Chapter Text
Grian wasn’t even scared of ghosts.
Ghosts had nothing on him. He was his own cryptid, for coder’s sake! Not to brag or anything, but no ghost could rival his dramatically tragic backstory. Check and mate, hypothetical french ghosts.
So, Grian really shouldn’t have been worried. Ghosts? No big deal. It was even getting less scary. When Impulse and Skizzleman were around, calmness comes easy. Scar makes him worry a bit at times, but he is no less comforting. Their little off-world adventures were calming, exciting, and so much fun. They weren’t scary.
Grian being scared should’ve been his first warning that he should’ve stayed at the portal.
He shook off his nerves, playing it off as random anxiety that comes with the seasonal changes. He always thought it to be funny when those awful, horrific thoughts come back. Those lying, nagging feelings that tell him untrue lies are all from some chemical unbalance in his head or from some suddenly chilly weather.
Whatever it was, Grian waved it off. He followed Scar and Impulse through their Hermitcraft portal to meet Skizzleman in the bullpen. It wasn’t until Skizzle greeted him with a bear hug did he realize the problem.
“G!” Skizz roars, engulfing him in a hug on sight. Grian stiffens at first. Unexpected hugs aren’t a prospect he’s yet gotten quite used to, but it’s not unwanted completely. He wilts like a flower once those strong, scarred up arms wrap around him, and he finds himself sinking against him like he was meant to be there.
Seconds pass, and Grian realizes he’s held on for too long. He sheepishly lets go, pushing away from the hug with a sharp desperation. He feels odd and strung out, like he just admitted those deep, ugly feelings to everyone in the room.
When he steps away, Impulse and Scar aren’t even looking. Skizz is beaming at him like nothing was wrong. If he thinks Grian leaning into the hug was odd, he doesn’t comment on it.
“Tango try and keep you?” Skizz asks, all teasing.
Impulse and Scar join back up - Scar distracted with a malfunctioning emf reader in his hands.
“You know how the dungeon master is,” Impulse tells him, playing up the dramatics with him. He wraps an arm around Skizz and tugs him close. “He wouldn’t let us leave!” Skizz just laughs, a hearty sound, and Grian basks in the sight of two long time friends. “He misses you.”
“The dungeon keeps no one longer than its master,” Skizz sighs but nods. Grian blinks, suddenly feeling selfish. Sure, Tango had been busy with Decked out; everyone knew it. The hermits all did their parts to bring him food, nag him about his rest, and offer support when needed. He never thought to account him going off-server and seeing Skizz. Here he was just… hogging him. Taking his sweet time for granted.
“I’m so happy to hear he’s done,” Skizz continues on cheerfully. “I bet he’s having so much fun.”
“Where are you?” Grian starts singing suddenly and gets in between Skizz and Impulse. An abrupt nervousness began low in his stomach, and he was anxious to get a move on. Standing around in the bullpen was killing him slowly, he was sure of it. “That’s what the ghost’s saying right now. Going to die of old age before we can get there.”
Scar holds up a finger as he pauses Grian.
“Can ghosts die of old age?” Scar asks.
“Ghosts are already dead,” Skizz explains.
“That’s--” Impulse breaks off. “That’s kind of their whole thing.”
“I know that!” Grian huffs, stomping his foot lightly. “Can we go now?”
Impulse chuckles under his breath and heads for the bulletin board to finish setting up. He drags his feet behind him, bristling when Impulse adds a, “ Someone’s in a mood.”
Grian debates shooting him a dirty look, but it wouldn’t prove him any good. Fact of the matter was: Grian did have an insufferable mood hanging over him like an overdraft. He felt in shambles today, for no reason at all.
Sometimes Grian doesn’t have a reason. He could blame the ghosts all he wanted, but something was just off. It couldn’t be helped.
“Did somebody not sleep good last night?” Skizz coos in what’s surely supposed to be a condescending tease. He sneaks up on Grian suddenly when he says it, and he adds a firm hand to Grian’s shoulder.
