Archive of Our Own

It was a while ago when Mumbo confronted him about it.

“You do this thing,” Mumbo began awkwardly, eyes off to the side and fingers caught in nervous tangles. “Where when you get worried, you start stalking people. It makes me worried.”

“I don’t stalk people,” Grian denied immediately.

“Oh, well, that’s good,” Mumbo said in a rush. “But uh, I really think you do. The last time I fell off a flying machine, I caught you picking the window to my base no less than seven times while I was recovering from a broken leg.”

“I was just checking in on you,” Grian stressed. “Something any good neighbour would do.”

“And when you followed Iskall around without blinking for a whole week after the potato incident?”

“Crowd watching. Everyone does it.”

“Grian,” Mumbo said. “I really think this might be stalking.”

That conversation had taken place months ago, riddled with denials and excuses and threats of an intervention. Grian didn’t stalk people. He got worried sometimes, and a little clingy, but he could respect boundaries.

Except Mumbo might actually have a point.

Grian shifted slightly, his talons digging deep into soft pine wood. His wings, concealed with magic, remained tightly flattened to his back beneath his elytra, which flared out for balance. He was crouched on the sturdy branch of a tree outside Scar’s base, staring unblinkingly at the windows. He’d been there for the last few hours, joints stiff and cold, tracing Scar’s path as he manoeuvred through his bedtime routine. Until all the lights flicked out, and there was just the darkness and the mellow shine of the torches Grian had scattered across the lawn in previous nights.

This… This might actually count as stalking.

But that would mean Mumbo was right, which was a horrible thought to entertain. The mere echo of Mumbo’s concerned voice became pure raw motivation to perpetuate this behaviour out of spite, because what else was he supposed to be doing?

Was he supposed to linger on the deaths of his friends and the way blood and ash stained his hands? Be haunted by the sand grains, tucked beneath his nails and itching his skin, bitter and red in the sun? Feel the ghostly echo of lips against his own, that no longer remembered they loved him?

No, Grian was going to be a good neighbour and check up on his friend and maybe crowd watch for a bit, and Mumbo could get off his case about it.

Except Grian couldn’t see Scar from this angle anymore, and that was the more pressing issue.

He leaned from side to side, then shifted up, trying to see past the sheen of dark windows, but he couldn’t discern even a corner of Scar’s bed. It encouraged him to let his elytra unfold, the metal wings extending while his own remained tucked away. It was bulky, uncomfortable, and nowhere near as silent and as graceful as he could be without it, but-

Don’t think about it.

Grian eased himself into a more precarious crouch, then pushed forward and dropped, letting the wind hiss through the contraption on his back, smoothly catching the air with enough momentum to bring him up from the dip. His talons scratched briefly at the window frame, leaving faint scars, but they found purchase and he was able to settle, balanced on the thin ledge. It left him pushed up against the glass, tucked neatly against its neater curvature, and also left him with a clear view of Scar, who was nothing but a lump in his own bed, sleeping soundly.

And for a while, that was enough.

Something in Grian settled, to be in a good position to watch. A familiar arrangement, with Scar safe inside the base and himself outside, eyes occasionally scanning the forest for movement, for monsters and players- No, just for monsters. There were only monsters now.

Not many, because Grian had spent the better part of the last week surreptitiously adding more torches to Scar’s lawn during the night, but enough to tell Grian it hadn’t been a thorough enough job.

His bow was light and quick in his hands as he drew it up, fired, killed, and settled again.

Scar slept on.

Grian spared him the occasional stare, perhaps with too-wide, too-unblinking eyes, but it was just to check he was still okay. Breathing softly, curled around a pillow, blanket drawn to his ears. Better than a cot and desert sandstone at least. Here, he was warm at night and cool in the day, and he could die and it would be- be alright.

The worst part about getting caught in a death game, Grian found, was the aftermath. Was the bit where memories slipped away from everyone else like grains of pale sand, leaving only the winner haunted. Was the part where there was paranoia in his bloodstream, seeping into his cells, bitter and cloying.

His wings itched.

Don’t think about it.

He remained poised, watching, until the hour mark, when the thin perch was finally starting to get cramped. His talons ached from digging in, and his legs trembled from the precarious balance. It was getting colder, and the familiar burn of it threatened to make his muscles seize. Right, time for a change of scenery then.

He glanced at Scar for one last moment, tracing the faint outline of every breath and carefully cataloguing it, then turned and pushed off the glass. His elytra slid out sinuously, catching the wind, and his wings ached to do the same. He used the dive to get momentum up, circling Scar’s base, searching for-

“Shut up Mumbo,” Grian said with particular vehemence, as his eyes caught on polished wood and a metal handle and a welcome mat. Caught, and couldn’t look away. Not until he was twisting in that direction, his landing as silent as his flight, leaving him on the platform before the front door to Scar’s base.

