t sure he can do it.

Martyn will want to hear about “coping mechanisms” and Scar will have nothing to tell him unless he wants to admit to a crime, which is such a terrible coping mechanism it probably doesn’t even count. Martyn will have unassuming questions about Etho, and Bdubs, and Pearl.

It was easy to be sullen and bitter in Martyn’s office when it was just a little spark of barely-something that he could play up and let out. But as if listening to it gave it strength, the bitter, angry Scar isn’t as much of an act anymore. If it was ever really an act.

Scar thinks of how disappointed Mom would be if he got suspended, and how she would find out for sure that he’s been hiding his grades from her and getting in trouble.

He gets to Martyn’s office perfectly on time, hoping he looks less upset than he feels.

“Afternoon, Scar.” Martyn’s behind his desk like usual and gives Scar a bright half-smile.

Scar almost smiles and then remembers he shouldn’t smile at Martyn. “Hey.”

They sit in heavy, uncomfortable silence for over a minute. Martyn starts every appointment like this, as if he knows that Scar feels like no one when he’s not being spoken to. Without someone to shape himself around he wonders if he even has a self.

Scar’s this close to laughing awkwardly just for the noise when Martyn says, “How are you today, Scar?”

“Fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Fine.” This is easier, but not by much. Martyn doesn’t buy into the game even when Scar couldn’t have made who he is with Martyn simpler to understand. Although, in retrospect, Scar wishes he could ask more distracting questions without seeming out-of-character.

“How’s your brother?”

“Fine.” Scar very much would not like to talk about Bdubs. Please. Or Etho. Or Grian. Or anything, really. He’d like to leave now. “What do you care?”

Martyn cracks a half-smile. “Remember how it’s literally my job to care?”

Scar scoffs without entirely intending to. “Right.”

“That didn’t sound quite like you believed me,” Martyn says, half-smile growing slightly. Maybe a three-quarters smile. 

Scar shrugs. He believes Martyn, sure. Martyn’s probably great at his job. Scar used to, until a couple weeks ago, think there was absolutely nothing wrong with him—just another bored teenager barely passing school. It has occurred to him recently, along with the purposeful-accidental theft and the slowly growing pit in his stomach, that maybe whatever’s wrong with him is just not something Martyn can do anything about.

“That’s fine,” Martyn tells him and he genuinely doesn’t sound upset. So that’s the first interaction Scar hasn’t ruined today. “Do you have any updates on the coping mechanisms we talked about last week?”

Scar does not. Or, not ones he wants to share.

He still has the chocolate bar from Wednesday in his backpack. He hasn’t eaten it because he doesn’t even like that kind of chocolate, and Grian’s getting too suspicious to accept Scar’s random shoplifted gifts. Bdubs isn’t accepting gifts from Scar, period, although he doesn’t seem suspicious.

“Scar? Are you alright?”

Scar nods once, tensely. He doesn’t trust himself to speak at the moment, concerned the sudden lump in his throat would make itself known. Even if he wanted to speak he doesn’t feel like he can get a full breath in.

“Hey, can you look at me?” Martyn’s lowered his voice into a mockery of concern, like he’s soothing a horse.

Scar wants to get out of Martyn’s office. He wants—he isn’t sure what he wants.

He wants Etho gone. He wants Bdubs to love him again. He wants Jimmy back from college. He wants to lose himself in the sound and feel of a spray paint can. He wants the rush of shoplifting. He wants to not want the rush of shoplifting. He wants to be a kid again.

“I’m fine,” he bites out, blinking furiously. 

This is not the place to be overwhelmed, he silently begs. This should wait—can wait—until he’s alone. He’d take breaking down around Grian, even, who’d stiffly pat him on the shoulder and then pretend it didn’t happen. Just not Martyn. Not right now.

He doesn’t appear to have much of a choice in the matter. 

“Scar, it’s okay,” Martyn says, although Scar can barely hear over his heartbeat in his ears. “You can cry if you need to.”

He doesn’t need to. He doesn’t even want to, he just is. He tries to tell Marytn again that he’s fine and this time the words don’t quite come out.

Chapter Text

Scar is crying in Martyn’s office. It’s far from the first time Martyn’s seen a student cry, or even the first time Martyn’s seen a student cry while clearly trying not to, but he’s still a bit surprised. Scar’d seemed upset when he walked in, but this was sudden.

