Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A bustling school canteen. Students of all ages mill about, holding juice cartons and canteen food. Spotlight on GRIAN, who sits in a group of three, staring forwards. There is something omniscient in his eyes, shining dormant in the depth of his pupils - his friends, JOEL and JIMMY, jostle each other and laugh wildly, before noticing his silence. 

JOEL: “Grian!”

He motions to JIMMY, who shoves GRIAN in the shoulder, shaking him out of his stupor. 

JIMMY: “Grian.” 

    “Hm?” 

Grian looks up, blinks, and inconspicuously begins to poke at his pasta with the thin wooden fork held between his fingers, as the flickering daze fades. Jimmy and Joel sigh and groan in unison, and he fights the overwhelming urge to snap it and feel splinters prick his fingers. 

   “What’re you looking at?” 

“Nothing,” he says, careless, shovelling lukewarm penne into his mouth and trying not to grimace too much at the rubbery texture. Joel scoffs and cranes his neck, looking upwards and stretching just above his chair. He laughs as he catches sight of the poster from across the canteen. Grian can feel a joke about his unnatural vision coming on. 

   “Romeo and Juliet? I could barely read that, Jesus, G, ” 

The joke is said; Joel reads the curly black font at the top of the poster out with an edge of incredulous laughter obvious in his voice, and Grian winces. When he looks up, Joel has that superior grin pulling at his mouth - his arms crossed, fake, too loose, his fingers splayed across his elbows. They’re unsure whether or not to properly grip his jacket, so they hang nervously. Grian knows all of Joel’s signs by now. “That’s so stupid,” he says, “God, imagine the losers bored enough to sign up for that,” he laughs. Grian is caught between embarrassment and exasperation, flushing or eye-rolling, kind or himself.

   The poster is halfway across the canteen, pinned to the wall next to the swinging double doors with the cheap wood peeking out behind chipped blue paint and the scratched metal handles - in hopes of attracting entering students - so Grian chooses embarrassment, goes pink and pretends he hasn’t been staring at it for the last five minutes. “Can’t read it anyway,” he mumbles. Maybe they’ll believe him. He hopes so. 

   “Better hope Ms Harris doesn’t bully us into signing up,” Jimmy says anxiously, hands tucked into each other in his lap. He slouches into the table, cutting inches off his spine until he looks almost Grian’s height, and his jacket is half shrugged off so that none of the teachers will see it on his shoulders. (He’s not really sure why Jim and Joel wear their jackets in the building, considering the fiery wrath sure to incur if a teacher spots you with it still on - especially in the Art Department, God forbid - but they’re his boys, so even if he doesn’t quite understand this need to be cool and edgy and hard, he’ll play along, leather jacket warm on his shoulders as he sits close to them. He’ll be loyal if nothing else, he thinks.)

    “Us?” Joel cries, “Who’s us?” 

“Ms Harris only hates you, Tim,” Grian interjects, but he’s smiling. Jimmy groans out a pained shut up! and buries his forehead in his hands, dejected. Grian supposes that the tall scrawny kid - especially Jimmy, who can come off nervous at his best - is just easy prey for teachers like Ms Harris. 

   Really, Grian shouldn’t be surprised they think that the play is stupid. He isn’t quite sure what he was even doing, staring at the poster - there’s no way he’s going to sign up. Romeo and Juliet is not something that a bad boy like him does. 

Or-

   But - well, it’s just that he has a little bit of a soft spot for the drama tutor directing it. His name is in italics at the bottom - Mr Void - teacher director, just to the left of Doc M - student director . Xisuma’s pretty young, and he confirmed the rumours that he went to MCU only a few years back in the first workshop he taught, telling the students not to call him Mr. Void, that he wanted to be on the same level as them. Grian isn't and wasn't taught by him usually - he's never been into drama, and so would never sign up for the tutoring and extracurricular classes Xisuma teaches.

And this teacher director, Xisuma, was new last summer - not like Grian, who’s lived here all his life, and never known anything other than HCA. Grian doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the day last summer when Xisuma helped him.

   Year 11 - his parents fighting all year, Pearl leaving the house every chance she got. Sitting with his back to his door and his knees pulled up to his chest, and listening to the screaming pierce through his headphones. He’d gotten into some bad habits that year, incurring Jimmy’s worry and Joel’s frustrated fretting. And then, right in the middle of the last week of exams, he’d been called to the front office and directed to one of the private rooms with two serious, cold steel chairs and a coffee table.

   Grian still remembers how it smelt in the room - stuffy, the air thick and like wading through water. He still remembers the safeguarding officer’s freshly trimmed fringe and the crease in her brow when she handed him the phone with his dad on the other side. She wanted to go back home to her husband and the bottle of red wine sitting out on the counter. She didn’t tell him that.

   Grian still remembers the way his fingers trembled as he walked out of the door afterwards, knees weak, face blanched. He still remembers teachers coming up to him, sympathetic glances and creased brows just like the safeguarding officer. He still remembers the detached, slow-motion nods and mumbles. Let me know if you need any extra help.

   “No - no, let me speak to my son - Grian? Grian - I’m - Grian, she’s gone. She’s gone.”

“What are you talking ab-”

    He didn’t let anybody know if he needed extra help. He didn’t let them know anything .

On the last day of school that year, Grian slipped away and hid behind the school building during the Leavers Assembly. It was one of the secluded spots where the quieter kids sat at lunch, or smoked when they thought the teachers weren’t looking.

   He’d been avoiding Taurtis, avoiding what had happened the previous weekend. He’d been avoiding the look he’d given him after it had happened, avoiding the way he’d disappeared, avoiding the way he hadn’t answered any of his calls afterwards.

    Grian’s hand was still tangled in short dark hair when Taurtis pulled back. He had this unreadable, indistinct look on his face, flush still high on his cheeks from the vodka passed around the room. His lips parted, as if to say something, and there was a sinking feeling slowly weighing down Grian’s stomach, still leant back against the wall. Taurtis’s brow creased. “I’m-”

   So he’d had his head tucked into his knees, chest heaving, blurry-eyes, a compact ball curled up and composed of grief and shame and hurt, and then he had heard his name said in front of him. 

   “Grian?” 

And when he looked up, the new teacher Xisuma had been peering down at him, an extinguished cigarette stub between two fingers, concern bleeding from the shallow creases around his eyes.

   And he had known Grian’s name. 

Grian had never spoken to him before, and he had known his name. 

   It was already a fragile, walking on eggshells day - Grian crumbled, cried even more, and Xisuma crouched down and hugged him, said hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s okay. I’m so sorry, Grian. 

   So it isn’t like Grian wants to sign up for the play. He’s just thinking, a lot, recently. Especially since they closed the case for his mother. He’s half sure nowadays that she just decided to leave, and he thinks Pearl is sure of that too.

   When Jimmy and Joel pack up their bags, check their timetables for fourth period, and swing frayed backpack-straps over their shoulders, he takes the opportunity to inch away from the table and towards the notice-board. 

   The poster looks like it was made on MS Paint, with thin straight lines to write names on. Under the curly black font proclaiming ROMEO & JULIET is a commanding bold red one reading Sign Up Now! A battered pencil hangs on an old knotted string, taped precariously to the wall.

   Grian has probably been staring at it for upwards of a minute. This can’t be good for his reputation, he thinks absently. But somebody has written their name in their own pen instead of using the pencil, so fast it's smudged quite badly, and the ink shines furiously at him, making him squint. Grian peers closer to read the name.

    Oh.

 A scalding hot feeling swells, angry, in his chest, and he pushes it back down, breathing slowly outward. He hasn’t spoken to Taurtis in just over a year now, or rather Taurtis hasn’t spoken to him. His name is written, hurried, in thick black ink, reflecting angry stars in Grian’s eyes. 

   Something ignites - he snatches up the pencil and nearly rips it from the wall, writing his name angrily underneath Taurtis’s. He hopes the pencil marks intertwine with ink and force Taurtis to remember his existence, if only for a moment. He wants so badly for him to remember. He wants-

   He walks away, blazing, and spends fourth period skipping in the car park. 

The car is lukewarm.

   The air is thick and greasy as it slips between his teeth, and Grian exhales, clenching his fingers into fists. He doesn’t roll down the window, though, not yet - his eyes are glued to the clock on the radio. Digital - reading 2:22 and he knows it’s slow by three minutes and that it should read 2:25 and that Pearl should be back soon after her afternoon class. He knows this logically - but he stares at the time and he believes that it is 2:22, because he hasn’t the energy to think about lies right now. Grian rejects logic plenty. Grian knows things that other people don’t. This is normal for him. 

   But there are a lot of things normal for Grian that shouldn’t be. His fingers tap tap tap on the rough, battered edge of his seat. He keeps his arms pinned to his sides and tries to remember if there is anything in the fridge for dinner. He doesn’t know if Pearl is staying - it doesn’t really matter, they haven’t had family dinners since his mum, and he doubts his dad will even be home. He hopes he isn’t home. 

   He hopes he isn’t home. 

2:23. 

   Maybe Pearl won’t come back from class. Maybe Grian can stay here in this spot for the whole afternoon. Until night. Midnight, morning. Maybe Grian won’t ever have to move again. Even his fingers have stilled on the seat. 

   “Griba!”
Pearl knocks on the left window and opens the car door, smiling. Grian plasters a similar grin on his face like he is folding paper. “Pearl,” he says. “How was class?”

   Pearl climbs into the car and shuts the door, wrinkling her nose and rolling down the window immediately. It feels like she’s sticking her elbow hard in-between his ribs. He stares forwards and settles his hands on the wheel, pulling out of the car-park. 

   She tells him about her day. 

It was nice, she says. Class was fine. She tells him about how her architecture tutor was in a bad mood and made it everyone else’s problem, and how the other 3 students were making fun of him with her. She tells him her Year 12 friends texted her about the poster in the canteen -

   “Some of my friends signed up,” she yawns, stretching out in the passenger seat. 

“Which ones?” Grian asks, eyes on the road, face carefully set blank.

  “B, Gem.” Pearl says. “Mumbo, too.” 

“Huh,” he mumbles. Pauses. “You didn’t?” 

   She wrinkles her nose at him. “Not my thing,” she laughs, good-natured. “Anyway, I have too much work on. Wouldn’t want to be the only fresher there.” 

   Grian frowns. She’s right - she does have too much work on, what with the beginning of university and that part time job, and everything else. Pearl is moving into a dorm at MCU soon, and the mere thought of her absence is making him feel sick. Grian doesn’t want her to leave him alone (with their dad.)

   But he doesn’t say anything. Why would he? He won’t contaminate her life to save his.

A couple seconds go by without either of them saying anything, and Grian seizes the chance with both hands and pulls it towards him in an embrace. He turns the corner of the road, past the supermarket, onto their road. “I signed up,” he says.

   “Grian!” Pearl says, he can tell she’s smiling and he’s not even looking at her, she sounds happy and he doesn’t know why it isn’t making him happy- “that’s such a good idea,” she grins. “That’ll be so fun! You know what - I think you’ll get along with Gem great.”

   Gem is one of Pearl’s new friends that Grian doesn’t really know. He’s caught glimpses of laughter and copper curls and play-fighting from her before, but he’s never really had a conversation with her. The thought makes him want to curl up - his stomach constricts and twists and contorts - unfamiliarity wrecks him, as per usual. He knows BigB and Mumbo, at least, but not well - they’ve been Pearl’s friends for years, she’s always had friends in the year below, younger than her - and he knows them, but they never really gave each other more than a passing glance, Gem being in the year above him and Mumbo being in different classes. He furrows his brow, tightens his grip on the steering wheel, and pulls into the driveway. 

   “Yeah,” he says, all his leftover energy pushed into the words to make them sound truthful, “yeah, I think we will.” 

   “Unless you just want a tiny part,” Pearl jokes as she unclips her seatbelt. She climbs out of the car. Grian doesn’t need to unclip his own before he climbs out - he always keeps it undone, just in case. “So you can skip class more efficiently.” 

   It does actually make him laugh - which he cherishes, holding close to his heart, “Yeah,” he giggles, only half sarcastic, “maybe!”

   They walk shoulder to shoulder, perfectly parallel up to the front door, the beep-beep of the car locking echoing behind them. Grian opens the door with his keys and breathes in the silence. Dad isn’t home. He wishes it was always like that.

   They walk wordlessly upstairs and retreat to separate rooms - there’s a sense of surliness and resentment brought on by the house, brought on by the emptiness of it. Grian sits on his bed, back straight, and wishes that he still shared a room with Pearl. Then he takes it back inside his head. Again - he won’t contaminate her life to save his.

   When he gets Joel’s texts, he’s lying in his bed, on top of the duvet, staring at the ceiling with his arms crossed on his torso like a corpse. Pearl’s music is blasting through the wall, and he listens to it - some indie rock band that Gem recommended to her. She’s been listening to it non-stop, and there’s a pit in his stomach of something that’s meant to be affection or happiness, but just isn’t strong enough to show. 

   His phone buzzes, and he doesn’t respond to it for two minutes, listening to his clock tick, tick, tick, tick, counting. One hundred and twenty seconds. One hundred and eighty. 

   He reaches without looking to the bedside table and picks up his glasses. Grian never likes having them on when he feels like this. When they’re settled, frames cold on his ears, he holds his phone up to his face without sitting up. 

7:12 PM   Come over? 

   The blue-light is cool on his irises. Grian stares at the message for a few seconds, blank, before he gets up. He stands, and looks at himself in the mirror. Old shirt and boxers. 

   He pulls on a pair of jeans and slips on his jacket in the doorway. “Pearl!” he calls, hand on the doorknob. “I’m going to Joel’s!” 

   The music is still very loud. Pearl doesn’t hear him, so he frowns, heavy, and walks back upstairs to knock on her door. “Pearl?” 

   She’s sitting at her desk on her laptop. “G?” she asks, twisting around in the golden light cast from her lamp. 

“I’m going to Joel’s,” he repeats, and she smiles at him.

   “Sounds good,” she says. “Text me when you get there.” 

He smiles back at her, listens to a couple seconds of the music, and closes her door. See you. 

   When he gets to Joel’s house, he uses the spare key. Grian doesn’t remember when they ended up with the keys to each other’s houses, sometime last summer, but he’s not sure he wants to, because Joel looks at his house key with this dejected catch in his glance, like he glimpses them and remembers something. Grian isn’t sure what.

   Joel isn’t in his bedroom, so Grian looks out the window. He’s sitting out on the roof, on the flat outcrop facing the garden. Smoke curls and floats above his head, reaching out into the sky.

   Grian climbs out of the window to join him. 

“Hey,” he says. He sits down next to him and leans against the brick wall. Joel doesn’t look at him, just stares forwards and takes another drag of his cigarette.

   “Want a fag?” 

“Sure,”

   Joel passes him a cigarette and he fishes his lighter out of the pocket of his jeans to light it. They’re dark wash, and ripped at the knees - not intentionally, though. He wore them one of the first times he hung out with the boys, and they’d ripped when he’d fallen over the previous day. He was going to try and sew them up or patch them, but Joel and Jimmy had loved them, so he’d kept them that way. His mother had hated them.

   His mother would have hated (would hate? Grian is never sure anymore) the things he does now, so Grian doesn’t dwell on it for long. He exhales smoke and closes his eyes.

   “I signed up for Romeo and Juliet,” he says.

Joel doesn’t take his eyes off the sunset. “That’s good,” he replies, and it sounds genuine. “That’ll be really good for you.” 

   Grian looks at him, then, eyes narrowed, exasperated, but Joel looks back. Smiles. “I’m serious,” he laughs. 

   “You said it was stupid,” 

“I say a lot of things I don’t mean.” 

   He looks away again. Grian bites at his lip and tries to draw blood. He looks down at his cigarette. He hates it when Joel gets like this. 

   “I know things have been hard,” he says.

“Stop that,” Grian scowls.

   He doesn’t relent. “G,” he goes on, “I think this will be so good for you. You’ve got to get out there, man.” 

   “I am out there.” 

“I see you when you think nobody’s looking,” Joel says then. He turns towards Grian again. He’s frowning. Grian doesn’t respond. Grian doesn’t say anything. He just stares forwards into the pink and orange of the sky and takes another puff of his cigarette. 

   Joel blows smoke circles into the sky. Grian used to wish he could do that. Now he doesn’t really care. 

   “It’ll do you good to care about something,” Joel says. Grian wonders privately if he can read his mind. 

“Yeah,” he says, but his voice feels hollow. 

   If he squints, he can see the stars. They remind him of Taurtis.

Chapter Text

    Grian lies in his bed in the morning and thinks to himself about how he needs to get up and close the window. He thinks about how the cold is beginning to intrude, probing under his blanket despite his defensive efforts. He thinks about regret. 

   He slept with it open, so now the wind blows, gentle, into his room. There are goosebumps rising on his skin from the cold - he dances his fingers across his bare thigh under his duvet to feel the bumps, harsh and raised on otherwise soft skin.

   It’s 6:03 AM, and he doesn’t usually wake up this early. No - no, that’s a lie, Grian doesn’t usually get up this early. He usually stares at the ceiling and waits for his alarm to tick past 7:00, listens to the brr-beep, brr-beep, brr-beep for 10 seconds as a glad break from the church bells, and then drags himself out of the warmth and security of his bed. He shoves his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and pulls on his polo and trousers without brushing his hair - he’ll do it later. 

   Grian is thinking about this routine when his phone rings. He wonders, momentary, who it is - both Joel and Jim are complete disasters, sleeping past 8, but - lo and behold, it’s Joel whose name pops up on his screen. He frowns and picks up.

   He can’t resist. “Who died?” he asks.

“Gr - What?”

   Grian rolls his eyes, aware Joel can’t see the gesture, but smiling even so- “Who died for you to get up this early?” 

   There’s familiar laughter in the background, and Joel’s scandalised voice filtering through the old iPhone speakers: “No one is dead!”

    And it’s Lizzie - of course it’s Lizzie, there’s no other reason for Joel to wake up this early. She has no doubt gone to his house - Grian smiles at the phone, even if they can’t see him. “Are you sure, Joel?” he teases.

   “I’m sure!” says Joel, laughing so it’s okay. “Have you gotten the email?” 

Grian’s heart sinks. “Email?

He can practically hear Joel’s eye-roll through the phone. 

   “You get to miss fourth period,” he says, jealous, “for some audition shit,”

“Huh,” says Grian. “You know me, I wouldn’t be there anyway.” He smiles through it.

   And Joel laughs, tells him to meet him by the lockers when he gets to school, and hangs up. Grian puts down his phone and swallows the spit gathered in his mouth, breathing deliberately and evenly in an attempt to quell the emptiness in his stomach. The house is silent - Pearl doesn’t have any lectures today and is sleeping peacefully in her bed. He envies her, but in a light-hearted way, like siblings often do. 

   He ignores the blazer tossed across the back of his chair and brushes quick fingers through his hair in the mirror, not bothering with a hairbrush. It’ll fall into place soon enough, and as Grian shrugs on his jacket and heads out the door with the familiar weight of his backpack on one shoulder, he does his breathing exercises for the day.

   He knows they don’t help him. In actuality, they make everything worse, but he goes along with the pretence - in, out, in out, one two three one two three four as his footsteps pad along the pavement to the car.

   The steering wheel is steady and reassuring under his hands. He takes a deep breath and pulls out of the driveway.

***

Joel is a dirty liar.

   Grian figures this out in the worst way possible when he walks into the Drama department, past empty corridors and inspirational posters, and opens the door to the hall. Eyes turn on him - a cluster of students, sat cross-legged in a sparse circle on the shiny wooden floor. A deer in headlights, he looks up and catches Xisuma’s eye from where he’s speaking to them.

   Xisuma leaps to his feet immediately, a smile stretching across his face, “Grian!” he greets him, and it feels like reassurance; “Don’t worry, you’re not late,” he continues, “come sit,”

   That phrase strikes fear into the heart of any sane sixth former - Grian turns terrified eyes on the circle, a prickling sensation on the back of his hands, and thank God - sees Gem, who is staring furiously at him from where she’s sat near the wall. There’s an empty spot on her left, and her eyes dart to it and back to him, partly obscured by stray strands of fiery hair, blinking meaningfully. He dashes over and stumbles down next to her as quickly as he can, hot embarrassment warming his skin, sides of his shoes clacking against the shiny wooden floor.

   Gem murmurs a greeting that he hastily returns, looking up around the room, slightly frantic. Xisuma has traversed to the door and is brightly greeting more students. Another teenager - Pearl’s age, Grian thinks, probably a fresher at MCU - presumably Doc M - is talking animatedly to him. Then, a tentative glance to his left reveals Gem, Mumbo nervous and bolt upright beside her, and Lizzie, who perks up and gives him a sympathetic smile. He returns it, anxiety curling in his stomach, and the smallest look tossed to his right makes him wish he hadn’t taken Gem up on her offer in his sudden fit of panic.

   His heartbeat stutters - he rips his eyes away almost immediately - and breathing suddenly becomes something he has to be very aware of, because it’s Taurtis. It’s Taurtis.

    Fuck! The brief flash of tan skin and red-blue wristbands stick in his eyes, a painful afterimage- but before Grian can dwell on it too much, another pair of shoes pad into the room and Scar Goodtimes (in all his irritating, excitable glory) plonks himself down in the gap between Grian and Taurtis. With him come a smattering of students that Grian can’t name; he wrenches his eyes down to his trainers and the polished wooden floor, waiting for Xisuma to start speaking. Thankfully, it’s not long until he does, and the students in the circle crane their necks to look up at him.

   “Hey, team!” he says, and a couple of students smile on impulse just from how endearing it is - Xisuma trying very hard to be the cool, liked teacher. Grian’s noticed that no one seems to find it annoying, just sweet. “We’ve called you in today for a choosing exercise,” Xisuma continues, and that is when the students start rolling their eyes a bit. Even Doc M, who’s stood to his left, two inches taller, with his arms crossed over his chest, looks a bit put out by his wording. 

   “X here thinks that auditions are too harsh,” he says, and although he sounds annoyed, his tone conveys a sort of affection that Grian recognises as no-nonsense - almost brotherly, almost like him and Timmy. 

   “We want to see who works well together,” Xisuma explains. “It’ll be less overwhelming, and it’ll remind you that you’re working on the same team, not against each other.” 

   Grian can’t really argue with that. He finds himself leaning subtly towards Gem, get me out of here get me out of here get me out! because Scar Goodtimes is on his right, and Joeyish Taurtis is beside him, and Grian does not want to be here!

    “We’re going to play some games that you’ll be familiar with if you’ve done Drama before. We’ll see who gravitates towards each other, who has chemistry, who’s better in the spotlight or the shadows,” says Xisuma.

   Grian hears someone whisper dramatic, much? and frowns, but if Xisuma hears, he doesn’t seem to care. “Now, I want one volunteer,” he says, and turns to Doc, “and I want you to fetch Ren from wherever he is backstage.”

    Ren turns out to be a Year 13 that walks very close to Doc as he bounds into the room - a pair of sunglasses perched on his nose, brown curls swinging. Doc looks at ease next to him, walking with his hands in his pockets to stand next to Xisuma again. 

   There are a few hands up, and then Xisuma grins mischievously. “Now,” he says. “If you didn’t put your hand up, I want you to stand,” and Grian realises his mistake.

   He stands with shaky legs, and looks around the room to see a couple familiar faces. Mumbo Jumbo next to Gem, Martyn Littlewood - also a Year 13, Grian’s never spoken to him but he knows who he is.

   “Martyn,” Xisuma says decisively, “You.” 

“I feel like you’re going to try and fight me,” is the first thing Martyn says when everyone is sat down apart from him, Xisuma, and Ren in front of the group. Xisuma chuckles. 

   “Anything could happen,” he says. “Martyn, have you ever done improv before?” 

When he shakes his head, Xisuma elaborates: “I’m going to give you a situation, or a character, and you’re going to create a scene with only that. There is only one rule - don’t let the scene fall flat.”

    With that, he turns to the two standing in front. “I’ll be nice and give you a good prompt,” he smiles, a mischievous crinkle in his eyes, “Medieval fantasy. Ren, you’re a king, Martyn, you’re his subject. Ren, I want you to lead the scene.”

   Ren gives him a nod and he steps back. 

There’s a beat of silence. Ren blinks, looks up at Martyn, who’s taller but stands nervously, and then something in the air snaps and he looms closer, and the room feels just a bit smaller, like they’ve created a whole new universe between them.

   “I need a favour.”

Martyn looks small and frightened for a moment, his eyes wide, looking for an explanation, but then he brushes it off and he follows, voice smooth, “What kind of favour, m’lord?” 

   Ren breathes, shaky, the perfect volume to be heard, like a stage whisper. “The fate of the kingdom,” he begins, and pauses, running a hand through brown curls, stress furrowing his brow, “will weigh on your shoulders if you accept.” 

   “I have a choice?” 

Alright - alright, Grian’s gotten the distinct impression that Martyn was into DnD before, but he didn’t know it made him a good actor! He acts polite for his king, but there’s an undertone in it, he speaks archly, his eyes flicking upward. He draws closer to Ren, his neck bowed like a swan, respectful. His hands tuck into one another in front of him. 

   “Of course you have a choice, Martyn,” says Ren, his voice very subdued, fond, yet thrown out into the room, clearly audible. Grian can hear the difference clear within the two - Martyn might be a good actor, but his voice is soft in a way that tell-tales he has never performed before, and Ren clearly has.

   But then Martyn steps back, and there’s uncertainty filling the space between them, and he looks up again to meet his eyes. “You must forgive me, my lord,” he says, “if I feel uneasy of the task to come.”

   “It is only natural,” Ren murmurs. His face folds in stress again, painful. “I picked you,” he says, louder, eyes burning with intensity, “for a reason. You are my most loyal subject.” 

   “How do you know that?” asks Martyn, lips quirking upward in jest. Ren laughs, full body, like he can’t imagine it. 

   “Not you,” he says then, and he smiles. “Anybody but you.”

But his mirth drops quickly and his smile fades quicker. “Martyn, I’m sorry,” he whispers. “But this is for the good of the kingdom. You have to - help me-” and - and - Ren is on his knees, he’s fallen forward - he gasps -

    A scattering of footsteps, “Ren!”, Martyn is in front of him, but he doesn’t help him up, he crouches next to him, intimate, hands brushing shoulders, faces within an inch of each other, and something is there - something electric -

   “You must kill me,” Ren says. His voice is hollow, as if he’s let go of any bravado he was still holding close to his chest. He suddenly seems pale, drawn, desperate. “I will be dead soon nevertheless.” 

Martyn’s lips part, ever so slightly - his face moves into something haunted, frightened, he moves ever so slightly closer-

    “Cut!” 

Grian blinks. He sees Martyn stand up, face red, embarrassment blooming, and help his scene-partner to his feet. Ren grins at him and then at the audience as the clapping explodes out, and grabs his hand as he bows, a quiet come on, that was great! as Xisuma walks back up and claps Martyn on the back. 

   “For somebody who has never improvised before, Martyn,” he announces, “I am very impressed.”

Martyn scurries back to sit at the edge of the audience, and Ren follows, walking confidently, a stark contrast. Grian looks back at Xisuma.

   “Now,” he says, clapping his hands together. His eyes rove over the group again. “Grian.”

Grian freezes. 

   “Come on up,” says Xisuma, and his voice is reassuring, gentle, and Grian feels like he’s going to throw up. He stands, and his legs tremble more than they should as he makes his way up to the front. Looking down at everyone sitting, he feels taller than he should - his knees unsteady beneath him, like they’ll give out at any moment.

   “Now…” and Xisuma considers, squinting. “Taurtis.” 

And Taurtis gets up easily, smoothly, pushes back dark hair with a lean hand, and drifts up to the front. Grian’s not sure if he’s still breathing; he feels like he’s been punched in the stomach. There’s a hand on his shoulder - Xisuma’s presence behind him, steady, and he sucks in a long thin breath through barely parted lips and hopes he doesn’t look too pale and petrified to the crowd of students in front of them. He hopes they don’t see through him.

   “Okay. Grian,” Xisuma declares, “You are going to lead the scene.” 

He purses his lips, then, running through a list of scenarios in his head. “Break up with him,” he says finally, and Grian chokes on the shock-horror-fear that comes up like vomit.

    “What?”

Xisuma laughs, steps back, “You’ve been married for five years,” he says, eyes sparkling, “but now you’ve discovered something that’s making you end it.”

   Then he retreats to stand by the wall, gives Grian an encouraging nod, and the room disappears. Grian looks over at Taurtis.

   He’s standing casually, hands slipped into the pockets of his trousers, blazer missing, tie loose. Headphones hanging around his neck. He’s just that bit taller than him, thin wrists bulked up by red and blue bands. 

   His hair is just as thick and soft as it was that night when Grian ran his fingers through it. 

“It’s over,” Grian says before he realises the words coming from his mouth. He hears his voice echo in the room and he hears Taurtis’s incredulous laugh and he hears his own breathing shutter like blinds half-closed.

   “You can’t be serious,” Taurtis scoffs, “What have I done this time?”

That strikes a chord - Grian knows Taurtis has taken Drama his whole life, but he’s never experienced it like this; up close, properly, outside of shitty primary school plays.

   He’s never known how real it can feel. “What have you done?” he repeats, shrill and righteous and pissed-off.

   His voice rises then, he repeats - “What have you fucking done?!” - and he’s wondering now if this is too much, if the audience is giggling and whispering, if he was allowed to curse, if Xisuma is going to scold him, but now there’s a pause and it is only Grian and Taurtis and it is silent. It is silent.

   Taurtis is silent.

 It’s like talking to his father.

“Give me your phone.” he whispers.

   A glimpse of uncertainty - Taurtis hesitates, tenses, a heavy pause augmented by fingers curling to fists. “No.”

“Give me your phone,” Grian repeats, and steps forward, chest to chest, baring teeth and his own fears, give me your fucking phone -

    And so Taurtis hands empty air to him, sighs, steps back like he’s escaping, a slight turn to the audience and stare at the floor. Grian snatches the ‘phone’ up and narrows his eyes down at it. There’s a beat of silence, his face crumpling into rage. “Who’s this?”

   “Nobody.” 

“Who is this?” 

   Taurtis’s face tightens, skin taut, “It was one time, Grian.” he says. “It didn’t mean anything.” 

   It hurts when Taurtis says his name, Grian thinks.

He crowds up against him again, intimidating despite the height difference, and looms there for a moment. Angry. Overwhelming. 

   “It’s over,” he says again, but it’s weighted now.

He pushes past him, makes him stumble - and Grian probably wasn’t meant to close the scene on his own, oh my God , and - “Cut!” 

    He spins around, embarrassed just like Martyn was, and stares like a deer in headlights at the group as they applaud. Xisuma walks up and pats him on the shoulder, says something amongst the clapping, vaguely discernable as great work! Grian isn’t listening, though, how could he? Taurtis is laughing amongst the applause, and their eyes catch and he feels almost happy - just for a moment - that they worked so well together.

   But then the taller boy leaves his line of vision to go sit back down, and everything hits Grian at once as he stumbles over to sit with Gem again. 

  And it hurts.

So when Grian walks into the practice room the boys have hijacked for lunch break, he smacks Joel on the shoulder - he’s sitting at the drums, sticks tossed over his shoulder onto the floor, because God forbid he actually practise, he’s only here for the room - and he groans loudly at the hit, mortally wounded. Grian slumps into the corner. “Fucking liar,” he mumbles. 

   Joel pouts. “What is it this time?” 

“Auditions? Auditions?” 

    “Oh no,” says Jimmy.

“They were not fucking auditions,” Grian says, high-pitched, almost in hysterics. “Xisuma called them choosing exercises.”
  There are vague sounds of disappointment - Jimmy leans over from where he’s perched on his seat and hits a drum for emphasis. 

   “And he made me improvise breaking up with Taurtis.”

Disappointment fades to outrage - he what?! and you’re not serious! ring out into the room immediately, Joel is seething - “I can’t believe Xisuma. After how he treated you?” 

   Grian rolls his eyes, “Xisuma doesn’t know how he treated me.”

“Well, were you any good?” Jimmy asks.

He frowns. “I think I was - was okay,” he said, uncertain. Jimmy squints at him and grabs his phone. 

   “What are you doing?” 

“I want to see how good you are. I’m looking up the Romeo and Juliet script.” 

    “Timmy.” 

But Jim insists, and Grian rolls his eyes and takes the phone, which has Romeo’s monologue from the balcony scene in a Calibri font on some website, because of course that’s what Jimmy has picked. Grian swears at him, but eventually stands up, reluctant, amongst excitable clapping from his friends, and peers down at the phone to attempt the monologue. 

   “But, soft,” he begins, attempting a soft, curious tone and viciously hoping he’s just about getting it, “What light through yonder window breaks?” 

   If Grian focuses hard enough, he can see light coming from the corners of his vision. “It is the east,” he breathes, shaky, in awe, “and Juliet is the sun.”

   He starts forward, then, looking upwards at nothing, “Arise, fair sun,” he continues, desperation leaking into his tone, “and kill the envious moon, who is,” he fights off a laugh, “already sick and pale with grief - that thou her maid art far more fair than she-” he lets an edge of humour trickle into his voice for that, but abandons it soon after, “Be not her maid, since she is envious. Her vestal livery is but sick and green, and none but fools do wear it - cast it off.” 

   He sees her. He sees her, he is sure he does, some faceless figure waving to him, and he’s sure his own surprise makes it into his voice somehow as he sneaks another look down at the script - “It is my lady - it is my love! Oh - oh, that she knew she were! She speaks - yet she says nothing. What of that?” 

   And there’s hesitation, then, that familiar nervousness - “Her eye discourses, I will answer it. I am too bold - ‘tis not to me she speaks. Two of the fairest stars in heaven-” and he melts back into admiration, “-having some business, do entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if - what if her eyes were there, in her head?”

   Grian frowns, then, bittersweet, “The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,” he murmurs, “as daylight doth a lamp. Her eyes in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright, that birds would sing and think it were not night.”

   A beat pause, and he feels that familiar electricity surrounding him, “See, how she leans her cheek upon that hand,” he whispers. “Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand - that I might touch that cheek!” 

   There’s a pause - he looks down at the phone, only to realise he’s finished the monologue entirely. Huh - but he only has a few seconds to ponder that, because then Joel reaches over and hits him in the head with a drumstick.

    “What,” he says, “the fuck, Grian.”

“You’re getting a main role,” Jimmy says, a matter-of-fact tone half-betrayed by his awe. “G, you’re getting a main role.” 

   “No,” Grian says, dumbfounded, “no, Tim, I’m not. Come on, don’t mess me about.”

“I’m not messing you about!” Jimmy says, genuinely offended, “Look, don’t you think we’d tell you if you were shit?” 

   At this point, Grian really isn’t sure. He isn’t sure about so many things  - the ‘audition’, the monologue, Taurtis, his dad-

   -but he tries very hard to push it all down, and makes it through the rest of the day without much problem.

   He listens to Jimmy and Joel bicker and conspire about who they think will get which role. The general consensus is that Gem is going to fight somebody - Grian didn’t know this, but Joel says that Lizzie told him all about her training in stage-fighting. Jimmy remarks that a pair of Year 13s called Impulse and Skizz would be perfect for twin roles, and Joel swears up and down that Scar Goodtimes is going to be comedy relief. Grian rolls his eyes at that when Joel says it, but he can’t help but agree silently - no matter how annoying the guy is, he’d be perfect for a comedy role with a goofy grin and a broad figure.

 Then, he ends up driving home alone, because Pearl is busy again, and when he pulls into the driveway, the lights in the windows are on. 

   His stomach drops.

For a moment, Grian considers turning around and leaving. Getting back in the car, driving to Joel or Jim’s house, avoiding the figure looming in the kitchen, or the bedroom, or - he feels sick. 

   But he has an English quiz tomorrow, and his textbooks are in his room, and he can’t afford to fail. Grian makes his way towards the house, every step of his shoes on gravel weighted, heavy, and turns the key in the door. 

   He pushes it open, listening to the creaking, and inches inside, feeling the heaviness sink down in his stomach as the gentle heat of the house hits his face, settles around his cheeks and caresses his neck. Closing the door feels like daring his father to acknowledge him - Grian looks into the hallway to see the man looking at him from the kitchen. 

   His father looks up at him, impassive, face tinged gold in the dim light. 

He says nothing.

   Grian feels his hand twitch by his side, but swallows, holding himself still for another moment. He still finds himself begging for a simple greeting sometimes, even when he doesn’t want one, doesn’t need one.

   His father turns away.

Grian stands there for a moment, still, silent, nothing. He feels the ache inside him stronger every time - it never goes away. He’s not sure if it ever will.

   Then he walks upstairs and shuts himself in his room.

It’s midnight when Pearl gets home. Grian hears a car pull over on the street - it’s Gem’s, with the stuttering engine - and the door unlocks with a series of clicks that make it clear her hands are shaking. He doesn’t do anything - he doesn’t think he should - Pearl could have been laughing, or Pearl could have been drunk, or anything else that justifies him not talking to her and immediately making things worse. 

   But an hour later when he’s lying in his bed scrolling on his phone, he hears her footsteps on the landing. 

   “Grian?” 

Her voice is soft, but loud enough to hear as the door creaks open. Grian sits up straighter, discards his phone. “Pearl?” 

   She slips into the room and closes the door behind her with the delicacy of somebody who knows their father is sleeping in his own room (in the double bed, only dented on one side.) She doesn’t flick on the light, because the lamp beside his bed is on, but shuffles closer in her pyjamas. “Can I sit?” 

   Grian frowns. “Of course you can,” he says, shifts to the wall and holds out the blanket. 

Grateful, she comes under it with him, and sighs, knees a triangle in front of her, tenting the duvet. “Movie?” 

   This is how they work - half-questions and half-answers, ignoring the presence across the landing. Grian leans over her to snatch up his laptop, opens Netflix, and puts on the same Studio Ghibli movie they watch every time this happens. They’re 20 minutes in when Pearl finally speaks.

   “Me and Scott have been fighting,” she whispers, staring forwards at the little girl on the screen - with the flouncy hair and the smile. Grian fights the urge to swing towards her, raise his eyebrows, react in some tangible way. 

   “You have?” 

She shrugs. “I’m not even sure why,” she says. “I don’t know what’s happening. We’re just always angry at each other these days.” 

   The girl on the screen laughs and says something to the boy she stands with. He smiles. 