He stepped forward, felt his heart pick up, and took two steps back, but could go no further. He glanced at the dark pine trees that would offer a solid perch and a good view, thought about the thin window ledge and watching Scar in the dark, then turned back to stare at the door. There would be warmth behind it, warmth and familiarity and Scar-

“Shut up,” Grian repeated, though Mumbo was definitely asleep in his own bed, in his own base, at a reasonable hour like some sort of well-adjusted person. “This isn’t stalking. This is- is tactical information gathering. I’m checking on him, like any good neighbour, it’s not stalk- Aha!”

The simple cursory lock on Scar’s door clicked beneath his pins. The handle clicked louder when he tried it, and the door swung open beneath his touch. Void, he was probably a terrible person, but that didn’t stop him from slipping inside, closing the door softly behind him.

In the dark interior, he could make out the outline of shelves and chests crammed into the space, different halls leading further in. Storage for wares, as was fitting of a businessman. Grian blinked, letting his eyes open further, until it was easier to see in the dark. Then he went through the careful business of picking his way past the shelves and the haphazardly placed items. Each step was soundless, smooth against the floorboards, both his wings and his elytra neatly folded against his back.

There was movement in his periphery.

Grian froze, eyes glowing, as a different set of eyes stared back at him. Yellow, slitted, blinking very slowly. Oh. He and Jellie held a prolonged staring contest for a moment in Scar’s living room, before she gave a stretch and hopped off the couch tucked into one corner.

When she twisted against his legs, Grian responded, giving her a few scritches under her chin until she purred and wandered off, apparently sated. There would be no snitching tonight. Not that there was anything to snitch on, Grian’s actions being perfectly reasonable.

Cat appeased, he moved through the rest of the base with feather-light steps. It’d be easier to fit through the tight corridors without his elytra, but the paranoia of not having it for a quick escape immediately won over. Normally he would use his wings to fly, but-

Don’t think about it.

Oh.

Grian, in a culmination of all of tonight’s efforts, found himself standing in the doorway to Scar’s bedroom, watching.

The rise and fall of Scar’s chest was stark and vivid at this proximity, with nothing between them. He was turned away from the window, but towards the door, so Grian could see the slight flutter of his lashes and the scrunch of his nose between heavy breaths. Scar murmured, pulled the blanket further up to tuck his nose into, and something in Grian’s chest loosened, finally.

His shoulders eased from their tense position, his posture slouched, and a heavy exhale escaped his lips as his eyes closed for a blissful moment. The doorframe was hard and uncomfortable as he sagged against it, but suddenly he wasn’t sure he could stand. He couldn’t see Scar the best from the ground, but he could still see him, and that’s what mattered.

Even if there was a part of him that wanted to crawl closer, inch by inch, to hold Scar’s hand and press a finger to his pulse and listen to his chest for a thumping heartbeat.

But this residual warmth would have to be enough, even as his talons curled into the wood of the floor, leaving faint gouges. It caught up with him then, the sleepless nights, the paranoia, the fear that drove him to the far reaches of the server in the day and the trees outside Scar’s base at night. For a moment, he ceased to watch. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back and pressed the flats of his palms against his face.

This… This was stalking.

It was stupid, saying it wasn’t, but what else was he supposed to do? Turn his back, look away, leave alone the people he cared about? Let something bad happen to them, like he already did? He was aware of the things that watched from the dark and flitted in the void and they weren’t and it wasn’t fair and-

Scar’s skull had caved beneath his fist and-

Scar’s blood had soaked into his skin and-

Scar’s love had burrowed into his chest and-

Sun-warmed sand beneath his nails, persistent, bothering. Moon-cold nights outside a base, watching, waiting, untrusting. Sleepless hours, starving days, desperate touches. Stupid, stupid promises, infecting them.

It shackled Grian to the ground, kept him there, watching from the doorframe, silent and sleep-deprived. Scar’s chest rose and fell, over and over again, and it would never be enough.

Void, what… what was Grian even doing here? Why couldn’t he just- just leave it all alone. Spending every day avoiding Scar, desperately trying to pretend the death games never happened like everyone else could, and lingering outside windows at night.

It was stalking, Mumbo was incredibly right, but there wasn’t a damn thing Grian could do to stop-!

A brushing sensation. A near imperceptible prickle against the side of his leg, the weight of something moving-

-He already had his sword drawn and was on his feet before the purring registered. He stared down at the bright slitted eyes blinking slowly at him, unperturbed by the blade they were nearly cleaved by.