The way that Scar’s whole body is tense, braced against the chair, looks almost painful. His knuckles are white locked around the arms of the chair, his chest hitches with each shallow breath.

Martyn stands, making sure not to make any sudden movements. “Scar, I need you to breathe, okay? I’m coming to sit next to you.” He always makes sure to have extra chairs on the student side of his desk for times like this, or meeting with multiple people, and he lifts one to set it close to Scar.

Scar’s breathing a little more deeply now, losing his fight not to cry.

“I’m right here,” Martyn assures him. “Let it out, you’ll be alright. I’m right here if you need me.”

If Scar hears him, he doesn’t respond. 

Scar cries quietly, eyes closed, audibly struggling with his breath, without acknowledging Martyn. 

Martyn doesn’t mind. The majority of his job is patience, really. 

When Scar’s calmer, breath still hiccupping but his eyes open and trained on the carpet, the first thing he says is, “I—I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize.” Scar nods once in passive acknowledgement. “So can we talk about that?”

“I’d really—really rather not.”

“Why not?”

“I’d rather not,” Scar repeats. 

“Why not?”

Scar’s quiet for a long moment, his breath evening out. “It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing, okay?”

“That didn’t really look like nothing.”

Scar shoots him an annoyed look somewhat undermined by his face still being wet. “I’m just stressed. I said I’m sorry.”

“Okay. Do you feel a little better now?”

Scar starts to give him another look, then stops and says, “Maybe a little.” 

“That’s good to hear. So what’s got you stressed, then?” Martyn tries again.

Scar tries to sigh, chest hitching again. “Everything. I said it didn’t matter.”

“I think it does matter,” Martyn insists gently. 

Scar chews on his lip for a moment, looking into space, then says, “I’m pretty good at English class now.”

Martyn can’t check his puzzled reaction, but he gives Scar space to go on.

“I mean, I don’t need Pearl for the classwork now,” he continues. “So I think Pearl’s a little mad. I dunno, I want to keep seeing her even though I know I’m wasting her time.”

“I’m hearing that you don’t want to stop going to tutoring, even though you don’t need as much anymore. Is that right?” Scar needs to be met where he is, not pushed about whatever else is obviously going on. 

Scar nods miserably. 

“Why is that?” Martyn prompts after it becomes clear Scar won’t elaborate on his own. 

Scar mumbles something. Martyn stays quiet and Scar repeats himself louder. “I don’t know.” He hesitates for a long moment, tears welling again. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

Some part of Martyn chills. “Why do you say that?”

“I—I can’t control myself sometimes, I don—don’t love Etho, I’m barely gonna graduate, I—” Scar’s hands shake for a moment before he clenches them around the arms of his chair again. “I’m just broken.”  

“Hey,” Martyn says. “You’re not broken. We can work this out, okay?”

“You can’t fix me,” Scar bites out quietly. “I’m not sick.”

Martyn wonders briefly at the contrast in Scar’s mind between sick and broken. “You’re right. You’re the only one who can fix things for yourself. But I’m here to help, right? To help you know what to do.”

Scar seems to really consider that for a minute. “Huh,” he says finally. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” Scar repeats even though his voice shakes. “Okay, I’ll try. Help me know what to do.”

Martyn takes a breath, making sure he’s ready before speaking. “Thank you, Scar. I know that takes a lot of courage to ask. Right now, just in this moment, are you looking for solutions or a listening ear?”

Scar shakes his head and immediately answers, “Solutions. Just… solutions.”

“Okay, I hear that. I think that to make things less overwhelming, you could start with the problem that feels the biggest. We’ll talk about it, plan some steps you can take, and then everything else will feel easier. Does that sound good to you?”

Scar nods and is quiet for a bit, taking deep breaths and looking like he’s thinking something through. “I lied to Mom about… the graffiti thing,” he says at last. “That’s the most important thing.”

Martyn nods. “Tell me more about that, then.”