Grian frowns. “I’m sorry, Pearlie,” he mumbles, the childish nickname slipping out on accident, as if they’re not only two years apart. Pearl seems so much more real than him - she has a life, and Grian’s not sure why he’s convinced he doesn’t.

   Pearl sighs, but leans back against the pillows, and she’s not crying, which Grian sees as a win. “How is Taurtis?” she asks. 

   Grian is silent. 

It’s a few seconds of that, of his blank stare forwards, and then it hits him quite violently that he is his father’s son. 

   “G?”

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “He seems fine.” Without me.

   “That’s not what I asked,” murmurs Pearl, “and you know it, Griba.” 

“I don’t care if that’s what you asked,” says Grian, and pauses, immediate, hurt punching through his veins as if he is saying it to himself, not her. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

   Pearl doesn’t acknowledge it. Grian might be his father’s son, but Pearl is his daughter. “Then, how is it?” 

   Grian bites back something else mean. He hasn’t space for all the hate inside him; it has to spill someday. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “Lonely.” 

   Pearl leans her head on his shoulder. They watch the rest of the movie in silence, and when he wakes up in the morning, she’s gone. 

   He hates it when she asks about Taurtis. It’s only natural - he was her friend too. But Grian can’t bring himself to admit to her how it happened - he doesn’t think he could bear to confess how it was his fault - how he got too bold. How Taurtis never spoke to him again. Until today.

    Grian, I’m not - I’m not like that.

Before he falls asleep, with Pearl’s half-snores beside him, Grian looks out of the window, craning his neck to see the stars. 

   They’re dull.

Chapter Text

When Grian bursts into the practice room and slams the door shut behind him, Joel is still messing about on the drums - tapping out the beat to Another One Bites The Dust, his latest percussion endeavour - and Jimmy is sitting in the corner - he scrambles to hide his phone, hands stuttering in the air to shove it under his jacket, but realises quickly that it’s Grian and relaxes. “How bad is it?” he asks, face still pink from the panic.

   Grian slides down the door and puts his forehead in his hands, white in the face, mortified, nausea curling in his stomach already- “It’s so bad,” he whispers, “It is so bad.” 

    It’s Monday now, nearly a week since the ‘auditions’, nearly a week since Grian embarrassed himself in front of the whole cast. He can’t stop thinking about it, which is even worse, he can’t stop thinking about Taurtis’s crossed arms and defensive shoulders and the way he eased as he laughed at the end, amongst the applause. Grian can’t stop thinking about it. 

   So, he is silent for just a few seconds too long - and Joel and Jimmy exchange horrified looks, so Grian swallows, collects himself, and grimly looks up at them through his fingers. “I got Romeo.” 

   There is a long, drawn out pause.

The room erupts into laughter.

   Grian groans, theatrical and exaggerated and agonised, going pink in the face, and casts his mind back to the fresh, shiny new cast list as he looks away from his boys, who are falling about themselves with hysterics at his expense, grabbing shoulders and hitting at faces and pushing hands away. “Hang on, hang on,” manages Jimmy through his giggles, fighting Joel off, “The list’s on Google, let’s have a look.” 

   And his heart sinks. Grian’s heart sinks, because he is desperately trying to ignore the casting for Juliet. It’s Scar Goodtimes, the raucous, confident Year 12 that honestly quite intimidates him.

And - just as he predicts, there is a moment of silence, the two hunched over Jimmy’s phone, before they burst into boisterous laughter. “Juliet,” Joel reads out, “played by Scar Goodtimes!”

    Grian promptly hides his face in his hands again.

“Here, have a look at this,” Jim says then, attention drawn, “Lizzie’s gotten Sampson and the Apothecary.”

    “I don’t know who they are, I took Macbeth,” Joel complains, but he’s already gotten out his phone and pulled up his messages with her, typing out some congratulatory sentence with a string of hearts to accompany it.

   “Sampson fights Gregory in the opening scene,” Grian mumbles through his fingers. “Who’s that?”

Jimmy looks back down at his phone, and then in an excited response, whacks Joel upside the head: “I told you Gem would get a fighting role!”
  Joel groans in mock pain, falling half-on-purpose, half-on-accident onto him, “Jimmy!” 

They continue bickering, so Grian leans over and snatches Jimmy’s phone up to look again at the casting list. Sure enough, Scar Goodtimes is Juliet, but Mumbo’s gotten Benvolio, and he recognises Martyn and Ren’s names on the list - of course, Ren as Prince Escalus, and then Martyn nailing a few smaller roles: Abram, Peter, and hilariously, Lady Montague. 

   Then, a host of people he recognises vaguely as some Year 13s - B DoubleO as Mercutio, Tango Tek as Tybalt, Etho Labs as Capulet. Cleo Zombie, who he vaguely recognises as Lizzie’s friend, as Lady Capulet. There’s a lot of people playing multiple roles, which he attributes mostly to the smaller cast. Jimmy and Joel didn’t laugh at the play for no reason.

   He’s reading through the dense list of names when he sees Paris, and he almost doesn’t process who’s gotten the role, because the bell rings and Jimmy snatches up his phone just in time for a teacher to knock on the door and gesture for them to leave and head to class.

   He follows behind his friends as they trail out of the practice room, Joel stuffing his drumsticks into his bag, noise muffled around him, a distant ringing faint in his ears.

   And it’s Taurtis.

Taurtis is Paris.

   He can vaguely remember their scene together from his GCSEs, Paris trying to protect Juliet’s grave, Romeo not wanting to kill him. Romeo doing it anyway. If thou be merciful, open the tomb. Lay me with Juliet. Joel casts a worried glance back at him as he slips into his English classroom, a faint goodbye hanging on his lips - Grian sighs and prepares himself for a Talk later when Joel can catch him alone. He falls into his seat and pulls out his books. 

   It’s an uncharacteristically boring hour of Frankenstein today - despite himself, Grian usually finds himself enjoying English texts, but today is different - and then, fifteen minutes before the end of class, a small wad of paper hits him in the back of the neck. 

   He turns around to see Mumbo Jumbo peering at him from behind, and picks up the paper from where it’s fallen by his feet, unfolding it. Good morrow, cousin.

    Grian has to suppress a snort. Maybe he sees now why Pearl and Mumbo are such good friends - he turns the paper over and writes in messy blue biro - is the day so young?

   Mumbo laughs when he unfolds it, luckily disguised by the general chatting of the classroom as they discuss Mary Shelley. Grian turns back around, feeling vaguely embarrassed, and expects the whole affair to draw to a close, but then a minute later another scrunched up ball of paper hits him in the back of the head and he unfurls it to read But new struck nine!! in absurdly neat handwriting.

   He holds back from giggling, takes a couple minutes to compose himself and try to remember the next line, absolutely not looking it up on his phone beneath the table and nearly getting caught by Mr K, and then, eventually, tosses back the paper with the addition of ay me, sad hours seem long.

   That night, when Grian gets home, he opens his old battered copy of Romeo and Juliet and flips to Act 5, Scene 3, and tries to remember the actors for Friar Lawrence and Balthazar, before eventually giving up and checking his email for the list. 

   There’s a Year 13 he distantly remembers called Impulse SV who’s gotten Friar Lawrence, but Balthazar and the page aren't on the cast list at all. They’re small roles - so, no doubt, the Drama department will probably grab some anxious Year 10 or 11s and promise them extra credit for it. 

   Really, he feels a bit bad for whoever’s landed Balthazar, considering he has to threaten them on stage;  I will tear thee joint by joint and strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs. Grian hopes he won’t have to say that to some beanstalk of a Year 10. 

Everything adds up, then, summarises, and it’s the perfect setup for him to start thinking about Taurtis again, thinking about the house party in Year 11. He knows he shouldn’t think about that night, and he knows that he doesn’t want to think about that night, but regardless, it happens anyway. 

   It was one of those sixth form parties that the Year 11s snuck into - Taurtis had befriended some Year 12 called Sam who had helped them in. They’d been ecstatic; or at least Taurtis had been, and Grian liked to see him happy, so he came. It was a massive house - some rich kid whose parents were away for the weekend, he’d assumed, all red brick and fluffy cream carpet and a garden four times the size of his own. 

   They’d drunk way too much - Grian had stuck to Taurtis’s side the entire time, anxious, and drank way more than was good for him to cope. A massive bottle of cheap vodka had been passed around the room, and they’d tried some shoddily mixed cocktails, and Grian had sat on the couch with his side pressed hot against Taurtis’s as the music blasted heavy bass into their ears.

   Interlocked.

   At one point, it had gotten too much even for Taurtis, and they’d dragged each other out into the hallway, giggling, floor vibrating from the music. Probably nearly midnight - and then they’d ended up crammed into the closet amongst fancy fur coats.

Taurtis had been laughing when it happened. Grian had been too drunk for words, too drunk for reason, and Taurtis was still hanging onto his hands like when they’d been in the corridor. 

   It had been all he could do. 

I’m not like that.

   Grian doesn’t want to think about the party anymore. He doesn’t want to think about anything.

   He drifts through the next few days like they don’t even exist, like he doesn’t exist, like nothing exists. And if Grian’s being honest, he’s felt like this before. But now it feels intentional.

   He wants to detach himself from life, detach himself from the cast list, detach himself from the flashes of blue and red in the hallways. 

Scar Goodtimes - Juliet - keeps trying to catch his eye from across the canteen and the corridors. Grian has noticed this because he is desperately trying to put a stop to it. His current methods are keeping his gaze directed to the floor; blue eyes glued to blue vinyl. And, again, if Grian is being honest, he thinks he might be a bit afraid of Scar Goodtimes.

   He’s obnoxiously happy - he’s got this big sparkly grin plastered on his face at all times, and he manages to walk with a spring in his step even on the days he brings his cane to school, like his positivity is leaking into the soles of his shoes. He hangs around Year 13s mostly, B DoubleO and Etho Labs and Cleo Zombie, who don’t seem to mind being friends with a younger guy like a lot of Year 13s do.

   Whenever Grian sees Scar Goodtimes, he’s smiling. That is what scares him.

So, so - you could say he’s a little bit caught up in his own head walking to his last class of the day, staring at the floor, and that means it catches him off guard when a hand claps him lightly on the shoulder and he jolts upward.

   “Romeo!” Lizzie greets him, grinning as she catches up to him. She tucks her hair behind her ear and Grian catches sight of the pair of earrings Joel gave her for her sixteenth. They’re shiny and silver and loop over the helix, swirling around to the lobe. “How’re you feeling about your casting?”

   Suddenly feeling a bit ill, Grian realises that he is now surrounded - Gem is on his other side, and Martyn Littlewood who improvised with Ren Dog is there now too, and Grian is sweating. “Yeah,” he chokes out, “yeah - crazy - crazy, right?”

   Martyn laughs, good-natured, “I thought you were really good, actually,” he says, and the corridor blurs a bit more than it should given Grian is wearing his glasses. He grips his backpack straps a bit tighter on his shoulders.

   “Your improv was great, man,” Gem agrees. He laughs nervously.

“Thanks,” Grian says, but there’s a tightness in his chest that betrays the sentiment. It only gets worse when there’s a flash of blue and red in the distance, a tanned arm with wristbands falling down over the carpal bones. Someone asks him what class he’s heading to.

“English,” he hears himself say. He doesn’t feel his mouth move, only hears the word come from his mouth. Fingers tap nervously on polyester backpack straps, and that’s when he realises that Taurtis is walking towards them.

He’s probably heading to his biology class.

   Grian’s stomach turns. He wishes he didn’t still remember what subjects Taurtis took. But they had been together when they chose their A levels, so there was no luck there.

   “Hey, Taurtis!” a voice says - it’s Martyn - “Nice improv the other day,” 

And Grian’s not sure if Taurtis even looks at him, his eyes are unfocused and his breathing is starting to become a chore, and - “Thanks!” - in Taurtis’s voice and then he’s passed and Grian forces himself to walk forward - one foot in front of the other, something high pitched whining in his ears. He stutters forward for a few more seconds until he can’t anymore.

   “I’m - I’m going the wrong way,” he manages to say amongst the noise, “I’ll see you guys later, though,” and then he’s gone, scrambling in the opposite direction, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. 

   It hurts physically this time, and he finds himself gasping for breath, desperate, shoe soles scraping awkwardly on the shiny floor as he dashes into the men’s bathroom. It’s empty - thank God - but he doesn’t dwell on that, because the panic comes on quicker than ever. 

Grian should be used to this by now, but he isn’t. He makes it to an empty cubicle, slams it shut, and leans against the door, grasping his chest, heaving for air as he slips down to the floor, suddenly unable to support his weight - in out in out onetwothree onetwothreefour in out in out onetwothree onetwothreefo-

    “Grian?” 

The voice is enough of a shock to momentarily halt the thoughts crowding his head, but it doesn’t make it easier to breathe, and the silence is deafening, static in his ears. Grian stuffs his fist in his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut. In out in out onetwothree onetwothreefour-

    “Grian?” Martyn repeats. 

In out in out onetwothree onetwothreefour in out in out onetwothree onetwothreefour-

    And then there’s a gentle pressure against the door he’s holding shut with his back, and “Grian, let me in,” and he gives up and backs against the wall, and the door swings open, lets Martyn in, and shuts.

  He looks at the floor. It’s white and tiled and dirty. Martyn crouches in front of him. “Hi,” he says.

   “Fuck off, Martyn,” Grian mumbles. 

“It’s Taurtis,” he says, “isn’t it?” 

   It’s like a punch in the stomach. Grian repeats himself; Martyn is insistent.

“You stopped hanging out. Why?” 

   “Why do you know we-” 

“Because you were inseparable,” he shoots back. “And now you don’t even look at each other. Why?”

   “I don’t want to talk about Taurtis.”

“Why?”

   “Because he-”

The words get stuck in his throat. Grian closes his mouth. 

   When he looks up, Martyn is looking at him like he pities him.

 Grian swallows. “Because he kissed me back,” he says.

***

   When Pearl runs into the car park and slides into the passenger seat, she’s grinning, brimming with the mischievous excitement that Grian has gotten used to meaning that she’s either about to tell him something wonderful or something horrible. “You,” she says, slamming the car door shut and rolling down the window, “have a costume fitting tomorrow!” 

   Grian groans. “Why am I always the last one to know about these?” 

“BigB told me,” she laughs. “I don’t know if they’ve emailed you yet. They’ll measure you and test colours on you?” 

   “What’s that mean?” 

“Apparently they’re going sort-of experimental with lighting and makeup,” she says. “I, for one, am excited to see you in eyeshadow.” 

   “Oh God,” he curses, laughing as he pulls out into the road. 

The problem is, Grian just can’t help but have a bad feeling about this whole thing. He’s not sure if he’s just being dramatic about never having been in a proper play before, or nervous about having a main role, or scared of Scar Goodtimes, but there’s a pit in his stomach every time he thinks about performing. And every time he looks up at the sky, the stars whisper.

   And Grian is used to seeing things. Grian is used to knowing things. He’s used to having abnormally good sight, used to suddenly not needing his glasses, used to suddenly being able to see signs from miles away. He’s used to knowing people’s names without being told. 

   But now when the stars whisper to him, he can’t decipher what they mean anymore. It scares him a lot more than it should.

Chapter Text

They pull Grian out in third period. 

   He’s been nervous about it all day - Pearl’s description was painfully vague, but the email he received informing him of the ‘fitting session’ was even worse, to the point where now he isn’t sure at all what he’ll be doing once he gets there. Even worse - it’s not Gem or Lizzie who comes to get him from class. 

   The cast list has a section at the bottom listing backstage and props, with costuming and-makeup attributed to Gem, Lizzie, and a Year 13 Grian has never spoken to before called Etho Labs. 

   And, Grian, having the worst luck in the world, looks outside of the classroom to see someone who is decidedly not Gem or Lizzie. He’s landed the only one he doesn’t know - some tall, intimidating Year 13 with a face mask on. So he’s walking out of class with this guy, vaguely remembering that he’s Scar Goodtimes’s friend, and that’s when it happens.

    Okay. Just say it. It’s not hard, just speak. Just speak. 

“Romeo, right?” 

   It snaps Grian out of it, and he looks up, stunned, to see Etho’s stoic eyes, unblinking down at him. Etho thinks: why isn’t he answering?  

   “Yeah,” Grian manages, forcing a nervous smile. There’s a faint sense of relief, then, permeating second-hand into his bones, and he fights a sigh, because this is always so tiring. Pure, unadulterated empathy, stolen thoughts draining into his skull. 

“So, we’re going to be figuring out costume and make-up with you today,” Etho offers, speaking carefully, “Me and Lizzie work more with the costuming, but I won’t be there for your session. Lizzie is more design, I help to sew what she comes up with. And Gem is going to help you with makeup. She says we’re - uh - going bold.” 

   I’m not quite sure what she meant by that, Etho says in his head. Do I want to know?

“You’re, uh - Capulet?” Grian asks, strained. 

   Etho nods. “Yeah, and I’m on prop design as well.” 

“Brilliant. So - so, how many of us are gonna be in the session?” 

Grian is starting to sweat. Going by his thoughts, so is Etho - who chuckles nervously and explains with a slight fluttering in his voice that most of the cast has already been in, so this period is him and Juliet, and the next is Mercutio, Tybalt and Benvolio. 

   They walk in silence for a few more seconds, with Grian coming to terms with the fact he’s about to have to speak to Scar Goodtimes, and Etho wondering frantically if he left his prop sketches on his desk at home. 

   Grian sighs. He chooses chaos. “You forgotten anything?” 

“Forgo - no, no, I -” Etho stumbles, blinking, “Don’t think so.” 

   “I’m quite forgetful, myself,” Grian supplies cheerfully, “I’d forget my own glasses if they weren’t on my nose. I still do, sometimes.” 

   Etho laughs awkwardly, but his ears have flushed red at the tips. Grian is holding back his laugh when-

    He spins around in his chair, tossing the beat up pencil back onto his desk as he brings his knees up. “Did you check with Doc?” 

   Bdubs takes a while to answer, still limp-boned on the bed with his limbs flung out about him, breathing just audible. “He says clay’s okay. Go crazy,” 

   Etho’s eyes linger for just a moment, and then he spins back around and reinforces the swirl on the vial with a harder swipe of graphite. “It’s not like there needs to actually be poison in it. The last thing we want is someone dying on stage.” 

   Bdubs laughs. “Obviously not, sweetheart,” he says, “Wouldn’t want to give Hermit Craft Academy a worse reputation than it already has.”

“You okay?” 

   Grian smiles with gritted teeth. Etho had reached out to steady him as his knees went weak - and now, embarrassingly, his hands are latched onto the taller’s arm in a panicked grip reminiscent of a koala. 

“Yeah,” he manages, detaching himself and beginning to walk forwards again with the Sight still lingering in his mind, letting Etho catch up. “Thanks. Just got dizzy.” 

   Maybe he won’t entertain it again. Not even if it’s entertaining.

Etho leads him through the Drama department and to the cramped room backstage with the makeup and the mirrors. In the corner is a clothes rack, various old white, beige, brown cloths hanging. A couple shirts - Grian recognises a shirt that Lizzie had designed for her Textiles GCSE and squints. “That’s Lizzie’s?” 

   “Yeah,” says Etho, “Doc approached her after he saw her GCSE work to ask about the play. It was all his idea, you know.” 

    Huh.
Grian hasn’t talked to Doc yet. He’s a little bit intimidated by him too - tall and a bit stand-offish - but Grian thinks that maybe if he knew him a little bit better he’d be funny to annoy or rile up. He has that air about him that Grian knows by now means that even if he’s intimidating on the outside, he’s good fun when casual. He thinks he sees that in Etho, too. 

   “Doc’s idea?”
Etho jumps up and sits on the vanity, in the one spot clear from makeup and fabrics and assorted objects. “He started working with Romeo and Juliet as practice for experimental lighting and staging - but, he says he saw Lizzie’s shirts and asked if she wanted to join in to practise her designs. Gem and me got roped in because we’ve worked with the Drama department before, and when Xisuma started tutoring here, he wanted to set up a play with the older students.” He shrugged, “Doc was thrilled when he said yes.” 

    That's… really sweet, actually.

Grian smiles. “I hope I live up to any expectations,” he says, suddenly a bit self conscious.

   Etho grins, then, obvious even with his mask on, by the way his eyes crinkle and what’s visible of his face lighting up. Before he can reply, though, Lizzie prances in through the door with Scar Goodtimes at her heels. 

   Grian feels sick. 

“Grian!” Lizzie beams, and Scar starts, looking upwards at him with interest sparking in his newly raised eyebrows. She runs over to give him a quick hug, insisting that she hasn’t seen him in ages and she’ll have to tag along with Joel to see him and Jimmy soon for a movie  night. Grian laughs, managing to ignore the new, invasive presence of Scar Goodtimes in the room. It feels a bit cold, like he’s hanging onto her enthusiasm to function, but she spins around and his eyes follow her, desperate not to meet Scar’s. 

   Etho hurries to say something to Lizzie, Grian watches, not quite an emergency but not nothing either, and she nods and he marches out of the room, and Grian can’t quite latch onto his thoughts fast enough to find out why-

   And then-

“I liked your improv,” Scar offers. Grian freezes where he stands, and the cold spreads to his forehead in little bursts and stabs. He smiles, weak, but he doesn’t feel like it. 

   Lizzie hums. “It was good, wasn’t it,” she says. “With Taurtis?” 

The cold feels more lukewarm, now, like Grian’s drunk again, like when he kissed his best friend in the closet. “Yes,” he replies, stiff and strained.

   “You were good at leading it.” 

And it’s Scar again, like he’s trying to offer an olive branch, like he knows. Grian has this horrible feeling in his bones that he does know. That he knows everything. 

   “Really good,” Scar clarifies. If Grian turns around he’s going to lose himself. He’s going to lose everything. “I’m surprised you didn’t volunteer yourself to show off, like Taurtis did.”

   It’s so out of nowhere that Grian laughs, shocked, a sudden bark escaping before he coughs, jams it back into his mouth. Lizzie laughs. “Scar!” she scolds him, smiling, “You can’t say things like that!”

   Grian decides to busy himself by drawing close to the shirts on the rack and inspecting them, without really taking anything in as he does so. Scar laughs, and says something about telling the truth. It’s not his fault for saying it if it’s true, he insists. Grian sees truth in the sentiment and wants to blind himself because of it. 

   “Okay,” Lizzie says then, regaining her posture and losing her laugh, even when she keeps smiling. “So, I’m going to take your measurements, and test a few fabrics against your skin tones - I have some different shirts you’ll try on, although they won’t fit proper, and I’ll decide from there. Then I’ll be done, and Gem will come in to discuss makeup with you.”

   Scar nods vigorously, Grian knows even when he’s not looking at him, and he slips off his leather jacket, laying it over the chair by the vanity, turning to face the two of them.

 “Alright,” says Lizzie, you first, and she approaches him with a measuring tape and a notepad, and he raises his arms, unenthusiastic. 

   Grian keeps his head high while she measures him, flitting about him, measuring first just under his armpits, scribbling it down on the lined paper, then his waist, then hips… 

   All the while Scar Goodtimes is staring at him. There’s something unapologetic about the way he stands and stares - bold and inquisitive - or maybe that’s just his eyes, not his soul, Grian knows by now that there are no windows that aren’t dulled and fogged over anymore. You cannot tell what somebody is like by their face-

-so why is Scar looking at him like that? 

He keeps himself poised, stiff, breathes slow and certain and definitive, but when his eyes sneak a glance at Scar, his own are fixed on his throat, like he’s watching him breathe. 

   Grian swallows, watches Scar’s irises bob with the movement like he’s following the movement, and then Lizzie steps back and dusts off her hands like she’s repaired something instead of circled tape around his waist. “Great,” she beams, and flips round, “Scar, c’mon!” 

   Scar doesn’t look at Grian much while Lizzie measures him, and he tries quite hard to return the favour, but when somebody has been staring at you for the past ten minutes, you end up finding it quite difficult not to check they haven’t continued. 

   Grian’s meant to just be stealthy, checking he’s not looking again, but then Lizzie ducks down and draws the tape flush around his waist, and his eyes catch - then, linger, probably too long, because when he blinks, Lizzie is stepping back and Scar is looking at him. And he’s lucky he doesn’t blush easy, because if he did, he’d likely have gone pink from the embarrassment alone.

   He doesn’t have time to dwell on it before he’s rushed behind the curtain in the corner and a shirt is tossed over the top at him - flowing sleeves, romantic, a wide collar, loose. She’s written S on a label painstakingly stitched into the inside, and he assumes they’ve gone for an oversized fit as he unbuttons his shirt and discards it to the floor.

   He slips the shirt on, noting the softness of the fabric, smooth against the bare skin on his stomach. “Lizzie?” he calls, “I - I’m finished?”

   The curtain swishes open, and her face lights up as she drags him out in front of the mirror at the vanity. “G!” she exclaimed, “Oh, it’s perfect!” 

   “Wanna walk me through why?” he teases, knowing full well she’ll have a reason for everything. 

   And Lizzie explains, ecstatic, the collar just wide enough to show the skin on his collarbones, to remind the audience he’s only human, that he’s vulnerable, that it won’t end well for him. The blooming sleeves a romantic choice, to illustrate his smooth and charismatic tongue - she makes a gliding, shaping motion with her hands to show this - and the strings hanging down at the collar to be tied into something reminiscent of a bow, to show how Elizabethan society sees him as effeminate for favouring peace and love over violence and hate. She wants to see if during the fight with Tybalt, they can be untied, to illustrate his internal conflict. Hate wins. Fire eyed fury, be my conduct now.

   He’s invested, hanging onto her words, but then he looks at himself in the mirror to see the collar, and he sees Scar behind him, staring again.

   Grian can’t focus for the rest of Lizzie’s explanation. He doesn’t find himself caring much. She forces him into a couple more shirts, one with shorter sleeves, one which gapes more at the front - which Grian notices with a frenzied overwhelm Scar fumbles with his fingers the most at - but eventually decides that the first one was perfect. She calls him efficient, says happily that the creamy off-white on the first shirt is already complimenting his colouring, and that he’s all done.

   And then it’s Scar’s turn. There’s a chair in the corner of the room, and Grian perches himself on it instead of standing like Scar does, knobbly knees brought up to his chest in black trousers. Lizzie pulls out a shirt, tosses it over the curtain and shoves Scar behind it, and starts talking. She says that it's made from the same fabric as Romeo’s to show that they’re on an equal social standing, but that there are tweaks made. It’s not meant to be particularly historically accurate, but she loves to have little things here and there that nod to the Elizabethan era. 

She pauses to take a breath, and Scar comes out from behind the curtain, and Grian’s mouth goes dry.

   He listens as Lizzie explains that Romeo and Juliet are meant to break gender roles, and listens as she laughs and says that because Scar is playing Juliet, instead of being a woman in a more masculine cut shirt, he just looks normal . Grian stays very quiet at that, because he does not think that Scar looks normal . The shirt is tighter on his shoulders, showing just that bit of muscle definition, and has a similar laced up collar to his own, but without the bow in the way, and the sleeves taper off at a cuff on his elbows. Grian decides right there and then that he is not going to look at Scar at all for the rest of the consultation. He is unreasonably attractive and it’s completely frustrating. 

   Lizzie gets him to try on another shirt, this time looser around the waist but with a wider, deeper collar, and Grian stares at his hands and fiddles with his fingernails the entire time, and then Lizzie announces that she’ll be off to grab Gem, and pushes Scar behind the curtain again. 

   Grian lets out a slow, silent sigh of relief, free to breathe without anxiety pushing and pulling at his throat. He lets his shoulders relax and stretches his legs out on the chair, because Scar is behind the curtain, so Scar cannot see him, so Scar cannot hurt him.

   He almost reminds him a bit of Taurtis - Grian doesn’t want to imply that Scar has been particularly horrible to him, because he hasn’t, but he’s like Taurtis in the way that Grian wants to avoid him in any circumstance possible now, wants to run from him, shies away when he hears his voice, shivers when he sees his face. 

   It’s not mean spirited. Scar isn’t mean spirited, by any means, but he just - can’t help but be afraid of him.

   “Grian?” 

Grian’s heart jumps into his throat. It’s Scar-

    He stays silent. Perhaps if he stays silent then Scar will shut up.

“I know you’re not happy about us being cast together,” Scar offers from behind the curtain, and Grian springs to his feet, face turning crimson, because he can’t say that! Grian hasn’t been rude to him, Grian hasn’t insulted him, Grian hasn’t said anything at all that would lead to this conclusion. Grian hasn’t been truthful, and Grian is meant to lie. 

   Scar doesn’t sound angry, though, but somehow that’s even worse.

   “Well,” Scar continues, “I’ll have you know I’m great fun once you get to know me.” 

He sounds almost hopeful. Grian feels sick. “You’re going to be great as Romeo, and I’ll do my best for Juliet. Yeah?” 

    “Scar.” 

The name is forced out of Grian’s mouth like air, strained and quivering. 

   “You don’t need to be worried,” Scar says, voice tilting haphazardly upward at the edges, “I’ll be a good partner,” and Grian storms forward and rips open the curtain.

   He’s got his shirt on - thank God, this is the last time ever that Grian will act on impulse - but that very top button is still gaping open, and he feels a bit sick now, like he’s seen something he shouldn’t have.

   “Scar,” Grian repeats, not completely sure what he’s trying to say, but still putting in the effort. “Scar, I don’t-”

    “Romeo!” Gem calls as she comes skipping through the door, “Juliet!” 

She makes a beeline for the makeup cabinet, not seeming to notice the conversation she interrupted. Scar holds steady, almost accusatory eye-contact as he finishes buttoning his shirt. Grian thinks he might pass out, he feels so guilty.

   Gem launches herself into the spinning chair at the vanity and brings her knees up to her chest, twirling ‘round to face them. She’s holding a notepad just like Lizzie’s and beaming; “I have been so excited for this,” she announces, and jumps straight into a little speech on her ideas, flipping the notepad open and spinning her pencil in-between slender white fingers.

   Romeo has to have pink, she says, and she takes one look at Grian and declares that he needs a cooler toned pink, spinning back around in the chair to snatch up an eyeshadow palette. Grian, horrified, remembers Pearl’s words: I, for one, am excited to see you in eyeshadow. 

    The palette is flipped open, and Gem takes a glance through the shades and beckons him over, indicating for him to drag over the chair in the corner. He obeys, and sits anxiously through a dense, soft brush being dabbed over his eyes. 

   Grian thought eyeshadow was meant to go on your eyelids, but he swears the colour stretches all the way to his temples, or at least it feels like that when the soft bristles brush over his skin. Gem only does one eye, proclaiming it a practice, and when she draws back she grins and pushes back red coils of hair and says proudly that she always nails the perfect shade first try. 

   “Go on,” she says, look in the mirror, and he does, and is a bit taken aback by what he’s seen. The pink blends out over his eyelids, curls about his temples, swirls down to his cheekbones. It’s gorgeous - and she’s right, too, the colour seems perfect for his skin tone. He laughs, perplexed, but tells her it looks great. In response, she launches into an explanation of pink as a romantic, hopeless colour, and says it’s just about perfect for somebody as lovesick as Romeo Montague.

   This time, it’s Scar’s turn, and Grian takes great pleasure knowing that Scar can’t see with his eyes closed - he looks at him the entire time, curious, inquisitive, stare roving over his form, every detail committed to memory. Scar has shiny dark brown hair, twisting out over the nape of his neck, overgrown, brushed hastily behind his ear so Gem doesn’t paint it golden with her long silver brush. He has these high cheekbones, and he’s trying so hard to stay still for the makeup that ever so often, his brow twitches with the effort, furrows heavy and screws his eyes tighter closed. Grian keeps his breathing in check throughout the ordeal, even when his gaze falls to broad shoulders and the collar of his shirt just low enough to show a strip of tanned collarbones. 

   When Gem is done, the sunlight spills out over Scar’s cheek, painting him a goddess, trickling down, rivulets akin to tears, swirling out like his left eye is a sun. Grian knows immediately what Gem was going for, but it doesn’t quite hit him until Scar smiles, pulling his face into glory, happy dimples alongside white teeth, and Grian feels like he’s been punched in the face. 

   Gem is too good at this makeup business, he decides, and then he resolves to himself to act as best as he can to try and match her talent. It wouldn’t do if Romeo was a bad actor, after all, not with a face painted like a canvas at least.

   Grian walks back to his study period as fast as he can, thanking God viciously that Scar’s class is the other side of the school. He sits with his laptop for five minutes before receiving a text from Pearl saying she’s going out with Gem, and he doesn’t need to drive her home, and then he shoves his things in his backpack and marches out of the school into the car park. 

   His car is peaceful. It’s quiet, and the air conditioning is on, so Grian doesn’t have to open the windows. He decides to sit there for five minutes before he’ll drive home, a silent moment where he doesn’t have to worry about anything, but as soon as he leans his head back and closes his eyes, his phone buzzes.

   It’s the chat he has with Jimmy and Joel, and Joel has texted in full caps that he’s got his hands on a pack of beer and they’re coming out with him tonight - there’s no asking involved, he’s simply stating what is going to happen, which is classic Joel. Jimmy responds, also in full caps, SOUNDS GOOG BABE, not bothering to correct his typo, which is classic Jimmy. Then, Grian you need to bring the theatre people comes through, and he sighs, types in a promise to ask Mumbo, but says he can’t promise anybody else.    

   Jimmy texts that it’s alright, he’ll see if he can ask Tango, who’s in his last class, and Joel adds on that he’ll find Bdubs. Then: but its your job to bring juliet!!!!!!

    Grian sighs. There is no way that he is bringing Scar Goodtimes to drink beer with him in a park like they’re still in Year 10. He’s not doing it, and they can suck it if they ask why.

Chapter Text

“Hey - hey, uh, Tango Tek, right?”

  “You’re Jimmy.” 

Jimmy swallows, feels embarrassed heat creep into his face. Tango’s eyes look him up and down, and he’s really playing up never having seen him before. Shit!

   “Yeah,” he says. “See - um - me and my friends were going out to celebrate - casting - yeah, for the Romeo and Juliet play? I know that’s - well, that’s a bit silly, who celebrates casting - but, we were talking about asking if people wanted to - I mean, uh - my friend Grian - obviously, I’m not in the play-”
  There’s a warm hand on his shoulder, halting his rambling.

Tango blinks at him. It’s on purpose, it has to be on purpose. He’s doing this to fuck with him. “You were asking if people wanted to…”

    “If people wanted to come hang out tonight,” he finishes, “At the park. Joel, uh - has drinks. If that helps.” 

   “It doesn’t matter,” replies Tango, and now he’s smiling, and Jimmy’s aflame. Fuck him, he thinks! “I’ll come. Want me to ask anyone else in the cast?” 

   Jimmy nods, wide eyes and quivering hands hidden in his pockets, “I think Bdubs’s name came up,” he says. 

   “Nice,” returns Tango. His hand is still on Jimmy’s shoulder like a brand. His eyes fall to where it sits. “Nice jacket,” and the corners of his mouth quirk upwards like he’s trying not to laugh and he slides his hand down and off, and he walks away. 

   Jimmy is going to kill Tango. Next time he sees him alone, at least.

When Grian wakes up from his 6:00 cat-nap, he stares at the ceiling until he forgets the dream. It’s too much for him, he thinks, to See when he’s awake. He’d rather not have it leak into his sleep, so he decides instead to Forget, and nearly accomplishes it, but when he opens his phone five minutes later, Jimmy has texted tango and bdubs secured on the group chat, and his heart sinks.

   There’s no Forgetting, not this time. He frowns, pulls himself out of bed. There is no Forgetting, so he pulls on an old pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and there is no Forgetting, so he stands in front of the mirror and looks at himself.

   The sun is starting to bleach his hair back to blonde. Grian pulls at it in thinly veiled dismay - it’s always been like this, darker in the winter, near bright yellow in the summer, but he’s thinking of beginning to dye it dark full time. Taurtis loved it, and seeing it feels like he’s been punched in the stomach. Grian doesn’t want it back. Grian wants it gone.

   But it’s not gone, so he pulls at the soft fabric of his shirt and stretches it out to fall lightly back over his torso. It’s not gone, so Grian pulls on his leather jacket with more aggression than is needed and slams the front door on his way out without anybody to hear it. 

   If a tree falls in an empty forest, does it thump or echo when it hits the ground? He likes to think it does, that the sound reverberates around the moss and the wilderness, that it combs over leaves and blooms and flowers, that it strokes the breeze. Grian isn’t sure if the same applies to himself, though. He’s not part of nature in that way, although sometimes he’d like to be.

   The walk to the park is short and sweet. He picks up a share bag of crisps on his way past a newsagents and looks at the sky as his trainers tap, tap, tap relentlessly at the pavement.

   It’s deep blue. Navy, clear, soft. Grian breathes cool air into his lungs and enters the park.

He’d texted Mumbo before his nap, received a quick response that said i’ll be there! and felt extremely relieved about the whole affair. Grian worries about Pearl’s friends. He worries about what they know about him. He worries about what they know.

   There’s talking over by the trees where they had agreed to meet. He squints, sees people, but can’t make out who, so he quickens his stride, pushing strands of hair out of his eyes. “Hey!” he calls, “Guys-” 

   And then he’s down, and he’s on the floor, and the world is bright white, and-

“Bdubs!” Joel calls, pushing strands of hair out of his eyes as he approaches the Year 13. He’s got that Etho Labs by his side like his pet, as usual, and he grins wide as he sees him.

   “Joel,” Bdubs smiles, “What’s up?”

“Me and the boys are going out tonight to celebrate Grian’s casting. He’s a bit nervous about it, so we’re trying to cheer him up. You guys up for coming along?” 

   Then, up at Etho - “You got cast too, right? Capulet?” 

“Yeah,” Etho says from behind his mask, eyes crinkling, “But I have an engineering assignment due tomorrow, so I’m busy tonight. Another time.” 

   Joel nods, but turns his eyes on Bdubs again. “Bdubs?” he tries not to sound too hopeful. 

“I’ll come,” says Bdubs. “Want to meet Romeo properly, don’t I?”

   “Hey, you okay?” 

“Grian?”
  “I’m all good,” Grian gasps out, “All - all good,” and he drags his hand across his face, realising with humiliation and horror that it was Bdubs who had caught him, a muscled arm wrapped steadily around his waist. “Sorry - just got light-headed. All good.” 

