Chapter Text
The wind ruffled Grian’s feathers as he knelt before the great dark oak tree in Scar’s backyard. The wizard standing a little further back, watching over him to ensure nothing went wrong. Dirt clumped under his nails and stained his hands as he carefully dug out a small hole in the ground. A hole that would be big enough to plant a single poppy. Which he hoped, would one day grow to be a small cluster, to add to the clusters of poppies growing amongst the roots of the great oak tree. Framed by lilacs growing along the back.
Each cluster a symbol to someone precious who was once lost. These past few weeks, Grian had devoted all his time to learning how to care for the flower, before actually growing one. He wanted to be able to grow one himself, for his lost friend who hadn’t made it. So, Scar had given him a small pot and a seed for the flower, so he could nurture it until he could replant it with the rest of the poppies. Ever sense that encounter with Scott, where Scar had been forced to make a deal with the guild to give away fifty years of his life (sixty, if you didn’t count that they were giving him ten from Ren,) Grian had been distracting himself from getting too deep in his thoughts. And this was a perfect way of doing that. Besides—he had wanted to be able to plant a flower for his lost friend.
However, Grian couldn’t stop thinking about the way Scott had acted. The few times he had gone out on a mission on the elf, he had learned how he could hide his nerves. Learned how sly the elf was, regardless of if he was afraid, if he needed to be. And while Scott had acted plenty confident and like he was in control (which he was—to an extent,) Grian had seen his tells. The way his narrowed pupils had quivered, ever so slightly. How his gaze kept flicking around the room.
The way the tension gathered around his shoulders, invisible to any who didn’t know how to pay attention. Know what to look for—like it was an invisible noose. Just waiting for the moment to snap. Of course, Scott wouldn’t let it do that, not in front of someone else. Especially, someone he didn’t trust or considered an enemy. Now of course, Grian had thoroughly enjoyed being able to see the elf so afraid.
Even if he had been his friend and was Jimmy’s boyfriend, he had used Grian as a tool to get to Scar. And it had worked. Worse yet, Grian couldn’t understand why. Why someone who had only known him for a scant few short weeks give away fifty years of his life, and sixty years' worth of his mind, for someone like him? Even if Scar didn’t know the horrors of what he had done, of what he had been made to do, could he not see how broken he was? See that there was something wrong with him—somehow tell that he was a monster.
Every time his thoughts would start to go down that rabbit hole, he would hear the voice of one of his friends. Telling him that no, it wasn’t his fault. No, They had made him do it. No, he wasn’t a monster. He was just hurt. That They had just hurt him, and he had just done what he had needed to do in order to survive. Sometimes, even though they had said those words to him time and time again, he still didn’t believe it. And he still didn’t understand it. Why they would forgive him.
Grian remembered that one night, after a particularly bad day, he had stayed up with Mumbo while the vampire worked on one of his redstone contraptions. Not wanting to fall asleep alone even though Martyn would also be right there. Impulse gone on his own mission, and Jimmy having gone out with Scott. He sat in the corner, on one of the chairs, knees pressed up against his chest and wings wrapped around him. To feel the pressure of something wrapped around him, like a self-given hug. Not wanting to bother Mumbo by asking if he could have one.
And he had asked him why.
“Mumbo.”
He still remembered how the vampire had been startled into dropping whatever had been held in his hand. Clearly not having expected Grian to say something, even if it was only his name. Normally, he would have laughed or at least snickered at his friend's clumsiness. That time he hadn’t.
“Yes Grian?” Mumbo had asked, looking over his shoulder to give his attention to the much shorter avian.
“Why do you guys say stuff like that?” he had asked in a small voice. The vampire turned so he was fully facing the avian, leaned back against the table and his brow furrowed in concern.
“Say stuff like what?” he asked back.
“Why do you keep saying that I’m a good person, and that it wasn’t my fault and that I wasn’t--” his voice cracked, his throat swelling shut. Refusing to let the next word out. He swallowed thickly and continued anyway, “--that I’m not a monster.” His voice still cracked at the last word, and it must have truly sounded broken with the way Mumbo had looked at him next. With such kindness, and concern, and gentleness he never deserved. How he had rushed forward to wrap his long, lanky arms around the small avian who had begun to shake again, even if he hadn’t known it.
“Grian because I am your friend. Because we are your friends,” he had told him. Part of Grian still didn’t fully understand what those words had meant; but, he held them close to his heart regardless. Part of him, now, could imagine Scar with them, saying those same words. That part, which wanted so badly to believe that Scar would say those same words and he didn’t know why. Didn’t understand why. But the other part believed that as soon as Scar learned the truth about him, he would reject him. Push him away, because he would see him for the monster that he truly was. And that part, was terrified that Scar would leave him.
But he didn’t understand why. Why should he care? He had only known Scar for a few weeks, why should he care if Scar kicked him out when he could just go back to the guild where the rest of his friends were? Grian tried not to think about it too hard knowing that it would get him nowhere. However, there was still one other issue his mind would run in circles. The actual conversation between Scott and Scar.