Scar takes one more shuddering deep breath. “You know I’m not… a good student, right? So, a couple years ago I figured out that the school let you update your contact information, so I made my own email the parent contact. No big deal, right? She doesn’t bother me about grades anymore. But now it’s kind of… she thinks I’m going to Grian’s after school and I feel bad. I don’t know, I just feel bad. She gives me such a look sometimes, when she thinks I’m not looking, like this sad, confused look.” He hesitates, then with a glance at Martyn goes on. “She said she never knew what Etho was thinking. I don’t wanna be like Etho.”

Martyn nods. “You don’t want to be unreliable like your dad was.”

“Right.”

“And it sounds like you feel that you’ve crossed the line from self-preservation to being unreliable, and it’s creating distance between you and your mom.”

Scar winces and nods. 

“Okay. That sounds like a difficult spot to be in, definitely.” Even if Scar wants solutions, Martyn gets the feeling that he could use the supportive listening it doesn’t seem like he usually gets. “Let’s think. What kind of person do you want to be with your mom?”

Scar shrugs. “Reliable? I want her to trust me, I guess. I don’t wanna be like Etho.”

“ ‘Not like Etho isn’t really a character trait,” Martyn points out. 

“Whatever,” Scar sighs. “Trustworthy.”

“Okay, that’s good. So we wanna take steps towards acting like that, right, and it’ll become more natural the longer you do it.”

Scar casts him a suspicious look. “Isn’t that just lying?”

Martyn can’t help laughing. “Not really. Lying would be, like… if you pretended to be honest and reliable around your mom, but not with anyone else, or if you were still hiding things while saying you were more honest. Hopefully, you’ll agree that you can learn a new habit, like talking to your mom about grades and school, and it’ll be a real habit or pattern, not something you’re pretending.”

“So you pretend until it becomes real?”

“I guess?” Whatever simplification floats Scar’s boat, Martyn supposes.

“How about that,” Scar says quietly. “You’re saying if I want to be reliable for Mom, I have to start by not lying to her.”

“Pretty much,” Martyn agrees. “And telling her about the deal and where you are.”

“Right.” Scar lets out a breath. “That sounds hard.”

“It does.”

“I… the whole point is not to upset Mom, but now I gotta tell her why she should be upset?”

Martyn shrugs. “I mean, it’s up to you. But you told me that you feel guilty about lying, right? And that’s a good thing, it means you have compassion and empathy. But it also means that keeping up the lie will only make you feel worse.”

“I know,” Scar mutters. “I know. It’s just hard.”

“That’s okay,” Martyn assures him. “Do you have a plan, or do you want help making one?”

Scar takes a moment, scrubbing at his now-drying face with one hand. “Is there that much to plan? I just need to… talk to Mom.” He makes a face. “Maybe Saturday. So she won’t be busy with work.”

“That sounds smart to me.”

Scar nods. He’s only met Martyn’s eyes once or twice since he came in here today, and he keeps his gaze on his feet now. 

“I’m gonna hold you accountable for this, okay?” Martyn says gently. “I know I don’t see you until Thursday, but I wanna hear about how the conversation went then. I’m not gonna let you back out on yourself.”

Scar nods, but doesn’t answer until a beat later, when he half-whispers, “So what if it doesn’t work?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if I don’t feel any better, or it turns out that I’m even more like Etho for throwing this at her? What if it doesn’t work?”

“Then you and I try another method,” Martyn answers. “I’m not going to give up, okay? You’re not broken, and we’re gonna work things out. And, for the record? Your mom is supposed to support you when things are hard. That’s her job. So you aren’t messing up by letting her in.”

Scar glances up, something mysterious but hopeful in his eyes. “Thanks, Martyn,” he says after a moment. 

“It’s my job, Scar. We still have some time,” he points out. “Anything else on your mind?”

Scar grits his teeth. 

Martyn gives Scar space and time, shifting back in his chair. Eventually Scar will say something, whether one of his odd conversational distractions or one of his surprisingly vulnerable questions. Martyn decides he’ll roll with whatever Scar comes up with. If what Scar needs is a lighthearted topic or something he feels in control of, Martyn isn’t gonna push him any further today. 

“You said you can change how you act by practicing something new,” Scar says finally. 

“Right, yeah.”

Scar swallows. “How?”

“Like you said, practice. Making little changes, then once the little change is easier, you make another little change. Taking baby steps towards where you want to be.”