   “You sure?” he asks, “Come on, sit down,” and Grian’s eyes focus as he leans against the tree and breathes in shaky air. Jim and Joel haven’t arrived yet, it’s Bdubs and Tango who stand above him, quickly leaping down to sit like they don’t want to intimidate him.

   “Sorry the boys aren’t here yet,” he mumbles, and there’s a fast finger pressed against his forehead, swiped across to gauge his temperature.

   “Are you sure you’re good?” 

“I’m fine,” he repeats, looking up at the two of them, a bit embarrassed, as Tango removes his finger and squints down at him with concern.

   “Want to make sure our Romeo’s not gonna pass out,” he says, and there’s a hint of humour, but there’s also a hint of affection that Grian’s not sure how to cope with since he’s never properly spoken to either of them. Tybalt and Mercutio. Murderer and murdered.

   So he leans back against the tree, lets his brain stop whirring, slow, and then there are more voices growing louder, and someone throws the bag of crisps he’d dropped over beside them, and there’s a yell of “Boys, what’s up?!” 

    Grian forces himself to his feet, slaps palms with Joel and then Jimmy, and subtly presses his back to the tree, support. “Romeo here’s just fainted,” Bdubs says, tossing him a look that asks why he’s already stood up, and he finds himself wondering if this is common theatre banter, if he needs to start calling the boy Mercutio, if this is something he’s missed out on, not doing theatre until now.

   Before he can think anything of it, though, Joel and Jimmy are fussing over him as usual, and he rolls his eyes as they all sit down and Joel swats him over the head and says it might be a bad idea to give him alcohol. Grian tells him to stick it somewhere he doubts Joel wants to stick anything, and gets a beer tossed at him in response, Joel’s laughter echoing like the tree in the empty forest. He catches it and cracks it open. 

   When Mumbo arrives, he's in an old MCU engineering shirt, and Grian wonders how he got his hands on it as just a Year 12, but doesn’t bother to ask. He sits down in the group and chucks a sleeve of biscuits into the middle, met with raucous applause and claps on the back. 

   These people - Grian thinks he likes them. They’re sweet, and good-natured, and they care when he collapses, and they get on well with the boys. Grian likes them a lot. The topic of the play comes up, and he jumps into the conversation: “Anyone else have that consultation today?”

   “Yeah, actually,” Tango answers, “We were together in a period,” and then he’s cut off by Joel’s sudden shout. 

    “Hang on, then, Grian,” he interrupts, “You said you’d bring Scar!” 

Grian goes pink in the face. “No,” he denies, “No, I did not, I said no chance!”
  Joel crosses his arms, “But you were still meant to bring him,” he complains, “No chance means a little chance!” 

   “Are you getting nervous around Juliet, then?” somebody asks.

“No!” Grian repeats, “No, I’m not, Joel’s just being silly.” 

   Joel sighs in response, shaking his head. “He is not excited about this casting,” he tells the group like a disappointed mother. Grian resents that comparison.

   “You’d think the main role would be the goal,” Jimmy adds, grinning.

“I only auditioned because of Xisuma,” Grian mumbles. “I didn’t think I’d be good enough!” 

   “Well, you were good,” Mumbo says honestly. “You were really good. You deserve the part.” 

   He rolls his eyes, “Scar doesn’t deserve having an amateur as his scene partner.” 

There’s a bit of an uproar, then, tipsy teenagers toppling over one another to bang hands onto his back and shoulders, mingled shouts of come on! Amateur my ass, you were great out there!

   “You were crazy,” says Mumbo, “I was holding my breath the whole time, thinking you were just gonna go for Taurtis’s throat!”
  Grian laughs, but his mouth is dry. “I was nervous,” he mumbles, smiling as best as he can given the circumstances. He feels Joel beside him shift, a subtle, comforting press of a hand on his back. 

   “At least you weren’t trying to show off,” comments Tango, “not like somebody else I know.” 

Grian ponders, then, if this is a common observation - between Tango now and Scar earlier, Taurtis’s reputation seems to precede him. He never thought he was much of a show-off when they were friends, but maybe that was because Grian enjoyed it too much. Taurtis wasn’t a show-off, not to Grian, it was just how he was. 

   Then, he wonders if it’s that obvious. Martyn had clocked him so easily, given him such a sad look when he’d admitted it, because he kissed me back, and Scar had called Taurtis a show-off so nonchalantly that perhaps it was obvious to him that they weren’t on good terms. 

   It doesn’t stop Grian from being worried about it. It makes it worse.

He sits through more conversation, until all the beer is drunk and, not satisfied with their current state of sobriety, Joel declares that he wants to dash back to the corner shop for more alcohol, and Mumbo offers himself up as a sacrifice to use his fake ID, being the tallest and oldest-looking. 

   So, then comes the discussion of who to go, and more and more boys offer up wanting more snacks, and it only just ticked past 8, and eventually Grian finds himself and Tango the only ones staying in the park while Mumbo, Joel, Jimmy and Bdubs decide to go trotting along to the corner shop. 

   Slow, Grian looks along the circle of students, the order of them, clockwise, himself, Bdubs, Tango, Jimmy, Mumbo, Joel, himself, grabbing phones and wallets to jam into their pockets, and Grian’s eyes flick up just at the right moment to catch sight of Tango, in his stupid I ♡ ENGINEERING shirt, with messily bleached hair untamed and-

   And - and oh - oh - oh, that makes so much sense. Jimmy is murmuring something to Tango, below earshot, under his breath, even Grian unable to make out the words, their heads close together, turned just slightly for effective communication. 

   And Grian is not stupid. Grian is not stupid at all, and Jimmy is like his brother , and he can tell when his brother likes someone, and he looks enamoured . 

   And it all makes so much sense - the flickering of Jimmy’s eyelashes as he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, his fingertips brushing down over the short sleeve of his shirt and making shivering contact with the smooth skin on Tango’s upper arm. 

   Then, retreating, hand dropping down to his side, swift, and standing, eye contact falling away even as Tango looks up at him, and he says good bye to the others as they all dance off into the dark. When Grian looks back at Tango, there’s a faint flush dusting his cheeks, and he’s still looking back at them, watching Jimmy leave. 

   So he waits a few seconds, until the group is entirely out of earshot, and then he looks back at Tango and he says, “So,” in an inquisitive tone, thinking back to the Sight earlier, Tango’s nice jacket, Jimmy’s stammering, “Tango.” 

   He laughs, shaking hair out of his face and turning to face him, falling so easily back into normal Tango compared to the softness Grian just witnessed. “Grian,” he grins, like it’s all just a silly game and like he doesn’t clearly fancy Grian’s best friend.

   It’s not like Grian is mad. Really - he isn’t - everything he’s seen in Tango so far is sweet, kind, funny, affectionate. He hangs out with the right sort of people, he isn’t rude, he isn’t a bully, he isn’t a show-off. He’s everything that Grian would want Jimmy to have, so Grian isn’t mad, even if he feels a tad cautious. 

   “Jimmy, then,” he says, and feels victorious when Tango chokes on his own spit in front of him. He can’t stop himself from laughing, hand shoved over his mouth, and says Tango’s name again between gasps, Tango, dude. 

    The other boy tumbles forwards over himself, scrambling for words, “No - you’ve got it all wrong - it’s not like that -!”

  And eventually Grian’s laughing trails off, naturally, and Tango sits back to lean on his elbows, pink in the face, thoroughly embarrassed. “Grian.”

    “I’m not angry with you,” Grian says, feeling as if he should probably clarify it, he would be frightened of a love interest’s best friend as well, “but I will be making fun of him forever.”

   Tango rolls his eyes, “Making fun of him,” he laughs, but it doesn’t feel genuine, repetition fearing truth, and Grian stills, because Tango doesn’t believe that Jimmy is in love with him, and Tango is an idiot.

   He feels the need to remedy it, and wonders if it’s the wrong decision. “He likes you,” Grian offers up then, voice dropped down and quiet, and Tango pushes bleach-yellow hair behind his ear like it’s a substitute for rolling his eyes. 

   “Tango-” 

“Don’t?” he asks. 

   There’s another factor, then. 

There is another factor, because Grian has only seen them interact twice and now he’s half-convinced they’ve been secretly snogging for months. There is another factor, because Tango’s eyes point at the ground as if Jimmy doesn’t look at him like he’s the sun. There is another factor, because Jimmy's fingertips only grazing Tango's arm just now managed to be as tender as an embrace, and now he’s avoiding Grian’s eyes like he’s sinned for it. 

   “I won’t,” says Grian, because only a fool would turn Jimmy down, and Tango is a top student in engineering, so he’s not unintelligent. He turns his gaze on the ground and picks a crisp out of the giant bag in front of them, crunch as he leans back on the tree. 

   “You pass out often, Romeo?” Tango asks. 

“Might have an iron deficiency,” says Grian, easily, the excuse pulled not from thin air but from the back of his brain, where it sits politely, ready to be called on when needed. “Can’t go to the doctor.” 

   And then he stops, because the excuse was reserved for Joel and Jimmy, and Tango doesn’t know why he can’t go to the doctor. Tango doesn’t know about his dad.

   “Why?” 

He shrugs, mutters something unintelligible, leans his head back against the tree, but Tango won’t let it go. “Grian, why can’t you go to the doctor?” 

  “Tango,” he says, then. “Don’t?”

Tango is quiet, for a moment. “Okay,” he murmurs. “But - but if you - if anything’s wrong-” 

   “I can handle myself,” Grian replies. He’s not lying. He’s been handling himself since Taurtis left. He’s been handling himself since his mum left. He’s been handling himself since last summer.

   He closes his eyes, and doesn’t open them when he hears shifting and feels Tango sit beside him against the tree. 

   “I wanted to ask you,” he says then, voice weighted, “about your performance at the auditions.” 

“Choosing exercises,” Grian corrects instinctively. “What are you asking?”

   Tango sighs. “Taurtis,” he says. 

There’s hate then, curdling in Grian’s temples and around his ears to fill them with a dull, empty static. “Wow,” he replies drily, “Maybe I’m too damn obvious.” 

   “Too damn obvious with what?” Tango asks, genuine. “Because if you’re really an amateur actor like you say you are, there’s something going on.” 

   “Why, Tango? Why do you think something is going on?” 

Grian’s got this bad habit of making people say things. He doesn’t like things being left unsaid, and he’ll push people until they say exactly what they mean. What’s bad about this habit is that sometimes, they’re right, and he takes the truth and stomps on it. Grian doesn’t want to do that right now.

    He doesn’t quite expect what Tango says next, though.

“You look at him like you want to forgive him,” he says. 

    Grian’s head snaps towards him, not a distance, just some inches across the tree trunk. Tango meets his eyes with sad, inquisitive ones that don’t twitch or blink at the contact - they’re brown, but they shine almost red in the moonlight. It’s unnerving. “Forgive him for what?” 

    “You might have to tell me that one,” Tango replies. “I can’t read minds.” 

“You almost had me fooled.” 

   “What happened?”

He pauses. “I’ve already told one person that this week,” he says instead. It goes unspoken that he’s too vulnerable already. Grian is a hypocrite, and he doesn’t apply his rule to himself.

   Tango asks, “Did you tell them all of it?”

Hollow, Grian shakes his head.

   “Tell me something else, then,” says Tango. “Something you didn’t tell them.” 

Grian swallows. 

   He waits a few seconds, feels the words sit on his tongue for a fraction too long, desperate to hold onto them, his secret, his best friend, his boy, his, his his.

    “I think I’ve been in love with Taurtis since we were eleven,” he says, and he doesn’t look at Tango, but he doesn’t need to.

He knows everything. He’ll always know everything. Everything but what Taurtis is thinking. Everything but what he decides to Forget.

“It was probably earlier,” he elaborates, then, “I just didn’t really think about it until then. Well - well, I guess I didn’t think about it when I was eleven either, it was just something I knew I did. It was just,” he shrugs, “life, I guess. It was - it was just how things were.” 

   It all floods out.

“I don’t think either of us thought about the implications of that until Year 11? When I look back, I don’t know when he found out, but in the moment I thought he always knew. I was always following behind, and why would I do that if I wasn’t in love with him? And then-” 

   Grian chokes on his words. 

“Sorry, I-” he wrenches himself to his feet, “I think I’m going to throw up.” 

   Tango shoots up with him, there’s a hand on his shoulder, Grian’s vision blurs again - “No,” he says, “no, I’m fine, I’m fine, I need to sit down, I-”

   If he doesn’t sit down and shut his eyes, Grian is going to fall into somebody’s life again. Grian is going to fall into somebody’s eyes again. 

   He doesn’t want to do that. He can’t do that. Three Sights in a day is enough, too much, overwhelming, and he feels fragile, vulnerable, like he’s going to break apart, fracture, splinter, and Tango is helping him back down to the ground, are you sure you’re okay? Here, I brought a water bottle-

    “I’m okay,” he whispers, then, aside, “This is normal.” 

A pause. 

   “Iron deficiency.” 

Tango looks at him, and leaves everything unsaid: “Iron deficiency.” he repeats, and it has a certain cadence to it that tells Grian the conversation is over, but he doesn’t want it to be. That he knows Grian will lead him around in endless circles instead of admitting anything. 

   They sit in silence until the others return, holding the spoils of their adventure - snacks and a bottle of vodka - Grian’s stomach turns - and jumping to sit down. Joel crumples to the floor beside him, clapping him on the back, affectionate, and everybody falls into conversation, like everything is normal, and then Romeo and Juliet comes up again.

   Grian ends up asking if anyone has begun to revise their lines yet, because in truth he hasn’t, not beyond the quotes he already knows from Year 11. He’s pretty sure they’re giving out scripts at the office, but he’s not certain if he’ll need one since he has his own book - is it standard to take a paper script even if you already have it? 

   He’s out of his depth here. Grian decides then and there that he’s going to select somebody from the cast and interrogate them about exactly what he needs to do. 

   It turns out that Bdubs is the only one who has begun to go over his lines, with Mumbo commenting playfully about how he’s been neglecting his art coursework for the play, his reputation of knowing lines first preceding him, and Bdubs elbowing him in the side and pouting. He pulls out his script from his bag and his eyes glint - come on, get up, guys! 

    “Let’s put on a show for Jimmy and Joel,” he laughs as Grian stumbles to his feet, looking about to see Mumbo stand up as well, and as he trips over to stand next to Bdubs in front of everyone, he sees Jimmy inch just a centimetre closer to Tango where they’re sitting, but before he processes it, the script is thrust into his arms and Bdubs declares that they can test him on his lines and pass it between each other, but he insists he won’t need it - even drunk. 

   Grian clears his throat, tosses a terrified look to Jimmy, who laughs from where he’s sat, significantly closer to Tango than he was before, and begins. 

   “What,” he says, “shall this speech be spoke for our excuse? Or shall we on without apology?”

   His cheeks flame, not quite into it yet, and even when Mumbo starts speaking without the script, he still pushes it towards him.

   The line is over before he can fully process the words - “We’ll measure them a measure and be gone,” oh shit-

    “Give me a torch,” he mutters, “I am not for this ambling, being but heavy I will bear the light.” 

   “Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance!” says Bdubs, surging forwards to clap him on the back, grinning, and Grian rolls his eyes.

   “Not I,” he protests, “believe me! You have dancing shoes, with nimble soles. I have a soul of lead so stakes me to the ground I cannot move.”

   “You are a lover,” Mercutio argues, “Borrow Cupid’s wings, and soar with them above a common bound!” - the casual, flowing arc of his voice is perfect, and for a moment Grian wonders if he is speaking to Mercutio or Bdubs or somebody else-

   “I am too sore enpierced with his shaft to soar with his light feathers, and so bound I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe - under love’s heavy burden do I sink.”  

   Mumbo laughs at him - Grian scowls, slotting perfectly into place, falling perfectly into character - and Bdubs looks back at him and laughs as well and ruffles his hair like he’s a child - Grian resents it. He thinks he does, at least.

   “And to sink in it should you burden love,” he says, “too great oppression for a tender thing.”

    “Is love a tender thing?” he asks, sharp, contradictory, “It is too rough, too rude , too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.”

   “If love be rough with you, be rough with love,” Bdubs rolls the words out from behind his tongue like he means them, “Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.”

   They continue with the scene, Grian reading lines off of the script and trying his best to syringe emotion into them, despite forgetting the meaning of many. They draw closer to the dream section, and the excitement is coming off of Bdubs in strong, heavy waves - it’s obvious to anybody how thrilled he is to perform the Queen Mab speech. 

   “I dreamt a dream tonight,” Grian murmurs.

“And so did I,” 

   “Well, what was yours?” 

Grian thinks he might be swaying a bit. Maybe he shouldn’t have drunk as much as he did. 

   Bdubs smirks. “That dreamers often lie!”

Grian rolls his eyes, tightening two fingers around the corner of the paper script, “In bed asleep while they do dream things true,”

    “Oh,” Bdubs exclaims, savouring the words - “then I see Queen Mab has been with you!”

There’s a moment of delicious tension then, and Bdubs drinks it up with his eyes, bright and hungry, and- “She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes in shape no bigger than an agate stone on the forefinger of an alderman, drawn with a team of little atomi, over men’s noses as they lie asleep,” he whispers. Every word is pronounced perfectly, overwhelmed with an unsettling sense of wonder. Grian feels a shiver run down his spine. 

   “Her wagon spokes,” Bdubs says then, drawing himself up to his full height, “made of long spinner’s legs, the cover of the wings of grasshoppers, her traces of the smallest spider web. Her collars of the moonshine’s watery beams, her whip of cricket’s’ bones, the lash of film, her wagoner a small, grey-coated gnat,” he spits out, “not half so big as a round little worm pricked from the lazy finger of a maid.”

   He sucks in a breath then, ravenous for air but ravenous to speak, simultaneously, conflict, clashing with himself, maniacal, “Her chariot,” he says, louder, “is an empty hazelnut, made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, time out o’mind the fairies’ coachmakers. And in this state,” he draws in another breath, like one has made him wish for more, and Grian can’ move, he can only stare, “she gallops night by night,” and Bdubs throws out his arm, “through lover’s brains, and then they dream of love.” 

   Grian is transfixed. He’s not sure he’s ever understood acting until this moment - it might be the alcohol, he’s not sure-

   “On courtiers’ knees, that dream on cursies straight, over lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees, over ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream, which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.”

   The words drip from Bdubs’s mouth like honey. He’s enjoying this, Grian can tell - he suddenly remembers Etho’s memory of sitting with him while working on his prop design, and realises with a start that Bdubs had been holding his script above his face and reading it before he had spoken to Etho. 

   “Sometimes, she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose, and then dreams he of smelling out a suit,” pronounces Bdubs, and he says the words in such a meaningful, heavy way that Grian wonders to what depth he studied the speech last year. “And sometimes comes she with a tithe pig’s tail, tickling a parson’s nose as he lies asleep, then he dreams of another benefice.” 

   And Bdubs takes in a shaky breath, and his voice rises, and Grian realises he’s been holding his own breath for way too long. 

   “Sometimes, she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,” Bdubs’s voice slices into the air, clear, “and then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, of breaches, ambuscadoes and Spanish blades, of healths five fathoms deep and then anon, drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes, and being thus frightened, swears a prayer or two and sleeps again. This is the very Mab that plats the manes of horses in the night and bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs-” 

    Grian doesn’t realise he’s moving until he advances on him-

“-which once untangled much misfortune bodies, this is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, that presses them and learns them first to bear! Making them women of good carriage - this is she-”

   “Peace, Mercutio!” 

Grian doesn’t realise he’s said his line until it’s out of his mouth, and he blinks and Bdubs is right in front of him like he’s reared up to attack, surprise in his eyes like he’s just woken from a bad dream. “Peace,” Grian repeats, breathing hard. “Thou talk'st of nothing.” 

   Bdubs scoffs, eyes darkening with something like resentment. “True, I talk of dreams,” he begins his next line.

   Grian doesn’t pay attention to the rest of the line - he’s too caught up in the atmosphere left behind by Bdubs’s rendition of the Queen Mab speech. He feels shaken, too shaken for it just to be from Bdubs’s acting. Maybe he’s just drunk. 

   “The wind you talk of blows us from ourselves,” says Mumbo, and Grian shakes himself awake. “Supper is done, and we shall come too late.” 

   The two hurry onward, past Grian, but he lingers, eyes darting down to the script and then up to the sky, an almost frightened breath escaping his lungs. He waits, then, feeling the breeze caress his face, push and pull and mess up his hair. And-

   “I fear too early,” he confesses, “for my mind misgives… some consequence hanging in the stars… shall bitterly begin his fearful date.” 

   He pushes hair out of his face, pauses, lets doubt creep in, “With this night’s revels, and expire the term of a despised life closed in my breast, by some vile forfeit of untimely death.”

   Grian lets himself pause, then sighs, “But he that hath the steerage of my course, direct my sail. On, lusty gentlemen.” 

   “Strike, drum!” says Mumbo from the side of their makeshift stage, and then it’s over.

Grian isn’t really sure what happens when he acts, but it makes him feel volatile, like a bomb that’s about to go off, like an active volcano. His heart beats and beats and shows no signs of stopping, and static fills his ears instead of silence. He feels harsh lighting above him even when there is none, hurting his eyes. He feels like the breath he takes before his first line sucks up any Grian left of him and keeps it locked away until the last line is finished. 

   But, well, he’d wager a bet that that’s exactly how Bdubs, for example, feels, considering his eagerness to perform. Grian’s gathered that he has a reputation for it - not a bad one, but one nevertheless - and he thinks that he might quite admire him. 

   He’s sitting against the tree again, joined by Jimmy and Tango, all a bit sleepy and a bit drunk, and a couple yards away are Joel, Mumbo and Bdubs, lying flat on their backs and giggling together at something Grian can’t make out. 

   “You do engineering?” he asks Tango. 

Tango nods, smiles, “Yes,” he says, “It’s a full time course, so I don’t do other subjects - but I get the same assignments and tasks as the others, just extra classes.”

   Grian laughs, filter nearly completely gone from the alcohol, “You skiving then? Etho said there’s an assignment due tomorrow.” 

   “Nah, Etho’s the one skiving,” says Tango, borderline giggling, “Spends all his time doing ‘prop design’-”

    “Why the air quotes?” asks Jimmy, and Grian glances over just in time to see Tango’s gaze catch, linger-

   “Because it’s just an excuse for him to draw and hang out with Bdubs,” Tango answers. Grian looks over immediately to see Bdubs, oblivious, pointing at something in the sky and gesturing for Mumbo and Joel to look. It makes sense to him, considering he’d Seen that very thing happen - Etho sitting at the desk, swiping graphite onto thick, textured paper, Bdubs spread-eagled on the bed, a paper script held in his hand-

   “And Bdubs’s no better,” Tango adds, “with his art coursework? He’s been slacking off too -  to memorise his lines and hang out with Etho!”

   Jimmy coughs, “So,” he tries, “are they - like - together?” 

And Grian’s hyperaware again of the way Tango knocks him in the ribs with an elbow, affection unrestrained in the way his eyes crease, he snorts, “Everyone thinks so apart from them,” he says. “Sometimes I think they’re just hiding it.” 

   Jimmy laughs, and Tango’s smile fades slightly. He feels like he’s witnessing something he shouldn’t. 

    It’s only a few minutes later when they all decide to leave - and Grian finds himself with his arm around Joel’s shoulders helping him walk, he’s absolutely smashed, unable to walk in a straight line, but Bdubs is too drunk as well, glued to Tango’s side, Grian hears him mumble something like Etho? and watches Tango’s expression fold into something tired, but he’s too preoccupied with Joel, who is currently trying to open his phone and call Lizzie. 

    “Stop that,” he protests, snatching the phone from his hands, “You’ll wake her up!” 

   Joel looks over at him with the biggest, brownest puppy-dog eyes that he has ever seen and frowns, “But it’s Lizzie,” he whines, lunging for his phone, shoulders dropping in defeat as Grian shoves it in his pocket. 

   “You do this every time,” Grian chastises him, “I’m sure Lizzie knows how much you love her by now without you telling her in the middle of the night every weekend.” 

   Mumbo pats him on the back sympathetically when he walks the other way down the street, goodbye Romeo, goodbye Joel called out between laughs, and Joel seems especially sad to see Jimmy, Bdubs and Tango go as they pass the bus stop. He slumps against Grian for the rest of the walk, which is thankfully short and calm, without any main roads to trudge through. 

   It’s 11 PM when they make it to Grian’s house, and thank God, his dad’s car isn’t in the front. Pearl isn’t home either, probably still at Gem’s, and he begins to root through his pockets for keys before he feels Joel shift beside him and looks up to see him holding his own key to Grian’s house, cupped in his hand like treasure, staring at it, lost, something old and sad plain in his eyes.

 “Joel?” 

He looks up, then, surprised, a deer in headlights, “G?” 

Grian sighs and takes the key from him, turning it in the lock and pulling him into the hallway. The warmth of the house hits him, fresh and comforting, and then just as he clicks the door shut Joel seizes his wrist with as much strength as he can muster in the state he’s in. “Grian,” he says, and his voice is blurry at the edges but the panic is clear. 

   He turns around, “Joel?” and then Joel reaches forwards and his fingers find his neck, like he’s something to be kept safe, to be protected.

Grian is completely still, just watching, and Joel’s eyes are scared, and his thumbs rest on the spots just above his collarbones, and- “How many - Grian? How many did you-” 

   Grian says nothing, just stares in alarm, confusion. Something like dread is fermenting in the bottom of his stomach, chalky like paste. Joel smells like beer and terror.

“Grian?” he breathes. “Please don’t - are you - this isn’t - Grian.”

    There’s something there, then - pulling at the corners of Grian’s mind, desperate, waiting to be uncovered. The key Joel has taken from the lock and holds so tightly in his palm, sure to cut through his skin. The frightened look on his face, weighing down his features.

   “Come on,” he says instead, pulling his hands down, taking the key from him, beginning to lead him upstairs, “Let’s get you to bed.” 

   And Joel says nothing. 

He lets Grian walk him up to his room, and he takes off his shoes with trembling hands, and he gets into Grian’s bed on the edge, because he knows Grian likes to be next to the wall. They’ve always shared when Joel slept over - neither saw the point in spending too much effort on anything else, not when his bed was big enough, not when they simply didn’t care, not when they were like brothers who had only just met each other - but now Grian feels claustrophobic, melancholy, cold even with a duvet over his shoulders and his best friend beside him. 

   And that’s when he hears it. And it’s not a real sound - it’s a memory - at least, he thinks it is - it’s cold and hollow and there’s a pit in his stomach and it’s knocking. 

   And it’s Joel. 

And it’s Grian - Grian, please. This isn’t funny. This isn’t funny - open the - Grian, please - please don’t - are you - this isn’t funny. Open the door. Open the-

    There’s a smell, then - sharp and harsh and white lights above him and Joel holding his hand and how many? How many did you take? Grian - Grian, please-

   He thinks vaguely as he falls into the dark, warm sea of sleep that he won’t remember this in the morning. It’s the one advantage of his Sight, the one advantage of knowing. 

    He can choose. 

Grian can choose to Forget.

    When he wakes up,  he’s got a killer hangover and sore limbs all over from sleeping in an uncomfortable position - Joel isn’t in the bed next to him, which is the usual - there’s talking downstairs, so Pearl has probably come home. When he lifts a heavy arm to grab his phone and hold it sleepily above his head, it reads 11:23 AM. Makes sense - he’s always been a late sleeper after alcohol.

   And then he sees his notification - and his heart stops.

Four new messages from - ‘Scar Goodtimes’

    Grian decides with no rush that he is going to ignore this until he’s been awake for at least 20 minutes. He can’t even remember when he’d saved Scar’s number in the first place - maybe an old Year 7 group chat, but it shocks him even so, and he forces himself up from the bed, takes one look in the mirror and decides he needs coffee in his system before he can even think about putting jeans on over his boxers or brushing his hair. 

   The talking in the kitchen gets louder as he stumbles down stairs, and yawning, drags himself through the doorway, only to see - Pearl, Joel and Gem, various places around the room, chatting. 

   Grian is not sure he has ever been this embarrassed. 

“Hey, man,” Joel calls from where he’s sitting at the table, with knees pulled up to his chest and a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. Grian is turning around to run back upstairs before he can fully process how self-conscious he feels, but Gem snorts like she’s laughing at him.

   “I have a brother, Grian. Come get some coffee.” 

Still slightly sheepish, he shuffles over to the counter and pours some coffee into a mug - it’s the good stuff, not just the usual instant coffee - and trudges over to the table to sit next to Joel, cross-legged on the chair next to him, pulling his boxers further down his thighs, suddenly self conscious. He pulls out his phone and stares at the notification again.

    Four new messages from - ‘Scar Goodtimes’

“Aren’t you Gregory in Romeo and Juliet?” Joel asks- he’s looking at Gem, curious.

   She beams, spinning around with such vigour her hair bounces on her shoulders. Grian sees Pearl smile affectionately at her enthusiasm from across the room. “Yes,” she says, “and the Nurse. They’re multi-casting because there aren’t enough of us,” and then she scowls, but it’s sarcastic, “Not Imp and Skizz, though, those assholes only got one! Less work for the men, I suppose.”
  Pearl laughs as she walks over to the kitchen counter, jostles Gem’s shoulder. “Come on, Gemini,” she says. “Cut them some slack, they’ve got work as well.” 

   She sticks her nose in the air. “Their fault for adopting me,” she hums. 

Grian is not sure if he’s the only one who’s confused - he’d always assumed there was some sort of relation between Gem and Impulse, despite differing last names - he’d seen them come to school together, but Skizz? And - adopt? He tosses a look to Joel, who gives him a similar clueless one, and resolves to ask Pearl later about whatever’s going on. 

   “I’m excited to fight Lizzie on stage,” Gem says then, giggling, and Joel launches into enthusiastic questions about stage-fighting. Grian goes back to his phone, takes a sip of hot coffee, and opens the text.

10:06   Scar Goodtimes hey grian

10:06   Scar Goodtimes saw your acting last night

10:06   Scar Goodtimes you were really good 

10:07    Scar Goodtimes any reason i wasn’t invited? ;)

   His heart almost stops. 

Before Grian can make a bigger deal out of it than it actually is, Joel’s forehead bumps his and makes his shoulders jump in surprise, “Who’s quadruple texting you?” 

    “Jesus - Joel!” 

Grian scowls, going pink in the face, “Quadruple - texting - why is that even - why is that even a thought that went through your head - that you thought was normal to say out loud?!” 

   Joel laughs at him, leaning back in his chair. “Okay,” he says, “So it’s Scar?” 

“Who posted us last night?” 

   “Jimmy, I think,” says Joel, “He was recording Bdubs’s monologue last night, think he included your little speech at the end, posted it on Instagram - why?”

   Grian sighs- “Alright,” he says, ignores Joel’s question, “Alright, okay,” and he looks back at his phone. 

   And then he takes a risk. 

11:39 AM   Grian Moon idk

11:39 AM   Grian Moon maybe you make me nervous

Chapter Text

   Pearl is holding Grian’s hand. 

Her voice is audible, but incomprehensible - there’s static and buzzing and he’s drowning in it, and it hurts hurts hurts-

   There are harsh, white lights above him, and the antiseptic smell penetrates into his nose and his mouth, and it’s infecting him and scraping the edges of his nostrils and the corners of his mouth raw, and Pearl is holding Grian’s hand Pearl is talking Pearl is here Pearl is- 

   “I told Dad,” she hiccups, voice piercing through the static now, and she slaps her other hand over her mouth like she’s sworn in front of a child, “I don’t think he’s coming, Griba. I don’t think - he’s not here - I’m-” 

   She swears then, sharp and pointed and directed at the ground. It’s angry and frustrated and Grian hardly hears Pearl swear and it feels worse than the hollow abyss in his stomach, it feels sharp and twisting and guilty. “Joel is outside,” Pearl whispers, “I texted Jim, but he hasn’t seen it yet. I texted Taurtis.”

   She doesn’t elaborate. Grian looks up from the thin, blue mattress he’s curled up on, and sees the clock in the corner of the room. It’s three in the morning. 

   Oh.

Pearl doesn’t let go of his hand. Grian hopes privately that she never does.

   He wakes up to his phone ringing. 

Grian groans, eyes dry and sore from sleep, wipes his brow with the back of his hand, and feels the light sting his pupils as he holds the device up to his face and squints on instinct. Timmy is calling …

- why is Timmy calling?

    In his initial alarm, Grian swipes to answer without thinking, and Jimmy’s voice filters through the phone, quiet, he spams the volume button and nothing changes - “Grian?”  

   “Tim?” 

He whispers into the speaker, hyper-aware of the house - his dad in the cold, beige bedroom across the landing, Pearl’s absence, she’s at Scott’s house-

   Jimmy sounds like he’s crying. Jimmy sounds like he’s crying.

“G, could you come over?” 

   He’s quiet for a moment, eyelids heavy-

“Please?”

   “I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

Jimmy hangs up.

It takes effort, but Grian yanks himself out from under his duvet, the night’s freezing cold prickling up into hard, aching goosebumps over his calves and thighs, and steps into the jeans he was wearing during the day, after school. It’s only Monday night - or Tuesday morning, he realises with a jolt, and the prospect of why Timmy needs him runs circles in his head, skipping and jumping and contorting. Grian pulls on his hoodie, and walks onto the landing, tip-toeing carefully down the stairs. 

   The absence of Pearl chills the house, especially when his dad is home. She’s like another layer of protection, another person to protect, another person to stand with, another person who understands.  

   Grian wishes vehemently that Pearl never decided to start sharing a room for university, and hopes with the same vigour that it’s at least a while until she leaves. He can’t be alone in the house with his dad, not this often, not always, he thinks heavily while he ties his laces, and then he remembers his phone - left lying stationary on his desk, and he curses quietly to himself, tip-toeing back up the stairs. 

   Grian slips his phone into his pocket and treads lightly out of his room, shutting the door as quietly as he can - click-click-

    “Where are you going?” 

There’s a silhouette, then, imposing, towering tall by the door of his father’s room. Grian’s heart sinks. 

   “Out.” he replies, and it comes out more hostile than he intended, and he sweeps down the stairs and swings open the front door, slamming it shut behind him. 

   His dad doesn’t even try to stop him. Grian isn’t sure what he expected.

The bus to Jimmy’s takes ten minutes. He spends the time on his phone, knee trembling, trying to get rid of the dread crawling in the back of his mind. Eventually he comes across Jimmy’s Instagram story, hidden in his highlights from last Friday, and the sound filters unsteadily through his wired earphones.

“Sometimes, she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,” comes Bdubs’s voice, clear and eerie, the camera shaking, “ and then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, of breaches, ambuscadoes and Spanish blades, of healths five fathoms deep and then anon, drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes, and being thus frightened, swears a prayer or two and sleeps again.” 

    Then there’s Grian, standing entranced beside him, the camera swings towards him-

“This is the very Mab that plats the manes of horses in the night and bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs-” Bdubs spits, something wild and untamed in his expression, jerking wildly towards the camera, eyes sparkling, ““-which once untangled much misfortune bodies, this is the hag , when maids lie on their backs, that presses them and learns them first to bear! Making them women of good carriage - this is she-”

   And Grian’s right there in front of him, nose to nose, baring his teeth, “Peace, Mercutio, peace!” and Bdubs blinks and deflates, wide, uncertain eyes like he’s not quite sure what’s just happened.

   “Thou talk'st of nothing,” he says, breathless, and the video ends. 

Grian doesn’t bother to scroll to the next video, which surely has his own speech. His heart is already racing, and the bus has already stopped.

   He doesn’t bother to knock on Jimmy’s door - he unlocks it with the spare key hanging from his carabiner, the bronze one with 13237 etched into the head, and shuts the door behind him as silently as he can. The house is quiet - Jimmy is home alone, then, his parents must be out, and that knowledge curdles in Grian’s stomach like something rotting. 

   “Timmy?” he calls.

There’s no answer.

  G, could you come over? Please?

    Grian marches up the stairs to Jimmy’s room, balling his hands into frightened fists by their sides. “Tim?” 

    He’s in the corner by the wardrobe, curled up on the grey carpet, and he’s crying. “Tim,” Grian repeats, and as he rushes to his side he catches a quick glimpse of a familiar stupid T-shirt crumpled in the corner of the room, the design barely visible - I ♡ ENGINEERING - and his heart drops.

   Timmy mumbles an apology and wipes at his eyes with his knuckles, staring at the floor. “Hey, G,” he mumbles. His voice splits at the seams, hoarse and breaking. Grian kneels beside him and raises his chin with his hand. 

   “Hey, man.” he whispers. “You okay?” 

He’s clearly not. Grian asks anyway, though, because he reckons it’s the right thing to say in this conversation. “I’m okay,” Jimmy says, looking at him with glassy brown eyes. “Just tired.” 

   “Okay,” Grian murmurs, even though it’s obvious he’s not just tired, “okay, how about we clean you up and get you into bed? Yeah?” 

“Head hurts,” Jimmy whispers. 

   “Okay,” he replies again. “I’m going to go get you some painkillers, Tim. Is that alright?” 

He nods, and stays silent. Grian stands up and tries to subtly scan the room as he leaves, but finds no more signs of Tango. Something happened, then - he’s sure of it, sure of it because of the shirt and because of Jimmy’s memory and because of Tango’s distress during their conversation about him. He wrings his hands, the unsteady walk to the bathroom feeling years long. 

   Should he contact Tango? Would it be better to leave it alone, or to call him right now? Would it be better to ask what happened or immediately chastise him for upsetting Jim? 

Grian asks these questions to himself as he crosses the boundary between landing and bathroom, and his hand grazes the doorway as he walks past it, and-

    “Jim, come on,” Tango chuckles as he grabs him, pulls him down, inches from his face. He’s got that tipsy flush high on his cheeks, but so does Tango, soft crimson pigmenting his face, alcohol on his breath, “Honey,”

   Jimmy’s hands find his face then, cup it, hold everything that matters, and he swipes both thumbs carefully across his chin, and Tango swallows, becoming very aware of the situation he is in. In Jimmy’s house, on Jimmy’s bed, on top of him. “Jim,” he breathes. 

   The corners of Jimmy’s mouth quirk up, playful, “Tango,” he hums. And his gaze falls to Tango’s lips, and he drops one of his hands to rest on the back of Tango’s neck. He’s still wearing that silly engineering T-shirt, the one Jimmy whispered to him earlier was so stupid it would look a lot better off of him. “You were - you are actually evil for earlier,” he says. “‘Nice jacket?’ Jesus, Tango.” 