He jumps but not from surprise.
He knows exactly what this is.
Think Big, Grian thinks desperately to himself with a feverish intent. Come on! You can’t go baby mode around them.
…much less the ghosts.
Grian shakes it off. It’s nothing new. Impulse and Skizz are always trying to pull that side out of him. He doesn’t think either of them even know he’s an age regressor (the only one back home who does is Pearl, and she’s never told a soul). However, there must be something that gives way when they tease him like so. Maybe they know it makes him like this, and they target him for it.
Whatever it is, Grian loathes it.
…Even if it makes him feel soft and warm deep inside.
“I slept fine,” Scar sing-songs. “In case anyone was wondering.”
Impulse starts the mission abruptly, and Scar makes a grumbling noise as they’re transferred to the truck. Grian’s thankful for the reprieve, and he immediately starts grabbing items (purposefully avoiding the worst ones).
“I think you should take the spirit box,” Scar says, refuting the item in front of him. Grian considers him before shaking his head.
“You’re so good with it, though,” Grian tells him, earning a dramatic whimper from the other.
“Guys, c’mon, I’m not taking it this time,” Scar announces, holding both of his hands up. Grian turns his attention to Skizz and Impulse.
“Well, boys?” Grian starts only for the two to laugh in his face.
Impulse picks up the spirit box, and Grian almost sighs out of relief. Leave it to Impulse to come to his rescue. He was always so--
Why was Impulse putting it in his hand?
“Impulse,” Grian asks, “why are you handing me that?”
“Grian,” Impulse says, matching his deadly serious tone. “It’s your turn. Scar’s had his fun.”
“But you two haven’t taken it!” Grian’s foot stomps against the floor. His voice is high and whiny, and he doesn’t even care if he looks not-entirely-big right now because he’s not taking the darn thing!
Little tantrums aside, five minutes later and Grian’s standing in a dark room. It’s a child’s room - almost as if the game was taunting him, like it knew where his headspace was this late night.
Mean.
He turns on the spirit box regretfully. He prays to whatever is out there listening that it be a ghost that doesn’t communicate via spirit box. When he asks, “Are you french?” his voice stammers and barely makes it out of his throat.
Then, in a deep, gravelly voice, “Where are you--?”
Grian’s screaming, jumping up in the air. It’s not until he’s diving for the child’s closet does he hear Skizz’s maniacal laughter from behind him.
“I hate you!” Grian huffs, giving up then and there. Spirit box gets abandoned on the floor behind him, and he keeps crawling into the closet. He’s done with this, he’s decided. He reaches for the white door when a sneaky boot keeps it from shutting. “Go away.”
“Aw, come on, Gri,” Skizz starts, the jerk. “Did that really scare you?”
Yes.
“No!” Hopefully the slight tremor in his voice won’t give him away. “Skizz, can we play something else?”
He wriggles his eyebrows as if he’s caught whiff of something good and he doesn’t plan on letting go of it anytime soon. Skizz climbs into that small closet with him. His face is barely illuminated by the child’s night light in his hands. Grian almost wants to snatch it, but he resists somehow.
“So you are scared,” Skizz teases, and Grian does snatch the little light out of his hands but only to toss it at his stupid face.
“You take the box, then,” Grian huffs, sticking his nose up in the air. “I’m done with this.” Grian kicks the door open and doesn’t stop until he’s at the truck.
--
It’s been a long, long night.
It’s not that he’s not having fun. He is, he thinks, at least.
…Maybe too much fun. Even when Skizz and Impulse are being mean!
“Check for fingerprints?” Impulse’s scratchy voice comes through the radio. At the truck, Grian sparks to life. He grabs the glow stick off the wall and slowly pads into the house. Suddenly, he feels way more courageous than he had before with the spirit box.