“What if you don’t mean to?”

“Sorry, what?”

Scar’s jaw is still set, his words forming around the tension. “What if you don’t mean to but you can’t stop yourself? How does a little change help?”

“Is this about your mom, or something else?”

Scar doesn’t answer, practically staring a hole in the carpet. 

“I can’t really answer this without more detail, Scar.”

Silence.

“What kind of thing are you talking about? That you can’t control?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Scar mutters. “Never mind.”

“Scar, I need to know if you’re in danger.” This is the same red-flag feeling of last week when Scar shut down about coping mechanisms. Scar’s never struck Martyn as concerned about covering up or hiding his skin, but Martyn knows that doesn’t mean much and it’s practically winter anyway.

“I’m not in danger,” Scar answers bitterly. “Okay? Not… well, not physically. I don’t think.” Martyn must show how not reassuring that is, because Scar shoots him a look. “It’s none of your business.”

“You brought it up,” Martyn points out. “If you want me to help, I have to understand.”

“I said never mind. It’s… fine.”

“You don’t seem like it’s fine. It’s okay. If no one’s in danger, I can’t even tell anyone, remember?”

“Can I go home?” Scar asks, suddenly petulant. “I’m tired.”

“Are you sure you want to leave now?”

Scar nods, one hand drifting to the strap of his backpack.

They’re almost at the end of the session, and Martyn doesn’t want to jeopardize Scar’s growing trust. “Okay, then. Just this once, alright? It’s been good to see you, Scar.”

“Right,” Scar replies sarcastically as he stands, then hesitates. “I’ll talk to Mom. I will.”

“That takes a lot of strength even to decide,” Martyn tells him. “I’m proud of you.”

Chapter Text

Scar’s been down all week. Cleo’s let it be, mostly, other than trying to spend time with him when Etho’s with Bdubs. He’s never been very forthcoming about his feelings, other than meaningless opinions. 

Midmorning on Sunday, one of Bdubs’ classmates comes to pick him up to hang out. He’s a polite young man with a clear penchant for chaos, like most of Bdubs’ friends, and he’s adorably shy asking Cleo if Bdubs is ready to go.

Cleo calls Bdubs out from his room, and it turns out he is ready. After a moment’s hesitation at the door, he even darts back to hug her for a split second. 

She takes a moment, once the door is closed, to just breathe. Between work, the boys, and now more scheduling with Etho, she hasn’t gotten much time for that lately. 

She turns around, and Scar is lurking at the boundary of the hallway, watching.

“Scar?” she asks, trying to hide how startled she is. “Are you okay?”

“I’m… fine,” he answers. He seems nervous, on edge. “Are you?”

“Of course I’m fine. What’s going on? You don’t look well.”

Scar’s quiet for too long. “Do you have a minute?”

“Always. Come on, sit down.” Cleo moves to the couch and pats the space next to her. 

Scar sits gingerly on the far side of the couch. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi?”

Scar bounces one knee rapidly, incessantly, not looking at Cleo.

“Scar?”

“I almost got suspended,” he says suddenly, too loud and too fast.

“Sorry, what? Did I hear that right?”

“I almost got suspended,” Scar repeats. His voice shakes, just a little, but Cleo can hear it. 

Cleo tries not to sound too confused or upset. “So when was this? Why didn’t I hear about it from school?”

Scar takes a shaky breath. “Like, maybe six weeks ago now? I… you didn’t see because all the school emails go to me.”

That… doesn’t sound good. But Scar looks like he’s about to be sentenced to death, and Cleo figures they have time. She can start with more basic information. “Why did you almost get suspended?”

“I may or may not have painted most of the boys’ locker room without permission?”

“Right.” Honestly, of all the things Scar might have said, this is one of the least troubling. 

“So,” Scar continues before Cleo can say anything else, “since I’m kind of a troublemaker, the admins wanted to suspend me. But Scott, my counselor, made a… deal. I go to tutoring, I see the school psychologist, I don’t get suspended.” He delivers this little speech as if he’s practiced it, his face set and stony. 

“I… have a lot of questions,” Cleo says after a moment. “So explain a little more, okay? I’m trying to understand.” 