   He laughs then, almost forgetting the dread congealing in the back of his throat, and Jimmy’s thumb trails down to trace his bottom lip, and it comes back full force. And the breath that catches isn’t as usual, and Jimmy must be able to tell, because-

   “Tango?” he asks, and it’s like the moment is broken, suddenly cold and inhuman and Tango scrambles back off of him and he sits up. “What’s wrong?”

   When the mist clears, Grian finds himself clinging to the doorframe, heaving in air, with his knees bent and weak, his hands shaking, white knuckles tingling with the remnants of the Sight. Jesus Christ. 

   He gives himself a few seconds to hang there, breathless, before he forces himself to his feet and heads towards the medicine cabinet. It’s above the mirror overhead the kitchen sink, a little keyhole on the corner of the door. Grian opens it and locates the painkillers - a little box of paracetamol - before tucking them into his pocket. He shuts the cabinet and moves to leave the room, before-

   He turns back, takes the key from the top of the cabinet, and turns it in the lock. 

When Grian walks back through the hallway, he ducks into Jimmy’s parents’ room and places the key on the bedside table, next to the lamp. 

   Then he trudges back to Jimmy’s room, gives him the paracetamol, and sits with him in silence until he falls asleep. 

   Grian leaves at five in the morning after Jimmy’s phone buzzes on his bedside table with a text from his parents that they’re on their way home. 

The night is cold, indigo skies empty and hollow, and the bus home is quiet, quieter than silence, the buzzing of the engine underneath his feet, the vague howling in the distance of drunk men approaching bus stops. Grian’s father doesn’t make another appearance when he walks through the door. He must be asleep.

   Tomorrow, Grian has a session scheduled to begin working with Scar on their scenes. They’ve been put in place with most of the cast, actually - a study period dedicated to getting used to working together, he thinks he might have one with Mumbo and Bdubs later in the week. Xisuma won’t be present, nobody else will, which fills his limbs with a tingling sense of worry, but Grian is going to have to get over it. He has to pretend to be in love with Scar Goodtimes on stage - he needs to be able to spend an hour alone with him.

   When he finally gets to school the next day, his watch reads 9:07 AM and he has an energy drink clutched in his fist as he marches into the dance studio Xisuma booked for the sessions. Scar isn’t there yet, so he sinks down to lean against the wall in the corner, taking a huge gulp of caffeine and sugar and trying to tame his hair with his other hand.

   “Grian.”

He looks up to see Scar in the doorway, sheepish, his backpack hanging off of one shoulder and a curl of hair sticking to his neck. “Scar,” he says. 

   “You look tired,” 

“I am tired.” 

   Scar crosses the room and plonks his backpack down on the floor in the corner, sitting awkwardly to be on his level, cane tap-tap-tapping at the wall. “How much did you sleep?” he asks, looking down at the energy drink clutched in his hands. “You don’t even have your jacket on.” 

   Grian flushes, embarrassed, because why is Scar noticing that, let alone pointing it out? In truth, his shirt is crinkled and has a button undone at the top, and his tie is loose and he hasn’t even got his blazer or jacket on. It’s a miracle he’s awake. He glances away and takes another sip of his drink, before answering, “Probably three hours. I’m not used to staying up late, I guess.” 

   “You sure you’re up for this?” Scar asks, wrinkling his nose, “We can reschedule, right?”
“I’m fine,” he says, probably louder than it needs to be, “The caffeine’s got me.” 

   “If you say so.”

He reaches for his bag and fishes in it for his script, and Grian does the same, pulling out the old book he annotated in Year 11 from an assorted jumble of pens, earphones and junk. When he looks up, Scar’s looking at it and smiling like he wants to laugh. “I haven’t gotten around to getting a proper script yet,” he says, feeling almost defensive.

   Scar raises his hands, “Alright, alright,” he chuckles, and flicks absent-mindedly through his paper script. Grian takes another gulp from his drink, and when Scar speaks again, it’s casual, and he’s still looking down at his script.

   “Why’d you sign up?” he asks. “Didn’t seem like your thing.”

Right. Grian is a bad boy who walks around in a leather jacket and skips class. He shrugs. “Xisuma’s a nice guy,” he says. “I thought I’d try out something new.” 

   “I’m glad you did,” replies Scar, something genuine and honest clear in his tone, “You’re good at it.” 

   Grian swallows. “Why’d you?” 

“I’ve done drama for most of my life,” Scar says, smiling, “I’m applying to Hypixel for their drama course, and this’ll be perfect on my CV.” 

   “Oh,” he murmurs. “That’s cool.” 

“What scene do you want to go through, then?” he asks as Grian finishes his energy drink and tosses the empty can into his bag in lieu of a bin. “Our first scene, with the sonnet?” 

   “Sounds great,” says Grian as he gets to his feet, pushing his hair out of his eyes and breathing outward. Scar leans a hand on the wall as he gets to his feet and they wait a moment for him to catch his breath before positioning themselves in the middle of the room, a good distance between them, with scripts held between two fingers and nervous looks on their faces. 

   And they begin. 

Grian approaches Scar, hesitant - which doesn’t need much acting, he’s already hesitant - and reaches out, offering his hand - Scar takes it, looking up at him through his eyelashes - Grian swallows-

   “If I profane with my unworthiest hand, this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this-” and his eyes dip down awkwardly to look for the next phrase on the script, “My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

   “Good pilgrim,” Scar murmurs, eyes flickering up to meet his, just the perfect level of restrained, “You do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,”

   There’s a pause - a millisecond, and Grian realises how loud his heart must be beating, Scar has to be able to hear it, and- “and palm to palm,” Scar says softly, in Juliet’s voice, “is holy palmer’s kiss.” 

   Grian’s surprised that he knows the line without looking down at the script. “Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”

   Scar smiles - his teeth are sharp and for a moment Grian imagines them puncturing down on the plush of his bottom lip - “Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer,” he says like a soft reminder. Grian blinks, swallowing hard in an attempt to rid himself of the vivid image flashing in his mind.

“O then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do,” he returns, “they pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”

   “Saints do not move,” replies Scar, “though grant for prayers’ sake.”

“Then move not,” and Grian looks down at the script to skim his next line, trying to soothe, calm himself, “while my prayer’s effect I-” 

   His eyes catch, and his words trail off. 

Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take. 

   [He kisses her.]

   The moment splinters into reality. 

“Grian,” Scar murmurs, and Grian looks up like a deer in headlights, and he’s averted his eyes like he’s embarrassed, “I know you’re new to theatre. Stage kissing can be really intimidating if you’re new, and we could probably figure out some sort of choreography with Xisuma to fake it if you’re uncomfortable, or-”

   Grian doesn’t know what makes him say it. He really doesn’t know what makes him say it, because his heart is beating so violently in his chest he swears Scar can hear it, and his knees already feel weak, and maybe he’s just still in character but- “No, dude, fuck that,” he interrupts. “This is for your CV, you said. I’m not half-doing it just because I’m new.” 

   Scar’s quiet, then, for a moment. He looks so pretty with that nervous look on his face. “Are you sure?” 

Grian isn’t sure what makes him do it. It might be how green Scar’s eyes look up close or the way his hair falls down over his forehead and narrowly misses blocking his vision, or the way his lips are slightly parted in his uncertainty, but he leans forward almost by instinct and he kisses him. 

   It’s solid, and somehow steadier than he’d expected, and the tiny gasp Scar lets out into his mouth makes him feel dizzy, and before he knows it there’s a warm hand moulded into the small of his back and Scar is intoxicating and addictive and alive and then it’s over, and God this is unfair, because Grian thinks he might want to keep kissing Scar forever.

   It’s over, so he draws back and wets his lips with his tongue, tingling and breathless and a bit frightened, and says, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” as Scar’s hand falls back to his side. 

   It weighs on him for the rest of the day. Scar’s mouth was warm, and so was his hand, and it felt like he was relentless heat and licking flames, unwavering, torturous on his skin. Grian decides then and there that he isn’t going to let this happen again, that he can’t let this happen again. Scar isn’t somebody he ever wanted to even talk with, and the prospect of kissing him outside of what’s necessary feels dangerous. 

   It follows him home. Grian expects it to, honestly, but it gets in the backseat and jabs at him for the whole drive, leaning over and poking roughly at his shoulder, saying you enjoyed that. You enjoyed that too much. Why did you enjoy that? Why did you enjoy that, Grian? like a little sibling ribbing him, only with way too much malice for it to be natural. Unfortunately, Grian is the little sibling, so when everything hits him at dusk, he’s home alone. 

And it just keeps replaying. 

    Scar’s fingers splaying tentatively out across the small of his back, Scar’s lips pressing steadily against his, Scar’s breathing inside his mouth, the tilt of their heads dizzying, his knees suddenly weak - it just keeps replaying. Grian swallows hard and presses the call button next to Pearl’s contact on his phone.

   “Grian,” her crackly voice says, “What’s up?”

Grian’s sitting in his bedroom, on the floor with his knees pulled up for him to rest his chin on. His words catch painfully in his throat- he freezes for a moment, mouth gaping, paralysed, before he finds the strength to cough them out. “Pearl, can you please come home?” 

   There’s a pause, and he can feel Pearl’s sudden dread through the phone. He just can’t for the life of him think of why she would be so scared.

    “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s okay,” he confirms. “I need you, though.” 

   He hears her breathing slow down - the relief floats in a light sigh over the distance between them, linked by the call. “I’ll come home,” Pearl says. “Do you want me to stay on the line?”

    “I’m okay,” says Grian. “Do you think we could-” he swallows, “watch a movie, get take-out? Dad’s - I’m - we’re home alone tonight.”

    “Yeah, definitely,” comes blurrily through the phone. “I’ll be home as soon as I can, Griba. Love you,” 

    “Love you,” he returns, and she hangs up. 

He walks to the bathroom and washes his face, and then looks at himself through eyes widened by cold water after he dries himself off. Grian isn’t sure what on his face would make somebody want to kiss him - but after all, Scar was the one who said they didn’t have to. 

   But - but he’d fallen so gratefully into the contact - pressed his open palm, urgent, to Grian’s back like he was holding them together, like he didn’t want it to stop. Scar didn’t refuse, Scar didn’t say no, Scar didn’t show regret or repulsion or revulsion. In fact, he’d looked quite shell-shocked when pulled out of the kiss, he’d even rebounded forwards just a centimetre like he was chasing it. His eyes had been wide and bright and shocked and green and his lips had been flushed just slightly red and Grian had looked up at him and had the sudden, devastating realisation of I did that.

   He’s not sure how long he’s been standing by the mirror, thinking about Scar, when the door opens downstairs and voices come into the house. It’s Pearl, sure, but he recognises Jimmy too and realises she must have brought him. There’s a delicious smell, as well, and Pearl calls upstairs, “Griba! Come down, we have pizza!”

   Maybe Grian can forget about Scar Goodtimes for now. 

They all sit on the couch and watch an old Disney film and bury each other in blankets and cushions, piling hot pizza onto ceramic plates and fizzy soda into cups and popcorn into a massive plastic bowl, and start looking up the age gap between the princess and her prince mid-movie, gasping dramatically and I’ll play devil’s advocate, this was made in the 1920s or something! and Jimmy, do you actually know what the Romeo and Juliet law is? and then Pearl gets started on the age gap in the actual Shakespeare play and the movie is left for at least five minutes while they’re debating.

   “I’m not sure if Romeo’s age is ever confirmed in the text,” Grian says doubtfully.

“Juliet’s thirteen, though-”
  “That is crazy-”
“Aha!” Jimmy announces, shoving his phone in their faces, “Juliet is not yet fourteen, sure, but Romeo’s age is never even mentioned! What if she was the pedophile?” 

   “Or what if there were so pedophiles and they were in a loving and stable relationship?” 

“I don’t think it’s the ages stopping that, Pearl.” 

   They laugh their ways through the rest of the movie, booing and throwing popcorn at the TV at the final kiss - shouting abuse and defence of the teenage princess’s honour, laughing at their own absurdity, and then the credits are rolling on the screen and there’s that lovely, warm quiet, the aftermath of the laughter, and Grian speaks. 

   “I kissed Scar Goodtimes,” he admits.

Pearl practically throws herself at him, desperate for any kind of detail, asking just when and where and how it happened, insisting that she could find out through a network of confidants if he had told anyone about it, et cetera.

   Grian laughs with her, almost embarrassed, and tries to ignore the way Jimmy’s face falls when he looks away from him, crumpling into something almost envious.

Chapter Text

“Gregory, on my word we’ll not carry coals,” Lizzie says, fiery, chin set firm in the air and hair pink and flung about her shoulders, elbowing Gem harshly in the side. 

   She’s leaning backwards from her waist, smooth and confident, and Gem doesn’t sputter or groan in pain or annoyance, just rolls her eyes and slaps her playfully on the shoulder, “No, for then we should be colliers,”

   She shrugs. “I mean, an we’ll be in choler, we’ll draw.” 

“Ay,” Gem replies slyly, “while you live, draw your neck out of collar.” 

   Grian looks towards Doc as they continue - he’s standing with his arms crossed, hanging on his stomach, with a small notepad held between two fingers, staring up at them on the stage, and blinking, hard, every few seconds, like he’s envisioning something, like it’s unfolding before his very eyes. It’s fascinating to watch, like he can see every thought whirring through Doc’s mind just through his eyes. Abruptly, his brow furrows and he turns to Xisuma, muttering something to him - Grian hones in as quickly as he can, curious.

   “I still think the orchestra is a good idea,” he hisses distractedly, “Chordal stabs on each sir.” 

    Xisuma hums, “We’ll think about it,” he murmurs back, “Think more of exactly the kind of thing you want, and we can consult Mr Jono and see if it's a good idea.”

    They look close - Grian frowns, wonders a bit what’s going on with them, because if Doc wasn’t so much taller, Xisuma would look almost fatherly. He directs his attention back on the stage, where Martyn walks on, empty space obvious next to him for the non-speaking role some Year 11 will take. Lizzie grins, and it looks like a challenge. 

   “My naked weapon is out,” she laughs, and Gem does too, nudging each other in the sides, mischievous, “Quarrel, I will back thee.”
  “How, turn thy back and run?” asks Gem, smirking.

“Fear me not,” 

   “No, marry, I fear thee!”

“Let us take the law of our sides, let them begin,” says Lizzie, cunning, and it’s like a plan has been formulated between them. Gem chuckles, and it sounds like a threat.

   “I will frown as I pass by,” she says, relishing the words on her tongue, “and let them take it as they list.”
  “Nay, as they dare,” Lizzie says, wrinkling her nose, “I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to them as they bear it.” 

   Doc’s moving his hands now, even while holding his notebook - little slices into the air at every sir as Lizzie and Gem slink through the scene, beginning to circle Martyn like he’s their prey. Grian watched them go through the main blocking with him before this runthrough of the scene, and they embody the predatory skulk perfectly, and every time they spit out the title sir like it’s an insult, he stabs his hand in a short, rough movement into the air in front of him and blinks, hard, like he’s imagining something. He murmurs something to Xisuma about lights. 

    Grian’s drawn back to the scene at Mumbo’s sudden entrance, missing his blazer, tie lopsided and shirt rumpled, hair messed up - and somehow completely embodying Benvolio despite his general disheveledness. Gem sighs, a sudden sense of defeat entering her stance, “Say better,” she hisses to Lizzie, “Here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.” 

   “Yes, better, sir,” smiles Lizzie, restrained, eyes bright, facing outward to Martyn.

“You lie,” he replies.

   And Lizzie springs forward- “Draw if you be men - Gregory, remember thy washing blow.” 

The illusion doesn’t so much break as fade out; they all glance down from the stage, unsure, and Grian assumes there isn’t any choreography for a fight yet. He looks over to Doc, wondering if he’s going to shout instructions, but he’s scribbling in his notebook again, blinking furiously, and the hand holding the pad is twitching. He’s completely in his own head. 

   “Just carry on,” Xisuma calls up, “We’ll figure out the fight later.” 

Mumbo nods, and then suddenly he’s Benvolio again - “Part, fools!” he shouts, and he’s storming towards the group, who scatter out among the stage in a panic, “Put up your swords! You know not what you do,”

   And as if he’s been waiting for this very moment, Tango darts out on stage from the opposing wing with something feverish in his expression and violent on his lips. “What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?” he shouts, directed at Benvolio, “Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.”

   And Mumbo looks down at him, his face gravely set, obvious even from down in the hall to Grian. “I do but keep the peace,” he says. “Put up thy sword, or manage it to part these men with me.” 

   Tango laughs, this ominous bark of fire and fury that makes Grian shiver. “What, drawn and talk of peace?”

    Mumbo draws himself up taller, and it’s almost shocking, actually - Grian thinks maybe he’s been slouching for months, because suddenly he seems almost intimidating in his quiet anger. It doesn’t stop Tybalt - it doesn’t even phase him.

   “I hate the word,” Tango spits, peace dripping from his lips coated in hate and sarcasm, “as I hate hell,” he draws it out, “all Montagues,” and Grian feels himself tense like he himself has been insulted, “and thee.”

    And he jumps forward just like Lizzie had done, with a cry of have at thee, coward! ripping from his throat. 

   Grian discovers why he’s been called to the Drama department not long after, because they wrap up the scene, call Mumbo down to stand next to him, and usher them both into a practice room with their scripts. He’s gotten his hands on a paper script since talking to Scar, and is newly resolved to corner the tall, spindly Mumbo and harass him for an itemised list of everything to do and not to do in the vast situation of a school play. 

   Mumbo laughs at him. 

Grian scowls. “I just - Mumbo - I know I’m going to mess something up and embarrass myself-”

   A hand lands on his head, a friendly shove, “You’re going to be fine,” Mumbo says, even if he’s still giggling, “Grian, really,” 

    “I’m a main role, Mumbo,” he mumbles, thoroughly embarrassed and flaming red in the face, “If I get something wrong it will be infinitely worse than if I was a smaller role!”

   “I don’t think you’ll get anything wrong, Grian,” interrupts Mumbo, smiling. 

What Grian gathers from this exchange is that there probably aren’t many things he can get wrong in theatre. Mumbo is friendly enough, though, and Grian doesn’t find himself as anxious as he expected to be when they’re facing each other in the middle of the room holding their scripts. He feels almost excited, actually.

   “Good morrow, cousin,” Mumbo starts, inching cautiously towards him like he’s reaching out some sort of olive branch. 

   “Is the day so young?” Grian asks, and feels that familiar yearning of Romeo set into his bones and sway into his stance as he relaxes easily into the young Montague’s shoes. 

   Mumbo’s eyebrow quirks. “But new struck nine.”

“Ay me,” he breathes, “sad hours seem long. Was that my father that went hence so fast?”

   “It was,” Mumbo replies, honest. “What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?”

“Not having that which, having, makes them short,” Grian mutters. Romeo wants to kick something, he thinks. Unfortunately, they are inside a practice room in a school, instead of atop a gravelled path or anything remotely similar.

   “Hm,” Mumbo says, “In love?”

“Out-”

   “Of love?” 

He grits his teeth. “Out of her favour where I am in love.” 

   “Alas that love, so gentle in his view,” Mumbo muses, “should be so tyrannous and rough in proof…”

   “Alas that love, whose view is muffled still, should without eyes see pathways to his will!” Grian breathes out raggedly. “Where shall we dine-” and his assumption of the next line is a sudden realisation, he hopes fiercely that he’s right and that Mumbo won’t be confused - “O me!” he says, a sudden gasp derailing his rambling. “What fray was here?” he breathes. 

   He raises his hand, a quick decision, a rejection - “Yet tell me not,” he murmurs, “for I have heard it all. Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love.” 

   These longer lines feel intimidating. He isn’t sure whether to draw them slowly out or to spit them into the air. Grian sighs deeply, pushing his hair out of his face, “Why then,” he asks, “O brawling love, O loving hate, O anything of nothing first create! O heavy lightness, serious vanity, misshapen chaos of well seeming forms… feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health - still-waking sleep that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in-” 

   He catches sight of Mumbo’s face.

“-this… Dost thou not laugh?”

   “No, coz,” Mumbo says gently, eyebrows heavy, “I rather weep.”

“Good heart, at what?”

   “At thy good heart’s oppression,” he explains.

Grian rolls his eyes, “Why, such is love’s transgression - griefs of mine own lay heavy in my breast, which thou wilt propagate to have it pressed with more of thine. This love that thou hast shown doth add more grief to too much of mine own.”

   Something Grian remembers from English class in Year 11 was Romeo’s use of oxymorons. It’s the only thing that really stuck with him for a reason, he thinks - being torn in two directions, sore arms and joints from the pulling, it feels familiar to him. Caught between two extremes. “Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs,” he says, “Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet. Farewell, my coz.”

   Mumbo sighs. “Soft, I will go along, an if you leave me so, you do me wrong,” 

“Tut, I have lost myself,” Grian murmurs, “I am not here. This is not Romeo - he’s some other where.” 

   Slowly, he approaches him - the softness of it almost makes Grian cringe, like he’s waiting for a harsh movement or for cutting words to slash through the atmosphere and break the moment. “Tell me in sadness, who is that you love?”
  “What, shall I groan and tell thee?”

“Groan? Why, no - but sadly tell me who,” Mumbo presses.

   “A sick man in sadness makes his will,” Romeo murmurs. “A word urged to one that is so ill. In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.” 

   He isn’t expecting it, but they break up the scene there and then, with Mumbo cracking a joke about Romeo’s fluid sexuality, considering Scar’s casting in their production of the play. It catches Grian off guard and makes him bark with laughter, catching the rest of his giggles in a hand slapped quickly over his mouth - “Stop, stop,” he laughs, bending at the waist, almost sore in the face from it.

   “Well, it would make sense for him to be bisexual,” Mumbo argues, but he’s smiling too, “He’s so full of love, it’s for everyone, right?” 

   “Maybe he’s polyamorous,” Grian giggles, dragging a hand down his face.

“Any ways you’re similar to him?” Mumbo asks.

   Grian looks up, smile slipping from his face. “I - what?”

Mumbo’s found him out. Mumbo’s found him out. 

   He can’t keep being this obvious. Martyn’s found him out, Tango’s found him out, and Mumbo’s found him out. He can’t keep being this obvious - Grian swallows, hard, and feels his fingers quiver at his side, sweat dampening his script around his grip.

   He’s going to have to go into rehearsals every day and see Taurtis’s tan skin and mocha hair and slender wrists and everybody is going to know what he’s thinking when he sees him and he’s going to have to act out stabbing him in the heart on stage for three whole shows like he’s not in love with-

   “I mean, I had a fat crush on him in Year 9,” Mumbo laughs, “It’s like a rite of passage, he’s a charismatic guy.”

   “What?” Grian stutters. (Taurtis is not, to most people, a charismatic guy.)

   “Hey, it’s not a big thing,” he says naturally, “Think most people in this school’ve had a thing for Scar at least once. You’re just lucky he likes you.” 

   Grian’s heart stops. Again. 

“Oh,” punches out of his mouth, “Oh - um - Scar. Yeah.” 

   He’s gone red in the face. Mumbo is laughing at him again, affectionately, and he slaps him lightly on the shoulder while he walks past him, straight for the corner with his backpack hanging on the chair. “Nice runthrough,” he says, “I gotta run home and finish my engineering homework. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” 

   “See you,” Grian forces out. 

The door slams shut as Mumbo tosses back one last grin at him. 

    Oh. 

***

Grian isn’t quite sure how it happened, but kissing Scar Goodtimes seems to have become his favourite hobby. 

   He likes the smooth arch of his shoulder up to his neck, and he likes the way his right hand falls instinctively down to wrap his waist when they first touch, and he likes the pulse beating below his freckled, soft skin, certainly too much for him to feel guilty for the constant snogging between the two of them. 

   And Grian really, really isn’t sure how it happened..? One day he was nervous to just be around Scar, and now he has him pushed against the wall of a tiny practice room, the one with the shitty keyboard with the broken middle C key, with the blinds on the door pulled all the way down. He ducks down and mouths along the skin of Scar’s collarbone, pulling at the collar of his shirt, and the pick-up in his breathing feels like a reward. “Have you been practising your lines?” he murmurs, breathless, and his hands are tight on Grian’s waist now. 

   “Yeah,” Grian whispers into the hollow of his neck, scraping his teeth lightly along his pulse point, “Every night, before I go to bed,” 

   “Good,” Scar manages to reply, a half-exhilarated laugh spilling from pink lips.

It’s been like this for a week. Nearly every day, when they’re meant to be revising their lines, or when Grian sees Scar walking in the corridors and yanks him off to some empty classroom - they’d rather do whatever this is instead. 

   Scar isn’t at all what Grian thought he would be. 

He’s funny, for one - remarks and off-to-the-side jokes that make him choke on his own laughter, or fall backwards to the floor (or forwards, further into his arms) in his excitement. And the way he smiles makes Grian feel weak, intoxicates him. He’s not sure what he’s doing with Scar. He just knows it feels good. 

   It’s been like this for a week. There’s a strange sort of buzzing deep in Grian’s bones - he brushes his hair in the morning now, and he brushes his teeth twice as long as he used to, and he drives with a fevered thrill trembling in his fingers, and when Pearl questions his sudden energy in the mornings, he passes it off as looking forward to rehearsals. 

   It’s not a lie, Grian supposes. It can’t hurt. 

He hasn’t told Joel. 

   Which is weird, to be honest, because Joel knows everything, even things Grian doesn’t know, and Jimmy knows about the first kiss, even if he doesn’t know about the second (and the third, and the fourth, and the fifth, and Grian can’t keep count anymore because Scar’s green eyes make him forget how numbers work), and so does Pearl. So it’s odd, that Joel doesn’t know. Joel knows everything. Why hasn’t he told Joel?

   “Grian?”
Scar’s voice is low and soft. When Grian blinks, he’s looking down at him, with one hand on his back and one holding his face, tracing his jaw with the pad of his thumb. 

   “Scar?” he whispers back. He’s zoned out. “What’s going on?” 

The shutters fall back in place over Scar’s green eyes. He sighs and leans his head back against the wall. “Everything’s great,” he says easily, and his eyes fall back down to Grian’s lips. 

   Grian rolls his eyes, leans forward on his tip-toes, and kisses him again. 

He likes this. At first, Scar would lean back against the wall while they kissed so he could have both hands free and not worry about losing his balance or excessive pain in his legs. But now, Grian has found he likes backing him up against the wall, seeing the mischievous spark in Scar’s smile fade as his eyes fall down to his lips. He feels in control this way, which is exactly what he needs. 

   He thinks that maybe the Scar he sees when they’re kissing is the real one. It’s that, or Juliet-Scar. Grian can’t tell just yet. 

   Because Scar isn’t real with everybody the way he’s real when he’s acting, or when he’s got Grian’s mouth on his. He moves too fluidly, and he’s too charismatic, and he’s quite frankly unnaturally charming. But right now, Grian draws back and looks at his face, and he looks real. 

    That might be part of the reason that he keeps coming back for more.

Chapter Text

    “He jests at scars that never felt a wound.” 

 Scar steps out from where he’s ducked behind the electric piano, and he’s smiling affectionately in that way that makes Grian’s stomach curdle up and want to empty itself. He swallows, hard, and balls hands into fists, focus, focus, focus. “But, soft,” he breathes, the undertones going all shaky, and Scar’s eyes soften, “What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East - and Juliet is the Sun.”

   How is Grian meant to recite this speech on a stage in front of hundreds of people when Scar looks like that? He’s not even in Lizzie’s eyeshadow-face-paint-shit now, and he’s radiant. “Arise, fair sun,” he continues, blinking in rapid succession to try and distract himself, “and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief, that thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.” 

    Think! 

“Be not her maid since she is envious,” spills out of Grian’s mouth in one long breath. He shifts on his feet, suddenly unsteady, “Her vestal livery is - um, is but sick and green, and none but fools do wear it.” 

   The meaning of Romeo’s words catches swiftly up to him, and red flushes over his cheeks. “Cast it off,” he says, stilted. 

   There is silence. 

Juliet blinks down at him from across the room. He’s leaning on the electric piano, cane thrown to the side, wide green eyes questioning, shoulders slanted. “Do you need your line?” 

    “Fuck- ing hell,” Grian curses, stumbling forwards to ambush the taller student. “I don’t need my line, I need you,” 

   Scar laughs, and meets him in a kiss, still leaning against the piano. Grian casts a quick look behind them to clarify that yes, the blinds on the practice room door are in fact closed, and relieved, presses his lips up against Scar’s once again, feeling him smile against him. 

   “We do need to practise our lines,” says Scar, looking down at him almost reproachfully, even with his hand on Grian’s lower back and his eyes glued steadily to his lips.

   “Alright, yeah,” Grian rolls his eyes, “but this is chemistry training, Scar, and it’s important-”

He barely spits out the last syllable before Scar kisses him again. “I never said I was opposed,” he teases as he draws back. “How about, say, five lines - that’s a kiss?” 

   He flushes, “Are you training me?!”

“I might be,” says Scar, “is it working?” 

   “Maybe,” Grian replies, narrowing his eyes. He grins. “It is my lady, it is my love! O, that she knew she were… she speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that? Her eye discourses - I will answer it. I am too bold - tis not to me she speaks.” 

   He’s said it as fast as he possibly can - Grian grins, looking up at Scar, who rolls his eyes and spouts some excuse about how it only counts when they’re paced properly. Otherwise, they’d be kissing all day. Grian thinks that would be preferable. 

   Sometimes, he spontaneously wonders if he’s being too much. Grian has never done anything like this at all - Taurtis was his first kiss, and ran away as soon as they separated, and now Scar is here, angling his head downward whenever they speak in close quarters, desperate to steal just another touch, breathless and excited, anticipatory and appreciative. He isn’t sure how to cope with that.

   Grian manages to rush through the rest of his monologue, earning two more kisses, and then Scar’s leaning over the balcony, thoughtful and frustrated, “Ay me!” and he is fascinated.

    “She speaks,” he murmurs. “O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art as glorious to this night, being o’er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven… unto the white upturned wondr’ing eyes of mortals that fall back to gaze on him, when he bestrides the lazy puffing clouds and sails upon the bosom of the air.”

He looks at Scar, ready for his line, for that memorable, yearning delivery of O Romeo, Romeo, whereforth art thou, Romeo..? 

   But he’s looking down at him, beseeching, distracted yet again. “That was more than five lines, Romeo,” he whispers, and Grian laughs openly, loudly, and gathers him, soft, into another kiss. 

   “Come on,” he says, “seriously, now, let’s stage it. As much as I want to kiss you forever…” 

When did Grian start saying things like that?

  “Deny thy father, and refuse thy name,” Scar is saying sombrely, now across the room again, and Grian is ready to do both of those things and maybe more for him. “Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.”
  “Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?” Grian whispers. 

That line - that sentence, that always hits him hard. Romeo’s eavesdropping is his Sight, intrusive, predatory, uncomfortable... He thinks suddenly of the vision he had of Jimmy and Tango, of how nauseous he felt seeing them kiss, knowing it wasn’t what they would want for him to see. Fortunately, Scar doesn’t pause for his thoughts. He speeds up.

   “Tis but thy name that is my enemy,” he says, urgent, “Thou art myself, though not a Montague - what’s Montague?!” 

    Maybe it’s Scar’s - Juliet’s - sudden frustration that kicks it off. 

“It is not hand, nor foot,” Scar is saying in earnest, and Grian’s losing his balance, and it’s all blurry and-

   “Would you come with me?” Jimmy whispers. 

Tango turns slowly to look at him, but he’s lying on his back with his face turned away from him. He’s unsure if the question is even meant for him. “Honey?” 

   “If I left,” says Jimmy. 

“You won’t leave,” Tango says, instinctively, and there’s a pause, and “Jimmy, you won’t leave.” 

   Jimmy says nothing. 

“Right?” Tango swallows. He’s unsettled by the question, it’s obvious to anybody. “You have - you wouldn’t - you couldn’t leave Joel and Grian. You can’t just run away.” 

   Jimmy says nothing, again. 

“You couldn’t,” he repeats. “I know you couldn’t. You’d try, and you’d end up dead in a ditch somewhere. You’d miss them too much.”

   Jimmy shifts in the bed, turns, and goes tentatively close to him, a hand ghosting around his waist. Tango holds him back, presses into the touch. 

   “I won’t leave,” he whispers, when he’s not quite sure if Tango is asleep or not. “I don’t think I ever could. I’d just like-” 

- his voice cracks -

“-I guess just once, I’d like to - to-” 

   Tango’s eyelids twitch. He stays completely still in Jimmy’s arms. 

“-to take you out to town. Properly, and to - um, to kiss you. In public.” 

   Jimmy breathes in and out, long, shallow scoops of air. Tango says nothing. 

“I want to do this properly,” he murmurs. “I’m serious about you.” 

   Jimmy nuzzles down into the blankets, presses a kiss to the side of Tango’s neck, and shuts his eyes. 

   Tango says nothing.

“Grian. Grian-” 

    There are hands around his waist, torso, back, not how Scar usually touches him, panicked, reeling. When he opens his eyes, he’s in Scar’s lap, caught miraculously before his head could hit the ground, and his eyes are red and wet.

   He’s unsettled from it, which isn’t normal. 

Grian breathes shakily, blinking hard and feeling a tear tremble over and slip through his eyelashes, and there’s a hand pressed to his forehead, and then a mouth, kisses, over and over, Scar’s trembling fingers plastered to his cheeks and jaw, holding him close. “What the fuck was that?” he keeps repeating, over and over. 

   “I’m okay,” he whispers, “Scar, I’m okay. Hey?”

He holds a hand up, drapes it in the air, and Scar catches it instantly, holds it to his chest. Grian can feel his heart beating. He can See it. 

   “What was that?” Scar breathes after a few minutes, hand still held tenderly to his chest like it’s valuable. 

   Grian’s head aches. “I have a touch of a fainting problem.”

“A touch,” parrots Scar, incredulous laughing peppering his tone. There’s something underneath it, and Grian swallows, because Scar is holding him just slightly too tight, and his voice is still just slightly too tense. 

   “Just a touch,” he laughs, trying to pass it by.

   Maybe another minute goes by, and Scar jostles him in his lap. “C’mon,” he murmurs, “can you get up?” 

   “Yeah,” says Grian, aware that he probably could’ve gotten up long ago, and that Scar was just so warm and soft he never even contemplated it. He stands, and Scar puts an arm under his like he’s trying to support him, even as he reaches for his cane. “Hey, I’m alright,” he says, feeling a pang of guilt for Scar thinking he’s fragile, “I can walk, Scar.”

   “You couldn’t earlier,” replies Scar, “you couldn’t even stand. Or open your eyes. Or reply when I said your name.” 

   That’s ominous.

Grian was never really sure how much time went by in his Sights, if he was asleep, if he was just completely unreachable. “Well, I’m fine now, aren’t I?” 

   Scar rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he says, “Get your bag, we’re going.”

Shoving his script into his backpack, Grian runs to keep up with Scar - he’s already on his way out the room, knuckles white on his cane, holding the door open with his other hand. “Going?”

   “You passed out,” he says, icy, “I’m taking you home.”

“What-” Grian blinks, stopping in his tracks in the corridor, “I don’t have to go home. And - and if I did, I could go home by myself.” 

   He feels himself flush with embarrassment even as he says it. Scar looks at him in silence and then keeps walking; he knows that Grian will follow behind. 

   “Scar,” Grian says as the cold air hits him, the way out into the car park, “Are you good?”

   Scar stops walking, then, and there’s this quick flash of heavy, dark emotion - and then it's like a switch is flipped, and he breathes out a sigh and turns around to look at him. “I’m good, G,” he replies. “Come on.” 

   He does as Scar says, follows obediently behind with his thoughts focused almost entirely on that flash of emotion, and then Scar walks up to the right-side car door and he flatlines. 

   “Scar,” he says. “You’re not driving.” 

The Scar in question raises his eyebrow at him and gestures for him to unlock the car.

    “Scar,” he says, going hot in the face. “I can drive my own car. And I - I don’t want to inconvenience you, or-” 

   “If you drive, the worst case scenario is you passing out at the wheel, crashing, and us both dying. If I drive, my legs might hurt a little bit from pedalling.”

   Grian is almost completely sure that that has to qualify as self-deprecating language. He’s about to protest that actually, he doesn’t want Scar’s legs to hurt at all, and that he’s never once passed out at the wheel, not ever. But Scar gives him a light shove towards the left side of the car, and he reluctantly accepts his fate, sliding into the passenger seat and putting his head in his hands. 

   “Hey, c’mon, I’m not a bad driver,” says Scar, grinning at him from behind the wheel, and Grian reaches over, puts his hand on the back of his neck, and kisses him. It’s like instinct, even in the confines of his car rather than a school practice room. He draws back, and Scar’s looking at him with wide, entranced eyes, and then he blinks and looks out of the car behind him. 

   “You’re lucky no-one’s around, G,” he murmurs, turning around, all piercing green eyes and bitten lips. When he’s this close, Grian gets to see these faint white scars crossing his face, barely there, old and faded. He isn’t sure he’ll ever have the courage to ask where he got them. 

   Especially not now. 

“Sorry,” Grian breathes. “I forgot myself.” 

   After all, this is all only for drama school. Hypixel University, where Scar has wanted to go since he was only a kid. This is for Romeo and Juliet. This is method acting. This is practice. Grian knows he mustn't forget that. 

   Scar leans forward and presses his lips to Grian’s again, hand momentarily brushing the side of his face. “Let’s go,” he says, and turns on the car. 

   Grian soon finds it’s not as scary as he thought it would be, having somebody else drive his car. He sits in the passenger seat, and has to have his seatbelt on because Scar notices thirty seconds into the drive that it’s off. He keeps throwing glances behind him to check that Scar’s cane hasn’t magically disappeared from the backseat, and is relieved every time to see the dark mottled wood rolling about on the dark fabric. He drives carefully, not slow but never fast, which Grian wonders about a bit too much for it to be casual - Scar seems like the exact type of person who would want to drive fast. But, Grian supposes he’s also the type of person to care about his friends enough to drive slow when needed. 

   The dread settles on him like a rain-cloud over his head when they pull into his road. Grian swallows, looks straight forward. 

   “G?” 

“I’m good.”

    “Hm,” Scar says in response. 

Grian gestures at his house, and Scar parks the car. 

   His dad’s car is in the driveway. He’s frozen. 