How Scott had worded it as though someone had forced him to be there, how he had no choice but to make the deal with Scar for those years. How he had said that they would take everything away from Scar. How at the beginning, he had said it wasn’t an option. Grian had the sneaking suspicion that he had meant not only for Scar to take the deal, but for him to be there. For him to be making the deal to begin with, even though normally, if an adventurer goes out on a quest and doesn’t come back, it is banned. To prevent the same happening to another adventurer in their guild, leaving the artifact lost to time.
Grian felt as though Scott had said it like if he had refused, someone even higher up than him would make something bad happen. Either to him or someone else he cared about. And if there was someone up there that he was more afraid of than Scar. . . then Grian had reason to be afraid of whoever had Scar make that deal. And all of this was why Grian had spent so much time distracting himself from his thoughts. Part of him felt guilty for using this tribute for his lost friend as a distraction from anything else.
He would rather feel guilty than let his mind spiral into a wheel of pain, fear and the unknown. However, this morning when Grian had gotten up and gone over to check up on the flower—to water it and make sure it was getting enough sunlight—he had noticed that it had seemed a bit. . . big for the pot it was in. At least relative to how big he remembered it being in the book. Not by much though; however, he wanted to be sure. So, Grian made his way from the desk where the flower was growing to the bookshelf, scanning through it for the book on botany he had borrowed from Scar’s library, to help him. He flipped through the pages until he landed on the one for the poppy and moved back to the desk, setting it down next to the flower to compare the two.
And with a happy flick of his wings, Grian saw that the poppy was in fact ready to be replanted in Scar’s garden with the other flowers. He could feel the nerves, for what if he was wrong, and it wasn’t ready yet? Or what if he did something wrong, and he killed it? Then all that work would have gone to nothing, (and it would prove that his hands are only made to kill.) But he pushed those worries down and forced his mind into a state of neutrality as he instead picked up the delicate flower and made his way out of his room, down the hallway and into the living space. He pricked his ears at the sound of something boiling in the kitchen and made his way into the kitchen to find Scar making himself some coffee, to help wake him up in the morning.
The strong, bitter scent of the coffee hit Grian, and he refrained from scrunching his nose. Instead choosing to walk further in, stopping just a few feet away from the taller man and held the flower out. Not much though—just enough that it left his forearms parallel to the ground, with the elbows at a ninety-degree-angle. Scar greeted him with a smile, his face quickly shifting to a look of curiosity at the plant held in his hands.
“Do you think it's finally ready?” he asked in a soft voice, still rough from him having just woken up. His dark, shoulder length hair still scraggily and his sharp eyes dulled ever so slightly. However, they were still plenty sharp.
Grian sucked in a sharp breath and looked back down at the plant, inspecting it one more time. Forcing any worries that threatened to surface back down. Scar didn’t need to deal with that. Besides, he wanted to do this. “Yes,” he answered, looking back up to Scar. Whose mouth turned up in a lopsided grin, his eyes shining with happiness despite still being tired.
Scar instantly forgot his drink in favor for guiding Grian outside, to the backyard. Up that hill where the great dark oak tree grew. Its roots providing life for numerous other poppies and lilacs. Which lead them to now, where Grian had dug out a small hole big enough to replant the flower. Dirt stained his fingers and clumped under his nails. Normally, you would wear gloves when doing this. However, if he wore gloves his senses would be deafened. Not being able to tell what he was touching other than what he saw, with the gloves creating a wall around his magic that alerted him to what his hands came in contact with.
Grian paused, looking between the hole he had just dug out to the flower, trying to decide if it looked deep enough.
“I think that hole's big enough,” Scar informed him.
Grian bit back a sharp comment, his stubbornness wanting to refuse the given help. Instead replying, “Do you?” If his tone sounded more nervous than he would like, Scar never commented on it. He turned to face the taller man, ear feathers fanned out, to see him leaned on his can, head tilted to the side as if trying to get a better look. Scar beamed down at him, straightening his back.
He held his hand up to his face with a mischievous grin and replied, “Well, that’s what she said.”
“Scar!” Grian squawked, his wings flaring out as the man started cackling. Grian soon joining in with his own fit of twittering giggles. He soon recovered and looked back up at Scar to see him still grinning down at Grian mischievously, his eyes glowing with mirth. He only snorted and rolled his own eyes going back to the task at hand. Scar gasped in mock offence as he began to worm his fingers around the potted flower, carefully taking it from said pot to put in the ground.
“Wha—Grian do you not like what I have to say?” Scar asked him in a wounded tone.
“I never said that,” he replied calmly. Carefully setting the flower in the ground. He began pushing soil back over the exposed roots as he continued, “If you hadn’t said that, maybe I wouldn’t have needed to roll my eyes at you.”