Scar nods. Cleo can see now that he’s fighting tears from the gleam of his eyes and the way his throat works when he’s not speaking. “I didn’t want to upset you,” he says first. “When my grades were bad freshman year you got so disappointed and it just felt awful, and you have enough on your plate anyway. I thought I could handle everything.” He hesitates. “I’m not… doing great in school. But Pearl’s really helping, okay?”

“Who’s Pearl?”

“Oh—the English tutor. She’s really nice, you’d love her.” Scar gives Cleo a watery smile. “I have a B+ in English now and I barely need her help anymore.”

“Okay.” Scar seems really almost proud of the grade, and that’s enough for Cleo to also be proud of it. “You mentioned a school psychologist?”

“Yeah.” The bit of joy slips from Scar’s expression. “That’s the other thing. He’s… fine, I guess. We meet for forty-five minutes after school on Thursdays.”

The mention of the appointment time is part of what finally makes it click for Cleo: she had thought Scar was spending even more time with Grian, Joel had mentioned seeing less of him. Scar’s been at tutoring and seeing a psychologist at school, and no one knew where he was. That’s a little frightening, if Cleo’s being honest. She knows Scar’s safe at school, but she and Joel had had no idea where he was, and it could’ve been much worse. Cleo takes a deep breath. “Thank you for telling me,” she starts. “I know it was hard.”

“Are you mad?” Scar asks, voice still shaky.

“I don’t really know yet,” Cleo admits. “I’ll let you know. Mostly, I’m worried about you, okay?”

“Really?”

“Of course. You’ve been so distant lately, and now your counselor says you need to see the school psychologist?”

“I kind of do,” Scar says quietly.

Cleo nods. “That’s okay.” Every so often, she’s wondered if her boys should at least talk to a therapist. Just for them being teenagers, Etho being absent, Cleo’s family’s history with mental health. Apparently, the answer was yes. “Do you want to tell me why that is?”

Scar hesitates. “Not right now? If that’s okay.”

“That’s fine,” Cleo assures him. “You don’t have to if you’re not ready.”

“He told me to talk to you, though,” Scar volunteers, almost interrupting Cleo. “I want to be more trustworthy to you.” While Cleo’s still trying to formulate a response, he adds, “I don’t wanna be like Etho.”

“Oh, honey, you’re not like Etho,” Cleo says without thinking. “I know that you wouldn’t abandon us, no matter how hard things get for you. And aren’t responsible for us like Etho should have been, okay? You’re Bdubs’ big brother, but you’re not his dad, and you’re definitely not my husband. I’m responsible for you and Bdubs, not the other way around.”

“I’m a little bit responsible for him,” Scar protests.

“A little. But not nearly as much as Etho was, right?”

“Okay.” Scar’s still on the other side of the couch, elbows on his knees, not quite turned towards Cleo. “Thank you. I’m sorry, Mom.”

“I know, Scar. I can tell.” A large part of her is thinking there’d be no point in trying to lecture or punish him over any of this—lying about grades, the near-suspension, all of it. Scar’s already making himself feel worse about it that she ever could. “I’m worried about you, and I’m a little scared that Joel and I had no idea you were lying to both of us about where you were for so long. But I can tell you feel terrible about it, and I’m proud of you for wanting to fix things. So we’re gonna work together to fix things, okay?”

“Okay,” Scar agrees. “I love you,” he adds quietly.

Cleo can’t help smiling at him. “I love you too.”

She walks into Joel’s apartment just as Grian’s leaving. Grian gives her a bright smile and wave, but she can see a question in his eyes. Which is fair enough, she supposes. She didn’t explain much to Joel over text, just that she wanted to talk with him without the kids around. 

Inside, Joel’s on the couch and waves as well. “Hey, Cleo.”

“Hey Joel. Thanks for chatting on such short notice.” She’d texted him Sunday night to ask if she could come over Monday afternoon. 

“Anytime.” He shrugs, then gives her a look. “Although honestly I’m a little terrified. Just a bit. ‘Can we talk without the boys ASAP’ isn’t a comforting text to get.”

“I’m sorry,” Cleo laughs. “I see how I could’ve been less mysterious.”

“I’m used to it by now. Is it Etho?”

“Surprisingly, no.” Cleo settles on the couch next to him. “It’s Scar.”

“Shit, is he okay?”