“Grian?” 

   Grian doesn’t say anything. He can’t say anything. What would he say? What should he say? How does he say it? 

   He doesn’t want to walk into his house and see his father there. He doesn’t want the suffocating presence in the back of his mind, the corner of his eye, when he’s only trying to sit in his room. He doesn’t want to lose Scar, too, doesn’t want to get out of the car and walk into the house and be completely alone apart from the ghost downstairs. He can’t do it. 

“Grian?” 

    There’s a hand cupping his face. It’s Scar, peering close, wide concerned eyes, thin white scar crossing his nose, freckles spattering his cheeks-

    “Sorry,” he forces out, his heartbeat must be visible in his neck, it’s beating so loud it hurts, “I’m sorry, I can’t go in. I can’t do it. I’m sorry, I-” 

Scar doesn’t kiss him. He hugs him. 

   Grian thinks all of the air might’ve been squeezed out of him, and it wasn’t even a tight hug - Scar’s arms were delicate, careful, like he was handling porcelain. “It’s okay,” Scar murmurs. “You don’t need to go in.” 

   He sits back, then, “Come on,” he says, “Let’s go somewhere else, yeah?” 

Grian nods, shivering in his seat, feeling slightly ill from adrenaline, and Scar drives out of the street. He doesn’t ask any questions. It’s like he knows, somehow. 

   He thinks that Scar might know everything about him. He always knows what to do, what to say, what Grian is trying to say. And the sides are flipped, because Grian knows people’s feelings just by looking at them, just by listening to their voices. But his are so much more complicated to decipher. 

   Eventually, he settles for staring out of the window as buildings zoom past. The sky is bluish-grey and mottled with clouds, obscured by corner shops, takeaway places and the occasional tree. He finds his voice. 

   “Where are we going?”

“Ice cream,” says Scar smoothly. Grian startles, looking back at him in the driver’s seat, the picture of concentration. 

   “Sorry - ice cream?”

“I thought you might want some,” Scar replies. He tosses a look over to his left, Grian’s incredulous face. “And I know you like this place, because Pearl posted a picture of you there on her Instagram a few months ago.” 

   He gapes. “And why do you know that?”

“Two things in the picture looked good, and the ice cream was only one of them.” 

    “Scar.” 

“Plus, they have a really good strawberry.” 

   Grian laughs, something breathy and disbelieving. “What ice cream shop is this, sorry?”

“Amy’s,” says Scar as he turns the corner, “the one with the mermaid special all the primary school kids get.”

   “Oh,” says Grian. 

Him and Taurtis used to go there. He swallows the lump in his throat down into the pit of his stomach, and tries to dispel the image of eleven year old Taurtis, with a still-gapped smile and a bad haircut, black eyes with creases in the corners from his excitement, as he stares out the window. Scar’s gone quiet as well, and Grian half-expects another are you okay? until-

You used to go there with Taurtis, didn’t you, Scar thinks.

Grian nearly chokes on his own spit. When he looks over, heart thrumming in his chest, Scar’s looking straight ahead at the road, nonchalant eyes and hands light on the steering wheel. 

   “Nearly there,” says Scar, turning and smiling at him. Grian smiles back, but his heart is still racing. 

   He’s seen an old picture, then. What, something on Pearl’s Instagram? Surely Scar wouldn’t have stalked her so far back, not even if he was bored or curious. An old yearbook? A mother’s Facebook page?

   All Grian knows is that Scar is all too aware that they used to be friends. Key word: used. And that is not something he wants Scar to know.

    When they park next to the shop, Grian sticks his head out of the window and scans for people, but the street is almost completely empty. There’s an old woman walking by on the other side with a shopping bag, but he doubts Scar knows her. 

   “What’re you scouting for?” - he feels Scar’s breath on his face before he looks to him and sees that he’s leant over. Grian leans forward as well, touches their foreheads together. 

   “What do you think?” he whispers. 

Scar’s eyes dart to the side, like he’s doing the same thing, and then it’s like he gives in, and he laughs, moving quickly forwards to kiss him, bumping his glasses further up his nose. 

    Hypixel University, Grian thinks as Scar’s fingers bunch around the fabric of his shirt. Hypixel University, Grian thinks as he rakes his fingers through Scar’s hair and earns a shaky sigh into his mouth. Hypixel University, Grian thinks as Scar smiles against him and they knock teeth momentarily. Hypixel University, Grian thinks as one of Scar’s hands accidentally slips under his shirt and touches his back, hot and soft on his skin. 

    Hypixel University. Hypixel University. Hypixel University. Hypixel Uni-

When they finally separate, Scar’s breathing is a little heavier than usual, and he reaches back into the backseat to grab his cane before they both stumble out of the car, flushes high on their cheeks and their hearts in their throats. 

   “You’re gonna get the strawberry, then?” asks Grian as they trudge onto the pavement. 

Scar frowns down at him, pupils dilated, “How’d you know?” 

   “You said it was good,”

“Oh,” he says, like he’s forgotten. “Well, it is good. What do you want?” 

    He shrugs. “Whatever catches my eye.” 

He gets one scoop of salted caramel flavour and one scoop of clotted cream flavour, in a cup with sprinkles. Scar stays true to his decision of strawberry, but has it with a chocolate flake on the top. They squeeze into the corner of the shop, a little table with quaint little chairs, and read through their lines without distraction. The taste of ice cream in Grian’s mouth is just about enough for him to forget briefly about the taste of Scar. 

   He forgets about Scar knowing he knew Taurtis. He forgets about Hypixel University. All he knows is he’s sitting with his Juliet, who happens to have a smudge of strawberry ice cream on the tip of his nose, and they’re practising their lines. Grian thinks that’s enough for him, for now.

Chapter Text

    Romeo stands nervously in the wings, peering out into the stage. 

It’s set in dark red light, a tentative choice made by Doc, or rather, a choice made by Xisuma to test out Doc’s theatrical lighting ideas. Bdubs is standing in the middle of the stage, back straight as a rod, spitting his lines out like the very taste of them disgusts him. 

   “Men’s eyes were meant to look, and let them gaze,” he says lowly, turning back to Mumbo, looking up at him like a challenge. “I will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.”

   He’s staring over at Tango, who’s accompanied by Skizz and Impulse, double-cast as Capulet men for the scene, standing opposite to Bdubs. They flank him on both sides, murmuring comfortably to each other, painfully normal. The only rage Tybalt shows is the raw confidence he makes himself tall with, the self-assurance in his walk. 

   And the only hostile thing on the stage is Mercutio. 

Grian takes a breath and walks into the light. 

   “Well, peace be with you,” offers Tango, bright eyes leaving Bdubs’s face, turning on him. “Here comes my man.” 

    Now Tybalt is hostile. 

“But I’ll be hanged, sir, if he wears your livery,” says Mercutio, and the bright lights above them flash and flicker, deadly, on the word sir. Grian very nearly tips his head upwards to gaze at the lights in surprise, but stops himself. He continues, “Marry, go before to field, he’ll be your follower. Your worship in that sense may call him man.”

   Tango regards him for a long moment, holding him under his stare like a bug under a magnifying glass, burning from the Sun. 

   Then he lets him go. 

“Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford no better term than this,” he says coldly, turning to Grian. “Thou art a villain.”

   Romeo swallows, feels the lights flicker pinkish all around him, feels the lines he’s beginning to know so well. “Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee,” he begins, mouth dry, “doth much excuse the appertaining rage to such a greeting. Villain am I none.”

   Tango scoffs. 

There’s a sinking feeling, all around him. They don’t have a smoke machine yet, but Grian swears he can feel it all around him, clouding his judgement.

“Therefore farewell.” he whispers, giving up, “I see thou knowest me not.”

It’s like Tybalt snarls. Grian freezes, the lights turn to a dark, bloody red, and Tango looms closer. “Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries that thou hast done me. Therefore turn and draw.” 

    “I do protest I never injured thee,” he says hoarsely, shifting back to pink, “but love thee better than thou canst devise, til thou shalt know the reason of my love. And so, good Capulet, which name I tender as deeply as mine own,” he pauses, hands trembling by his sides, “be satisfied.” 

Bdubs pushes past him, all spiky, ragged edges and bared teeth, “O, calm, dishonourable, vile submission! Alla stoccato carries it away,” and Grian can almost see the flash of the sword in his hand, even though they haven’t started using real props yet and are holding long sticks from the trees outside of the school. “Tybalt, you ratcatcher, will you walk?” Mercutio asks, breathless and bristling. 

   “What wouldst thou have with me?” says Tybalt, attention shifting from Grian, he breathes out a solid, relieved breath, and it doesn’t last for long, because Mercutio, what are you doing-

   And Mercutio just laughs. “Good king of cats,” he mocks, “nothing but one of your

nine lives, that I mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the eight.”

   And Romeo is frightened. 

“Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears?” asks Mercutio. “Make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out.”

   The lights have settled on a dark, atmospheric red. 

“I am for you,” Tybalt says finally. 

   He can’t bear it. “Gentle Mercutio, put your rapier up,” but it doesn’t stop anything. Mercutio slinks forwards like a cat, hackles raised, “Come, sir, your passado,” and there is a clash of swords, and Romeo isn’t sure where the sound even came from, because when he blinks, they are all in school uniform and they are using sticks to carry out the planned blocking, but-

    “Draw, Benvolio! Beat down their weapons!” he begs Benvolio, but the frightened boy doesn’t do anything, too caught up in his ideals of peace, ones that Romeo is all too happy to betray in the name of loyalty. He draws his own sword himself, bright silver, and stumbles forwards, desperate, to try and beat down their weapons and stop the violence. He can’t bear for Mercutio to be hurt - hell, he can’t bear Tybalt to be hurt, not when Juliet cares for him so much - “gentlemen, for shame forbear this outrage!” he screams, “Tybalt! Mercutio! The Prince expressly hath forbid this bandying in Verona streets, hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio! Please!”

    In one last desperate risk, he runs between them, flailing arms and swinging sword, and-

- there is a scream - From who? Who is screaming?

“Away, Tybalt!” and that is Petruchio, one of the Capulet men, and -

   He hears the gasping breaths behind him and freezes almost completely. 

“I am hurt,” says Mercutio, pained. It’s like the world stops. He turns around. Tybalt’s sword-

       “A plague,” Mercutio spits, staggering, “on both your houses. I am sped - is he gone and hath nothing?”

   “What, art thou hurt?” and Benvolio stumbles forwards, suddenly in action now the violence is done, Romeo feels something like sharp resentment pierce his lungs, and Mercutio laughs. 

    “Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch,” he breathes, heavy, Benvolio is holding his arm and his knees are jagged and bent. “Marry, tis enough. Where - where is my page..? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.” 

    A surgeon. 

“Courage, man,” Romeo manages to say, “the hurt cannot be much.” 

   It cannot. This is - this is Mercutio. 

“No,” Mercutio laughs, he’s laughing, why is he laughing, why is he- “Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis enough. ‘Twill serve.”

   He can’t breathe. 

“Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man,” Mercutio says, voice dipping lower, cracking, “I am peppered, I warrant, for this world.”

   He goes limp, just for a moment, as if his strength has run out, and then he launches forwards, all rage and pain and hurt and trust and, “A plague o’ both your houses!” 

    Romeo catches him, holding him, his shoulders and torso, the blood soaking his shirt is sticky, and there are tears on his face. “Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! A braggart, a rogue, a villain that fights by the book of arithmetic! Why the devil came you between us?!” 

    Romeo can only gape. He fumbles- “No, I, I - Mercutio-” 

“I was hurt under your arm,” says Mercutio, betrayed.

   “I thought all for the best,” Romeo breaks.

Mercutio surveys him for a moment longer, devastated eyes, and with the last of his energy, looks to Benvolio. “Help me into some house, Benvolio,” he requests, “or I shall faint,” and his too-bright eyes turn on Romeo again. He feels like Tybalt. He feels like the enemy. “A plague on both your houses,” Mercutio hisses, “They have made worm’s meat of me. I have it, and soundly too. Your houses!” 

   Benvolio begins to pull him away, and he curls into the Montague, head dropping on his shoulder, breathing shallower and shallower by the moment, and as he helps him walk away, Romeo can’t bear it any longer. “Tybalt!” he cries, but finds there is nothing else to say. 

    “Your houses,” he hears whispered in the cold, quiet air as the two stagger away.

Romeo stares at the empty spot where Mercutio stood, where he spat out o, calm, dishonourable, vile submission! where he fought despite Romeo’s protests, despite his begging, where Romeo came between them, where he was hurt. 

   Under his arm. 

There are a few drops of blood on the pavestones, dark and full of that life Mercutio once had. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance. 

   He is dead. Romeo hears Benvolio’s scream in the distance, hidden in one of the houses on the street. He brought him to die in an honourable place, but he had to witness it. 

   He had to witness it, but Romeo had to cause it.

Romeo had to cause it. 

   “Cut!” 

Grian gasps, something unintentional, as bright white lights flick on and the red dissipates to nothing. He blinks, and there are no paving stones, there is no blood, he is standing in the middle of the stage in the Drama department of HCA, and Xisuma is standing down in the hall with other actors and smiling up at him. 

   “That was great, guys,” he calls, and Bdubs and Mumbo come laughing out from the wings, soon accompanied by Skizz and Impulse. Grian follows wordlessly behind, unable to speak if he wanted to. 

   Xisuma calls for Doc to come out, and he does, looking very pleased with himself as he sits down on the edge of the stage with the others, swinging long legs. He murmurs something quiet to Xisuma, who responds with a grin and a few words, and he smiles in response, assured. Grian can’t bring himself to See what was said. His heart is beating so fast already. 

   “The lighting was a really fun touch, I thought it made it very dramatic,” says Xisuma, “and you all did really, really well with your lines. I’ll work on getting us some actual props, soon, don’t worry…”

   Grian looks up, and all of Xisuma’s words fade away as he sees Juliet standing in the back of the theatre, green eyes and crisscrossing scars - sees Scar standing in the back of the hall, and he’s looking at him. 

   Xisuma lets them go. Grian walks in a straight line through the aisle, in between fold-up chairs, and goes up to him. 

   “Hi,” Scar says, “You were really good.” 

Grian smiles like his heart isn’t still pounding in his chest from the terror.

   “You, um,” and Scar swallows, smiles tentatively, “Quick run-through lines in a practice room?” 

   “Sure,” Grian tells him. But he looks back as they walk through the doors of the hall into the corridor, and he sees Bdubs, walking beside Tango, and Skizz, paler than usual, drawn. He sees him rub the spot on his chest where Mercutio was stabbed. He sees his face twitch.

    Oh. 

When they get to the practice room, Grian stalks in after Scar, shuts the door, closes the blinds, and kisses him. 

    Hypixel University Hypixel University Hypixel University Hypixel-

“Wow,” Scar laughs as he breaks away, pulling a hand through Grian’s hair. “What if I actually wanted to go through our lines together, what then, G?” 

   “You never do,” says Grian snarkily. 

“I’ll have you know I’m usually the one convincing us to get on with your practice,” he replies, hand falling down through Grian’s hair to his neck. He pulls away properly then, and slides down the wall to sit on the ground, thin navy carpet, propping his cane up against the keyboard. “C’mon,” he says, and Grian sits next to him. 

   “You looked worried earlier,” Scar says, looking at him. “Distracted.” 

Hypixel University. 

    “I was worried about you.” 

Hypixel University. 

    “Grian?” 

“I’m - no, I’m all fine,” Grian stammers, there’s sweat on his brow now, that dread-sinking-crashing-cold feeling like waves over him, goosebumps down his arms. “What made you think that?” 

   Scar looks down at him, unconvinced. He blinks those green eyes. 

“We’re actors, Scar,” says Grian, ignoring the fact that this is his first ever play, and that logically Scar would know if he was acting or not considering he’s done it all his life. “I promise I’m fine.” 

   Scar takes his hand and rubs circles over it. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. “If you say so.” 

    Hypixel University. 

That night, Joel texts and asks for Grian and Jimmy to come over to his. His parents are out again, so they end up sitting on the roof and looking out over the sunset. It’s cold, enough for jumpers or jackets, but Grian sits there in a thin T-shirt and lets the cold air sting his arms. He wants to feel everything he can. 

   “You’ve been happy recently,” Joel says, almost like an accusation as he hands him a cigarette. Jimmy laughs at him. 

   “Maybe,” Grian says, letting his friend lean over with the lighter and light it. “What’s it to you?” 

   Joel snorts. “I swear, dude. Is it the play?”

There’s a flash then, of bright green eyes and Scar’s mischievous smile. Grian pushes it down and says, “Yeah, maybe. It’s fun.”

   “Good for you, mate.”

The cold has made his arms go numb and bumpy. Joel is speaking to Jimmy now, unintelligible as Grian stares into the sky. Orange, yellow, red spilling out. He’s not sure why it doesn’t make him happy. He loves sunsets. He loves Scar. 

   He’s not sure why he didn’t make him happy that day.

Chapter Text

    Grian is sweating. Badly. Scar smiles at him from across the stage, gentle, encouraging, and he thinks he might empty his stomach and stain the nice wooden floor. He’s not looking at Tango, because he’s meant to be Romeo right now, but Tybalt’s angry voice is projected, echoing into the hall, and he’s getting goosebumps already. 

   Bright, white, stage lights. They’re right above him, boring down into his skin. He feels like he’s going to get sunburnt - a combination of the lights and Scar could no doubt set him ablaze. The wooden floorboards are smooth and level beneath his feet. The theatre they’ll be using for the performance is old, so the stage will be tilted, giving the more literal meaning to upstage and downstage. But for now, he gets the comfort of a solid, relieving floor. It won’t last long, and really, it doesn’t matter much. He still feels like he’s going to fall over.

   The problem is, Grian has been trying to come to terms with having to kiss Scar on stage for a while now, and maybe this is the issue with constantly snogging your cast-mate (and liking it) because now he has to do it in front of everybody. And now, it means something. 

   His main goal of kissing Scar in private was to, quoting his past self, get used to it. Unfortunately, Grian seems to have gotten a little too used to it, because there’s a little voice in the back of his head screaming that this is his and Scar’s thing, and it’s insane to do it in front of everybody. 

   But right now, Grian is supposed to be Romeo. And he’s not. 

He wants to keep Scar all to himself. That’s a humiliating thing to admit, and he’d sooner kill himself than give voice to it, but it’s true all the same. He doesn’t want anybody else to know about the way Scar tilts his face down when he kisses him, or about the way he always laughs when pulling away, and smooths fingers across Grian’s jawline. He doesn’t want anybody to know about that. He wants to keep it all safe and sound in the back of his mind, where nobody else can touch it and where he can wipe it clean of dust or specks, keeping it pristine. 

   He wants to be the only one to have Scar. That’s humiliating too.

“...makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting,” Tango says, turning from Etho in quiet, barely restrained anger, “I will withdraw,” he continues, narrowing his eyes, “but this intrusion shall, now seeming sweet, convert to bitt’rest gall.” 

   Tybalt isn’t wrong, Grian thinks. Romeo’s decision to sneak into the Capulet’s party catapults into the air, and in hitting the ground, kills four. His love for Juliet sours and results in violence. Even when it eventually means peace, he’s not around to see it, and neither is his love. He breathes in, out, slow, trying to reassure himself, and then he looks up at Scar, lets their eyes meet, and sucks a slow gasp between his teeth, fitting it between his canines as the audiences’ eyes turn on them.

   “If I profane with my unworthiest hand,” he murmurs, reaching forward, pulled like a magnet, “this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this; my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.” 

   “Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,” Scar replies, looking down at him, green eyes sparkling, batting his hand back down to his side. Grian looks up at him with light-hearted hurt, wide eyes. “Which mannerly devotion shows in this, for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmer’s kiss.”

   Grian starts forward, Juliet dodges, smooth, and they circle around each other for one tantalising moment, progressing downstage. “Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?” Romeo asks.

   “Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer,” Juliet says, but she’s smiling mischievously even as she raises her palms and presses them together in a mock prayer, eyes lifting up. 

   “O then, dear saint,” pleads Romeo, “let lips do what hands do! They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”

   “Saints do not move,” Juliet reminds him, “though grant for prayers’ sake.” 

Grian is on a stage in front of nearly the entire cast of the play and he is about to kiss Scar Goodtimes in front of all of them.

   Grian is on a stage in front of nearly the entire cast of the play and he is about to kiss Scar Goodtimes in front of all of them.

    Grian is-

“Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take,” he says, breathless, and jerks forwards. Scar does the same, although less obvious, the details they had planned together, and they meet in the middle, lips on lips, slight tilt of heads, Scar Scar Scar Scar Scar Scar Scar Scar Scar-

Hypixel University -

    They break apart, and Scar’s breathing is loud enough that Grian swears they must be able to hear it from the back row of seats. He couldn’t be more different - he thinks he’s stopped breathing entirely.

   “Thus, from my lips, by thine,” he starts, voice lower than before, cracking at the edges, “my sin is purged.” 

   Scar frowns down at him, downturned eyes and thin white lines stretching across tanned skin, pink lips. “Then have my lips the sin that they have took.”  

“Sin from my lips?” replies Grian, already inching closer again, “My lips? O, trespass sweetly urged!” He swallows, next line suddenly catching in his throat, “Give me my sin again.”

   This time, it’s Scar that leans down the last few centimetres to capture him, and Grian almost loses himself in it - the only things keeping him afloat are the bright stage-lights above them and the feeling of being watched.

   And Grian has absolutely gotten too used to this - because Scar presses just further into the kiss, as he always does right before pulling away, and Grian instinctively reaches out to ghost his fingers through his hair. 

   Scar pulls back then, breathing in deeply, and his eyes widen in something alarmed.

When they properly piece this scene together, there will be muffled dance music in the back, a modern twist, and most of the cast will be on the stage at the back pretending to dance or talk. But right now, it’s silent, and Scar has forgotten his line. 

   There’s one horrible moment where his eyes grow wide and pleading and Grian sees the panic set in - Scar’s not one to forget lines, ever, theatre is his passion. He’s half convinced he was born having memorised Shakespeare’s entire works. And he’s proud, too, too proud, too proud to ask for his line, ever, because he simply doesn’t have to. Really, Grian thinks he might be a bit insecure. Compensating for something. There’s a tiny catch in Scar’s breathing that betrays just how dismayed he is and-

   Grian grabs him by the collar of his shirt and pulls him straight back down into another kiss. He hears someone down in the hall gasp, this is not scripted, and the adrenaline thrums in his chest, he reaches a hand up to caress Scar’s cheek, to hide their connected lips, and whispers, “You kiss by th’ book,” as quietly as he can into Scar’s mouth. 

   He lets him go almost immediately after, and Scar stumbles, flustered, recovering so quickly that Grian’s surprise at his initial fuck-up triples. He turns to the audience, green eyes wide, the perfect teenage-girl-just-got-kissed-for-the-first-time look , and looks back to Grian, who’s standing still, blushing furiously red, and says, “You kiss by th’ book!'' in the most marvelling, breathless, slightly-comedic tone that Grian has ever heard. He even looks like he’s going to say something else, or go in for another kiss, but then Gem is rushing through the stage in a perfectly practised weaving walk, “Juliet!”

    Grian takes a step backwards, a step left, just far enough to not be incriminating, and Gem slips her arm around Scar’s, “Madam, your mother craves a word,” she says, leading her away. He watches them leave and brushes his hair out of his face with trembling fingers as Gem backs away, watching Scar move off to the side of the stage with Cleo.

   “Sorry-” Grian calls, and Gem turns to him, curious. “What is her mother?”

She rolls her eyes, clearly proud, arms crossed and hanging on her stomach, “Her mother is the lady of the house, and a good lady, and a wise and virtuous . I nursed her daughter that you talked withal! I tell you, he that can lay hold of her shall have the chinks.

   Romeo is silent as she leaves. 

“Is she a Capulet?” he breathes, out of earshot, turning to face the audience - or rather, fix his eyes on the clock at the back of the room. “O dear account - my life is my foe’s debt!”

   Mumbo hurries up to him, fixing him with an out of character, piercing, what? look that he wilts at, “Away, begone,” he says, quick, “The sport is at the best.” 

   Grian’s eyes stay wide and unfocused as Mumbo leads him away, “Ay, so I fear. The more is my unrest.” 

   “Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone,” Etho calls, commanding the whole stage, instantly. Grian zones his little speech out. His lips still feel tingly. 

   He kissed Scar three times in front of half the bloody cast. Three times.

The clapping from the audience takes him off guard. Grian blinks, looks up, and realises they’ve finished the scene. Xisuma looks rather pleased down in the audience, and so does Doc, seated at his right. Mumbo slaps him on the back, and he laughs, forced, as they all start to walk downstage. 

   That’s when he sees Taurtis. 

He’s the only one who isn’t clapping. 

He’s looking straight at him.

   Grian only lasts about half a minute of nodding at Xisuma as he hands out feedback, that incessant, inescapable buzzing in the back of his head, the thrumming of his heart. Kissing Scar in front of Taurtis. He hadn’t even thought about it like that before. 

   And - and, well, it doesn’t seem like Taurtis was happy about it. Grian swallows, shifts his weight from foot to foot. It was almost like he was disapproving, or jealous. God, imagine that. 

   Would anything have been different if Taurtis hadn’t run from him after the kiss?

He lets himself indulge in that for just a moment - would they have woken up in the morning sprawled on Taurtis’s couch, killer hangovers? Would Taurtis have kissed him, sleepy, and pressed their foreheads together like Scar does now? Or would he have pretended it never happened, just like now? Would it have gone further than just a kiss? Exactly how long would they have stayed in that old closet?

   And why is Grian so infatuated with Scar if he’s still so hurt by Taurtis’s betrayal? 

Xisuma waves his hand, and Grian, with his script already in his hands and his backpack already slung around his shoulders, rushes out of the room as quickly as he can. He’s going home. He’s going home, where he won’t have to deal with kissing Scar or with Taurtis’s staring. He’s going home. 

    Unfortunately, he only manages to make it to the car park, and then Mumbo is after him, trainers hitting the gravel, calling his name, breathless from running. He bends at the waist, and is nearly as tall as Grian even when halved, panting. “Grian,” he says. “What was that?”

    “I can’t do this,” says Grian, still walking, flipping his car keys about in-between his fingers, trying desperately to calm himself. “I can’t do this, Mumbo, fuck off.” 

   Mumbo groans, then, something frustrated and yet still empathetic. “Seriously, Grian,” he says. “That wasn’t as much acting as you want us to believe. I’m just the only one admitting it.”
  “Clearly not,” Grian murmurs, thinking back to Taurtis. His stomach twists uncertainly. “So - so why does it matter? Why do you care?” 

   He sputters, “Because I’m Scar’s friend, and I’m your friend,” says Mumbo incredulously. “What the fuck do you mean, why do I care?”

    Grian sighs, pushing down a wave of emotion in his chest, stopping walking to twist around and face him. “I’m sorry, Mumbo,” he says, “I’m - I’m just stressed, that was stupid of me to say.” 

   “Damn right,” Mumbo mumbles, swatting him on the shoulder as they keep on walking. “So,” he says, significant, “what’s the deal?” 

    He hesitates. “Mumbo, I’m not really… sure.” 

“You’re not sure?” 

   Grian opens his mouth, searches for words, closes it. Tries again: “Scar’s just… he’s… different. I don’t know, Mumbo. He… confuses me.” 

   “He confuses you,” repeats Mumbo. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Grian pauses for a moment, feels out the words on his tongue, unsure what he thinks, unsure what he means, unsure what he feels. He frowns, “Scar’s a good actor,” he says finally, “that’s all there is to it.” 

   They’re at his car. He stops walking and looks around at Mumbo. “Anything else?”

Mumbo looks at him like he feels sorry for him. There’s a long pause, like he’s struggling to find the right words. Finally, he sighs and opens his mouth. “Be ruled by me,” he says, quoting Benvolio, “Forget to think of him.” 

   Grian’s heart aches. He swallows. “Okay,” he murmurs, mouth dry. “Bye, Mumbo,” and he opens his car door and slips inside. 

Chapter Text

    It’s a hot day, which would be nice if Grian wasn’t restless. He stares down at his open laptop and frowns, something sinking in his stomach, fingers tapping steadily on the lunch table. He’s been sitting with Jimmy and Joel for half an hour now, the weekly free period they all share, and it suddenly strikes him that this is his first free period for at least a week that hasn’t been obscured by Romeo and Juliet. 

   That’s a lie. His first free period for at least a week that hasn’t been obscured by Romeo and Juliet or Scar. 

   He drove by Hypixel University the other day, when he was picking up groceries for him and Pearl. His dad had forgotten, and neither of them wanted to ask him.

   He drove by Hypixel University the other day, and he wanted to burn it down.

   Now, instead of enjoying his free period, Grian’s plagued with a shitty English essay and whatever his situation with Scar is. He taps absently at his keyboard, and he isn’t enjoying the silence. It’s awkward, filled with this thick, heavy tension, something he isn’t sure how to navigate. Joel and Jimmy are silent.

   “What’re you writing, then?” 

Joel doesn’t sound happy at all. He hasn’t since they sat down at the start of the period - he’s all tight smiles and clenched jaws and twitching fingers at the moment, unable to sit quite still, resentment hiding in the creases of his face. It’s starting to bother Grian, too. He has no idea what could be getting under Joel’s skin, and it’s out of character for him to hide things like this. It’s weird. 

   “English assignment,” Grian murmurs, staring so hard at the bright screen of his laptop that his eyes start to hurt. 

   “Hm,” Joel says, and it’s snappish. Grian’s eyes flit upwards over the top of his laptop to see him, pulling harshly at the zip of his leather jacket, green strands of hair falling into his eyes, moody.

   “What’s your problem?” 

“I don’t have a problem.”

    His tone is clipped. Grian sends a help?! glance to Jimmy, who just shrugs and looks resigned over his own schoolwork. “Okay,” Grian mutters, pursing his lips and looking back at his work, left hand curling into a fist on the table.

    Throughout the novel, Mary Shelley presents Frankenstein as…

He slams the laptop shut. 

   “I’m just going to go home,” he mutters, sliding it into his bag.

“Bye,” Jimmy replies, looking up at him with big brown eyes. 

   Joel doesn’t say anything. He’s staring down at the table again, blazing eyes, restrained. Grian swallows the betrayed lump in his throat and turns tail to run. 

   He doesn’t know why Joel is acting like this. He’s acting like there’s something he knows that Grian doesn’t, he’s acting like Grian’s upset him and he won’t admit it, he’s acting like he’s scared or jealous or worried or any of the other things that he’s never sure how to express without frustration. 

   And usually, Grian can get through that, get past that. But Joel isn’t giving him any special treatment this time. He’s angry with him. Why is he angry with him?! 

    The betrayal persists as he heads down the corridor out of the canteen, swallowing again, feeling hollow in his neck and stomach, like he wants to cry but can’t come up with enough moisture to make tears. Joel is angry with him. Why is Joel angry with him? Joel’s never angry with him.

   And why didn’t Timmy say anything?

He’s staring at his battered trainers, watching them hit the ground as he crosses the doorway into the car park, and Pearl hasn’t got any classes today so he can leave immediately, get in his car and flee the scene of the crime. Why is Joel angry with him? Why didn’t Timmy say anything? 

    He’s still hurrying across the car park, hands in the pockets of his jacket, staring at the ground, when a yell stops him.

   “Grian!” Doc calls from across the car park, and he jolts upwards, looking up to see him from across the car park. He’s wearing a different fake eye than usual - one modelled to look electronic, metallic, and Grian has the passing thought that he wants to ask about it, but decides not to at the last second. He stands there, hesitant, not quite sure what to do with his hands, as the student approaches him.

   “I wanted to check with you-” Doc says, accent thick, he’s slightly breathless from hurrying over, “We’re renting out some sessions at the theatre, to run through scenes, monologues, all of that - with the proper stage and lighting.” 

   He looks a bit paler than usual, Grian notes. He doubts it’s anything important - from what he’s seen and heard, Doc seems like a busy man, always running off, fleeting. He probably forgot lunch or has a bit of a cold but insists on still going to his classes. It seems in character for him, Grian supposes. 

   “I need to check if you’re free in a few weeks, to run through Romeo’s death monologue there. I can drive you if you’re worried about getting there for any reason - I’ll email you later. Yeah?” 

   “Yeah,” Grian nods. He feels a bit breathless himself just from Doc’s frantic attitude, really. He hasn’t been like this the past few times they’ve spoken. Doc takes a big breath then, like he’s calming down, and absent-mindedly scratches the tanned skin beside his new fake eye. 

   “Oh, I also-” 

He stops, then. It piques Grian’s interest, massively. Doc stares at him with a furrowed brow, thoughtful. He licks his lips and tries again. 

   “X’s worried about you.” 

“What?” 

Grian blinks up at him, surprised. Doc - Doc flushes, which is insane. He’s never seen him so awkward before, God forbid he expresses concern or care for another human being. It makes him want to laugh. 

   “Yeah,” he clears his throat, “You’ve been acting a bit off in rehearsals, he said, so,” he shrugs, “you need anything, you come to one of us, yes?” 

   “Okay,” Grian replies, more out of pure shock than a truthful reply. “Okay. Yeah. Sure.” 

Doc pats him on the shoulder and leaves. 

He stands there for a moment, confused and a bit shaken, and then he walks the last few metres to his car, gets in, and drives home. 

   The whole day has been bizarre at this point, and it’s already 4 PM, so he gets home and hides in his room to study. Of course, nothing actually gets done, because Joel is angry with him, and Timmy didn’t say anything about it. He just sits and stares at his notes for hours, because Joel is angry with him and Timmy didn’t say anything about it. 

    They’ve never really argued. Ever. Over anything - Grian’s unsure if petty, silly arguments that are mostly jokes, punctuated with giggles and grins, really count. But if they don’t, he doesn’t think he’s argued with Joel or Timmy once since last summer when they became close. It’s just never happened.

   He’s seen Joel angry, of course, he’s got a quick temper, but he’s never had that hostility aimed at him. He’s always been the one to put a quick hand on his arm to calm him. He’s never had those hard, furious eyes directed at him for more than a second before, they’ve always softened as Joel took a deep breath and tucked it away. 

   So, he waits for the hours to tick by, and when the clock hits 11 PM, Grian puts on his shoes and his jacket and sneaks out of the house. His dad isn’t even home, so it’s less sneaking and more leaving discreetly.

   The night is cold, as opposed to the day, and he walks through the street with his mind awfully empty, looking at the darkened sky. The air stings his face and raises goosebumps on his arms, sneaking into his sleeves. He shoves hands in his pockets and looks down.

   Grian isn’t sure where to go. He walks for a while, unsure how long until he looks at his watch. It’s nearly midnight, and he swallows a lump in his throat. He doesn’t want to go home. He doesn’t want to sleep. 

   What does he want? 

The answer is easy. For Joel not to be angry with him. He pushes the feeling down and keeps walking, feeling hot tears burn at his eyes, blinking hard. 

   And then he looks up, trying to breathe slowly and steadily, and sees where he is. He’s walked all the way to Scar’s neighbourhood. His house must be only on the next road - Grian knows, embarrassingly, because of some party the boy had thrown in Year 10 that he’d been to with Taurtis. They’d left early, gone to sit on a bench in the park, and Taurtis had slung an arm around his shoulders, breath smelling like cider, and- 

   Wait. 

Taurtis had been Scar’s friend. Grian would swear it if asked - he had seen them talk. Taurtis had been Scar’s friend. 

    Taurtis had been Scar’s friend.

It’s like a bucket of cold water dumped over his head. He stands there for a moment, still but shivering. Scar had known about the ice-cream place because of Taurtis. Taurtis had been Scar’s friend.

He picks his phone out of his pocket and scrolls to Scar’s contact.

00:02   Grian Moon Scar 

00:02  Grian Moon can i come over

00:02  Grian Moon now

He swallows his anxiety down and puts his phone in his pocket, but it buzzes immediately with a notification. Scar’s up. At midnight, too, and he’s immediately responded. Grian would feel embarrassed if he wasn’t so endeared by it. 

00:02  Scar Goodtimes yes 

   He sends his address then, and Grian already knew his street, but he wasn’t clear on the house, so he’s grateful anyway. He sends a thumbs-up emoji, because a heart is definitely too much, even if to him it feels like too little, and then he’s on his way. The walk is short, less than a minute of trembling hands shaking in pockets and constantly wetting his lips with his tongue, nervous tics and blinks. And then he’s there, in front of Scar Goodtimes’s house.

   For a moment, he’s fourteen, shoulder to shoulder with Taurtis, gulping down spirits from the taller boy’s shiny new flask for courage! and giggling with nervousness before heading into the party. Taurtis had always loved taking Grian places he wouldn’t usually go, grabbing his hand and leading him outside of his comfort zone, pushing him but never too far, always being right there if it got too much to take him outside into the quiet, cold air and push hair out of his face to comfort him, staring down with tanned cheeks dusted with pink and eyes like he was seeing him for the first time. For a moment, he’s fourteen, and most of the times he hears his name it’s got Taurtis and pasted before it like an accessory he can’t (or doesn’t want to) remove.

   But then, he’s snapped back to reality with the sudden thought that Scar has an older brother. 

   An older brother who presumably would not like a random boy showing up in the middle of the night to see his kid. Scar’s mentioned Cub a few times before, dropping nonchalantly in conversation that he was his sole guardian, like he was trying not to make it seem like a big thing. Grian had immediately zeroed in on it, but was soon distracted by Scar kissing him, and as usual had completely forgotten by the time it was information he might need. He’s never once spoken about his parents, so Grian’s impression of his home life was never spick and span, but… 

   … okay, so what if Cub won’t let him in?

Grian scans the vicinity, his mind whirring, is there any way he can get into the house without alerting any possible Cubs of his presence there? He pauses, and his eyes fix on the tall, barren tree on the pavement outside the house. 

    Well.

Perhaps it’s time for Grian to learn from his Shakespearean counterpart. He knows from that Year 10 party that the top left window opens to Scar’s bedroom, and the tree is right there next to the window - if he got to the top and grabbed a pipe to hang onto, a windowsill to clutch, he could get in.

   This might be the worst idea Grian has ever had. He climbs the tree without a second thought. 

   While the first few branches scratch up his palms, the next seem to be much sturdier and firmer, holding his weight without budging. He grits his teeth and swings his limbs up a branch, squinting eyes, higher higher higher. Grian hasn’t climbed a tree in years, but the muscle memory is still there and soon he finds himself at the very top, reaching painstakingly out to grab a pipe secured to the building, stretching his wrist all the way, and - he’s got it. 