“But birdie,” Scar started, and from behind Grian he could hear Scar move around in what he guessed to be a twirl, gesturing widely. “There’s no one else here to hear us! You don’t have to worry a thing about anyone overhearing anything you or I have to say.” Grian rolled his eyes again, continuing to pat the soil down, securing the new poppy in place. He opened his mouth to make a retort when he became aware that Scar was suddenly very close to him. The man had leaned down so his cloak brushed the tips of his wings and his face was only inches from his own, hovering just over his shoulder.
Grian turned to face the man, eyes blown wide, feathers fanned out on either side of his face. He suddenly became very aware of just how close Scar was to him. He could see just the way his emerald eyes glowed in the light, the way they seemed to shimmer. See the exact details of the scars which were scattered across his face and down his neck. See how his mouth once again twisted up in a mischievous, lopsided grin.
“You know Grian, we are all alone, up here on this mountain,” Scar started, his eyes glowing with mirth. He put one hand on his shoulder, and he had to refrain from jumping at the sudden contact. His brows furrowed slightly at the comment, trying to decipher what he meant, but at that his ear feathers fanned out even wider effectively looking like two giant rainbow cotton balls on either side of his head. “You never know what might happen between a man and a man, left all alone like that. Especially if they're in a hole together,” he finished, pointing behind him to his underground home. It finally clicked, what Scar was trying to imply and Grian jumped up, pushing Scar back. The heat rushed to his face as his wings fluttered behind him. Scar flailed for a moment as he rightened himself, cackling all the while as if he took great pleasure in Grian’s embarrassment.
“No—Scar, no,” Grian told him, fighting to keep the heat from his face. Scar only started to laugh harder.
Scar recovered enough to look over at him and with a smile said, “That’s what she said.”
“Scar!” Grian squawked, the man once again doubling over in laughter. He huffed, crossing his arms over his chest with an entirely unimpressed glare. Ignoring the way his ears and the back of his neck burned. His heart hammered in his chest, like a bird caught in a cage. Only it wasn’t from fear or anger, or at least not really. This felt. . . strange.
Like his chest was on fire, only in a good way. He couldn’t understand it—why would something so. . . well, why would something Scar had said like that make him respond this way? Make his ears and neck burn, make his heart hammer in his chest and yet not feel strictly. . . bad? It felt. . . strange, that’s for sure, and yet some part of his mind wanted to feel that burn again. Watching Scar as he laughed at his own joke, reveling in how flustered he had made him. Grian didn’t understand. And so, he decided that even if it did in fact feel. . . good, he didn’t want to experience it again. Not until he knew what it meant.
Grian watched Scar as he waited for them to stop laughing. His laughter eventually faded away enough that you could no longer hear it, even if his shoulders still shook.
“Do you feel better now?” he asked, his tone bordering apathy with how he kept it completely unimpressed. Scar looked back up at him, leaned over on his cane, a wide smile still on his face. He straightened his back, so he was now looking down at Grian, who met his gaze with an unimpressed stare.
“Yep!” He chirped, Grian once again rolling his eyes. Scar turned to look back down at Grian’s tribute for his lost friend, the two silent for a moment as a breeze ruffled the branches of the trees. Them rustling softly. The same breeze ruffling Grian’s feathers so they fluffed out before laying back down. Somewhere behind him, a wind chime which Grian had first discovered a few weeks back, next to the entrance to Scar’s garden chimed cheerily. The wind catcher for it made to look like an allay, with the alloy used a grey-ish blue.
Scar turned back to face Grian, now a much softer look on his face. “Are you done?” he asked with a much gentler tone compared to just a couple minutes prior.
Grian looked back down to the poppy, his own soft look in his eyes. How soft, and delicate the flower looked. How colorful yet fragile the petals were. “Yeah,” He replied, his own voice matching Scar’s in softness. The man walked up to his side, his gaze soft as he looked down from the avian, who only met his shoulder in height. This time, when Scar carefully placed a hand on his shoulder, Grian didn’t have to refrain from flinching away. The previous feeling in his chest gone as it was replaced by a quiet grief for his lost friend.
“Why don’t we head back inside?” Scar asked in that same soft voice, like he didn’t want to break the silence. Then, with a smile he continued, “That way we can have breakfast and I can have my morning coffee! And I’m sure I could make you your morning tea!” Grian snorted at Scar’s words, a small smile making itself present on his face.
“Sure, Scar,” he replied, allowing Scar to guide him back to his home.
~ ¤ ~
When they made it inside, Grian followed Scar into the kitchen, making his way into the dining room to wait for breakfast from there. Only they stopped as soon as they caught sight of the table. Or more accurately, what lay on top of it. A rolled-up letter, with the insignia of the guild stamped on top. A letter that neither had put there. That neither would have put there; not without telling the other or opening it first.
Scar frowned and made his way over to the table with Grian following behind like a shadow. He picked it up and ripped it open by the stamp, Grian watching from behind him, peering around his shoulder.
Scar Goodtimes,
You have been called upon by the guild to receive your gift of ten years from Ren Winter in exchange for his freedom. We expect your presence within the next three days. May Void be with you.