Cleo sighs. “I’m not really sure.”

Joel nods, all joking gone from his demeanor. “Okay, explain.”

Cleo takes a moment to gather her thoughts. “He almost got suspended, but his counselor agreed that if he went to tutoring and the school psychologist, he could avoid it.” She pauses. “This was six weeks ago.”

“What?”

“I know. Apparently, all the school emails have been going to him for quite a while now.”

“So has he been doing this?”

“Yeah. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays after school and he just didn’t tell anyone.”

Joel frowns. “Grian probably knew.”

“Probably,” Cleo agrees. “He’s no snitch.”

“I don’t know if I’m proud or disappointed.”

“Me neither, actually.”

“Sorry, I should focus. So Scar’s having trouble with this?”

“Not with it, but it’s kind of a sign that he’s struggling. He said he thinks he does need the psychologist.”

Joel nods. “Did he tell you, or did you just find out?”

“He told me,” Cleo answers. “Part of the psychologist thing, I think. He wants to be more trustworthy, so he told me.”

“That’s good, at least.”

Cleo makes an agreeing sound. “Right. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you because clearly something went wrong with keeping track of Scar if this has been going on for six weeks.”

“Oh—yeah, that’s a good point. I thought he was just staying home, or, like being really quiet with Grian.”

“And I thought he was at your place.”

Joel winces. “Not a good look for us.”

“Definitely not. I’m trying to keep a closer eye on him, at least for now. I’m enlisting your help.”

“Yeah, sure. What can I do?”

“I’ve asked Scar to text me where he is after school, right? If you could try to keep track when he’s over here so I can check if I need to, that’d be great. And he’s supposed to stay after school Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, so those days he shouldn’t show up until after four if he goes over here. I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Got it. Should I, like, let you know when he’s over here, or…?”

“Nah, it’s fine. I just want to be sure we can confirm whether or not he’s here with Grian.”

“Okay, yeah,” Joel agrees. “I can definitely do that.” He pauses, glancing at Cleo. “So what’d he do to get suspended? Or is that none of my business?”

Cleo shrugs. “Some kind of large-scale graffiti in the boys’ locker room. He didn’t have pictures, but he said he covered most of the lockers and part of the floor. I can see why the school got mad.”

For a moment, Joel gives her an odd look, but he blinks and it’s gone. “And they wanted to suspend him over that?”

“You know he kind of has a history.” Scar’s grades were never stellar, but his freshman year he started getting in trouble and pretty much stopped trying. Cleo had assumed that the next year he’d cleaned up some, even though his report cards still came home low enough that she had to sign them, because the school had stopped emailing to bother her about it. Now she wishes she had looked more closely. “He’s working on his grades, though. Tutoring does seem like it’s working.”

Joel nods. “Good to hear, I guess. Oh, should I tell Grian that I’m supposed to keep an eye out for Scar?”

“If you want.” Cleo shrugs again. “Like you said, I’m sure he already knows about the whole thing. It’s up to you.”

“Eh, I’ll decide later,” Joel says. “So you’re alright, then? That’s all you wanted to say?”

“Pretty much. I’m still kind of processing,” Cleo admits. “Got the school emails back, and Scar’s failing math.”

Joel sighs. “Right.”

“And I’m fine, yeah. Just… you know how it is.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Chapter Text

Another Tuesday, another session with Scar. Pearl flips through her folder for the last draft he gave her as she waits for him. 

It’s decent, and Pearl’s confident at this point that he’s touched it up for today. At some point, she realizes, she went from dreading Scar to looking forward to him. When she doesn’t have to fight for him to focus, his snark is funny, charming. 

Plus, he’s usually on time now. 

“Pearl!”

Pearl winces at his volume. That’s one of the remaining Scar problems: he can’t seem to remember to be quiet in the library on his own. 

“We’ve been over this, Scar,” she tells him. 

“Sorry,” he stage-whispers. “Hi, Pearl.”

“Hi, Scar.”

He sits next to her. “Draft,” he announces, setting a couple pages on the table between them. “How are you, Pearl?”

Pearl shrugs. “I’m fine. Oh, hey,” she adds, remembering something. “I noticed you’re not on my schedule for Friday this week. Should I try to get you back on it?”