   When he manages to swing onto the side of the building, questioning whether or not he should be put in a mental institution, Grian gasps for breath, and pauses for a moment, steadying himself with a hand on the windowsill. 

   This is insane. This is an insane idea, and he is definitely better off taking his chances with Cub because Scar hadn’t even said that he might not be allowed in, and this is insane and Grian is insane and he is currently clinging on by white knuckles to the side of his Juliet’s house. Shit! 

    Grian takes a slow, deep breath, and inches forward until he’s almost entirely perched on the windowsill, steadied. He can just about see Scar lying on his bed, just below the glass. 

   Then he knocks.

Scar starts, swears loudly, and looks out of the window at him like he has two heads - or maybe three. There’s another exclamation, muffled from the glass, in a high octave, and Scar shoots forward, fumbles to open the window. When it swings out into the night, so does a soft, warm wall of the heating inside, hitting Grian in the face. He propels himself forward into the window and tumbles onto the bed - onto Scar.

   They’re both laughing, then, and Grian’s head has landed on Scar’s chest and there is already a hand in his hair, currently being used to gently make him stay there as the other hand reaches up to close and secure the window. Grian keeps giggling, exhausted and shocked at his own impulsivity and stupidity, and Scar’s other hand comes back down to land on his waist. 

   “Who do you think you are, Romeo Montague?” Scar asks bewetween giggles, “We have a door, Gri,” 

   “You also have an older brother,” Grian wheezes, “who I doubt would be happy about me sneaking over in the middle of the night to snog you.” 

   “Oh, that’s why you came over!” 

He flushes. “Maybe,” he says, “maybe not. You’ll never know why I came over.” 

   “You just told me.” 

“No I didn’t. I’ve been silent this entire time, didn’t you hear?” 

   “You’re really something, Grian Moon,” Scar laughs. It sounds like sunlight. Grian swallows and it catches in his throat, and he leans forward instinctively to kiss him, pressing him into his pillows, hands on hair and on his back and roaming and closer closer closer closer closer-

    (Hypixel University.)

He breaks the kiss, hand lingering on the side of Scar’s neck as he looks all around him at the room. “I’ve never been here before,” he breathes. 

   “Have you?” It’s sarcastic.

“I’ve been to your house,” he murmurs. “Some party, years ago. But never in here.” 

   Scar grins. “You feel lucky yet?”

“I’ve felt lucky for a while now,” Grian confesses. Scar doesn’t say anything at that, but when he looks at him his eyes are sparkling. 

   For a moment, he’s about to ask about Taurtis. About them being friends, about the party, about you used to go there with Taurtis, and then he’s distracted almost immediately by Scar’s fingers tapping absent-mindedly along his waist, and he separates himself from him and stands in the middle of the room so he doesn’t become a complete mess from the embarrassment.

   “Star Wars,” he mumbles, reading a poster aloud. “You like it?”
When he turns ‘round, Scar’s flushed red. “Yeah,” he says, like he’s a bit embarrassed. 

   “Cool,” Grian says, and resumes looking, walking about the room and pointing out things he likes, things he’s curious about. A jar of rocks. Books. Postcards pinned to the wall. Eventually, Scar stands and begins to follow him around the room, lingering over his shoulder, giggling with him, the slow, steady tap of his cane on the floor following Grian’s footsteps. 

   “You like that?”
“Yeah,” Grian murmurs, cradling a little porcelain figure in his palm. It’s a cat, grey and white, with a mock-fluffy face, a pink nose, and big round eyes. 

   “It’s my cat,” Scar says, something proud showing through in his face when Grian twists around to see him.

“You have a cat!”

He flushes. “She’s not in the house right now,” he admits. “We’re going through the process of adopting her.” 

   Grian twists fully, then, and now Scar’s almost trapping him against the desk, leaning forwards. “Tell me about her.”

   Scar swallows. “You sure?” 

For a moment, Grian thinks he may have made a mistake. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, but says yes, anyway. 

   Scar is silent for another moment. “Her name is Jellie,” he says. “She… belongs to the, um,” he swallows, “ home, I was in as a child.” 

   That’s when Grian understands. “Oh,” he whispers. Scar smiles, something small, for him. 

“I spent a lot of time in that home,” he murmurs. “Not good at staying with foster families. Cub spent so long trying to get custody of me.” 

   His eyes are green and far away from them both. Grian shifts, puts a hand about his waist. Scar’s back with him, then, and smiles again, like if he doesn’t look happy the world falls apart. “Jellie had kittens,” he said. “She was at the home to cheer up the kids. They were gonna give her to some shelter, since they had more cats to take care of. But I wanted her.” 

   Grian looks at the little Jellie in his palm and thinks, I want to see her. 

“You got any pictures of her?” he asks. 

   A real smile splits Scar’s face in two. All of a sudden, he’s across the room, cane held fast in his hand, phone in the other. He sits on his bed, leaning his cane on the frame, and pats the space next to him. Grian sets little-Jellie down on the desk and sits next to Scar. 

   “She was with me when I got the news that Cub succeeded in getting custody of me,” he says, scrolling through his photo album. “I hugged her so tight, she hissed at me.” 

   Grian laughs at that, and Scar turns the phone towards him. It’s a photo of him holding Jellie, years younger, a pale hopeful face and her nestled in his arms like a ball of fluff. 

   “She’s so cute,” he says, grinning.

“Isn’t she?” Scar smiles. Grian kisses him. He can’t help it, really - he just looks so happy, and it’s making him feel all kinds of giddy. 

   “She is,” he says.

They’re lying in his bed later, staring at the ceiling. Grian wants to reach over and intertwine his fingers with Scar’s, but he holds back, and instead turns his face over to look at him on the pillow. “I don’t want to go home,” he whispers. 

   Scar turns as well, so their noses just barely brush. His eyes are so, so very green up close. “Then don’t,” he breathes, and Grian feels it touch his face. 

   He smiles. Scar jolts up, then, and Grian watches him go to his wardrobe. “You’re wearing jeans,” he says.

   “I could borrow something?” 

Grian’s heart is in his throat. Scar looks like he’s trying not to smile every time he looks over at him. Eventually, he tosses him a pair of elasticated pyjama trousers, and begins to take his own jeans off. Grian turns away immediately, flushed at the absence of a warning, and very pointedly doesn’t think about Scar’s hips or waist. He sits on the edge of the bed and changes out of his own jeans.

   The pyjamas pool around his ankles, but he doesn’t mind. “Scar,” he says when the other boy is standing at his desk, looking at something. “What are w-” 

   And stops himself. 

There’s a postcard on the wall in front of Scar, beside his desk. It’s of Hypixel University of Arts. 

   “Huh?” Scar asks. He turns around, and he must see Grian’s face because he goes to sit next to him. “Gri, what is it?”

   Grian stares at him for a second, at his face, at the worry-lines etched into it, at the thin white scars criss-crossing his nose, at his eyelashes, at that faint vertical line above his lips. Then he practically throws himself at him, over his shoulder, like a hug, but primal, but desperate. “Oh-” punches out of Scar’s mouth, a gasp with a word attached, imprinted on it, and he puts his arms about Grian’s torso and holds him just as tightly, leading them both towards the bed, sitting them down, “Hey - hey,” he murmurs, “Hey, it’s okay. Gri, it’s okay.” 

   Grian doesn’t say anything. Grian doesn’t cry. He just sits there, entwined with Scar on his bed, pyjama fabric covering his whole feet because of Scar’s long legs, with his face in his neck, breathing him in, eyes shut tight. 

   Everything is so big, and Grian feels so small. 

But Scar is there, so he’s going to be alright. At least, that’s what his Juliet is telling him, in quiet murmurs, hesitant, like he doesn’t quite know what’s happening. Grian doesn’t like confusing him, but he doesn’t know what else to do.

   They lie down to sleep. Grian’s still on him like a koala, and Scar’s no better. Their legs tangle. Scar’s head ends up somewhere near Grian’s neck, and his nose falls into place in the hollow of his collarbone. His breath is warm.

   And Grian feels okay. 

Chapter Text

It all happens in half a second, comes from nowhere, stops time and doesn’t wait for Grian to catch up. He’s standing in his room, wearing last night’s jeans and a hoodie that isn’t his, framed by the dawn spilling out of the open window behind him. The figure looming in the doorway is tall and surrounded by darkness.

   “Where the fuck were you?” it asks, lurching forward. Grian can’t breathe.

He stammers - stops - gapes - “I wasn’t - I was-”

    “Where the fuck were you?” 

Grian can feel his heart beating in his chest, like an oversized drum or a metronome set to a thousand beats per minute . Dizzy.

   “You think you can just leave,” the voice says, then goes low and hollow in its throat, the way it goes when it yells, when it scoops out all the sound it can- “This is my house!”

Grian can’t breathe. 

   His phone vibrates in his pocket, sending waves from his thigh. He sucks in a long, thin breath and keeps it safe inside his lungs.

“What were you doing?” 

   “I wasn’t doing anything.” he whispers. 

“I wasn’t doing anything,” it mocks.

   He’s warm all over. Scar’s hoodie suddenly feels itchy, and Grian can feel himself shaking involuntarily. His fingers twitch. I wasn’t doing anything tastes bitter on his tongue.

   I’ll drug test you, the figure says. I know what you’re doing! I know what you’re like - what, is it, pills, weed? Ket?

   I’ll search your room. What am I going to find? Cigarettes or syringes?

    It takes a step forward. Grian blinks in and out of existence, flickers. It’s too close. It’s too close.

Listen to me when I’m talking to you!

   Hot breath brushing his face. Grian thinks briefly of Scar, wonders how something that felt so soft just hours ago could be so threatening.

Anything for a high, the figure says. We can’t even have painkillers in the house because of you. All because you wanted to get hopped up on whatever you could find and didn’t care if you killed yourself doing it. 

    The air in his lungs suddenly feels painful. There’s something tight on his arm, like a handcuff. Or a hand. He’s scared.

You’re just like your mother! This is why sh-

   “Be quiet, Dad.” 

Grian phases in and out, back and gone, and the cuff is gone. There’s a hand wrapped around his wrist, but it’s different. It’s safe.

   “Don’t talk to him that way.” 

“I’ll talk to him the way I fucking want, Pearlescent.”

   “I’ll record you,” she says then. Her voice is quiet. “I’ll report you.” 

“Pearles-”

   “I will ruin you.” 

Grian breathes in, quick, and it all rushes back to him. Pearl is in front of him, hand curled around his wrist, head to head with their father. 

   He leans forward until their foreheads nearly brush. Threatening, but there’s a hazy look on his face amidst all the hostility. 

   “You know…” he breathes, so quiet it’s like the world stops just so they can hear him, “You look just like her.”

   It’s like Pearl lights herself on fire. She pushes past him, nearly sets him stumbling, holds Grian’s hand tightly, leads him into the corridor, ablaze, flaming, smoke rising atop their heads. “We’re leaving,” she says. “Come on, Griba.” 

   Their dad doesn’t follow them. He doesn’t do anything. Grian says nothing. His phone buzzes against his thigh again, and he follows Pearl outside. 

   The sound of the door slamming helps to wake him up, but they don’t stop walking at all. Pearl leads them to his car and gets into the driver’s seat. Grian sits in the passenger and stares out of the window. His heart hasn’t stopped pounding yet. 

   “We’re going to the apartment,” Pearl says very quietly. “It’s Scott and Shelby’s, but they have a spare bed. I’ve been planning to move there for months, for uni.”

    Grian says nothing. Pearl looks at him. There are tears in her eyes. He nods and tries to smile. 

   “Griba…” Pearl murmurs. “When I’m staying with my friends… if things get bad, you need to stay with us. You need to.” 

   Grian says nothing. 

“Where were you?” She asks then, casting anxious eyes on him as the slow rumble of the engine takes them to the end of the road. Grian says nothing. We can’t even have painkillers in the house because of you. 

    He opens the car window and breathes in cold air. She parks the car. All because you wanted to get hopped up on whatever you could find and didn’t care if you killed yourself doing it. 

   “C’mon,” Pearl murmurs, and gets out of the car. Grian follows. 

“Your hoodie’s new,” she says in the elevator. Grian looks at her and looks at the sleeve, at the light grey cuff with the rip in it and the stars drawn messily in biro. “Oh,” she says, quieter, and doesn’t ask where he was again.

   There’s a beep as the elevator pauses on floor 3, and Pearl takes his hand and leads him through the corridor, rings the doorbell. 

   “Hey,” she says when a shorter girl with long orange hair answers. She’s wearing pyjamas. A sudden wave of hot embarrassment comes over Grian. It’s 6 AM at the latest. “We need to stay overnight. That okay?”

   “That’s okay,” she says, opening the door wider for them. She looks at Grian for a second too long. Maybe she thinks he’s on drugs too.

    You’re just like your mother! 

“This is Grian,” Pearl introduces him as they walk inside. “My little brother. Shel - I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” 

   It’s Shelby, then. She looks at Pearl like she knows. “It’s okay,” she says. “Scott’s up too - we’re catching the train to go see Aims today.”

   Pearl doesn’t say anything. She smiles, though, like she’s trying her best. 

“We have food you can make, if you need it. Scott just got paid, we pooled money for groceries. We’re leaving soon, though,” says Shelby, squinting like she’s trying to remember everything she needs to tell them. “If Gem insists on coming to see you, let her. Yes, - yes, I know she will, Pearl, and that’s okay. Scott!-”

    Grian sits in the corner on the couch and tries to disappear. Pearl makes him coffee. Scott and Shelby leave. The coffee is bitter. His phone vibrates against his thigh. 

   Pearl leaves the room. Grian can hear the ringing on her phone fade out. He stands on unsteady knees and treads carefully to the door, pressing his cheek against the cool painted wood and his ear up to the keyhole.

He hears Pearl’s breathing pick up, like she’s trying not to cry, and the call goes through. Grian closes his eyes and lets his heart ache.

    “Pearl?” 

Gem feels her heart drop the moment she hears Pearl sniff on the other side of the phone. She reaches blindly for the light switch on the wall and flicks it, throwing the duvet off of herself. “Pearl, are you okay?” 

“Hey, Gemini,” says Pearl, crackly through the speaker. “Me and Grian, we’re, um - we’re at Shelby and Scott’s right now.”

   “What happened?” 

Gem’s already pulling on her socks. “Pearl, what happened?” 

   It’s like it all comes out in one long breath. “Grian snuck out,” Pearl says. “Do you know about - are there any Year 12 parties he’d be going to? He won’t tell me anything - he won’t - he won’t speak, he isn’t-” 

   “There aren’t any parties,” Gem murmurs. “I’d know. I’m friends with all of his friends - listen, Pearl, I’m coming, okay? Five minutes.” 

   “He was coming in through the window, I think, that’s when - when our dad found him.” 

“Oh. Oh, Pearl.” 

    “He was screaming. Um, that he was doing drugs, that he’s just like Mama - he said something about, about last year, when Griba was in hospital, and-”

   “He didn’t,” Gem breathes. 

“I just,” she swallows, “I just need you. To come over, Gemini. Please?”

   “I’m walking now,” says Gem, and she’s not lying. She’s in pyjamas and a winter coat and boots, and shivering in the freezing morning air. “I’ll be there as soon as possible, I’m only a few minutes away.”

   “Will you - will you stay on the line?” 

“I’ll stay.” 

   Grian didn’t mean to do that.

He pulls back from the door and tip-toes back to the couch. He’s still got his trainers on, he thinks absently, and unties the laces. 

    Something about, about last year, when Griba was in hospital, and-

Last year, when Griba was in hospital, and-

    There are things Grian doesn’t know about himself, and that’s one of them. He looks down at his shoes, kicks them into the corner. The doorbell rings. Pearl doesn’t move from the next room. He stands up and approaches the door. 

   Gem is silhouetted in the foggy window of the door. Grian puts his hand on the knob and turns it. 

   Her hair is unbrushed, copper curls caught in the collar of the winter coat thrown over patterned pyjamas. Her fingers shake and hold together, twitching with nervousness. “Hey, G,” she says.

   He opens the door wider to allow her passage, and shuts it behind them both as Pearl’s voice rings out from across the room. 

    “Gem,” she says. Grian can feel this desperate pull from his Eyes, desperate to know more. He denies it. 

   Intertwining voices, muddy from distance. He hasn’t let himself go like this in months, hasn’t let himself be deaf to the world around him in so long. It feels passive. He feels detached. He feels cold.

   Pearl comes in. Sits beside him on the couch.
“We’re gonna make some breakfast, okay?” she tells him. “Want eggs?” 

    No. “Yeah. Sure,” he says. His voice cracks and hurts in the back of his throat. Pearl messes up his hair and walks off to the kitchen. 

   He sits there and forgets about time for a while.

I’ll search your room. What am I going to find? Cigarettes or syringes?

   There’s a vibration against his thigh again, a gentle bzz like a reminder. He slips his phone out of his pocket.

5:02  Scar Goodtimes did you get home safe?

5:04  Scar Goodtimes grian

5:17  Scar Goodtimes hey are you good??

5:26  Scar Goodtimes are you just asleep?

Just now  Scar Goodtimes call me when you wake up

   He’s still online. Grian stares at his phone. 

“Griba,” Pearl calls from the kitchen, “Food’s ready!”

    Scar is typing… 

Grian wishes he hadn’t gone home at all. He thinks about Scar’s room, the posters on the walls, the postcards, the little porcelain Jellie sat on the shelf. He thinks about the hollow of Scar’s collarbone and the thickness of his hair. He thinks about the way Scar’s voice trembled when he said hey, it’s okay. Gri, it’s okay. 

    Then, Scar is typing disappears, and no new message comes through. Grian swallows the lump in his throat and turns his phone off, shoving it back in his pocket. “I’m coming,” he says, loud enough for Pearl to hear. When he gets to the kitchen, Pearl’s standing at the stove, spooning scrambled eggs onto plates. There’s a stack of toast on the table, and Gem’s sat next to it, perched on a chair with her knees up to her chin.

   He sits at the table and pointedly does not think about Scar. 

“I called Shelby,” Pearl tells him, setting a plate of eggs in front of him. “Her and Scott say we can stay overnight.”
  Grian frowns. “Okay,” he mumbles. Exactly how long are we staying here? he wants to ask, but he stays quiet. 

   When he looks up from his food, Gem and Pearl are looking at each other like they’re talking telepathically. He thinks he’d find it funny if he wasn’t so exhausted. “What is it?” 

   Gem turns to him. “We have rehearsal tomorrow,” she says. “It’s okay if you don’t want to go.” 

   Grian shrugs. “I’ll go,” he says, but his heart isn’t in it. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

Gem fixes him with a stare one part worried, one part disappointed. “Okay,” she says. “Sounds good.” 

    Sounds good. He finishes his plate and sits back in his chair. His phone vibrates again. He knows it’s Scar before he even checks. He knows he isn’t going to text back before he even checks. 

   And Grian doesn’t feel okay.

Chapter Text

When Grian steps out onto the stage, he already feels unsteady on his feet. He feels his knees tremble, turning to jelly beneath him, and the white lights above him are unbearably bright, boring into his eyes. The paper script in his hand - borrowed from Xisuma’s spares and crumpled in the corner - feels heavy, almost, and weighing him down. Impulse stands in front of him, completely in character, and Grian thinks that this is the most out of place he’s felt on the stage since he started Romeo and Juliet. 

   They’re working on the scene after Romeo is informed of his banishment from Verona. Grian can relate - for a moment, he wonders horribly if Gem has told Impulse about his situation. He tries to forget it. 

   “Father, what news?” he asks. “What is the Prince’s doom - what sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand, that I yet know not?” 

His words cut unnaturally through the air, like trying to cut sourdough bread with a butter knife. He shivers. He’s sure that Impulse can tell. He’s sure.

   “Too familiar is my dear son with such sour company,” Impulse offers. “I bring thee tidings of the Prince’s doom?” 

   Impulse has to know. There’s no way Gem didn’t tell him! Impulse knows. Impulse knows that Grian fucked up so bad he can’t even go home at the end of the day. He knows, Grian is sure of it. 

   He wets his lips with his tongue. The pause stretches out - too long. “What less than doomsday is the Prince’s doom?” he asks.

   Romeo won’t cooperate. Grian feels sick - he feels like himself, which he isn’t used to up here on the stage. He stands there and thinks he might turn to smoke.

        “A gentler judgement vanished from his lips,” says Impulse - Friar Lawrence - very carefully, “not body’s death… but body’s banishment.”

    At last, a hint of cooperation - Grian barks out some dry laugh, panicked, disbelieving, and- “Ha, banishment?” 

    Blinking, pausing, “Be - be merciful, say death. For exile hath more terror in his look, much, much more than death, Father, do not say banishment.” 

    “Here from Verona art thou banished,” Impulse tells him, voice gentle. “Be patient, Romeo, for the world is broad and wide.”

   Grian swallows, lets himself tremble. “There is no world without Verona walls,” he mumbles, “but purgatory, torture, hell itself… hence banished is banished from the world, and world’s exile is death. Then banished is death mistermed.” and he lets himself laugh, something breathy and scared, “Calling death banished, thou cutt’st my head off, with a golden axe, and smilest upon the stroke that murders me.” 

   Impulse’s face tightens. “O deadly sin,” he says strictly, “O rude unthankfulness! Thy fault our law calls death, but the kind prince, taking thy part, hath rushed aside the law, and turned that black word, death, to banishment.”

   He scoffs, and Impulse comes forward towards him, anger clear in his face, “This is dear mercy! And thou seest it not!”

   “Tis torture and not mercy!” Romeo snaps. “Heaven is here, where Juliet lives.” 

The Friar is silent. He takes a deep breath, shaky, to steady himself. It doesn’t work. “And every cat and dog,” he says, voice distant, “and little mouse, every unworthy thing, live here in heaven and may look on her. But Romeo may not!  More validity, more honourable state, more courtship lives in carrion flies than Romeo!”

   His face screws up, and he runs hands through unkempt hair, turns around, paces the stage, “They may seize on the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand,” he shouts, “and steak immortal blessing from her lips, who even in pure and vestal modesty still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin - but Romeo may not, he is banished!” 

   When he turns, the Friar has gone close to him, to lay a hand on his shoulder, but said hand sits in the air, uncertain. Romeo swallows his pain and continues. “Flies may do this,” his voice breaks, “but I from this must fly. They are free men, but I am banished. And sayest thou yet that e xile is not death?!”

    His shoes scrape on the rough, bricked floor of Friar Lawrence’s cell as he paces. He is never going to see Juliet again. He is never going to see Juliet again. He is never going to see Juliet again he is-

    “Hadst thou no poison mixed, no sharp-ground knife, no sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean, but banished, to kill me? Banished?” 

   Deep breaths. Romeo takes deep breaths, wipes dry hands on his face. “O, friar, the damnèd use that word in hell. Howling attends it.” 

   The Friar’s hand on his shoulder lets him turn. He doesn’t speak. 

“How hast thou the heart, being a divine, a ghostly confessor, a sin absolver, and my friend professed, to mangle me with that word banished?” Romeo asks finally, cracking at the edges. 

“Thou fond mad man, hear me a little speak,” Friar Lawrence murmurs. 

   “O, thou wilt speak again of banishment,” Romeo says bitterly. 

“I’ll give thee armour to keep off that word,” he reprimands him, soft. “Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy, to comfort thee, though thou art banished.”

   He can’t let it go. “Yet banished?” he begs, “Hang up philosophy - unless philosophy can make a Juliet, displant a town, reverse a prince’s doom… it helps not, it prevails not. Talk no more.”

   “O, then I see that madmen have no ears.” 

He laughs. Sour. “How should they when that wise men have no eyes?” 

   “Let me dispute with thee of thy estate,” Friar Lawrence murmurs.

“Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel,” he whispers. “Wert thou as young as I… Juliet thy love… an hour but married, Tybalt murdered, doting like me, and like me banished…” Romeo swallows. “Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, and fall upon the ground as I do now!”

    He sinks to the floor, lies, and breathes out, staring at the ceiling. “Taking the measure of an unmade grave,” he laughs, hysteria lining the harsh sound.

   Friar Lawrence looks up, sharply, at the sound of a knock. He isn’t having any of it. “Arise. One knocks - good Romeo, hide thyself.”

   “Not I,” he breathes from his place on the cold bricks, “unless the breath of heartsick groans, mistlike, enfold me from the search of eyes…” 

   The knock echoes. The illusion shifts. Romeo blinks. What?

“Hark, how they knock!” the Friar murmurs. “Who’s there? Romeo, arise. Thou wilt be taken - stay awhile, stand up!” 

   There’s breathing. Romeo’s on a stage - Romeo’s- 

“Run to my study!” Impulse says, eyes going wide, “By and by - God’s will, what simpleness is this? I come, I come!” 

   “Cut!” Xisuma calls from below the stage.

Grian is nauseous. He stands there, crumpled paper script in his hand, because how had he forgotten it? and an odd, hot flush crawling its way up his forehead. Xisuma doesn’t talk for long. He’s pleased with their work on the scene. But it’s still only a couple minutes, and then Grian’s out the door, immediate, wondering if running off after practice is becoming some horrible pattern for him. 

   Breathing - his own breathing, heavy in his ears, blurring vision, and then there are footsteps running out behind him in the corridor, heavy and uneven and he turns and Scar. It’s Scar, leaning painfully on his cane, wide green eyes like a deer in headlights, parted lips, air and unsaid words caught between them. He looks hurt. Like he’d been waiting for him. 

   “Shit,” Grian says, “shit, Scar, why did you do that?” 

He starts forward, hands falling to Scar’s torso, letting him put his weight on him, and the sigh of relief Scar lets out nearly kills him. “You didn’t answer my messages,” Scar mumbles, a cracked voice, “Something happened.” 

   It hurts deep in Grian’s chest. “No,” he answers, voice coming out low and hoarse and deceiving. “Nothing happened.” 

   Scar looks up at him like a kicked dog. “Don’t lie to me, Grian.” 

“I’m not - Scar, I’m not-”

   “Don’t lie to me.”

Hurt flares in his stomach. “Stop it, Scar. Stop it. I’m not-”

   “Why didn’t you call?” 

There’s silence on both sides, then, resistance from both of them, they’re repelling magnets but still so close, and Grian blinks, hard. His eyes hurt. 

   “You’re crying.” 

“I’m not.” 

  He is. Grian curls an arm tighter around Scar, and releases the other, shoving his sleeve under his glasses to wipe roughly at his eyes. Then - a hand pulling his own away, soft, retrieving his glasses. Grian feels something cold poke under his shirt, and when he looks down Scar has hooked them into the collar so he doesn’t lose them. 

   He looks up, then. 

They’re still in the middle of the corridor, Scar leaning heavily on him, white knuckles on his cane. “Come - c’mon,” Grian mutters, and pulls them both blindly to the side of the corridor, helping Scar sit against the wall, both sliding down against the floor, with knees triangular in front of them, knocking against each other. Warm.  

    “Will you tell me what’s wrong-”

“Nothing is wrong.”

   And the quick words ache desperately on his tongue, because everything is wrong. Everything is wrong. He closes his eyes, and then feels fingers ghosting across his face and lifting his chin. When he opens his eyes, a blurry Scar has gone closer to him, golden skin and green eyes, freckles and scars criss-crossing over his nose. “Scar?” 

   “Why don’t you tell me things?” Scar whispers. He leans forward and presses a kiss to the bridge of his nose, below-between his eyebrows, gentle. 

   “We’re - Scar, we’re in public.” 

“Everyone is in class.” 

    “We’re not,” 

“Well, we’re special, aren’t we?” he murmurs, corners of his mouth quirking upwards. “Romeo and Juliet.” 

   “We’re not them,” Grian mutters, and it comes out bitter. Scar hums. He kisses his jaw. “And what happens if someone sees us?” 

“We tell them it’s just method,” Scar whispers. His eyes are piercing. “Isn’t it?” 

   Grian’s heart jumps in his chest. “Yeah,” he mumbles, averting his eyes. It’s just method acting. It’s just Hypixel University. Scar is right. There’s a short, heavy, punctuated pause.

   “So why don’t you tell me things?” Scar repeats. 

“I do tell you things,” 

“You keep secrets.” 

    “I don’t!” 

    Scar looks at him for one long moment, with an emotion Grian can’t place. Then he yanks him by the arm, upward, hand clenching around his cane as he pulls them both into the nearest empty classroom. “Fuck,” Grian says, “Scar, what are you-”

   And Scar kisses him, properly, pushing up against the door, lips melting together. And-

“I need to talk to you,” 

   “I’m busy, Taurtis, stop messing with me,” 

“Scar!” 

   Taurtis is standing in the doorway. He looks lost, which is stupid, because he’s been to the zoo almost as many times as Scar has. “This isn’t for fun,” Scar stresses. “I need this job on my personal statement, I need to get into Hypixel!” 

  Taurtis opens his mouth, then closes it. He swallows, and blinks, and goes through all of the motions of figuring out his words, without ever saying anything. Scar turns back around and goes back to his paperwork. 

   “He kissed me,” comes from behind him. He swings back ‘round. 

“What?” 

   “Grian-” Taurtis takes a shaky breath, “Grian kissed me.” 

“Oh,” Scar says. “Oh. Well, isn’t that a good thing?” 

   But Taurtis shakes his head. “No.” 

“But you’re-” 

   “I ran away,” he says, nauseous, wide-eyed, scared. “I ran away from him, and I’m not going to talk to him anymore.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean? Taurtis, you-” 

   And Grian snaps back to reality, and Scar isn’t kissing him anymore. 

He stands about a foot away, and Grian is so stunned from what he’s just Seen that he doesn’t even register what he’s saying. 

   “See, you’re doing it again!” Scar says. “You’re - you’re disappearing on me!” 

“What do you - what do you mean?” Grian whispers. He kissed me, said Taurtis to Scar. Oh. Well, isn’t that a good thing? 

   Scar looks at him like he’s in pain. “You’re never - you’re never here. You’re always in your own head!” 

   Scar knows! Grian’s lip trembles. He doesn’t think he knows how to speak. Scar knows. Scar has always known. Taurtis told him!

    Scar looks at him like he is desperate for a response. But he can’t - there’s too much - Taurtis told him. He knows.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grian breathes.

   Scar looks at him for a moment, a long one, just staring, waiting for him to say something, anything else. 

   And then he laughs. 

“I - I, I need to go,” he says, and the bitterness is seeping into his voice and Grian feels like it’s hit him in the face. Scar walks forward, “Just - just let me go.”

   He moves back from the door. Scar gives him one last look, like he’s trying to pierce into  his soul. 

   “I’ll see you,” he says finally, and he leaves. Grian takes his glasses out from the collar of his shirt and slips them on. Theyre cold behind his ears. 

   Scar knew. This whole time. 

Kissing Grian in the practice room, up against the wall, fingers in hair, encircling waists, up below shirts… and Scar knew. Driving his car when Grian had collapsed, holding his head in his lap when he had fallen, crying for him, buying him ice cream and smiling at him and saying yes, come over when Grian had asked in the middle of the night. And he knew! 

    Grian doesn’t know if he’s angry. He doesn’t know if he’s sad. He stands there in the empty classroom and he stares at the door, at where Scar just left. He breathes. In and out. In, out,   in out, one two three one two three four. In, out, in, out, one two three one two three four. 

    It dawns on him that he hasn’t needed his breathing exercises since he started seeing Scar. Shit-

    Scar’s bedroom, climbing through the window and falling on top of him, looking at his posters and his postcards and Scar telling him about Jellie -

   - and he knew!

He knew. 

   Grian picks himself up off the floor - when did he end up sitting? - and walks out to the car park. He gets into the car. It’s warm air, from the sun’s rays. He knew. He drives back to the apartment. He knew. 

   When he gets to the door, his throat has almost completely closed. He tries not to breathe, because he knows if he does he’ll start crying again. He rings the bell. 

   It’s Gem. 

Why is Gem here-?

   “Hey, Grian-” and her face folds in concern. “Grian, are you okay?” 

He stammers - tries to come up with a sentence, one that makes sense, and then all that comes out is, “Did you tell Impulse?” 

   There’s a pause. 

“Come on,” Gem says, “come inside. Did I tell Impulse what?” 

   He can’t speak. He still can’t speak! “About - about me and Pearl - being here.” 

“No, G, I didn’t.” 

   She leads him inside, curls over her shoulder, tossing worried looks back at him, and sits him down at the kitchen table. “Why are you here?” he whispers.

   “For Pearl,” she replies. “She fell asleep. Why aren’t you at school?” 

He doesn’t reply. 

   “Do you want me to wake her up?” 

“No,” he says quickly. “She needs rest.”

   He’s not bluffing, too. Pearl has too much on to begin with, and now they’re having to crash here because of their dad… 

   Gem sits down beside him. 

“Grian,” she says. “What happened?”
  “It’s Scar,” he whispers. “He knows.” 

Why is he telling her this?

   It makes no sense, he doesn’t know Gem well. But - well, it’s Gem. Gemini, Pearl calls her. It’s Pearl’s Gem - and Grian trusts his sister’s judgement. 

   “He knows what?” she asks.

“About… about Taurtis,” Grian says finally. “He’s known all along.”

   “Does this have something to do with why you and Taurtis stopped talking?” Gem asks slowly. Grian looks up at her. 

   “I kissed him,” he breathes. “And Scar never told me he knew.” 

He wonders for a moment what Gem is thinking, and is thankful that his Sight is staying quiet. 

   “And you and Scar…” Gem murmurs. 

“Yeah,” Grian says quietly. “Me and Scar.” 

   She hugs him. Grian is surprised for a moment, and then he remembers that this is Pearl’s Gem, and he hugs back. 

   “Thanks,” he mumbles. 

“R and J buddies, right, G?” she says. “I’ve got your back.” 

   It’s nice. Gem is nice. Grian smiles at her, and feels a bit lighter. But it still doesn’t stop the overwhelming feeling - Scar knows.

Chapter Text

    Scott’s shirt is itchy.

Grian shifts in his skin, swallows warm breath down in his throat and fiddles with the collar and the fabric, twisting it between his fingers. He looks down at his feet, blinks very deliberately so as not to lose his vision to the sea of nausea brewing in his stomach, and leans backwards just slightly to rest his elbows against the wall - white paint and plaster, miniscule bumps from the sponge roller, a couple cracks and scratches. The empty classroom is silent but feels loud. 

   He squirms in the seat, thinks about how usually, in this situation, he’d be fiddling with his backpack straps. But Grian hasn’t even got his backpack, nor his books. He’s been skipping all of his classes since he had to leave home, unable to sit through the whole hour without going white and nauseous and hot in the face. And now he can’t even drive back to the apartment, because Xisuma’s captured him after practice and left him alone in this goddamn room.

   He messes with the sleeve of his shirt, swallows saliva in the back of his throat, and waits. Waits and waits and waits and waits and waits. Eventually, he hears footsteps in an unsteady pattern tapping along the corridor, and Xisuma tumbles into the classroom without much grace, shutting the door behind him. He turns, and looks at him with wide eyes that quickly turn to shuttered semicircles at Grian’s apparent worry. 

   Xisuma looks at Grian. Grian looks at the floor. The floor is worn navy carpet, footsteps and a spot of caked mud and a touch of glitter in the corner. It has lived many lives before this one. 

   “You’re skipping your classes,” is all Xisuma says at first. 

He’s right, which makes it worse. The absence of the backpack strap is heavy on Grian’s mind. 

   He shrugs. 

“Mr K told me,” continues Xisuma. “He deemed it… cause for concern.” 

   He pauses. “Which can sometimes warrant a call home.” 

Grian’s eyes jump upwards to meet his. “What?” 

   It wrenches out of his mouth not unlike a gasp. He notes the weary frown weighing on the teacher’s face and hopes it’s not also on his.

   “Grian…”

And there’s a long moment of silence. There’s a lump hard in Grian’s throat. There’s fear starting up in tremors, all up his toes and ankles to his knees. There’s something in the air that is trying to tell Grian not to be scared, and there’s something else combating it.

    “You don’t have your backpack,” Xisuma says very quietly, with a final tone to it. “And you’ve been wearing the same jeans for days, when usually you change them. And - and, um-” 

   His voice splinters. Grian feels nausea creep up inside his stomach. 

“If there’s anything going on at home, Grian, just-”

   “Nothing’s going on at home,” Grian whispers. It cuts easily through Xisuma’s words.

He looks at him with this melancholy, breathe-out feeling in his face. Grian hates it. Grian hates it. 

   “There’s nothing going on,” he repeats. “Nothing is wrong. You’re - wrong.” 

“Okay,” Xisuma murmurs. He doesn’t believe it. Grian can tell. He wills himself not to look into his head. 

   Grian stands up, then, forcing his legs straight and steady. “Can I go?”

Xisuma looks at him for a moment, sad eyes. “Do you want a hug?” he asks. 

   When Grian looks at him, he remembers what Doc said. X’s worried about you. If you need anything, you come to one of us, yes? 

    And Xisuma looks young. Which is silly to point out, because Xisuma is young, he only comes to HCA to teach tuition lessons and the play; he isn’t employed at the school, isn’t a proper teacher there by any means. But the students all see him that way. 

   He just looks worried. It hits Grian in the chest like a blow. 

   “Yeah,” he says, strangled. “Sure.” 

The warmth of Xisuma’s arm over his shoulder almost topples him. He pulls back quickly, sad eyes retreating, and offers a shallow smile. “If you need anything, I’m here,” he says. 

   Grian only realises there are tears on his face when he’s out in the corridor. He touches the back of his hand to the skin under his glasses, and his knuckles come back salty. He cleans his glasses carelessly on Scott’s shirt as he walks into the car park. Pearl is waiting. 

   She sits in the driver’s seat, a place neither of them is used to her being. Grian’s fingertips twitch as she drives, like he should be holding the wheel. Pearl has been a lot more… caring, he supposes, since the incident. She does things for him - makes coffee, drives, keeps a steadying hand on his shoulder in social situations. Gem comes to the apartment a lot, too. Scott and Shelby are busy people, out for university and work or to town most of the time, and encourage her coming over - Grian once heard Shelby, soft spoken, say to Gem that she’s pleased she cares about Pearl this much. But it’s like Pearl has decided that no display of affection is enough. She casts glances at him from the driver’s seat. 

   “How was rehearsal?” 