“Oh,” Grian said very hoarsely, very stupidly. “Sorry about that.”

“Meow,” Jellie meowed, twining her tail around his leg.

Grian relaxed minutely, sword tip dipping down as he sagged and huffed a tight breath. His heart was definitely going faster now than it had been a few moments ago, but that would pass. In the meantime he offered Jellie a weak and shaky smile, bending down to run his fingers through her fur.

That was of course, the same moment Jellie decided, apropos of nothing, to bolt, sprint across the width of the room with the grace and elegance of a beast possessed, and hurl herself onto the bed to land with a perfect impact on the soft, vulnerable flesh of Scar’s stomach.

“AUCK!” Scar horked, flailing out as his voice went sharp and wheezy, eyes nearly bulging at the impact. He was sitting up and doubling over instantly, opposing the deep sleep he’d been in a few seconds prior. “Jellie,” he gasped, “Jellie, baby girl, my beautiful Jellie. Why would you- Can you maybe be more polite the next time… you…”

Eyes flicked up, meeting Grian’s across the shadows and silence of the room, or rather, the gaze of a figure standing there menacingly with a sword.

“Fuck.”

The next part was a rapid, chaotic burst of movement beyond either of their comprehension. Scar went diving into his inventory, dumping half of it onto the floor in the process, and Grian, managing to fathom fuckall about the situation, twisted to run only for his elytra to get hooked on the doorframe, sending him careening to the floor, stunned, sword skidding from his grip and-

“Wait, Grian?”

Grian froze, even though he shouldn’t have. He should have kept going, got up and ran, out and into the night, as far as he could to the edges of the server. Instead, the sound of his name, spoken by that voice, by those lips, seized him there.

They were staring at each other, Grian sprawled on the floor and bruised, Scar half fallen out of bed with a leg still tangled in the blankets and a slightly dented diamond shovel held in self-defence. In the moonlight, his cheeks were flushed and chest heaving.

“…Grian?”

“No,” Grian said intelligently, and fled again.

“Wait!”

He actually made it all the way through the thin shelves, past overflowing chests, to the door with fingers latched around the handle, before a hand snatched his wrist. He twisted on instinct, breaking the grip, but remained captured nonetheless.

They were both breathing so heavily in the darkness of the room.

“Hey,” Scar managed, swallowing a wheezing inhale. “Don’t- Don’t go, just-“ He held up a finger while he doubled over, the blanket still wrapped around his ankle and trailing across the floor, the diamond shovel discarded behind him. “Did you- Did you come here for- Did you need something?”

Grian opened his mouth, because he knew how to lie and lie well, and wasn’t at all distracted by the lingering sharp ache Scar’s brief touch had caused. “Bread,” he said, like an absolute idiot. Right, fuck, time to double down. “I was just, uh, craving bread. Your bread. Specifically. Thought I’d raid your kitchen, like a good neighbour.”

“Ah yes, my kitchen,” Scar said with a flourish and a strained laugh. “Which is notoriously close to my bedroom.”

“I got lost.”

“It’s not a big base.”

“I was checking on you,” Grian stressed. “I thought you left your window open.”

“You were watching me sleep,” Scar said instead.

“I wasn’t- I just said I was checking-“

“How long were you standing there?”

“How about we stop talking for a little while?” Grian suggested, voice high and strained. “I was just- just checking. That’s it.”

“Checking on the windows,” Scar echoed then, and didn’t say anything after. Somewhere outside, a zombie moaned, and Scar shifted, rocking back on his heels, in thought. Grian watched him while hedging towards the door again, surreptitiously reaching for it- “Well, let’s get you that bread then.”

“...What?”

“The bread, the bread for Grian, my bread, now meant specifically for Grian,” Scar rambled, twisting on his heel. “You’ve gone and got me craving bread too. Come on, kitchen’s this way.”

Scar’s steps were stumbling, heavy things, as he took the lead, knocking into a shelf in his effort to kick off the blanket still clinging to his leg. Grian’s steps, when they drew forward, were hesitant, skittish things, too light against the floorboards. He didn’t know why he followed, why he committed to this charade instead of leaving, but maybe following Scar really was just instinct.

It was too much to hope that he could sink into this cardboard facsimile of everything being okay between them, but… Scar almost made cardboard into something stable, when he put his mind to it.

The kitchen was coated in mottled moonlight, showing off the dishes in the sink and stained glass detail of the cabinets. There was a table with room for two, with fresh flowers in a vase and notepads for building plans set to the side.

