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He can see it already.
Red sweater, parading across bridges of wood and stone with that careful air of confidence.
Red sweater, looming ten steps below pink blossoms with nothing but shrewd intent.
Red sweater, twisting out of this and that with too many lives to spare.
Something metallic baked into the scent of waffles; an arrow wedged at the source of red, red, red.
Yes, Scar thinks elatedly, that will do it.
The challenge, as always, is how to get there. And oh, has today been enough of a challenge already — what was it now, 6? 7 failed traps? Those have never been Scar’s A-game, but he has to admit, this is real embarrassing, even for him.
(This must be how Grian had felt back then, when he’d put his all into orchestrating cold-blooded murders for both their sakes. Or perhaps just his own.)
Unluckily for Scar’s current victim, his dearest victim, he’s nothing if not determined. Grian knows, of course, likely knew even before Scar accidentally destroyed the minecart TNT by the other’s feet — not just of the dark-green target on Grian’s back, but the one woven with sand castles and magic crystals, double curses and broken promises.
As if there was ever any point in keeping anything from each other, anyhow. Their eyes meet each time, pitless black against forest green, and by this stage Scar is well-practised at biting down the chill that runs through his veins. He’s learned to revel in Grian’s attention, to catch that ray of brilliance that’s always feeding, always inquiring, and take it for the wilting patches of his heart.
He watches Grian now, a few paces away. The blond bridges precariously over a decent drop off the cherry cliff, having it uphold some contraption for his hopeless teammates to pounce on a kill. Funny how history repeats itself, huh?
Scar toys absently with the fishing rod in his hands. Echoes of their exchange just a minute ago continue to bounce around his mind.
“Want me to just stand here?” Grian had said. It was in that terrible, soft tone he only used when he knew exactly what you wanted, and that he would keep it from you, take it from you if he pleased. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, black eyes bright and taunting.
He had no fear, not with Scar, not like this.
(Makes sense, of course it makes sense. There had been days upon weeks of chances Scar could have taken against a turned back in a raging desert, but wouldn’t.)
At that moment, after a few failed attempts of hooking Grian up and away with his rod, Scar so wished to just wring his neck instead — coil the fishing wire tight around fair skin, pull until red drops verged into tiny streams and then watch him collapse in Scar’s arms! It would have been so much quicker, not to mention more fun. But boo, everyone knew Scar couldn’t win in a fair fight up close with Grian, and Scar would never pick one.
So here he is, languidly raising the fishing stick once more. His current position is only the perfect opportunity for more cheap attempts at a cheap kill, after all. There’s no need to rush now.
He casts the reel carelessly — desperately, in their eyes — five more times, missing all five. Mumbo guffaws from ahead like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.
“I’ve never felt more secure in my entire life,” Mumbo says, wiping phantom tears. Scar swallows down a grin. He sets the rod aside in lieu of taking a mental break.
Two meters away, Skizz has his eyes set somewhere that is definitely not Grian’s back, where they’re supposed to be. Probably on Tango, who’s apparently infiltrating one of their many stupid layers of bridge. All the better for Scar.
He nocks an arrow into his bow. Not quite hOtgUY, but it would have to do.
He misses the first shot. Huh. Scar brushes off the paper cut that threatens his ego. He’s in a relatively new world, after all, he’s still got this. Right?
… Right. Grian isn’t even sparing a glance back, anyway. The waffle faces side-on, Grian crouched to continue placing slabs of spruce.
Scar’s lip curls. He lets another arrow fly.
Ding. It sounds in his head.
He’s already turning away, not bothering to wait for the frantic yelp of a falling man or his stunned comrades. Scar carefully treks back up the mountain, stepping between delicate pink petals and iron tracks littering the floor. A smile gradually stretches his face until it almost hurts. There’s a manic satisfaction boiling within him and it feels good.
“OI!” sounds behind him, seconds later. “ That was our friend you just killed!”
And Scar chuckles, keeps chuckling as he passes through the mascots of his home, as he feels a familiar sword slashing across his back — good, good, more decoration to his name! — and he hears a “YOU!” and laughs even harder because oh, god, Grian is furious and it’s all so funny.
His beloved reputation board is destroyed, and perhaps Scar could have some presence of mind to feel pity for himself, but riding this euphoria is too addictive to let go of just yet (the Bamboozlers would have to really work for a rollercoaster that surpasses this feeling, he thinks distantly). It’s really something else, to be spat at with, “That’s how little I think of your board,” and know that it doesn’t matter; Grian’s reaction never would have mattered, because they’re even now.
His lips are still twitching when time is paused for the night. When all is still aside from the players of this game, Scar rolls over in bed to face a scorching glare. The sun, relentless in its presence. Wonderful and beautiful.
He presses close. Grian jabs a finger into his bare chest.
“I am going to kill you. ”
“Oh, I know, I know,” Scar hums happily.
“ Why do I even–!” Grian grumbles and turns back around. “Whatever.”
Scar flops his arm over a red-sweatered waist and grins.
(Bonus: the next day.
“... Grian.”
“Good morning, Mumbo.”
“Where… did you just come from?”
“Where does it look like I just came from?”
“Grian, were you sleeping with Scar? ”
“Yes, Mumbo, and it’s not exactly news to anyone else, do keep up.”
“ Grian– I– he’s our enemy, Grian! He killed you!”
“And we have an agreement, I’m going to kill him and Jimmy back when the time comes, until they’re both done and dead, and it’s all going to be a-okay.”
“I cannot believe– genuinely–”
“Oh, you know you’ll always be my best friend, don’t you worry. Anyway, where on earth is Skizz?”
“That’s not– oh, gosh, alright. I don’t know where Skizz is.”
“Well, come on, let's go find him. I have plans for today.”)