“It was okay,” he answers.

   He’s always the one driving Pearl around. This is.... unusual. 

“Shelby and Scott are both out tonight,” she says, left leaning looks thrown his way. “I thought we could watch a movie.” 

   The car pulls over. Grian blinks. “What?” 

Pearl is opening the door and tumbling out onto the pavement. “Come on,” she says. “Frozen pizza sound good?” 

   He doesn’t answer, but follows her into the store, cracking his knuckles as he walks. 

“You gonna fight me?” Pearl jokes as she grabs hold of a basket. They pass the fresh produce.

   “Maybe,” he says. “Take your rings off.” 

She doesn’t, instead mock-punching him, fist landing a good few inches from his nose. He bats it away. “What pizza do you want?” 

   “You choose!” 

They pass the pasta. Grian grabs a pepperoni pizza from the fridge and tosses it into Pearl’s basket. They pass the chocolate bars. 

   “You want to make hot chocolate?” she asks. “We can use real chocolate instead of powder.” 

   Grian looks at her almost suspiciously when she grabs a bar and drops it into the basket. They pass the fizzy drinks. They pass the biscuits. They pass the medication, and Grian sees Pearl’s eyes catch almost imperceptibly on the little WARNING! signs next to the painkillers. His heart contorts painfully in his chest. He just isn’t sure why. 

  Pearl directs the two of them to one of the self-checkout machines in the corner. He scans in the barcodes. 

   “Gem is coming over,” she says then. “Is that okay?” 

Why is she asking? Gem is always over. What makes it different now? 

   “Why wouldn’t it be?” 

She shrugs. “It’s not different,” she smiles. “Just asking.” 

   Grian frowns and continues on scanning until he realises that they haven’t brought a carrier bag with them and stands staring at the pile of food. Pearl scans her card on the machine and begins to pile things into her arms. “C’mon, help us out here,” she laughs. 

   The car ride home is quieter. Grian doesn’t know what to say. It’s like he’s suddenly covered by that great fog, settling over his shoulders in a cloud of grey, neutral apathy. He hasn’t seen Scar since their argument.

   He misses him. He doesn’t want to see him. He wants to- 

It’s all so complicated. He finds himself wishing he had never found out about Taurtis telling Scar. It wells up in a hard, dense mass in his throat, choking him slowly. All he can think about is that spot under Scar’s left eye with the cluster of freckles, or the scar stretching across his nose, or the slope of his shoulders. It’s all so much. He’s memorised the feeling of Scar’s lips on his, the dip of his tongue, the shape of his teeth. In summary, Grian wants. 

    “Griba,” Pearl’s voice whispers. 

The car has stopped. She’s looking at him, something far away in her eyes, something hollow and worried and dreadful. He breathes. 

   “Hm?” 

“Come on, I said,” Pearl says, like she’s repeating herself. Grian smiles and acts like he heard her the first time, but all the organs in his torso are contorting into horrible, twisted shapes. He follows her into the apartment.

   “Pearl!” Gem greets. She’s let herself in already - he wouldn’t be surprised if Shelby had given her the key, given her a room, a bed, a share of the rent- 

   Grian blinks, shakes himself. “Hey, Gem,” he says, parroting his sister, and slides into a seat at the kitchen table. He misses the way the sun would filter through the window-blinds in the practice rooms, turning Scar’s hair golden, the yellow in his eyes, making him glow. He misses feeling the sun shine on him. O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright. 

    When is the next rehearsal?! He knows they’re planning to go over Act 3, Scene 3 soon. He knows because he’s been scared to share the stage with Taurtis for a long, long time. But now? Now, it’s worse. Now, even Scar is… 

   And you’re never here! You’re always in your own head! has been echoing around his skull since the words tore from Scar’s throat. His eyes had been glossy, shiny brown. Nobody has ever noticed Grian’s Sight before.

   He thought he was keeping it quiet. Secret. Apparently not. 

Scar had looked so hurt. 

   “Griba,” Pearl is saying, and Grian jerks awake, blinking hard and seeing her right there, peering curiously at him. “Pizza’s ready. C’mon, we’re gonna watch some shitty movie Gem’s picked out.” 

   Something akin to it’s a masterpiece, Pearl! is shouted from the other room. Grian smiles on instinct, pushing his previous thoughts down, and gets up. He hadn’t realised he was thinking for so long. Mind blank apart from Scar. Sitting there, staring into space. 

He slips under the blankets on the couch, huddling up to the corner with the cushions. Pearl skips off to grab plates of pizza, giggling at something Gem said. He closes his eyes, brief. 

   “G,” Gem whispers. 

She doesn’t want Pearl to hear. Grian looks at her, blinking, intrigued. 

   “At rehearsals, today,” she says, voice low, looking almost a little embarrassed, “A lot of us were worried about you. Thought you seemed off.” 

   “Oh,” he whispers. She goes to speak again, and he stops her. “Who?” he asks. 

She squints green eyes and murmurs, “Definitely Mumbo. Lizzie and Cleo too. They were asking me, they know how I am with Pearl.” 

   “How you are with Pearl,” he repeats. She tucks hair behind her ear and smiles without speaking. 

   “I guess I thought you would like to know,” she says finally, before Pearl comes in, scuffing socks on the carpet and holding plates, “that we all care.” 

   He looks at her for one long moment before the distractions start. Pearl starts talking, the movie comes on, and the plates are soon emptied. 

   He tries not to think about Scar for the rest of the movie. He tries not to think about the sunlight brushing through his hair, his golden skin, the shape of his waist falling down to his hips, the corners of his grin. He tries not to think about the way he breathes shallowly when they stand too close. He tries. 

   He tries really, really hard.

Chapter Text

The car is silent. Grian is staring out of the window at the brick wall, softened and eroded by rain, by the endless quiet of the home it protects. The engine is silent. Pearl is silent.

   The morning light breaks through the windows, bright and hopeful, and Grian feels like a stain or a blot against the confidence of the light. He looks over at the right side of the car. There are white scuff marks scratched onto the side of the steering wheel. He looks at them and feels the same scratching mirrored in his stomach. 

   Pearl breathes audibly. “Come on,” she says. Her voice is wispy. Sparse. Thin. Barely there - she isn’t meeting his eyes. Grian feels heavy. He doesn’t speak. He gets up and follows her to the doorway and watches her raise her key and hesitate.

    She turns it in the lock. The door opens. Grian holds his breath. 

His sister walks forward. Wavy tips of soft brown hair twitch as she moves, get tossed about by her footsteps. Grian stays standing by the doorway as she turns sharply, walks into the living room, and closes the door behind her. 

   There is speaking. He’s frozen. There is a pause, and then an eruption.

“-had no right to-”

“-him that way-” 

   Behind him, the front door drifts shut. Grian closes his eyes. 

“- I’m speaking! I’m speaking, you-” 

“-No. No, stop-”

“-you will never understand-”

   His feet are carrying him forwards. Grian drifts into the hallway, comes to a slow stop beside the impenetrable door to the living room.

“- I don’t want you to speak to-”

“-you only ever hurt-”

    As if suddenly propelled, he finds himself up the stairs, clenching eyelids shut, feeling lashes brush his cheeks, breathing hard. He can still hear the yelling. He can still hear the yelling. He can still hear the yelling. Then - the clearest thing he’s heard for hours - spat, vicious, cutting-

“I wish it had been you.” 

   There’s breathing - Pearl’s, echoing inside of her head, rough waves in her stomach - “I wish it had been you,” she repeats, “I wish it had been you, I wish it had been you, I-” 

    Crack- !

Pearl’s gasp is one of pain more than one of surprise. 

There is a long, empty gap. Her face burns. 

   “Mama didn’t go missing,” she spits. “She probably killed herself because of you-”

Grian is on the floor. 

   Grian is on the floor. Grian is - he is on the floor, and the living room door slams below him, and he forces himself upwards, shaking burning broken legs bolt upright, staggering into his bedroom. He can hear Pearl’s footsteps coming towards him. He shuts the bedroom door before she even walks up the stairs.

   It’s a long while until he pulls himself up from the corner of his room. A long while filled with silence. Pearl hasn’t come out of her room at all and Gem hasn’t come over either. His dad hasn’t said anything else. It’s an hour, maybe even more, of silence. 

   He changes his clothes. Jeans and an older, softer shirt that hangs a little looser than the others. New socks. He sits in his bed and he looks at his English textbook and frowns. 

   And there’s a text. He’s frozen for a moment, and when he picks up his phone, finally, he puts it back down on the desk and stares up at the ceiling. It’s from Scar. 

11:31 AM  Scar Goodtimes can u come over?

   Mind drifting back to the man who haunts the house. Grian breathes, in and out, slow, and thinks. He’s going to go. It’s not like it’s the middle of the night. His father has no reason to… react the way he did last time. 

   The clothes he has on are fine. Grian slips his phone and keys into his pocket, Converse over socks, and tiptoes down the stairs. 

    Ping-!

He freezes, hand on the leather jacket hanging in the hallway. Holding his breath, waiting five, ten, then fifteen, twenty seconds. 

   And his father says nothing. There’s dread as well as relief - sometimes Grian wishes his father would speak to him, even if the words are cutting. Unkind words are still words. Nevertheless, he shrugs his jacket over his shoulders, and he’s out the door, shut behind him, pulling out his phone and hunching his shoulders and typing-

11:34 AM  Scar Goodtimes my brother is out the house

11:34 AM  Grian Moon omw

   And the walk is peaceful. 

It’s just cold enough that the air in front of him is visible, puffing out from his lungs, steam and smoke and condensation and he closes his eyes for just a moment, but the white sunlight shines through. It’s just cold enough that the air is brisk and icy, but cool and refreshing. It’s just cold enough that Grian enjoys it.

   The walk isn’t long, but it’s lengthy enough that it gives him time to think. What is Scar going to say to him? At least he doesn’t need to worry about Cub in the house, but that’s not a fix-all. The words from their fight are still fresh, cutting, sharp. See? You’re doing it again - you’re disappearing on me! 

   His footsteps slow. He breathes deeply. You’re never - you’re never here. You’re always in your own head! 

I don’t know what you’re talking about. 

I, I - I need to go. Just - just let me go. 

Just let me go. 

   Grian swallows. He knows one thing for sure - he won’t be letting Scar go so easily. There’s something between them - something tangible, even if he isn’t quite sure what it is. Something he could reach out and grab with his own two hands, something to do with Romeo and Juliet, something to do with slotting together perfectly. Grian isn’t quite sure what it is, but he wants to preserve it. He wants to keep it all to himself. (He wants to keep Scar all to himself.)

  The house looms. The tree beside it, the one he climbed. Air ebbs and flows, the wind around him. He tucks his hair behind his ears. He breathes. Cold. 

   Scar knew. He pushes down the wave of emotions, the ones that rise up and threaten to topple him. He drifts towards the door. He stands still in front of it. Five minutes.

   It opens. 

“Were you ever going to knock?” Scar asks. Up close, his left eye is red. 

   “Probably not,” Grian answers, deciding to ignore it. Scar smiles at him. 

And that’s enough. He walks in, takes in the hallway. It’s pretty. A couple framed photos, two coats hanging on two hooks. The floor is dark wood. The house has the air of being carefully cleaned and tidied. 

   “This is nice,” Grian says. His voice feels hoarse, sparse and thin in his throat. It feels like every syllable matters. When he turns around, Scar is staring at him and all of the breath drains from his lungs in response. 

   There are no words. Scar looks like he might cry, or scream, or kiss him. His eyes are shiny. His lips are parted, only just, like he’s afraid to speak. There’s conflict, strong emotion, weak emotion, and Grian can taste it all in the air he breathes. He doesn’t know what it’s called. 

   Scar swallows. “Yeah. Nice,” he says finally, shaking audible in his voice. “Wanna go upstairs?” 

   His room. “Yeah,” Grian parrots. He’s out of his depth here - swimming frantically to keep above water. He doesn’t know what happens when he’s too weak to paddle anymore. “Yeah, okay.” 

   Scar leads him up the stairs. They’re carpeted, burgundy, recently vacuumed. Little dips from footprints. “Are we going to talk about it?” he asks while he’s facing away from Grian. It’s defensive. 

   Grian swallows. He waits until they reach the landing, then looks him in the eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

   Eyes dart to the ground. “Not particularly,” murmurs Scar. 

“Okay,” Grian says, mouth dry, “Then we don’t.” 

   And Scar doesn’t answer. He just walks into his room and expects Grian to follow. He does, of course. 

   It’s just how he remembers it. “I love it here.”
“What?” 

   He said it out loud. “Sorry.” 

Grian doesn’t like this. The tension is thick and palpable and it scares him - it’s never been like this with Scar. Scar has been the one person who he hasn’t had tension-engulfed conversations with in the past months. Scar has been his escape. 

   “G?” 

“Sorry,” he says again, “I - must’ve zoned out-” 

   He blinks. Scar is in front of him, looking down, overwhelmingly close, and he sucks in a breath, surprised. The air is warm. His heart is beating. 

“You okay?” Scar asks. 

   “Yeah,” he whispers. It must be obvious how nervous he is, because Scar reaches forward with his hand and touches his neck, two fingers gently finding his pulse point. Grian looks up at him and tries to slow down. 

“You okay?” Scar asks again. Grian kisses him. 

   It feels like the only thing he’s capable of doing. Scar’s hands have found his torso now, settled there, and he blinks down at him. There’s a pause, and- 

   “Did you want to go over lines?” Scar asks him, and he’s back to reality.

He snaps out of his hold. “Yeah,” he stumbles, “Yeah, sure,” and he goes to sit on the edge of the bed, and his phone vibrates in his pocket. 

11:55 AM  Joel Beans guys

11:55 AM  Joel Beans guys 

11:56 AM  Joel Beans guys 

11:56 AM  Jimmy Solidarity WHAT

11:56 AM  Joel Beans hang out 2nite???????????

11:56 AM  Joel Beans i got beers 

11:56 AM  Grian Moon sounds good 

   Scar sits down next to him, knees brushing, and leans over his screen. “What’s happening?”

   “Joel wants to hang out tonight,” Grian murmurs, “with Timmy as well.” 

“Gonna get pissed?” Scar asks. He’s seen the message about the beers. Grian laughs. 

   “Knowing Joel, he got us a six-pack each,” he exaggerates. 

Scar’s laughter follows his, and it’s sweet and earnest and nearly bowls him over. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” he says. He types. Scar’s hair tickles his neck as he leans over to read the texts. 

11:58 AM  Grian Moon what time? 

11:58 AM  Joel Beans 6????????????????????

11:58 AM  Jimmy Solidarity Ok

11:58 AM  Grian Moon at your place?

11:59 AM  Joel Beans yes

   Abruptly, Scar uses his leverage of leaning over to fling them both onto the bed, arm trapping Grian by his shoulders. He smiles as Grian blinks, gets accustomed to his new spot on the mattress. Scar’s legs pin his own down. “I thought you wanted to practise lines,” Grian murmurs. He makes a face. 

   “Tired,” he says. Grian finds that one of his hands is straying rouge into dark hair. Scar’s eyes flutter shut. 

   “C’mon,” he murmurs, “let’s try a scene. One five - first meeting, yeah?”

Scar’s eyes are open. He’s more awake than he wants to let on. Grian’s stomach curdles. “Yeah,” he whispers. 

   “If I profane with my unworthiest hand,” Grian breathes, “this holy shrine, the tender sin is this; my lips, blushing pilgrims, they ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a gentle kiss.” 

   “Good pilgrim,” Scar says, hushed, “you do wrong your hand too much. Which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrim’s hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmer’s kiss.” 

   “Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?” Grian whispers.

Scar yawns. “Ay, pilgrim,” he mumbles, “lips that they must use in prayer.” 

   “Oh, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do.” 

There’s a pause. Grian swallows, pushes strands of hair out of Scar’s face. His eyes are closed again. 

   “They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair,” he says softly. 

“Saints do not move…” Scar breathes. 

   He’s asleep, Grian thinks. He stares intently at his face - Scar is close enough that he thinks he would be able to tell if he was awake. He frowns and peers closer. 

   There’s makeup smeared over Scar’s eyelid, over his eye bags. It looks like the stage makeup they keep backstage. It’s rubbed off in a spot of yellow and red. 

   “Then move not, while my prayer’s effect i take,” Grian whispers, to no one, his heart hammering. Then he leans forward, as quietly as he can, and presses a ghostly kiss to Scar’s forehead. 

Chapter Text

When Grian wakes up, he has new texts on his phone and the time 5:48 burnt into his mind. He detaches himself quickly and quietly from Scar, who is still soft and asleep, and tiptoes down the clean carpet stairs. Ties his shoelaces and closes the front door as silently as he can on his way out. He should be able to get to Joel’s on time if he hurries, and he does hurry. 

   He’s always hurrying.

He must’ve been tired. It had been hard to sleep in the apartment, so he supposes he was a little behind on sleep to be out for that long. 

   Grian swallows. He hasn’t seen Joel or Timmy since him and Pearl left. At all. He’s attributed it to skipping all his classes, but in reality they usually see each other outside of school too. His breathing billows out in front of him like smoke. It should be spring soon. 

   Scar had stayed sound asleep, but there was just a moment between Grian waking up and checking the time where he’d been engulfed in warmth, Scar held under his chin, breath gently hitting against his neck, legs tangled, and Grian had reached and put fingers in his hair and felt its softness, the quiet heat in the nape of his neck. 

   Of course, then he had reached for his phone and found he only had 12 minutes to make his way to Joel’s. He’d nearly sworn, but Scar had sighed into his neck and he had come to the conclusion that he really shouldn’t wake him up as well. So he left quietly. 

   Joel’s house in the near distance. Grian can feel anxiety pop up in his throat. He swallows it back down into his stomach and hopes the acid breaks it down. The walk deteriorates, crumbles into little pieces, like he’s suddenly on the street and then next to the house and then at the door. Breathe. It’s all so loud. 

   He raises his hand to knock, but can’t quite seem to bring himself to. He wonders if this will become a problem. It likely already has. 

   Grian knocks. It takes too much effort for a simple movement. Hi, Joel. or Hey, what’s up? Is Tim here yet? He probably is. He was probably early.

   The door opens, and Joel is on the other side. Grian holds his breath for a moment. “Hi, Joel-” 

   Joel hugs him. It’s a proper hug, a tight one, like he’s missed him. He pulls back, and there’s a moment of vulnerability on his face before he switches to poppy, normal Joel and grins at him. “G! C’mon, we haven’t seen you in ages - Tim’s here already, come on in,” 

  It’s unnerving. Grian finds himself beginning to relax nevertheless. “Yeah, sure,” he laughs, and kicks off his trainers as Joel runs ahead of him into the living room. He keeps that quiet moment to himself, just a few seconds where he gets to breathe in and out and gather himself and move his shoes to tuck into the corner, neat and tidy. And then he walks in. 

   Joel and Timmy are looking at each other. A moment passes between them as they acknowledge his entrance - Joel’s chin tucked into his neck, angled downward, curled up amongst blankets on the couch, and Tim is sprawled on the floor, leaning on a pile of cushions. Grian becomes very, very aware at that moment that it is easy to fake spontaneity. Tonight was planned more than they want him to believe. 

   “Want a beer?” Joel asks. 

He’s still distracted. “Sure,” and the can comes flying at him. Joel likes throwing things a bit too much. He raises his hand and catches it, knowing where it was without even looking. “Jesus, Joel. It’s gonna explode now.” 

   “Just wanted to test my aim,” 

“Wanted to test if I could catch it, more like,” 

   “Maybe,” Joel says slyly. Grian doesn’t like that. It feels like he knows. (Grian doesn’t want him to know.)

   “If it explodes, I’m aiming it at you,” he says anyway. 

   It doesn’t, thank God, no matter how Jimmy raises his blanket above his nose as if it’s a shield while he cracks it open. He falls down on the couch next to Joel. 

   It’s odd. It’s odd, that’s the best way to say it, Grian decides, because Joel’s eyes keep darting to the side to look at him while he sips from his can, and the conversation feels stilted, and he finds himself reaching for a second drink in minutes, as if to put himself out of his misery. 

   It tastes like fizzy adrenaline. He sighs and leans back. Joel and Jimmy are talking now, some nonsense he isn’t particularly bothered to keep up with. Shallow chatter, not at all how they usually are. 

   But things have been different recently, he supposes. 

“Want a smoke?” 

    You have no idea how much I want a smoke. “Sure,” Grian says. 

They’re traipsing upstairs, socked feet on wooden floors, and up through the window that opens just a little too wide, and into the night. It’s dark early, and Grian can’t wait for it to be light past 5pm, can’t wait for little pink flowers springing up by his ankles in the garden, can’t wait for dandelion wisps and blue skies. It’s overdue. But now, the night is endless and eternal - the void stretches out. The moon is striking from the centre of the view - bright, commanding. Grian sighs into the cold. 

   “Here,” Joel says, tossing him a cigarette, just slightly too careless with the motion. He’s on the edge.. Grian holds it between his lips and lets him light it, watches him do the same for Jimmy. He breathes smoke out into the sky. 

   “It’s cold,” Tim whispers. 

Grian frowns, “It’s warmer than it was the other night.” 

   “Doesn’t make it less cold,” 

“What would you know about ‘the other night?’”

   He blinks, looks up, cigarette lolling between his two fingers. “What?” 

And Joel’s eyes are ablaze.

   “It’s not like you’ve been going out,” he says, “all holed up at home unless it’s fucking rehearsal. Wh-whe-” and he stutters for a moment, losing track of his anger, before returning just as hotly, “Where have you been?” 

    Grian is speechless. He gapes, and the cold air spills in, making his teeth ache. “I don’t - what do you mean-”  

   “You heard me,” Joel stresses. His eyes have gone red, and an angry, upset flush has caught across his face. Grian isn’t used to being on the receiving side of this anger. “Where have you been?” 

It just comes out of him then, words punching into the air. “Me and Pearl left home.” 

   And then he’s said it, and Joel’s face has changed and so has Tim’s and Grian feels exposed. Vulnerable. 

   “What’s that supposed to mean? Left home? Where were you?” 

It’s Jimmy this time, starting forwards, his voice softer, more worried. More scared. 

   Grian swallows. “Scott and Shelby’s apartment. Pearl’s been planning to move there for a while. We stayed a few nights.” 

   There is a long stretch of quiet then, something almost impenetrable. Smoke billows into the night, but not from Joel or Jimmy. They’re both still staring at him. He feels like he’s being interrogated, like he’s committed a crime, like he’s about to be sentenced. The gavel bangs down.

   “Why did you leave?” 

Joel’s voice is dry. There are no cracks. It’s like he already knows the answer. Grian looks down at the roof, at the concrete. Flat. Joel is looking him straight in the eyes and he can’t bear to return it. 

   “My dad,” he answers. Tim turns around so he won’t see him cry. Joel looks him in the face. 

   The question posed is clear. What did he do? The silence makes it even clearer.

“He just… said a lot of stuff,” Grian allows, “while he was yelling at me. Pearl thought we should get out of there.” 

   Jimmy is still turned away. “What kind of stuff?” His voice is suspended in the air with no clear entrance or exit. 

He shrugs, but his stomach is churning. “I guess… that I must be doing drugs? He was pretty insistent about it. Said we can’t have painkillers in the house because of me. But - but I don’t know, I don’t do drugs, not really. Smoking’s the most I’ve ever done. I don’t - I don’t do that, it’s not - not my thing, I don’t do that.” 

   Joel and Jimmy’s eyes meet. Grian feels nauseous - a tsunami rising up in his lungs. He’s just talking now to fill the silence. (He’s sure that’s what they want.)

   “I don’t know, he was just insistent that I must’ve been at a drug deal. We had to leave.” 

“But you haven’t been going out.” 

   It’s Joel. He’s looking at him like he’s just figured something out. “Surely he’s not accusing you of doing that at school.”
  Grian swallows. “No - no, he wasn’t. I - um, I snuck out. He caught me coming back in.” 

“You never sneak out.” Joel is staring at him. “Who were you with? Where were you - what did-”

   Grian’s convinced he already knows the answer. “I was with Scar,” he says. 

There’s one long moment where Joel just looks at him like he’s disappointed, and then he stands up and retreats back through the window into the house, dropping his burnt out cigarette on the floor. The sound of his fading footsteps hangs in the air.

   Timmy doesn’t follow him in. He just sits there with his knees pulled up to his chin and his arms encircling them. Grian shifts under his gaze. He doesn’t like being looked at like this. 

   “Joel’s just worried,” Timmy whispers. “You ignore us for a week, and then you go become mates with the guy you’ve always hated. What else is he supposed to think?” 

   “And you?” Grian asks. He knows he sounds bitter and he can’t bring himself to care. “What’s your judgement?” 

   Tim stands up, takes a long, deep breath of cold air. “I don’t know, Gri. I didn’t like being ignored by you.” 

   Grian watches him leave.

He stays out on the roof for a few more minutes before he retreats back inside and treads carefully into the hallway. There’s soft speaking in the living room. 

   If he listens very carefully he can hear crying. 

It’s Joel. Grian puts on his shoes as fast as he can and leaves quietly. The door thuds behind him.

   He shoves his hand in his pocket to retrieve his phone as he flees the scene, the cold air working its way through his hair and his shoes thudding against the pavement, and an accidental swipe reveals his notification history. 

    Missed call from JOEL!!!! (3)

He blinks.

   He doesn’t remember that. Grian comes to a stop in the street, and goes to his Phone app, to his missed calls. 

Missed call from JOEL!!!! (3) yesterday at 1:45 PM

Missed call from JOEL!!!!   Friday at 8:35 AM

Missed call from Timmy :) (7)  Wednesday at 10:31 PM

Missed call from JOEL!!!! (2) Wednesday at 3:54 PM

Missed call from JOEL!!!! (3) Tuesday at 6:20 PM

Missed call from Timmy :)   Monday at 1:45 PM

Oh. Grian stands on the pavement and feels his knees weaken beneath him. 

    I didn’t like being ignored by you, Jimmy had said. 

He slides his phone back into his pocket with trembling hands and continues his walk home. 

There’s no time to dwell on this. He has rehearsal tomorrow. 

***

   “This is that that banished haughty Montague - that - that murdered my love’s cousin!- with which grief it is supposed the fair creature died,” Taurtis hisses. His eyes are bright and murderous. “And here he is come to do some villainous shame to the dead bodies. I will apprehend him.”

   He stands tall, steady, wielding a prop sword - they’ve finally gotten them delivered! - and staring, hostile, into Grian’s eyes. He’s getting goosebumps from it - chills up his spine, he would rather die than have Taurtis look at him like that for one more second-

   -and then he steps forward, bristling. He is so close that Grian nearly stops breathing - he tilts his head to look at him. “Stop thy unhallowed toil, vile Montague.” Taurtis threatens, dripping vile anger from his voice, “Can vengeance be pursued further than death? Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee. Obey and go with me, for thou must die.” 

   He swallows. “I must indeed,” he says, and it comes out quieter than he expects, “and therefore came I hither. Good gentle youth… tempt not a desperate man. Fly hence and leave me.” 

   He turns on his heel, stalks towards where Juliet’s tomb is meant to be. Scar isn’t in today, so they’re only practising Romeo’s fight with Paris. There is no relief here. “Think upon these gone,” he continues, turning ‘round to fix Taurtis with a burning glare, “Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth - put not another sin upon my head by urging me to fury. Begone.” 

    There’s a wave of something, then, something that nearly topples him. Grian clenches his fists and clings to the ground with his shoes. “By heaven,” he says even as Taurtis advances on him, “I love thee better than myself… for I come hither armed against myself. Stay not, begone, live, and - and hereafter-”

   It’s cold. It’s stabbing into his forehead. 

“And hereafter-” 

   He swallows. “Sorry.” he says, and his voice comes out weak. “Line?” 

Xisuma clears his throat from beside the stage. “And hereafter say, a madman’s mercy bid thee-” 

   Grian is falling. 

He feels himself lose his hold on reality, feels himself topple, and the last thing he sees before his head goes back and all he can see is the ceiling is a flash of panic on Taurtis’s face, something frightened, something - almost caring - and he dashes forwards like he’s reaching out - and - and-

    “Hey!”

He turns around, meeting Scar’s eyes. “What?” 

   Scar’s rubbing his arm, hurt by the clash. He’s leaning on his cane. There’s a flash of regret. “What was that for?” 

   “It was an accident.” 

“No, it wasn’t! You think I can’t tell? You’ve had it out for me since we started the play!” 

   Taurtis rolls his eyes. “You’re being silly, Scar. I didn’t mean to bump you, all right? It was an accident-”

   “No, you’re-” and Scar is staring at him, Scar is- “You’re jealous.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

   It was too hostile. Scar looks like he’s going to laugh with incredulity. “You’re jealous of me!” 

   “No, I-” Taurtis flares. “Why would I be jealous of you?” 

“I don’t know, why would you be?” Scar asks loudly. “Oh! Oh, maybe it’s about-” 

   There’s a hand over his mouth. He shoves it off. “It’s not like you claimed him. That’s fucking weird, Taurtis.” 

   “I’m not jealous!” 

“You want to be me, don’t you?” 

   There’s a pause. 

Scar laughs. “You do! You’re jealous, that’s why you’re being such a prick!” 

   “You shut your fucking mouth-”
“You know what, Taurtis,” Scar interrupts. “At least I can kiss him without running away afterwards. Yeah?” 

   “Fuck you-”

Scar’s fallen back against the wall then, hand shooting over his eye. “Shit!” he curses, and he bristles as he looks upward. “You’re fucking crazy. You’re fucking crazy!” 

   He’s up, then, and Taurtis is against the wall, and there’s a clash, and then they’re both on the floor, Taurtis groaning as he holds his jaw. “I’m not jealous of you,” he spits. “I don’t want him. You can fucking have him!” 

    “Grian?”

Chapter Text

There’s a bruise on Taurtis’s jaw. There’s a bruise on Taurtis’s jaw. 

    “I’m okay, I’m okay,” Grian gasps out, forcing himself up, leaning over his lap, fighting for air. He nearly bumps heads with Taurtis, who’s drawing away now, but he’s still there, still looking at him.

   “What was that?” he asks, and his voice is hushed. Grian feels himself freeze over. 

“It was nothing.” 

   “It didn’t look like nothi-”

“Just help me up.”

   Taurtis does, pulling him to his feet, and Grian rubs his temples and stands straight. “Sorry,” he calls out, “I got dizzy. Iron deficiency.”

   Xisuma’s coming up the stairs to the stage now, up to him, worried eyes. “That’s okay, Grian - we’ll go onto another scene so you can sit out a moment, okay?” 

   He frowns. “Sure.” 

He calls up Etho, sends Grian down to sit in the corridor with his head between his knees, and cracks on with another scene. Grian walks out of the Drama department like he’s in a dream. Hazy. 

    At least I can kiss him back without running away afterwards. 

Oh. 

***

   “Oh, come on-”

Scripts are thrown aside, backs to the floor, flung about on hardwood planks. The top of Grian’s head bumps the corner of the electric piano. The tip of Scar’s shoe is touching his ankle, where his trousers have ridden just slightly up. They are laughing. 

   “Can we make it through at least one rehearsal?” 

“I don’t - I don’t know, can we?” 

   “Seems not,” 

And then they’re rolling over, giggling, colliding with each other, Grian opening a quick, deft Eye in the corner of his mind to check that the blinds on the practice room door were shut, and lips are on lips and warmth is radiating. 

   “Hey, Gri,” Scar whispers against his lips, and his eyes open, hand curling around his waist, “Gri?” 

   “Yeah?” he murmurs. 

“I was thinking-” 

   Grian yawns, “Don’t hurt yourself,”

A flick at the forehead, “Fuck off, Gri,” 

   “Go on then,” 

“Cub’s having friends over next week for a night,” Scar says finally, “and he wants me out of he house.” 

   “Does he?” 

“Yeah,” Scar laughs, nervous, “yeah, and I was thinking…” and he clears his throat, eyes pointing downwards in that awfully endearing way, “I was thinking that - that I could see you.” 

   There’s a smile, then - spreading infectiously across Grian’s face. “You want to?”

“Yeah-” Scar giggles, “Yeah, I was thinking we could go out,” - it’s intoxicating - “or maybe I could come over, or-” 

   It’s like cold, freezing water, washing over him. Grian feels himself go stiff, feels the dread congeal in his forehead. It comes in waves over his entire body. “What?” he whispers. 

   And Scar is quiet, just for a moment, like he’s confused. “I mean - it was just a suggestion, Gri, I don’t mean to invite myself over or-”

    “No, you-” he swallows. “You-” 

Grian wrenches himself away, to his feet, feeling his knees go weak and unsteady, on his feet, staggering against the wall, “No, not my house - why - why would we ever go to my house?” 

   And… and Scar just looks lost. He’s sitting there on the floor, gathering himself up, wide green eyes staring up at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

   Everything in Grian stops. He hangs there, suspended for a moment in time, little stars exploding in his forehead, knees weak, ankles suddenly unstable. It’s bad enough with Timmy and Joel, with deflecting. His entire world is being threatened, because Scar can’t come to his house. Scar can’t come to his house. Scar can’t.

   “It’s supposed to mean that we’re not going to my house,” he finds himself spitting, heart beating fast-fast-fast in his throat, rising, hackles up like a cornered animal. “Never,” 

    And he's halfway out the door when Scar says his name, halfway out the corridor when it slams. It’s a tsunami inside him, all thrashing and nausea and waves going up up up up up down- 

    Down!-

“When were you going to tell me?” Ren asks.

   He’s standing, frowning, beginning to crouch down, knees bending, soft. Doc looks away. “It’s not that bad,” he mumbles. 

   “Don’t lie to me,” 

“I never lie to you,” 

   “Stop that. Be honest for once.” 

Doc takes in a long, long breath, sucks it into his lungs, feels darkness creep in. “Jesus,” he hisses, leaning against the wall, bones aching. 

   “Do you need-”
“Yea - yeah, yeah, please-”

   Tapping about in Ren’s palm, a hand pressed to his mouth, Doc swallows the tablets gratefully, no water, why would he need water, he has Ren, Ren helps-

    “Doc. Doc, c’mon.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. Just hurts.”

   A hand on his forehead. “You’re hot.” 

He laughs. “You wouldn’t be the first to say i-”
  “Fuck off, Doc. How often are you getting them?” 

He shrugs. “It’s just the lights,” he says through the nausea, teeth gritted. “Make my head hurt.” 

   “Doc, that’s your job. It’s never hurt you before.”

“My eye’s sensitive.” 

   “No, it’s not. Why is it only now?”

“It’s - it’s -” Doc swallows pain in his throat, feels it bubble down to his stomach, hot. “Just stop it, Ren, please. I’m alright.” 

   “We wouldn’t be here if you were alright. How many times am I going to have to pull strings for  you and stop a rehearsal? What if it happens when you’re on stage? What if-”

    “Stop it, Ren.” Doc hisses. “Please, stop it. I can’t, okay? Stop-”

Then, soft - “Okay. Okay, okay. Just - stop talking, for a moment, let the pills go down-”

   “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.” 

Then, “Ren, do you fe-”

Grian gasps - he feels the wall slam into him, unforgiving, stars spinning in his head, his knee hits the floor – fuck -

   “Grian! Oh my-” 

There is no air. His hands are on the floor, he’s wheezing, white hot cold around his eyes, behind them, and then there are hands on his shoulders, hands helping him to sit, leaning against the wall, and Grian blinks, seeing nothing, until his vision comes slow, slowly back into focus, numb, dull tingling permeating his muscles, his bones, and it’s Ren. 

   “Hi,” he manages, voice coming out high and weak, and there’s a hand on his forehead, dipping under his hair, Doc is like him - what if Doc is like him, what did that mean, why did he hurt, is Doc like him, is Ren speaking?

   Ren is speaking. 

“No fever,” he’s saying to him, “That’s good, that’s good, Grian-”

    Doc. Doc is -

How many times am I going to have to pull strings for  you and stop a rehearsal? What if it happens when you’re on stage?

    Is Doc like him? 

If what happens when he’s on stage - Grian swallows back overwhelm, breathes, breathes, breathes, one two - one - one two thr- th-

    There’s something cold in his hands. It’s a bottle of water. Grian holds it tight, swigs from it, and then it’s pried gently out of his hands and held on his forehead. How many times has Ren had to do this for Doc- 

   “Thank you,” Grian whispers, barely there.

“That’s okay. Listen, do you know what that was - you sick, or hungry or something?”

   He aches. “I’m not sure.”

“C’mon, eat something,” says Ren seriously, and there’s a small packet pressed into his hands, fingers set over the top of it. It looks like a cereal bar, a multipack. Ren keeps them in his bag, then. Does Ren keep them in his bag for Doc? 

   Grian bites gratefully into the bar, crushing the foil packet in a weak fist. “Thank you,” he says once it’s gone. “I, um… I have low blood pressure.” 

   “I thought it was low iron?” 

Ren’s low, inquiring, well meaning tone makes it even worse. Grian is quiet for a few seconds. He shrugs. “One of those,” he mumbles. 

   “One of those,” Ren repeats. “Sure.” 

He’s about to open his stupid, big mouth to spout some other excuse when there’s another voice, and a flash of pink in the corridor. “Ren?” Lizzie calls. “G, is that you?” 

   “She was meeting me here,” says Ren, but his gaze is piercing. He stands, keeping a hand where he was for just a second as if to check that Grian wouldn’t fall sideways, and then he’s up, footsteps forward, “Lizzie! Hey, baby!”

   She laughs, greets him, but it’s tinged with something worried, and then her eyes are on Grian. “Gri, what’s happened? You okay?” 

   “Low iron,” Grian chuckles, and feels Ren’s stare burn him, “Just had a bit of a fall.” 

Lizzie smiles at him, helps him up, a brief hug, and then she turns to Ren. “Could I - could I talk to G for a moment?” 

   “Yeah, sure,” and Ren breezes by, but not without one last piercing look through Grian’s soul. He’s gone, and Lizzie waits for the next few seconds like she’s making absolute sure there’s no chance he could hear, and then her eyes turn on him, and she looks… 

   Concerned. 

“Joel is worried about you, Gri,” she says flatly. “He doesn’t like to be, or to show it, or to tell you or me or anyone, but he is.”

   “Oh,” Grian manages. 

“I’m telling you,” she continues, “because you might just think he’s angry. I know that - I know that you know he gets angry when he’s scared, but… sometimes people forget once it’s aimed at them.” 