Scar strolled in with practised familiarity while Grian hesitated at the edges. He thought Scar might just toss a few loaves in a sack and hand them over, sending Grian on his merry way. Instead Scar sliced the bread, warmed it in the oven, buttered it and set two plates and mugs of tea down on the table. Grian remained in the threshold.

“I’m not staying,” he said finally, perhaps too late, now that the table was set for two
Scar hummed, focused on his work, a deliberate ease to the line of his mouth. “You’re going to fly back in the middle of the night then?

“Well… yeah.”

Scar stopped, turned to him. Considered him again. “Then I’ll be the one worrying, and I’ll have to fly over to your base and check on you and make sure your windows are closed. Maybe take some of your bread-“

“I don’t need the bread, Scar.“

“Well, there’s already bread here, ready to be eaten. No point in wasting it. Stay for a bit, G.”

Grian pursed his lips, but the tea was poured and the bread was sliced and warmed and buttered, and Scar was standing by his own chair, waiting.

“Just for a bit,” Grian acquiesced. “I’m flying back tonight.”

“Of course,” Scar said.

What a caricature of normalcy the two of them must make.

Grian drew himself into the room with wary reluctance, finally moving from the threshold to take a seat across. Scar, apparently, wasn’t going to acknowledge the awkwardness of it all, as he started crunching on toasted bread and sipping tea. Grian opted for picking at the bread, every now and then sticking a small piece in his mouth, but mostly he just felt nauseous. He watched Scar, and didn’t know how to do anything else.

Scar was always the one that spoke for the both of them in that game. So it was when crumbs were left and the tea was dredges, that Scar fulfilled that role. Traced the edge of his cup with his finger, so both their eyes followed it. “Hey Grian, I don’t know how else to ask this, but did I… do something wrong?”

Grian froze, bread crumbs caught beneath his nails like sand. “No? No, of course not,” he said quickly, once he could.

“Good, that’s good,” Scar said idly. “So it’s just my imagination that you haven’t been around.”

“What?”

A sigh. “You, ah, haven’t been around much, these past few weeks. Some of us hermits were starting to worry. Mumbo even came by to see if I’d seen you.”

“I’m just- busy,” Grian said, the lie bitter and tasteless on his tongue.

“New project?”

“Something like that.”

“Is it an elytra course?”

“No, something else.”

“Huh,” Scar said, slumping back. “Thought that’s why you were wearing it. The elytra.”

Grian froze. Then forced himself to breathe again, ignoring the need to check his wings were still cloaked, invisible to the eye. The elytra was bulky and uncomfortable where it pressed against them. “No, I just… just felt like wearing one.”

Don’t think about it.

Scar stared at him.

Grian flushed, looked away. “It’s nothing-“

“Well now I think it’s something. Are your wings…?” Scar asked, now with genuine concern, and Grian was not a fan of that.

“They’re fine,” he said, a bit too tersely. “Just sprained. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Don’t think about it.

“Oh,” Scar said, sinking back down in his seat from where he’d nearly stood up. His eyes flicked to look over Grian’s shoulders, as if he could see the appendages behind the heavy magic Grian had used to conceal them. “Is, uh, that part of the reason you’ve been avoiding everyone?”

Grian focused on the remains of his slice of bread, picked apart and scattered over the plate in a gorey mess. “No.”

The tea had long gone cold.

“I think,” Scar offered slowly. “That it might be time for bed.”

Well, there were certainly less subtle hints to leave, so Grian took this one with as much grace as he could. He might have broken in, but he was a hermit who at least had the decent courtesy to show himself out.

Scar stood simultaneously, and they went to part ways, Grian for the door and Scar for his bed, except- It didn’t happen like that. Because there was a hand holding onto his wrist again, warm and alive. Grian stared at it, then looked back up at Scar.

“I already said I’d worry if you left tonight,” Scar said, making no sense at all.

“You said you wanted to go to bed?” Grian answered, uncertain.

“Well, yeah, with you as well. Like a sleepover,” Scar explained. When Grian sputtered for a moment, he ploughed on, his gesticulations growing more elaborate. “My bed is plenty big to share, or- or of course I could take the couch if you’re not comfortable-“

“I’ll take the couch,” Grian interrupted immediately. His face was red. Scar’s looked a bit red too, in the dim kitchen light. The lamps in here needed more oil. “I’ll take the couch,” Grian repeated, when he really should have said he wouldn’t be staying at all. But when had he ever said no to Scar? “You take the bed.”

“Grian…” Scar hesitated, finger twitching against Grian’s wrist, then he hefted a sigh. “I suppose I shall endure the discomfort of a memory foam mattress. I’ll make this sacrifice for you.”

Grian smiled, faint and brief and lying. “I thank you for your sacrifice.”