Scar’s grin falters. “No, that’s right.”

Pearl blinks and then gets it. “Last session, then.”

“If you’re not mad?” Scar shrugs nervously. 

“I’m not mad; you’re plenty ready. You’re probably glad to be free of your deal, right?”

“I dunno.” Scar hesitates. “You’re nice. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too,” Pearl offers, even though she can tell she doesn’t mean it the same way. She just means she’ll miss his jokes and turns of phrase, maybe occasionally wonder what he would say about something. He’s giving her this earnest, slightly sad look, and she thinks she meant more to him than she realized. She pauses. “I bet we have time, and you look like you wanna talk.”

Scar nods with a wry smile. “I don’t want to stop tutoring, but I think it’s right, y’know? You just said I’m ready and I feel okay about the class now. My English grade is pretty good, my business elective grade is kinda getting pulled up with it. Everything else is still kind of terrifying, though.”

“Like, your other classes?”

“Yeah. Even when things make sense—which is not often, trust me—it seems like too much.” He shrugs. “This is more a Martyn thing than a you thing, sorry. I should probably save this for him.”

“I’m not nearly as qualified as Martyn, but I can still chat,” Pearl tells him. “But it’s fine if you’re not comfortable, your call.”

“Thanks. I think where I was going with that was that I’m not really free of the deal? Well, I think I could be, but I’m deciding to stay in it. I’m gonna try to catch up in math next.” He makes a face as he says it, a look of dread that Pearl knows well from her own math classes. 

Pearl nods. “Out of the frying pan, into the fire.”

“Right,” Scar laughs. “I’m thinking, like… math is everywhere, right? English helped some of my other subjects, and I bet math will be like that too.”

“Yeah, makes sense to me,” Pearl agrees. “You’re a senior this year, right?”

“Yep.”

“Will I see you back later for college app essays, then?”

“I don’t know,” Scar admits. “Maybe? I haven’t really had a plan for the future in… a long time. My grades and test scores kinda suck. But maybe.”

Pearl nods. “Let me know, okay? I’d be happy to help.”

“I will,” Scar promises.

“Okay, now I think we’re actually risking running out of time,” Pearl points out, glancing at a wall clock. “So let’s look at that draft.”

Grian knocks at Scar’s door and then taps his foot on the floor, waiting impatiently. 

After a too-long moment, Bdubs answers the door and immediately gives Grian a sour look. “We’re in the middle of something,” he declares. “Sorry.”

“Oh, come on,” Grian complains. “All of you?”

“All of us.”

“No, we’re not,” Scar calls from inside. “What’s going on, Grian?”

Around Bdubs, Grian calls, “C’mon, Scar, we’re going out.”

“We are?”

Scar approaches the door behind Bdubs and opens it wider. He grins when he spots the paint bag over Grian’s shoulder. “Right, of course. Sorry, Mom, we’re going out.”

Bdubs gives Scar an annoyed look, then turns it beyond him into the apartment. Now that the door’s open, Grian can see that the kitchen table has some kind of game board on it, and both Cleo and Etho are sitting at it.

“You can’t go out,” Bdubs tells Grian. “We’re playing a game. A train game.”

“You mean I’m beating you all at a train game,” Scar corrects. “By a long shot.”

“Whatever. Mom, tell him he can’t leave.”

Everyone turns their gazes to Cleo. Including, Grian notices, Etho, who seems to also be conveniently avoiding Scar and Grian’s looks.

Cleo shares a brief glance with Etho and sighs. “Be back for dinner, okay? Six o’clock sharp. Both of you got that?”

“Yes ma’am,” Grian says, giving her a small salute. She returns him a raised eyebrow. 

“Thanks Mom! You can have all my trains,” Scar says.

“You can’t do that!” Bdubs exclaims.

“I’m gonna have to agree with Bdubs,” Etho adds. Grian’s only seen him a few times, and apparently he’s quiet, so it still startles Grian every time he talks. “You can’t give someone else your tracks.”

Scar, his back turned to Etho, rolls his eyes. “Too late, I gave her my trains.”

“I don’t think you can do that,” Cleo tells him. “Sorry. We should probably just clear his pieces from the board,” she adds to Etho and Bdubs. 

“Okay, yeah,” Etho agrees.