He waves the stick around. A soft glow emits from the toy, and Grian giggles as he shakes it. He finds the others in that dreaded room, but this time Grian stays by Impulse’s side.
He holds it up in front of Impulse’s face.
“Checking me for fingerprints?” Impulse asks him, and Grian giggles before realizing he’s asking him a question. He’s waiting for an answer, too. “G?”
“Hm?” Grian hums, lowering the toy.
“Can I have that?” Grian follows his gaze down to the stick in his hands, and he lets out a sharp gasp. He holds it close to his chest as if offended and steps away. “Grian--”
“Maybe he’s demon possessed,” Scar suggests suddenly.
Demon possessed?
But that sounds scary!
Grian itches to race back to the truck, but everyone’s here, and Impulse is staring at him with his head cocked to the side like he’s done something odd. Everything feels weird, and Grian just wants to stay by his side.
“No, ‘m not,” Grian says weakly.
“Exactly what a demon would say!” Skizz roars, pointing an accusatory finger his way.
Grian narrows his eyes at Skizz, then looks up to Impulse to defend him. Impulse is nice, even when he’s being mean and making Grian carry the awful spirit box. He guesses he can forgive him.
“Then why are you working with the ghost, buddy?” Impulse, the traitor, asks.
“Maybe you’re the ghost,” Grian grumbles. “Trying to take my glowie.”
“Your… ‘glowie’?” Scar starts.
“Oh, shut it, you say weird stuff all the time!” Grian retorts back. “And it’s my glowie. Just get your own.”
Impulse is eyeing him suspiciously, as if he’s plotting a way to steal it from him. Grian cradles it with his hands.
“You can have it, G, just use it, please,” he says in an exasperated tone. Grian sulks immediately. He doesn’t know what he did to make Impulse so upset with him, he just wants to keep his toys. He never likes it when people take his toys.
“‘Kay,” Grian says softly, hoping Impulse will be nice to him again if he’s good, if he finds those fingerprints. He holds the lightstick up to the wall and finds some. “Impulse, look, I found some!” he hisses excitedly. When no one leans over his shoulder, he turns around to find the room empty. “Guys?”
Weird, choked off noises follow, and Grian’s breath leaves him immediately. Ghost hands wrap around his face and he’s losing sight, everything burns--
He blinks.
He lost the game.
He stands on uneven feet. He aches to go back, to go home, but he doesn’t want to leave them either. He’s already dead, lost the silly game because everyone left him. He finds Scar exiting his hidey-hole, and he tries to throw a plate at him.
“Sorry, G,” Scar apologizes sheepishly. “We said he was hunting, but you weren’t listening.”
Listening, yeah right, Grian was busy! Finding fingerprints! If they miss that clue, that’s on them.
He follows them back into the room. Grian aches to grab onto someone’s hand (he feels impossibly cold), but they look right over him.
“I hate this game,” he announces to everyone, but no one hears him. He wipes at his face furiously, chasing away any tears trying to fall. He wants to go home.
Impulse stands right by where Grian died. He reaches to the floor at Grian’s glow stick, and Grian can’t help but wail. No longer able to stomach the sight, he heads back to the truck and curls up on the floor next to the computer.
Everything was awful.
He presses his head into his crossed arms and curls up like he’s about to dozz off. His heart is still racing, even if he’s far away from any danger. He doesn’t care about the ghosts, he just wants Impulse and Skizz and Scar to come back. He wants to go home.
Muffled voices surround him, and Grian looks up at his friends clamoring into the truck. He can hear them calling to him, telling him to guess for the game, but he’s too tired to care.
The engine starts, and Grian doesn’t find peace in the transfer like he usually does.
The second he feels himself drop back into the bullpen, Grian bolts. He doesn’t want to play this game, and he doesn’t want to be around them either. He finds a small corner and fits himself into the corner.
He can hear his friends down the hall. His heart aches to join them, but he knows he shouldn’t. He knows he can’t. He should just go home, call Pearl.