He trailed behind as Scar led the way, opening a chest and pulling out extra blankets and pillows. The couch was tucked away in one corner of the main room, hidden behind the maze of shelves and storage. Scar navigated to it with expert ease, and made up the couch with the same efficiency, although his hands stilled for a moment when smoothing out the blankets.

“There,” Scar then said, standing up and popping his back. “A bed. A bed made for Grian. Grian’s bread- I mean bed.”

“I feel like you’re just teasing me now,” Grian said, and watched as Scar laughed, and it was almost natural. It made something twist up inside him, coiling tighter, until he couldn’t breathe. “Well. Goodnight then.”

“Yeah,” Scar said, and he made a move towards Grian, aborted it, then stepped forward again and ruffled Grian’s hair to make him protest. “Goodnight, Grian.”

Grian sat back on the edge of the couch as Scar left, making a show of undoing the straps of his elytra. Out of his periphery, he watched Scar hesitate on the threshold of his bedroom, before he slipped inside and the door closed with a small click.

The elytra thudded, heavy and bulky, onto the floor.

Grian stared at it for a moment, then sagged, pressing his hands against his face as his wings twitched and he forced them still. Then, for the sake of appearances, he went through the pain of lifting his feet onto the couch and tucking them beneath the blanket, laying back as if he really was going to sleep. But the ceiling rafters were perfectly countable above his head, and his skin was itching.

Don’t think about it.

He waited, then waited longer, until he felt like it was enough. Until the moonlight spilled across his form and a clock ticked a chim from somewhere hidden in the base, and Jellie came by to nuzzle his hand before vanishing into the shadows. Until he was sure that in that room, Scar would be asleep.

Grian moved in the eerie quiet.

The blankets were carefully folded and placed aside, Scar’s work undone. The elytra was hefted up, as he feet moved over the floorboards, skimming the ones that creaked. He was at the front door, as easily as the breath that rattled in his lungs. That’s where things went wrong.

He looked back.

He looked back at the warm house and the smell of bread and the sound of Scar’s snores. He looked back and saw everything that ever mattered, and for a moment there was nothing beyond the door outside than an idle void, haunting him.

For a moment, Grian was consumed by a single image: The memory of Scar breaking beneath Grian’s fists, stained with blood and sand, and the utter quiet of the server after he was dead. And Grian was suddenly certain that in the other room Scar had stopped breathing entirely.

Then he was standing in the bedroom doorway, watching.

Eyes glowing softly, catching the softer rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall of Scar’s chest as it moved rhythmically and slowly, and he was alive. Scar was alive. It was stupid to think otherwise. Yet it didn’t feel real. It really, really didn’t feel real, and Grian wondered when he’d wake up in the desert again.

Unbidden, he took a step forward, then another. Hushed and quiet things, drawing him closer, elytra forgotten on the floor behind him. His hand was shaking, when he reached out, fingers gently brushing the edges of Scar’s wrist where it peaked out of the blankets. He skimmed the pulsepoint lightly, feeling the steady, rhythmic throb and-

Sudden movement, and Grian flinched only to find his wrist caught and Scar looking up at him, hazy with half-sleep.

“Uh,” Grian said elegantly, and somewhere in his brain decided to blame Mumbo Jumbo for this. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Mmm,” Scar mumbled, “More bread?”

“Uh. No. I don’t think so. I just couldn’t sleep,” Grian rambled, even though he wasn’t sure Scar was registering half the words he was saying. “It’s stupid, I’ll just leave-”

But then Scar was scooting back across the bed, and in the same move, dragging Grian with him until he had to catch himself to avoid being pulled in. “Succumbing to the thrall of the memory foam mattress I see.”

“I didn’t succumb to anything!” Grian protested, squawking wordlessly as Scar nabbed his other wrist and pulled, yanking Grian’s arms out from under him until he was sent sprawling onto the bed. “Scar!”

“Shush, it’s sleepy time,” Scar said loudly over him, and as Grian flailed in a desperate attempt at escape, Scar locked his arms around his waist, dragging him back in.

That was how Grian found himself flush to Scar, their faces inches apart, with Scar’s hand on his back beneath his wings, dangerously close to touching them. For a moment Grian couldn’t breathe and couldn’t move.

Don’t think about it.

Then, easy as anything, Scar let go.

“Ah, sorry,” he murmured, scooting back. “That was probably a bit uncomfy for a sprained wing.” Yet he still used one hand to toss the blankets over the both of them, and the other to encircle Grian’s wrist again. “There, all good.”