   “Yeah,” Grian whispers. He wants her to go away. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. He wants her to go away. 

    She pauses for a moment, like she doesn’t know whether to say something. And then she does. “Grian, he’s worried sick,” she says softly. “He’s over at mine every other day, he’s hovering over your contact on his phone every other minute, checking if you’re online, checking if you’ve read his messages, seen his calls. After - after you came over to his the other day, he…” she swallows. “G, he’s a mess.” 

   There’s a lump in his throat. 

Lizzie crosses the short distance between them and hugs him again. “Please, figure things out with him soon,” she murmurs. “I know you’re missing him too. You can’t lie about that, it’s too obvious.” 

   “Yeah,” says Grian. 

“I’m going to go find Ren,” says Lizzie, “Okay? Get home safe, G,” 

     She walks off after Grian’s ghostly bye , leaving him hanging in the air, staring at the empty space in the corridor where she had been standing. G, he’s a mess. 

   He isn’t going to talk to Joel. He doesn’t think he can.

Chapter Text

   “It’s Friday, come on.” Lizzie dabs a sparkling pink cream eyeshadow below Grian’s eye as he winces at the cold, “It’ll be fun, and hey - advertisement for the play, right?” 

   Sighing fills the room at that. It’s Grian, Mumbo, Bdubs, Taurtis, Tango, and, regrettably, Scar, paired with Lizzie, Gem, and Etho. Nearly the entire cast - all packed into one, sitting on the floor or sprawled across folding chairs or leaning on the walls. Glitter fills the room - blue Montagues, red Capulets, silver royalty, swirls curling about eyes and down cheekbones. Liz, Gem, and Etho have been at work for at least an hour now, running about packing pigment into everybody’s faces. Grian thanks a higher power that at least they haven’t been forced into stage costumes, and he’s allowed to don a simple jeans and T-shirt for the party they’re going to. 

   Scar is sat patiently in a chair across the room, with golden eyes and Etho hovering about him with a brush. He’s finished his eyes and is fussing about with golden swirls down his cheekbones, so there’s been a constant, steady stare hanging over Grian for the past few minutes already. He doesn’t like it - it’s like they’re straight back to when they didn’t know each other at all. There’s a sudden, mortifying memory in his head - Scar saying, you don’t need to be worried. I’ll be a good partner. Grian ripping open the curtain only to regret it immediately - Scar’s piercing eyes as he did up the last button of his shirt. Green and golden. God. 

   One final swirl of a brush, smoothly across his cheek, and Lizzie draws back. “You’re getting better at staying still,” she praises, half joking, and he smiles gratefully up at her. 

   “Thanks, Liz,” he says, but he can’t find it in him to laugh at her humour. He stands, stretches, and tumbles down to sit next to Mumbo, who gives him a suspicious look.

   Mumbo is forever suspicious. Curious, intuitive - he’d use those same words to describe Benvolio sometimes. “All good for the party?” he asks. 

   Grian puts on a brave face. “All good,” he answers. “You?” 

There’s a smile on Mumbo’s face when he answers. “Definitely all good. Scott always has ingredients for cocktails out so we can make our own. He does great parties.” 

   “This is - this is Scott’s party,” says Grian. “You’re not serious.” 

Mumbo laughs at him. “Pearl won’t be there,” he tells him. 

   “Yeah, but everyone’ll report back to her if I drink more than one beer.”

“Hey, I promise confidentiality,” 

   “Bloody well hope so.” 

His eyes stray back to green and gold. Scar smiles and blinks five times in quick succession as Etho draws away and walks across the room to put the makeup supplies away, momentarily distracted from his eyes’ assault on Grian. He yawns behind his hand, and when he looks up there’s a flash of eye contact before he’s obscured as the room shifts. Gem’s calling out for them to leave. 

   She stands on a chair like a commander and grins widely. “This is like a student organised school trip,” somebody in the crowd says before she clears her throat and starts waving her arms. 

   “Everyone needs to select a partner,” she says, projecting out over the crowd. “We are not going to be unorganised!” 

   It really is like a student organised school trip, Grian thinks. 

“That way, everyone is accounted for. You are responsible for your partner, okay?” 

   There’s a chorus of agreement from the group, and it’s obvious Gem is fighting a laugh. “Now, we’re going to walk down to the bus stop and catch the C22. It’s 3 stops and a 5 minute walk to the party - it’s Scott Major’s, he’s a fresher at MCU and a good friend of mine, so we have a responsibility to not be assholes at his place, yeah? Don’t break stuff, try not to get pissed enough to be a problem. I think that’s it.” 

   “Gem, you have to say the thing,” Etho says from below her, voice thick with laughter. She lowers her voice. 

   “No - no, absolutely not, Eth-”

“Come on, it’s already enough like a school trip, just-” 

   She gives him a light hit around the head and clears her throat, loud again. “The most important rule for tonight is to have fun!” she says in a perfect impression of a teacher talking to a group of young children, smiling sickly sweet, hands on her knees. The room erupts into laughter and she gets down from the chair, laughing at herself as the group begins to pour out of the room. Grian grabs Mumbo’s arm. “Partners?” 

   “Yeah, sure.” 

He keeps hold of it, doesn’t let go. There’s a Sight coming, but not a bad one - Grian keeps his breathing light and even. 

    God - does it really have to be him?

He frowns. The words are coloured gold and sparkling. It’s Scar. He tries to put it aside, walks with Mumbo. 

   “You excited, then?” 

“Damn right. Can’t wait to get so pissed I can’t see straight.” 

   “You heard what Gem said, Mumbo-” 

“I won’t ruin the party by having a couple drinks, G,” Mumbo says, and ruffles his hair. Grian rolls his eyes. 

   “Don’t act like Pearl,” he snickers.

The bus ride is long, quiet, but filled with conversation. Whispers and raucous, hushed laughter. Grian casts his eyes around the bus and quickly, quickly finds the source of Scar’s annoyance. It’s so ironic he nearly laughs out loud; Scar is sat, straight backed and stone faced, with Taurtis, who looks equally vexed. They are both completely silent. 

   “You okay?” 

“I’m all good,” he answers, and strangely finds himself meaning it for the moment, laughing quietly about Scar’s predicament despite their argument. “And you?” 

   “All good,” Mumbo smiles. Then he leans forward, mischief sparking in his eyes. “I brought something for us.” 

   Grian feels a giggle accelerate in his throat. “What’ve you done now, Mumbo Jumbo?” 

The taller boy produces a decently sized flask from his pocket and dangles it in front of him. “Vodka. You wanna pre-drink?” 

   The irony is only getting worse. Grian laughs despite himself. “God, yeah,” he says, and Mumbo passes it to him after taking a huge swig. Grian matches him, and feels the taste of Taurtis flow down his throat and settle in his stomach. “Euck,” he groans, passing it back. “Tastes like shit.”

   “What’d you expect?”
He chuckles. “Nothing, it used to be my favourite. I can’t do spirits now - anything above 20% gets me.”

   Ah, Mumbo says in understanding. 

   Tango peers over the top of the seats behind them. “What’s that I smell?” he grins, sharp teeth and red flames licking up his face.

Mumbo rolls his eyes. “I have enough for you and Dubs, but no one else,” he warns, and passes them the flask. 

   The walk to the house feels longer than it is, mainly because of the burn of alcohol in Grian’s throat. It’s not too far from HCA and MCU, just far enough that he understands why Scott moved to the apartment for uni. But, can’t throw a party in an apartment with thin walls. He sticks to Mumbo’s side and feels the alcohol seep into his bloodstream, and the group pours into the house when Scott opens the door. He can see Scar and Taurtis immediately go different directions in front of him, and nearly laughs out loud as they all pile into the living room. People are already there, but nobody he recognises - after all, this is Scott’s social circle. He’s glad Pearl doesn’t usually go to parties. 

   There’s a bottle of something passed around, swiftly diminishing, he takes a huge gulp and swallows the taste of Taurtis’s mouth again, vodka, gasps and nearly gags as he wipes his mouth and hands it to Mumbo beside him, laughs as a hand slaps his shoulder. He looks up and grins. 

   “What’s up?” he asks Tango eventually, after an unknown period of time where he’s wandering about the house and sometimes being given a gulp or two of alcohol along the way. Tango laughs, clearly even drunker than him, and claps him on the back. 

   “Dude - dude, you’ll never guess,” he says completely seriously. “The sky.” 

It’s arguably not funny. Grian laughs raucously anyway, nearly ending up sprawled on the floor with Tango, leaning on each other for support.

    Nearly. It happens eventually, and Grian’s hands touch cold kitchen tiles. Tango giggles, hands finding his shoulder. Grian finds his courage. 

   “What’s up with Tim recently?” he asks, probably a mistake. 

“Oh - he’s lovely, Grian,” Tango says immediately, shooting up and forwards, swaying. 

   “He’s lovely,” Grian responds. Oh. 

Tango shuts his eyes very tightly and shakes his head around for a moment. “He is,” he says, voice sombre for just a moment. His eyes open, then, very wide. “But don’t tell him that. I’ll never live it down.”

   Grian smiles at him. “I won’t,” he says, but he knows he will once Jim is honest with him about Tango. However long that takes - he’s going to hold onto this and use it later. He stands, holding onto the cabinet, and leaves Tango to stare dreamily at the ceiling. 

Tango loves Jimmy. 

Jimmy loves Tango. 

Grian needs a drink. 

   He walks to the living room, where another, unopened bottle of vodka still sits, leant up against a cushion. He isn’t at all sure why nobody has drunk it yet, he’s sure everybody at the party is shit-faced at this point. His feet don’t seem to be behaving inside his shoes. Grian picks up the bottle, opens it with great effort, holds the cap so tightly in his palm it might cut him, and swigs. 

   And again. 

And again. 

   Again. Again. Aga-

He sways, breathing hard, screwing the cap roughly back on. There’s a little red imprint on his hand, like it’s just slightly broken skin. 

He doesn’t drink that much. Grian takes small mouthfuls - he’s just - he’s just a lightweight, that’s why he’s all airy and flighty and wings taking off as he walks back through the house. He really isn’t that drunk. It’s just hard to walk in an unfamiliar environment. 

   Grian wonders where Taurtis is. 

He hasn’t seen him for a while. Maybe he’s with some other boy in the closet under the stairs, burrowing into coats. Maybe this time he doesn’t run away. Grian needs a drink. There’s another bottle in the kitchen. He isn’t sure what it is. The crowds dwindle - they’re all in the living room now, he thinks, levitation dragging his senses upwards, and he picks up the bottle and takes another gulp. When he puts it down, he’s bent over again, coughing, it’s horrible but he’s too pissed to care. He makes his way into the living room with two left feet. Where’s Taurtis? Where is he?

   And Scar is standing by the table with the drinks, alone. Grian’s heart freezes in his chest. He goes to the table. Green and gold.

   “Where’s your partner?” he asks. His voice is worse than he thought - dehydrated, scratchy. Scar looks at him like he’s wary. He fucking hates it. 

   “He left,” says the Sun. “Where’s yours?” 

Where is Mumbo? 

   “He’s, um…” Grian racks his brains. “He’s with - with - oh, he was with Mercutio. He was with Mercutio,” he whispers, parroting himself. “Yeah. Yeah.” 

   Scar looks at him for one long moment like he’s somewhere between exasperated and hurt. “Yeah, I’m not doing this,” he says finally. “I can’t do this.” 

   And then he’s - he’s leaving-

Grian goes blank. “No - no - no, Scar - wait - please-”

   His hand is on Scar’s arm - when did it do that? - and then Scar is turning back and his cane is momentarily knocked up against the table again and Grian is looking at him like he is the answer and Scar is looking at him like he is the question. He leans forward, breathes him in.

   “How much have you had to drink?” 

He blinks. “A lot of… um, a lot of vodka.” 

    Taurtis.

“How much is a lot?” Scar asks. He draws even closer, then, like he’s examining him. He’s clearly expecting a good answer. Grian doesn’t know how good the one he can give him is. 

   “Um -” he tries, “Oh, I had some on the bus.” 

“What’s some?” 

   “A mouthful,” he tries. “Mumbo - he had - he had a flask, I think.” 

Scar’s brow furrows. “And then at the party?” 

   “I was holding a bottle,” says Grian quite quickly. Scar raises an eyebrow. “Big mouthfuls,” he whispers.

   “Jesus Christ,” says Scar. There’s a hand on Grian’s face, then, a thumb under his eye, tracing, soft. He tilts forward. Scar is the answer and he is the question. He’s very aware that they’re in the living room, with everybody, everybody who came to the party, everybody who can’t know. He can’t move. He doesn’t want to move. Scar’s thumb swipes gently under his eye and comes back pink and sparkling. He feels his forehead and frowns. 

   He is so beautiful, Grian thinks. The freckles, the gold, the curve of the scar over his nose. His eyes. It’s been too long now. 

   “What are you doing?”

“Just… looking,” he breathes. 

   “Grian,” Scar says quietly. It’s like a warning.

“I really did want you to come to my house.” The words are out of Grian’s mouth without verification, without proof-reading. They’re out of his mouth and Scar can hear them.

   “What?” comes out breathless. 

And then it’s like Scar shakes himself, because there’s a steady hand around Grian’s shoulders and a cane tap tap tapping on the ground and Grian is outside. He cranes his neck to see the stars, faint. “Wow,” he breathes, and then there are hands on his shoulders again and eyes boring into his. 

   “Gri, you need to sober up,” Scar is saying. “I’ll get you some water, I’ll-”

“No-” it’s panic, that’s what it is in Grian’s voice, “No - no, Scar, no - stay, please-”
  He stops in his tracks. Grian can’t think. It’s all green and golden. “Please - please, please, i wanted you to come-” he blurts, “please, please, I panicked-”
  “What does that mean?” 

“My dad, I-” Grian wavers, “please - please, you can’t come over - I’m sorry Scar, I - please,” 

   His face is in Scar’s neck. He’s breathing hard. His arms are around him? “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Scar is whispering. “You need to sober up, sweetheart, I’ll get you water, okay?” 

   “No,” he’s saying, “no - no, please don’t leave - I’m sorry I drank too much - I’m sorry, I-” 

But Scar is holding his hand. “Come on, then,” he says, and his cane tap tap taps along the floorboards as they walk inside, there’s the kitchen- 

   “I’m sorry,” Grian breathes. Everything is shifting. 

“I know, I know,” murmurs Scar. Grian can’t help but believe him. He holds on for dear life, and then there’s the sound of running water and a cold, cold cup pressed into his hands, and he tips it forward and drinks, cold cold cold pooling into his stomach. Scar’s got a hand on his back. It’s warm.

   “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you, Scar.” 

There isn’t a gap. Nothing at all. He’s just in the kitchen and then in a split second outside, shivering, swaying as he walks. “Where are we going?” 

   “Cub’s out,” Scar tells him quietly, softly. “We’re going to mine.” 

“Oh,” Grian whispers. “Thank you, Scar.” 

   Scar sighs. Grian decides to himself he doesn’t want to say that combination of words  ever again to him. He droops, shuts eyes, holds on and walks. He tries not to cry. Scar’s house is quite close to Scott’s, actually, which he’s thankful for. It’s a 20 minute walk at the very most, and then there’s a door in front of him and then there’s warmth engulfing him and then Scar’s hands are cupping his face again. 

   “You feeling better?” 

Grian swallows, looks up at him. “You’re golden,” he whispers.

   Scar doesn’t understand. His face softens. “And you’re pink,” he says softly, and they walk slowly and carefully up the stairs together. He shuts the door behind them and Grian flops onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. 

   “How are you doing?” Scar asks, lying down next to him. He leans his cane against the bed frame. 

   “Less drunk,” says Grian. “Probably should’ve thrown up.” 

“You probably should’ve.” 

   “Thank you, Scar.”

“G, it’s-” 

   He gets himself up, shaky, leans over. “No, thank you,” he says. “I don’t know how you’re always so good. I don’t know how you do it.” 

   Scar looks up at him with wide eyes. “You’re drunk,” he says. 

“That doesn’t mean I’m a liar,” 

   He frowns. “You’re still drunk.” 

“And you’re still a fucking angel. I really don’t know how you do it.” 

   “Stop saying things like that,” says Scar very seriously, “because then I’ll want to kiss you, and you’re too drunk for that.” 

   “You want to kiss me,” Grian says, lying back down on the cool sheets. “God, you’re something else.” 

   Scar doesn’t say anything for a long time. Grian rolls over and buries his face in his neck, throwing limbs over him, careful of his leg. For a moment, he wants to say something serious - something bad. He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t even let himself think it. Instead, he just repeats himself. 

   “Thank you,” he whispers. 

Scar’s head turns, and he kisses his gently on the forehead, before turning back to plant in his pillow. “You’re welcome,” he breathes. “Now go to sleep.” 

   Grian does as he’s told, for once.

Chapter Text

“G,” Scar is saying softly, hands gentle on Grian’s shoulders. He squirms, sleepy, and opens his eyes, half lidded. Why is Scar waking him up? 

   Why is-

Why is Scar-

   He shoots forward from the bed, duvet falling to his lap - Thank you, Scar. We’re going to mine. You feeling better? You’re golden. Because then I’ll want to kiss you, and you’re too drunk for that. You want to kiss me. You’re welcome. Now go to sleep.

   Now go to sleep. 

And Scar is catching him by his shoulder, hand falling to grip his arm. “Don’t panic,” he hisses, voice considerably louder as his eyes bore into Grian’s wide ones. 

   “How am I meant to not panic?” 

“Just don’t.”

   “How do I not panic? I’ve just woken up in your bed after a night of getting completely shit-faced drunk and making a complete fool of myself in front of you-” 

   Scar drifts forward, hand making itself known under Grian’s chin, like he’s about to kiss him. Grian flatlines. “Don’t panic,” he whispers.

   “Okay,” Grian breathes. What else can he say?

Scar’s thumbs swipe under his eyes, tracing skin. “Come on,” he says, beginning to pull him out of bed. “You need to wash your face, get that makeup off. It’s not good for your skin.” After this, it comes to Grian’s attention that he’s no longer golden. 

   “Did it rub off on your pillows?” he asks, still drowsy. 

“If it did, I don’t care,” says Scar, reaching for his cane. “Downstairs, c’mon. You thirsty?” 

   “Very.”
“I’ll make breakfast. Cub’s back midday - it’s only half 10. You’ve slept 8 hours, I would’ve given you more but-”

   “Thank you,” Grian interrupts him, “Scar. It’s fine.” 

Scar grins at him, eyes dipping down before he slaps him on the shoulder and walks into the kitchen. “Bathroom’s the first door on the left, you can use my cleanser, okay?” 

   “Thanks,” Grian calls after him, and finds his way into the bathroom, tracing walls with his finger, holding the door frame tight enough to save him if he falls.

   The room is cool, which is good for his growing headache, and unnervingly clean. The mirror is pristine, which is perfect for telling him exactly how hopeless he looks. The pink is smudged all over his face, sparkles all about, his lips are chapped, his eyes are red. He’s pale and drawn. Grian hasn’t realised until now how shit he looks, not even through fault of the party. He looks tired. 

    He turns the tap on, splashes freezing water over his face and lathers cleanser in his hands. When he emerges from the hand towel, his face is clean but blotchy, purple shadows and freckles over his cheeks. He takes a moment for himself, sits on the cold, tiled floor, and thinks. 

   Thinks, wow. I’m never drinking vodka again. 

Thinks, wow. That’s such a fucking lie. 

   “You good in there?” Scar calls. 

“All good,” he calls in response, and scrambles to his feet to open the door. Scar is in the kitchen, busying over two cups of coffee. 

   “What do you want for breakfast? Eggs? Toast?” 

Grian smiles at him, settling into a seat at the table. “It’s really fine, Scar, coffee is mo-”

   “Just humour me,” says Scar. “What do you normally have for breakfast?” 

“I’ll have eggs,” says Grian, because he knows Scar won’t let him say his preferred answer. The cup of coffee, steaming, is placed before him on a coaster, and he firmly does not pull down Scar by his shirt’s collar as soon as he’s set it down to kiss him. Of course he wants to, but he doesn’t. He just watches him draw back instead. 

   The coffee is good. “Scar,” Grian says. “Did I say anything stupid last night?” 

Of course, he should know if he had gone too far. But there’s always a chance… Scar twists ‘round to look at him, whisk held between two fingers. “There was a lot of I’m sorry. I think you felt guilty that I was helping you.” 

   “Oh,” says Grian faintly. 

“And, you…” and Scar pauses. 

   And Grian waits. 

Scar swallows. Grian can see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat with the movement before he twists back around and begins to whisk the eggs in a bowl. “Are we…” he says, “Are we going to talk about the other day?” 

   Grian doesn’t know what to say. “Do you want to talk about the other day?” 

Scar sighs. 

   “You told me I couldn’t come over to your house because of your dad,” he says very slowly as he pours the eggs into a saucepan. “I don’t know if I would classify that as you saying something stupid, but I have the idea that you would.” 

   Grian is quiet. 

“G?” 

   Scar’s sitting in front of him. He captures his hands under the table. “Should I have brought it up?” 

   “Probably not,” he mutters. “But you did.” 

“Hey,” and Scar’s hand is on his face again. That’s a new habit of his, Grian recognises - something almost caring. Cradling. “What is it?” 

   “Things are just…” voice dwindling down to a whisper, Grian averts his eyes and Scar’s hand falls, “weird.” 

“What’s weird ?” 

   “You know about my mum, right?” 

Scar blinks. 

   “Don’t pretend you don’t,” says Grian shortly. “The news got around.” 

He leaves him a silence to think in.

   “After she left…” he tells Scar, “She didn’t… she didn’t go missing. None of us think it was some tragedy, some murder, some kidnapping. She just left. And - and he changed. He’s just different. He’s never at home, and when he is at home, we have to avoid him as much as possible. He doesn’t speak to us unless he’s angry.” 

   Grian shuts his eyes. Scar’s thumb strokes the palm of his hand. “After I came back from yours, I snuck into my room through the window,” he whispers. “He was there.” 

   “Oh,” breathes Scar. “Oh, Grian.” 

“He just started - accusing me, of things,” is out of Grian’s mouth before he can stop it, “of doing drugs, smoking, hiding shit in my room - and I - I don’t - I smoke a cigarette every once in a while, but I - I don’t do drugs,” 

    He hates the way Scar’s looking at him. Scar’s looking at him like he doesn’t believe him. “I don’t,” he stresses, “I know that me and the boys can be a bit - a bit adventurous, and whatever, they like looking cool to everyone else, but I don’t-”

    “I never said you did,” comes Scar’s murmur, but he’s still giving him that look. Grian gives in and slumps forward, putting his head on the table, feeling Scar put a warm hand below the back of his neck, resting on the beginnings of his spine. “It’s okay,” he whispers. 

   “He slapped Pearl.”

Grian can feel the hand tense on his back. He shouldn’t have said anything, not to Scar. But Scar shifts, then, moves his chair closer, and leans forward. “C’mon,” he murmurs, “c’mon, do you want a-” 

   He doesn’t have to finish his question. Grian’s already clinging to him. 

“It was when we came back,” he whispers.

   “Back?” 

“Back from, um - me and Pearl left,” Grian says into his neck, “when I came back from yours, we left because of him, we stayed with her friends, and then we came back, and he was there. And Pearl spoke to him and I heard it all. I heard it all,” 

   Scar’s put his hands in his hair, now, smoothing fingers through. “She told him - she said, she said Mama didn’t go missing, she said she probably killed herself because of you. She said that to him.” 

   “I know, I know,” Scar murmurs, resting his chin on his head. “I’m sorry, Grian.” 

Grian swallows. “Let’s have breakfast,” he says, voice crackly. 

   And Scar understands. 

He rests his chin on his head one moment more as if he’s relishing in the closeness of it all, and then he’s off, detaching, Grian leans gratefully back to his seat and watches as he goes to turn on the stove, carefully folding eggs with a spatula. “I hope you like scrambled eggs,” he says. “I can’t make them any other way without ruining them.”
  Grian smiles from his place at the table. “I like scrambled eggs,” he answers. “You’re fine.” 

So Scar comes to sit with two plates of eggs and toast, sets cups of water down next to them, and Grian sips hot coffee and puts forkfuls of egg into his mouth and watches Scar eat. It’s calm, and he likes that. He pulls his phone out of his jean pocket - Jesus, it’s been in there all night, pressed uncomfortably against his thigh, lingering on 20%. Pearl is calling. 

   He gives Scar a quick smile and picks up. 

“Hey, Pearlie,” 

   “Where are you?” 

Her voice comes sputtering through the speaker - Grian makes a face. “I’m at Scar’s,” he says, “He helped me back.” 

   There is a long, long pause. “That’s good,” Pearl says warily. “I’ve heard things about last night.” 

    “Serves me right for going to one of Scott’s parties,” he says honestly. “I knew this would happen.”
  “Alright,” mumbles Pearl. “I’m picking you up in 20 minutes.” 

“Nice. Thanks, Pearl, love you,”
  “Love you too, I’ll see you when I’m there.”

She hangs up the phone. “Pearls gonna pick me up in 20, is that okay?” 

   “All good,” replies Scar. He pauses. “Is she okay with you being here?” 

“She knows you’re safe,” Grian says without thinking. Scar wets his lips with his tongue. 

   “Okay,” he murmurs. 

Grian looks back down at his phone so he has something else to look at that isn’t Scar’s face. She knows you’re safe. You’re safe. God, that’s humiliating. He opens Instagram, a brief attempt to distract himself. 

   Scrolling quickly, there are a few dim-light photos of last night, one he doesn’t remember taking of him and Tango on the kitchen floor, pink and red makeup and the flash on, laughing at the camera. 

   Then; one from Ren - a silly photo of him all decked out in silver swirls, taken from above, grinning maniacally into the camera. He opens his account, sees REN DAWG!!!!! in massive letters, a stupid photo of him in dog ears at a Halloween party as the profile picture. He scrolls a few days back to find a mirror selfie - backstage, in the makeup mirrors. Him and Doc. 

And stops short. 

   Doc looks terrible. He’s pale, tan skin devoid of all colour, leaning towards Ren like he’s making sure he’ll catch him if he falls, smiling good-naturedly but without soul. His real eye is squinted and his prosthetic looks dull. Ren’s arm is wrapped securely around his waist like he too is aware of this. Grian swipes left. The next photo has a hint of a metal finger in the frame - Doc taking it, then, using Ren’s phone, and it’s Martyn in blue swirls, laughing at his own ridiculous costume as Lady Montague, holding Ren, silver-eyed Escalus, by the arm, caught in the moment. The camera is slanted and blurry. 

   Swipe. 

Martyn holding a fizzy drink from HCA’s cafeteria, smiling wide at the camera. Doc is beside him, putting on a shocked face for the picture. His eyebags are dark, dark violet. 

   Grian puts the phone down and helps Scar wash up the dishes before Pearl comes to get him. Scar’s quiet, smooth, soft, a quick hand brushing past the small of Grian’s back as he walks past with a cloth, leaning past his shoulder to put a glass away, all silent looks and green green green golden. 

    And the doorbell rings. 

“I’ll see you Monday,” says Grian, shutting a cabinet door. “Alright?” 

   He’s about to turn when Scar catches his wrist and he looks back. “Scar?” 

He looks at him for a moment like he’s trying to say something, but doesn’t know how. Wavering eyes, something soft flickering in his face. Eventually, he leans forwards and kisses him, short but sweet, light but meaningful. “I’ll see you Monday,” he repeats. 

Grian is stuck in the web of his gaze for one, last moment, and then he smiles and finds himself walking to the front door, patting his pocket to check for his phone, opening it to see Pearl in front of him. Her eyes stray behind him, but Scar has stayed in the kitchen, trusting him to leave on his own. “Come on, then,” she says, and he follows her out. 

   The car door slams. She sighs. “Did anything happen with Scar?” she asks. 

He yawns. “Got too drunk and acted like an idiot in front of him. Why?” 

   She pauses. 

Grian pauses. 

   “Pearl - why?” 

She sighs. “Somebody saw you two in the, um - the living room? Said you were standing awfully close.” 

    “Jesus. I need to be more careful-” 

“What does that even mean?” 

   She’s turned around now, searching his face. “Be more careful? There’s no reason for you to be hiding this, I don’t know why you’re-”

   Grian flares. “There’s no reason for you to be hiding whatever’s going on with you and G-”

He stops himself. Pearl’s face has fallen. 

   “Sorry,” he whispers. She turns back around and begins to drive.

Chapter Text

    Romeo casts all sorrowful, remorseful thoughts of Paris’s death away when he sees Juliet’s face. Soft yet angular, life carved out from her cheekbones, eyelashes fluttering on her cheeks. He longs for her green eyes, hidden by lids, but this is enough for him, to see hair droop over sharp shoulders and folds of fabric cling to her figure. This is enough for him. Her best dress, repurposed for her funeral. This is enough.

   “O, my love,” and the words punch desperately out of his mouth, “my wife.” 

    He doesn’t regret marrying her one bit. They’re intertwined, by fate, by the stars, cosmically linked. There is no world in which he will not meet her, no world in which he will not fall for her, no world in which she will not fall back. No world in which they can stay away from each other. Romeo wonders if there is a world where they can stay safe together, a world with a happy ending.

“Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty,” he whispers. “Thou art not conquered,” and that brings a shaky smile to his lips, Juliet is - was was was was was - too strong to be conquered, she never lost a fight. “Beauty’s ensign yet is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, and death’s pale flag is not advanced there.”

   He tears his eyes away from her, to be confronted by Tybalt beside her, cousins recently deceased, separate coffins but never separate tombs. His face is white and vacant. Romeo feels no regret. “Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?” he breathes, “O, what more favour can I do to thee, than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain to sunder his that was thine enemy?” 

   A stab of sadness. No regret, but pain persists. “Forgive me, cousin,” Romeo mutters. He turns back to his love, to her sleeping corse, her gentle form. Her hands are laid on her chest, the image of death, and he hates it. He takes them in his as gently as he can, presses them to his lips, holds back a deadly sob. 

“Ah, dear Juliet,” he whispers, agony, “Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous, and that the lean abhorred monster keeps thee here in dark to be his paramour?”

   Finally, Romeo runs an easy finger under Juliet’s chin, caresses her face. She’s so beautiful like this, he thinks he’d find her beautiful even possessed by the Devil, even a murderer or a witch. Her skin is paler than he’s used to, dotted with freckles, golden in the dim light of the tomb. He can feel the bottle of poison, soft but sharp, light but heavy, in his pocket. It hurts.

   Her lips stand out, dark, against pale skin. He wishes desperately in that moment to be able to kiss them, to feel them smile against him, full of life. Impossible. 

   “For fear of that I shall stay with thee, and never from this palace of dim night depart again.” He swallows as the reality of his words hit him. “Here, here I will remain, with worms that are thy chambermaids. O, here will I set up my everlasting rest, and shake the hole of inauspicious stars from this world-wearied flesh.”

   Maybe, if he waits just a little longer, she will open her eyes. She will, she will, golden green eyes, and smile with her beautiful pink mouth, and exclaim in seeing him. Maybe it is all a horrible, terrible mistake. 

“Eyes, look your last,” Romeo breathes, drenched in grief. “Arms, take your-“

   And he is enveloped in darkness. Romeo reels, screams, feels himself stumble in it, and oh. 

   Grian holds a hand over his heart in an effort to calm himself. It’s racing - all he can hear is his own heavy breathing, but it’s muddled with - with someone else’s - and there are sobs. Somebody is crying.

    “Doc?” he calls, “Doc? Everything alright?” 

And then - then, his heart drops. What if it happens when you’re on stage? 

    “Doc!” he shouts, and finds himself stumbling in the dark of the stage, where is he? He’s going to fall on the raked stage, it’s unsteady beneath his feet. There’s - and he feels his eyes focus, there’s somebody’s trembling form on the floor backstage, next to the controls for the lights, hands and knees, deep, guttural sounds. 

    “Please-“

“Doc-“ Grian is on the floor as well, hands tentative on shoulders, he thinks they’re shoulders, it’s all so dark, one of them is cold metal so it must be shoulders-

   “It’s so bright, please,” Doc sobs, “I - please, there are so many colours, they won’t stop,” 

    “It’s okay,” Grian chokes out, ”It’s okay, Doc, do you - what do you - I-“ 

Doc grabs onto his own shoulders with surprising strength and desperation, electric brr-ing as metal fingers clasp. In the dark, Grian sees a flash of his eyes - wild and too-bright, one glowing red and the other a frightened shade of brown. “Please, Ro - please - please help me,” he begs, “it’s all - it’s so bright, it hurts, it’s so bright-”

    Ren. 

Ren’s coming to the theatre next to work out his monologue with Doc, he’s notoriously early for rehearsals, maybe he’s outside, Grian swallows down his terror, “I’m going to get help, Doc, I’m going to get help, okay? I’m gonna - I’m gonna-“

   When he stands, Doc’s hands slide off of his shoulders and he crumples further to the floor, whimpering. He’s in pain. Grian flees like the coward he is, feeling his way towards the back door, hearing cries ring out behind him, Doc is saying please stay - he bursts into the car park, stumbling through the darkness of the night, shoes dragging loud on the ground, and he screams Ren’s name. Couldn’t they have practised the scene at school, where he doesn’t feel so isolated? 

   It isn’t the smartest decision to scream, but Grian is running into the night and a car door opens and he’s not alone anymore, Ren has heard him, Ren is here, Ren is- 

   “Grian - Grian, Grian, listen to me. You need to tell me what’s happening,” 

“It’s Doc,” Grian chokes out, and watches Ren’s breath catch. He goes white in the face. “He’s - he’s backstage,” 

   “What happened?” asks Ren, and it’s clear he already knows. He’s staring past Grian at the door. 

   “He said it was too bright,” Grian breathes, “but he’d turned the lights off.” 

Ren’s past him in half a second, a quick pat on the shoulder and he’s off as fast as he can. It’s serious, then, Doc is the priority, because Ren is all caring and quick and gentle and if it wasn’t serious he would have stayed in the car park with him. Grian sways, stumbles, sits clumsily down on the tarmac, scraping his palms on the way. He stares at them. He stares at-

    “Doc,” Ren is saying like a mantra, “Doc, it’s me. It’s me, Doc. It’s me, you’re okay, it’s me,” 

The lights are on. Doc’s face is buried in his neck. Ren tightens his arms around him and shuffles further up against the wall. “You’re okay,” he whispers. “You’re okay.” 

   His breathing is slowing. “I’m okay?”
“You’re okay,” and Ren pulls a hand through his hair, setting it on the back of his neck. “You scared Grian half to death.” 

   “Oh,” murmurs Doc. “Oh, God.” 

“You’re okay,” Ren repeats. He’s saying it more for himself than for Doc at this point. He holds him tighter. “You’re okay. I’m here.” 

   “It was all so bright,” Doc breathes. “It hurt so much. Ren, it hurt so much.” 

Ren says nothing. He says nothing of the silver makeup swirling into his dreams, nothing of the guilt permeating his existence in every scene, nothing of the blue power flowing in his veins. “You’re okay,” he says finally, feeling tears bead in the corners of his eyes, holding Doc firmly by his back and his neck. “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.” 

   “I’m okay,” Doc repeats. He sounds unsure.

  “Grian,” echoes in the air. “Grian. Grian.” 

Xisuma helps pull him up to stand, and he’s holding one of his hands now, examining the graze. “How did this happen? You’re meant to be practising your monologue with Doc, didn’t-”
  “Why’re you here?” 

“I drove Ren. What happened?” 

   Grian opens his mouth, closes it. “We ended early,” he lies. 

Xisuma stares at him unblinking, and looks like he’s about to call his bluff before his phone rings once and goes silent. “Hang on,” he mutters, Grian Sees him, he knows it’s Ren, and when Xisuma checks his phone something in his face changes. He shuts it off quickly. “Do you know how you’re getting home?” 

   Grian is lost for a moment. Doc drove him, was going to drive him back, but now he’s not sure if he wants to go back in, not sure if Doc is even fit to drive anymore. “No.”

   Xisuma frowns. “Do you need a ride?” 

He swallows. “Yeah,” and Xisuma helps him to the car, a careful arm around his shoulders. 

He’s in the back seat, and X sits with him for a second, reaching into the storage pocket on the back of a seat and pulling out a little red bag. “I have antiseptic wipes,” he mumbles. In the dim light of the car Grian remembers how he’s only a few years older than Pearl. He doesn’t look young, but he doesn’t look old either. He bites back a scowl or a hiss as Xisuma carefully wipes down his palms. “You alright?” 

   “I’m alright,” he mumbles, and Xisuma slips out of the seat and walks ‘round to the driver’s. “Thank you,” Grian calls. 

   “Whereabouts do I need to drop you?”  

“I’m about 20 minutes from HCA, around Mineplex,” he says, gingerly doing up his seatbelt. Xisuma nods, quiet. Grian begins to cast his eyes around the car. It’s not an expensive one, but a sturdy one. The red bag still lying on the seat beside him has plasters and bandages inside as well, spilling half onto the seat. He closes his eyes and breathes, calming himself down, because he can’t pull the same stupid shit he did with Scar in the car. He has to go home even if his dad is in the house. No inconveniencing the director of his bloody play, that’s too much. 

    Way too much. “Here?” Xisuma asks.

“Yeah, just pull in there, that’s my road,” 

   “Alright,” and the car brakes and parks. Grian takes a long, deep breath, catching himself. 

“You okay?” Xisuma says from the front seat.    

   “All good,” he mutters. Xisuma frowns, he can tell just from the tone of his voice. 

“I worry about you, Grian,” he says then, and it’s sincere. Grian swallows a lump in his throat. 

   “Thank you for driving me,” he replies, and he gets out of the car. Xisuma stays until he walks into his driveway, and then he hears the engine as he drives away. 

He opens and closes the door as quietly as he can, treading softly up the stairs and tiptoeing on the landing, but he doesn’t spend more than five minutes in his own room putting on his pyjamas before he’s walking silently to Pearl’s bedroom, slipping inside. “Pearl?” he whispers. 

   She rolls over in bed, “G?” and sees him in his pyjamas. “Oh, come on,” she mumbles, yawning, and shuffles to the wall, holding the blanket up for him. He comes under it gratefully, into the warmth, the forgiveness.

   “Thanks, Pearlie,” he whispers, and she doesn’t respond, already asleep again. But he lies awake for longer than he’d like to.