…He doesn’t want to, though.
Everything’s so heavy, so conflicting in his heart and in his head. He wants to play with the others. Skizz and Impulse make him feel so floaty, and they make him this way. He wants to play and doesn’t want to miss out, but it’s impossible to stay big when they even call themselves their dads.
“Grian?” a voice calls, and white hot panic shoots through him. He sees Skizz coming, and he books it. “Buddy, I’m sorry you died. I-- Grian?” Skizz stops short in the room. He slowly peeks up at him to see his eyes blown wide. Perplexed, Skizz stares at him. He wipes at his face again.
“You took my glowie,” Grian says by a force compelling him. He hadn’t meant to speak, but the words tumbled out of his mouth without his say so.
“The-- the glowie,” Skizz repeats. Then, his expression morphs from confusion to something more neutral. He steps closer, and Grian crawls back until his back hits the wall. “Hey, G, we don’t have to keep playing if you don’t want to. I--”
This was it, then. Grian was bad, throwing a tantrum, or maybe it’s because he messed up earlier with playing around or passing on the spirit box - they were mad at him, and they were going to leave.
“No!” Grian screeches, jumping to his feet. He attaches himself to Skizz, wrapping his hands around his one wrist and tightening his grip. “No, no, you can’t go! ”
“Hey,” Skizz speaks softly. “I’m not going anywhere, okay?” Grian doesn’t believe him, not for one second. He keeps his grip on him. “I can tell you’re tired.”
“Nooo,” Grian whines. He stomps his foot. “I don’t even get tired!”
Skizz doesn’t look as convinced. Scar starts to walk in, but Skizz waves his hand at him. Grian peers past him into the hall where Impulse is stood at the board. He gulps.
“I wanna play with you,” Grian says and he hates how it comes out like a whine. He braces for Skizz to get onto him, but instead, nothing happens.
Well.
Not nothing.
Skizz breaks his grip, Grian gasping up at him as he tries to get away, but his protests don’t last for long because Skizz is wrapping his arms around Grian. He smushes himself against his chest and happily sinks into his warm embrace. All at once that nagging feeling in his chest subsided, replaced by the warm fuzzies caused by Skizz’s stubble scratching against his skin in a ticklish feeling. Grian giggled against it, wiggling around until his head is up and free from its wrath. Skizz beams at him and moves his hand to ruffle his hair as they break apart.
“Well, how about we play something else?” Skizz suggests, and Grian nods.
“No! I’m okay, I’m not even tired of the ghosts ‘cause they don’t scare me at all,” Grian tells him.
“Of course they don’t,” Skizz agrees easily. Grian beams under the praise, and he happily hums as Skizz leads him back to the others. “Cause you’re not scared of anything.”
“Nope!” Grian tells him, rocking on his feet. That anxious dwelling inside of his chest had slightly faded. With a newfound confidence, he steps out of the corner. “Not scared, though, so we can play.”
Truthfully, he would love to stop playing. But if they were to stop, Skizz would go home and then they would go back home, and Grian doesn’t want that.
“If you say so, G, but we can always go back to BBQ Simulator--”
“NO!” Grian shouts sharply, but it’s accompanied by a faint chuckle. Scar catches their voices as they rejoin them and instantly perks up at the mention.
“If we were to go pee on some burgers--” Skizz continues on, only to be interrupted by Grian’s strangled scream-laugh. He bats against Skizz as he guides them back up to the board. He keeps himself nestled to his side in a way he hopes isn’t suspicious to the others, but Grian has to get through this night one way or another.
“Everyone ready?” Impulse asks, oblivious to the blooming anxiety deep in Grian’s chest. Silently, he readies up.
Tonight was going to be a long, long night. Grian had a feeling he’ll be lucky if he gets out unscathed. (He’s not sure what’s scarier: the ghosts or his biggest (littlest) secret getting out.