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Grian swung his feet over the side of the cliff, looking out at the blue sky. How it will stay forever. It doesn’t matter; the blond still never grows tired of it. He never paid attention at the time, so now he tries to soak up as much as possible. Most of the world is still left unexplored, stories that haven’t been completely pieced together. And yet, whenever he leaves, it’s only with puffy eyes and sand under his nails. Well, he’s not too interested in everyone’s stories anyway, the others talk about their time here enough.
A desert wind sweeps by, ruffling the feathers on his wings. The familiar chill warms his heart, and Grian knows he’ll have to hide his tears when he gets back. Even if Mumbo watches with knowing sympathy, and Bdubs has to help get all the sand off, Grian will still pretend he was somewhere else. And everyone will nod along, because Scar can’t know, couldn’t. Until now, of course. Now that it is inevitable, any day now, Scar will see the mess Grian still is, four seasons later, about an inconsequential death.
He didn’t just like the wind because of the chill, though. No, he also liked it because it’s one of the only things that would clean his wings, even a little bit. There was water elsewhere, of course, but sometimes Scar’s antics would leave them trapped, counting days until everyone’s aggression might have worn off. Then, all Grian had was the wind. And Scar’s hands, dusting off every feather. The wind and Scar’s humming. Grian, the blaring sun, a huge landmine. The wind and Scar’s hands.
The blond heard footsteps behind him, filling the large silence. He already knew who it was --the only other person that would be here. Grian expected some greeting, some dumb joke to start off a conversation. But it never came, the person never even shifted to make more noise, and Grian’s throat was tightening up the more he thought.
“You won a while ago,” he decides to start instead, trying to keep his voice steady. “Decide to see everything else first?”
Scar finally moves, taking a seat next to him. Grian involuntarily relaxes at the familiarity. “No,” Scar sighs after the movement. “This was my first stop.”
There’s a silence as Grian nervously avoids looking at the other, avoids the implication. The crater always looked so small from above. He would be the only one to remember something like that.
“Took you that long to explore everything?” The joke doesn’t really sound right. It’s followed by a dry, strained chuckle, that somehow doesn’t fit this place.
Scar ignores the joke-or maybe didn’t catch on to it- because he answers terribly honest. “Actually, this is the first place I went. Took a while to..get here, I guess.”
Grian should leave. While he can still speak, while the dust is still in his feathers and it wasn’t so horribly obvious why he wanted to stay. Scar, despite usually being oblivious, notices everything about the blond. What Grian’s plans are, how he’s feeling or what he’s thinking --Scar sees it all at a glance. The less he got to see, the better.
“We’re in our old outfits,” Scar quietly observes. Grian can feel the other’s eyes on him, waiting for the prankster to look over. Or just be normal, be the Grian he tries to be now. He can bridge and intertwine now and then together. Just for a little bit.
“Yeah,” he chuckles, glancing over. “You still don’t have a shirt on.”
“Hey, there’s a cloak on over these muscles now,” Scar replies, dragging out the last word. Grian can see Scar gesturing dramatically in his peripheral and hear the smile in his voice. That’s true-- the other had the decency to throw something on before their last fight. Their last fight.
“But that’s all,” the blond laughs. “I’m surprised you hardly got sunburned.” The joke doesn’t come out strained, he’s the Grian from now, not then. The blaring sun. That’s still so bright now, so stuffy because of his red sweater. He would roll up the sleeves but can’t look. At least it’s red.
“Well, of course! I don’t need some cloak to shade me,” the other insisted, just as loud as usual. He wasn’t talking quieter. The cloak, the same one Grian saw in the sand. Torn up and stained red, just how it’d look now. If Grian looked over. Like he looked down at a motionless figure in the sand. Or the crater and a clear sky.
And then there’s a familiar wetness on Grian’s cheek, something he tried so hard to hold back. And as the tears drop, discoloring the sand they touch, he wants to wipe them, make everything stop, but it’s too dusty for such a simple task. So he tries to stay quiet instead, ignoring the lump in his throat. His wings close in, though, and it’s useless, because Scar’s already noticed. The brunet is pulling him close, whispering things Grian can’t understand over choked-out sobs. And the blond lets himself get pulled, head on a ghost’s shoulder, the wind holding him close. There’s a head next to his and murmured promises into his shoulder, about their future and now. Grian’s arms are wrapped around Scar, holding on desperately, the pair just a tangle of limbs now.
“I’m sorry,” the blond finally chokes out. He starts repeating it over and over, even when his mouth is dry and the words cut each other off. When the words become so unintelligible he can’t understand himself, and Scar tries his best to console him, Grian still repeats them, gasping for air. Eventually, they become whispers, and he can’t cry anymore. He’s dead weight in Scar’s arms, tucked into his shoulder and listening to the quiet once again. The world is silent around the two, something Grian hasn’t experienced in years. Something greatly missed. The desert falls around them again. A slight wind blows as Scar fixes his feathers, and-
“This is how it should have been,” he mumbles into the brunet’s shoulder. There’s a silence, and Grian starts to not expect a reply.
“Maybe,” Scar finally says, still toying with the feathers. Grian shakes his head, sitting up to look at Scar and make him understand. The action startles the other, and he quickly retracts his hands.
“No, it should have,” the blond insists.
The brunet gives him a loopy smile and sighs. “Maybe,” he starts. “But it’s not.” And when Grian starts to look away with a dejected face, Scar takes his hand, forcing him to look up.
“But I’m still alive, and we’re sitting here together. And it can always be like this, even if it’s not the same.” He lifts the blond’s hand to his tanned face and gives a determined look. “And I promise you, something like that will never happen again.”
Grian can’t find a reply, only looking at Scar in awe, before laying back in his arms. Scar resumes pruning his feathers, as if there was no interruption. They start talking about the small things. Small things Grian can’t remember, as he starts to fall asleep, content and exhausted.