“Wha- No, not all good!” Grian groused, trying to squirm out of Scar’s grip, but Scar’s clinginess was apparently undefeatable. He was able to earn an extra foot between them, but no more. “Seriously, I can sleep on the couch-”

“But you weren’t going to,” Scar finished. In the darkness, his eyes looked soft and sad, and Grian froze again. “How long would you have stood in that doorway if I let you?”

“I was just checking-”

“Checking on what? The windows, the bread, my cat-?”

“-on you.”

“On me,” Scar echoed. “Is that why I’ve been seeing you hanging around outside my base these last few nights?”

“I was just passing by-”

“Mumbo said you get stalkery when you’re worried about something,” Scar ploughed on, and Grian spluttered. “What’s eating at you, G?”

“Nothing! It’s- I’m not stalking anyone, Mumbo gets dramatic about these things, I just like to be neighbourly and check up on people sometimes, it’s-”

“You broke into my house,” Scar pointed out.

Grian stiffened, heart hammering in his chest. His mouth opened, but for once nothing came out. He really, really didn’t want to be here right now, he decided. When Scar’s brown eyes looked red in the wrong cut of moonlight. When there were crumbs beneath his nails like sand. When it felt like hands were breaking open his ribcage to scrutinise his insides, unravelling everything that was twisting him and laying it bare. “I- I wanted bread.”

Scar stared at him for a long moment, then closed his eyes and exhaled softer. “Alright.”

“Seriously Scar, that’s all, that’s…”

Grian trailed off, as Scar pulled on his hand, gently guiding it to his face, pressing Grian’s fingertips to the underside of his jaw. Beneath the touch was the steady thrum of Scar’s pulse. For a moment, that was all there was, the sensation so consuming it was an addiction. A tense knot in Grian’s chest eased, and he breathed out shakily.

“I’m here,” Scar whispered. “If that’s what this is about.”

“It’s… not,” Grian said weakly.

“Alright,” Scar said simply, and his eyes were still closed as his face relaxed. “Well, you can stay this way for as long as you need, I’ll just be right here. You don’t need to go, not tonight.”

Grian shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t. He was jittery and anxious and it was too warm in here, too cramped, too familiar, soft and welcoming. But if he left now, if he pulled his hand away, then how would he know Scar was still here? How would he know the desert had crumbled away and they were safe and they were okay and Scar’s blood wasn’t splitting his weeping knuckles open?

The truth is Grian would be outside the window again, looking in, yet maybe for once he'd rather be here, finger on Scar’s pulse. Skip the middleman and the unnecessary steps. Straight to Scar. Straight to what mattered.

“Alright,” Grian said finally, and the worst part was it might not be a lie this time.

Scar couldn’t possibly fall asleep like this, cradling Grian’s hand to his face, but apparently he was going to make an admirable attempt. But Grian just… couldn’t. Couldn’t close his eyes. Couldn’t look away from Scar’s expression, soft and lax with sleep.

Gently, he pulled his hand from Scar’s grip, and traced his fingertips over the edges of his face. Cupped his jaw, and for a moment held everything that mattered in the palm of his hand. Then his thumb brushed Scar’s lips, and Scar’s eyes fluttered open, and Grian tensed, and cursed Mumbo for whatever his future diagnosis would be of this particular insanity.

Yet all Scar did was hold Grian’s hand, turn to the side, and plant a kiss into his palm.

Grian’s inhale did a funny thing in return, and even more so when Scar threaded a hand through his hair.

It- It was like Scar had always been the desert sun, heady and consuming, and Grian was the sand beneath, baking in that heat. He formed mountains, desperate to reach up, and yet in the same breath crumbled them like there was a chance to get away. Sure as anything, Scar would always envelope his world, and Grian would be there to love him back.

It’s what drew him forward, ending the distance between them. All this effort so he could press a kiss to Scar’s hair. For a dizzying second, Grian was worried it was too much, that they weren’t there, that the castle in the desert never happened and did they love each other in this world…?

But then Scar was planting a kiss in the delicate juncture between his neck and shoulder, and Grian was shivering. Their legs tangled beneath the sheets, and Scar’s arm was around his waist, scarcely brushing the feathers of his wings in an effort to pull him closer.

Flush, to a beating heart and warm body. Familiar, so familiar, to exist in this cavity, swallowed and consumed and loved.

Cold nights in the desert, spent in one cot.

Grian gave a soundless gasp as kisses travelled up his neck, under his jaw, Scar twisting so he was overtop. Grian turned his head to give him better access, and their fingers were curling together against the sheets.

Then all at once, Scar’s head abruptly lulled, sagging heavily against Grian’s shoulder with a contented hum, and Grian was left haunted by the touches he never thought he’d feel again. He shivered, and focused on Scar’s weight against him. Ran a hand through Scar’s hair, and found his voice turning soft with affection when he saw Scar’s eyes were half closed. “Sleepy?”