“What? Etho’s just saying that ‘cause I’m blocking all his routes, he’s biased,” Scar exclaims.

Etho shrugs and nods. 

“Come on, Scar,” Grian says. He’s not whining. He’s not, okay? He’s just… making his opinion known. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does,” Scar mutters.

“Okay, new rule,” Cleo says, “trains and tracks can’t be donated. Nobody can give anybody else any trains.”

Scar and Bdubs both roll their eyes now, but Scar nods. “Fine. Bye Mom, bye Bdubs, see you at dinner.”

“Say goodbye to Dad,” Bdubs tells him, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Scar hesitates. “Bye, Etho. See you at dinner.”

“Bye, Scar,” Etho replies.

Scar turns and joins Grian in the hallway quickly, closing the door behind him. “Sorry.”

“Etho’s staying for dinner?” Grian asks.

“I guess.” Scar shrugs. “Mom says he can.”

“Huh.”

“I know. So why are we going out?”

Grian gestures to the paint bag. “Because it’s been forever? I don’t think you’ve been painting since you ratted yourself out to Cleo. It’s not as fun without you.”

“Why thank you,” Scar replies. “Ooh, how about that garage wall by the hotel? I think it got cleaned a couple days ago, so it might still be empty.”

“That one gets cleaned, like, every week,” Grian argues. “Nothing will last.”

“C’mon, that’s half the fun! Any artist worth anything paints that wall.”

“Only if we work together on it,” Grian allows. “Okay?”

“Okay! I’m seeing a flock of birds taking off, you?”

Grian nods. This is clear pandering, but he’ll take it. “I can work with that.” He hesitates. “I think I’m running low on my blue, though. Do you mind if we drop by the store first so I can get another can?”

Scar’s quiet for a long moment. Grian looks at him as they walk, almost worried. Scar’s been in a weird low mood off and on for a while now, but he’s still almost never silent. 

“Can I wait outside while you do that?”

“Sure? Are you feeling okay?”

Scar gives him a smile. “It’s just such a nice day, right? I don’t want to miss it.”

Something about that doesn’t ring true. “Are you sure you feel okay?”

Scar’s smile softens, more genuine but less cheerful. “I’d rather not go into the store, Grian. Can you just humor me?”

It’s not really Grian’s business, he decides, especially if Scar’s still willing to paint with him. “Yeah, okay.”

“Thank you.” Scar looks at his watch and frowns. “Actually, I’ll just go to the wall, okay? Don’t want to run out of time or get in trouble.”

Grian doesn’t think it’s that big a deal if they’re late getting home. Whatever, though. Scar’s just weird sometimes. Grian nods agreement to the plan. 

Grian leaves the paints with Scar, and by the time he’s gotten the new blue and reached the alley wall they’re painting, Scar’s already gotten the general outlines of some birds. 

“Hey!” Scar greets. “What’d’ya think?”

“Pretty neat so far,” Grian agrees. “Are the red ones meant for me?” Most of Scar’s wing edges and outlines are his usual black or white base, but some are in Grian’s red, perhaps to be easily meshed into a lineless style. 

“Yeah, sure. I mean, you can have any you want, but those ones are for you.” 

Grian nods and takes fuller stock of the wall. Against the flat gray concrete Scar’s started a flock of birds taking off, ranging from mostly seated on one side to fully in flight on the other. Grian thinks he gets the vision. He picks up the red and gets started.

A reason this wall gets painted and cleaned so often is that it’s tucked back enough that only pedestrians can see it from the street, but hotel guests going to certain areas of the city have to walk past it. They’re unlikely to get caught, but it’s not impossible. Grian and Scar work quickly and quietly, and keep the spray paints either in their hands or the bag. 

Scar’s still working for a moment after Grian stops, putting the final feathers on a deep red wing. 

“Sorry,” Scar says when he looks up. 

“Don’t be. You ready?”

“Yeah, I think so. You?”

“Yep. Wanna sign it?”

“Always.”

Scar grabs the maroon and Grian grabs the red for simplified tags off to the side of the wall. 

Birdie. 

Goodtimes. 

The letters fit together naturally despite their different styles, claiming the similarly blended mural. For as long as it lasts, Grian for one thinks it’s a job well done.