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Cuteguy curses quietly to himself as he limps down an alleyway. His wings throb painfully, stinging all over. They’re perfectly functional, he knows this, but the dozens of scratches and tiny pieces of glass still embedded in them hurt like hell. He covers his eyes with his hand and drags it down his face, feeling his black face paint smear.
What on earth was Hotguy thinking?
The only logical answer: he wasn’t. Why else would he insist he had something to show Cuteguy and take him against his will to a beautiful rooftop greenhouse at sunset on Valentine’s Day, only to dance around what exactly they were doing there until he got a call about a rescue mission, and insist on making the flashiest exit possible by firing an explosive arrow into the glass ceiling as if the light refracting off his muscles was worth both the taxpayer dollars that would inevitably be spent on the repairs and the harm to Grian’s wings when he instinctively pulled Hotguy into their fold to protect both of them from the shower of sharp shards.
It definitely wasn’t Grian’s fault that in doing so he’d apparently prevented Hotguy from employing his “Super Cool New Hotguy™ Shield” that Hotguy promised totally existed and would’ve actually protected the pair of them, as was his plan all along.
Stupid Hotguy.
This is the last time he agrees to follow Hotguy anywhere “in the name of science and discovery”. He’s discovered a brand new level of stupidity that Hotguy can reach, is what he’s discovered.
He lets out a long sigh, leaning against a brick wall with a soft grunt. He should probably get home and “science and discover” a new cocktail of antibiotic ointments. At least the look on Hotguy’s face had been pretty funny. He definitely hadn’t been expecting Cuteguy to pull him close like that.
His soft laugh turns into a choked stutter as he suddenly hears a soft whirr.
Immediately he’s alert. He pulls out his gun, loads it, and points it in the direction of the sound, expecting some sort of drone. Unless— wait. He knows that sound. From university corridors and staff rooms.
A wheelchair.
It sounds an awful lot like Scar’s motorised wheelchair, actually. It’s got that same cartoony, ‘Wall-E’ sort of character to it. He considers diving into the nearest dumpster, just in case it’s him. But the odds that Scar would come this way, on Valentine's Day of all days? Less than zero. Impossible. He would definitely have someone to spend it with, someone other than Grian. Who is he kidding. The gun stays out.
His blood runs cold as Scar actually rolls around the corner.
What.
“I— oh! Well, uh. Hello there!”
Grian’s heart leaps to his throat, pulse spiking. He needs to lie down.
Scar has his hands up, looking at Grian with round green eyes. Unmoving.
Oh, yeah. Grian is still holding a gun. Which is probably a bad idea, given how sweaty his hands are suddenly. He swiftly puts it away, which— ow— really hurts his shoulder. He sucks in a hiss of pain, gritting his teeth. “Sorry. Heard you coming. Thought you were a drone.”
Scar frowns, slowly lowering his hands. “A drone?”
“Your chair. It has a motor, doesn’t it?”
“Oh! I never thought of that,” Scar says easily. As if this is normal small talk to be making. As if this is a remotely normal situation. “Cuteguy, right? Are you okay?”
Grian feels his heart melt a little at the question. Of course Scar would go asking him whether he was okay. If it had been Hotguy, he would’ve snapped that obviously no , he’s not . Stupid question, obvious answer. But with Scar , it’s— lovely. Grian’s never claimed to be above double standards.
He tries to offer a grim smile as reassurance. “Just a few scratches. A window exploded.” (He’s not saying so to spare Hotguy the embarrassment. It’s for his own sake—he doesn’t want to be caught associating with the man without reason.)
Scar’s eyes grow round with worry. “Oh, gosh! Sorry, I— you probably want some space, or— I have, um. A water bottle?”
Grian blinks. Dumbfounded. He genuinely doesn’t know how to respond to this. He usually deals with his injuries completely alone. “Oh. Um. That would— yes?” (Good lord, he sounds like Mumbo. That was definitely a Mumbo sentence. Get it together, Cuteguy.)
Scar brightens, pushing towards him. He holds the bottle out at an arm’s length. “Here.”
Grian takes it with a nervous swallow. The bottle is unopened. Huh . He doesn’t dwell on it. He twists off the cap and takes a long sip, eyes fluttering closed with relief as cool liquid pours down his throat. He didn’t realise how much he needed this.
Scar is glancing at his wings, his brow furrowed. If Grian didn’t know any better he’d think he looked guilty. “That looks…rough.”
Cuteguy hums quietly. Finishes his very long sip. “Eh. I’ve dealt with worse.”
Scar says nothing. His concern is awfully touching. It’s too much, it makes Grian’s heart hurt. He knew Scar was something else, but he didn’t know he was so— gentle. Kind. He takes another long sip, draining the rest of the bottle. “Thanks for this, uh. Citizen.” (He realises, absently, that he sounds like Hotguy. He hates it.)
“Oh, uh. No problem. Sorry you got hurt.”
And Grian laughs, half out of startled surprise. “What? It’s not like it’s your fault.”
Scar blinks, and then laughs along, beginning to wheel nervously away. “Still. Happy, uh. Valentine’s Day? I guess?”
Cuteguy’s gaze snaps upwards to meet Scar’s eye. He glances down at the empty bottle. Then back at Scar. “Oh. Um. Thank you?”
Scar smiles, something lopsided and warm and familiar, before rolling sheepishly away.
Grian blinks down at the water bottle, still reeling. His insides all warm and trembly.
Did he just. Receive a Valentine? From his crush? Technically?
Maybe he should thank Hotguy after all.