“Nah, I could kiss you all day,” Scar said, and yawned into Grian’s collarbone. He drew back, pulling Grian forward in the same motion, so Grian was the one leaning on him. Against his chest, where his heart was beating steadily. “We should kiss more. Why don’t… Why do we never kiss more?” Scar mumbled, words slurring together as his arm found its way around Grian’s waist again.

Grian opened his mouth, but he didn’t have a good response to that. Because I’m not sure we ever kissed before your first death. Because I don’t think we were together before this game. Because we weren’t in love until the desert. But Scar didn’t know that, and would never know, and Grian would sure as void never tell. If he did, then this would be over, this sleepy, worriless peace, so content. If he told, then Scar would be like him, unable to sleep, unable to feel safe, unable to stray from the one he swore to protect.

“I don’t know,” Grian said, and buried his face against Scar’s chest, wrapped in his arms and hoping something desperate he wouldn’t have to think again tonight.

At least… At least this part was familiar. Listening to Scar’s breathing deepen, feeling the heat of their bodies, slotted together. Grian knew the script for this, every action an echo of every night before.

It was enough that he finally started to drift, eyes closing so he could listen and feel the rise and fall of Scar’s chest. Body relaxing further, content where it was, basking in Scar’s gentle touches, the tracing of his hands over Grian’s back, the soft brush at his wings, fingers idly trailing through the feather’s like he used to do-

They both got to experience exactly why such affection was a terrible idea.

Honestly, it was a cruel joke that Grian wasn’t the first to notice. It always haunted him, itched at him, but repetitions of don’t think about it were apparently more effective then he realised. Because in that moment all he knew was Scar had suddenly stilled, likely asleep, but then there was a catch in breath and he could feel Scar’s fingers twisting in his feathers, sharper than the slow strokes before.

“...Scar?” Grian murmured, the stickiness of exhaustion weighing on him, before he looked up to find Scar’s eyes wide and panicked, watching him back. Scar’s fingers, twisting more into his wings. Void. Oh void fuck-!

Grian jolted, wrenching out of Scar’s surprised grip with a shot of adrenaline, searching for his illusion magic and finding it still in place. His wings were concealed from sight, but that hardly mattered when Scar could just feel the- the- the-

Don’t think about it.

-the way the brush of his fingers caught and snagged on each clipped feather.

Scar had felt Grian’s primaries, sheared roughly and uniformly, cut by the code of the universe and having yet to grow back.

Their eyes found each other in the dark, and Grian couldn’t breathe, the tightness coiled back in his lungs. Scar’s touch was an unwanted, festering thing, phantasmal in its absence.

“Grian-”

Grian was already moving, tumbling from the bed and ignoring the drag of Scar’s fingers in his feathers as they got in the way of the frantic movement of his wings. He was on his feet and heading for the door before he’d managed to dislodge a single breath from his lungs, and only then remembered he’d put his damn elytra somewhere, where-

“Grian, stop!”

He stopped. He didn’t know why. He didn’t fucking know why, but he did know that he was leaving, that he wouldn’t be kept, that he’d rather run than see it all crumble down around him. When he turned it was with a feral light to his eyes, with his wings mantled, flickering briefly into sight with the stutters of his magic, presenting as massive, void-dripping things, but with the feathers clipped- clipped- clipped-

“Hey,” Scar said, voice dipping soft. His hands were up, his eyes were wide, and there was something panicked there, terrified, that didn’t make it into his words. “Hey I’m not going to ask, okay? Just- Just come back to bed. Please don’t make me come after you at three in the morning.”

“Don’t follow me,” Grian said, an echoing, ethereal rasp to his voice. “I won’t want you-”

“Grian,” Scar said desperately. “You know I’m going to follow you anywhere.”

Grian froze, blanked out completely. Scar’s eyes weren’t red, they’d never been red in this world, and yet they used to be. For a moment, Grian searched for that red, for that comfort, and thought he might have seen it.

“I don’t know what happened,” Scar began breathlessly. “And don’t say nothing, because that’s such a fucking lie, but I won’t ask. All I want is to make sure you don’t have to fly in the middle of the night, to have a sleepover in this very comfortable memory foam bed, and to indulge in some company over bread, if you’ll have me. Don’t go.”

Grian exhaled warm desert air, and his body shuddered, fingers twisting to grip a hand that wasn’t there. There were things beneath the surface, writhing, curling painfully against his own mind. He wanted to scream.

“Don’t go,” Scar repeated, and Grian was in the desert, on that hill, soft red eyes looking at him and shoving softer flowers into his hands. Warmed by the sun. Withered by the heat. “Don’t go.” He didn’t know if the voice was real or not.

But he knew where he belonged, what mattered, and a different him, battered and bloodied and desperately loyal, turned on the spot and made his vows.

“I’m always going to stay by your side.”

Scar’s eyes widened a fraction, as Grian sunk into a familiar kneel, bowing his head, slotting it all into place. Scar’s hand, shaking, reached forward. Fingers covered in cactus scars brushed Grian’s cheek, and Grian sunk into it gratefully, gentler now without the grit of sand.

“Yeah, you… That was stupid of me, wasn’t it?” Scar murmured, gaze unfocused. “Thinking that you’d leave.”

The touch stuttered, then became all consuming, and Scar fell to his knees beside him, pulling Grian into a rough and desperate embrace. Their bodies were colder, without the heat and the sweat and the sand.

“Stupid of me, doubting you would stay” Scar repeated uselessly. “You’ve always been a stalker.”

Grian twitched, stiffening, before collapsing against that body, burying his face against Scar’s shoulder. His heart was so noisy in his chest, his breathing even louder, talons curling raggedly into the thin clothes of Scar’s back to feel the flex of muscle underneath.

He tried very hard not to think of the bruises he knew Scar had woken up with weeks ago, just as he knew Scar was trying not to trace the healed abrasions curled around Grian’s throat, thinking of the way their bloodied bodies had hit the dirt.

“Oh Grian,” Scar whispered into his hair. “Grian, I’ve missed you.”

Grian shuddered beneath the solid press of lips against his head, “I never left,” he said, words encumbered with intent.

“You didn’t,” Scar agreed senselessly. “You’ve always been here.”

The hug turned tighter, almost painful, sharp nails biting into Grian’s skin as Scar held on like this was the end. “I’m here,” Grian said, Scar’s pulse against him.

“You shouldn’t have stayed,” Scar confessed desperately. “You should have left me, I wasn’t worth it- I wasn’t worth you. Why did you stay?”

Well, that was an easy answer. As easy as breathing, an exhale of truth, as certain as the universe’s slow decay around them.

I stayed because I love you.

Because you became all that mattered, you were there at every sunrise and beside me every night and walked with me through the same sand until our footsteps merged.

A weapon is useless without a hand to wield it, and yours had been gentle on my hilt as you wiped the blood away.

“I stayed because we were business partners,” Grian said instead, as a mercy.

“Ah. Of course,” Scar laughed, the noise thick and wobbly, close to crying. He buried his face into the crook of Grian’s neck, shuddering his next inhale. “We’re business partners.”

Grian closed his eyes and hugged him back, taking in every tremble and smoothing them out. Scar’s nails were sharp, fingers crooked into the creases of Grian’s clothes, so Grian took it upon himself to be gentler, to rub slow circles and extend his wings, covering them both from the shadows of the room.

A mutual connection, tied to each other, unable to ever leave. One anchor to another, tangled, untethered, sinking to the ocean floor.

It was only when Scar’s breathing evened out, and his grip relaxed, body slouched and enveloping, that Grian risked moving.

He carefully drew one hand away, and stretched out across the floor, snagging the shovel that Scar had dropped. Then he used that to pull at the blankets off the bed, trapping and drawing them closer, until enough fell and pooled onto the floor that Grian could grab them and pull them over.

Scar huffed and blinked softly when the weight settled over him. His grip tightened for a moment, before he sighed and slouched again. Sleeping on sandstone had been a habit, as familiar as a mattress, and there was no reason this floor couldn’t be the same.

Familiar, from being propped up against walls with weapons in reach, to being tangled together, caught in stronger arms, unable to sleep as the night stretched longer.

At least, Grian was unable to sleep. Whatever exhaustion he’d allowed himself to feel was distant again, buried where he didn’t need it. He couldn’t help but smile softly though when Scar started snoring, limp and pliant against him.

In the darkness, in the moonlight and the dust motes, it was a beautiful charade. Convincing in its sincere affection, its genuine emotion. But it was a script, and they had both rehearsed it too long to deviate.

They both knew how this would end.

With Scar, waking up in his bed in the morning, half his inventory and a diamond shovel scattered on the floor. Alone in his base, with empty mugs and crumbs on his kitchen table. The front door locked.

With Grian missing, gone with his elytra glinting in the night. Sweeping over the server, to the vast fringes, to huddle in what he could not name, tracing idle fingers over the edges of his cut wings. Lockpicks in his hands.

They both knew how this would end, but they also knew how this would continue.

With Scar, back in bed the next night curled beneath the blankets, and Grian at his window, watching him.

And so it goes.