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Windchimes giggle in the glowing afternoon, the sudden pick up of a chilly breeze tickling the silver metal. The sun is nearing to kiss the horizon a farewell and the white clouds merely scatter throughout the sky. Stars begin to show themselves, peeking through the blue as pale freckles.
A low hum of a nothing melody wafts through the open windows. Old floorboards creak beneath shifting weight, and cicadas which lurk within the wild grass sing along.
Something with such warmth buzzes within Scar’s chest. Despite the steady throb in his leg, echoing against his knee and kicking in his thigh, his shoulders are slouched, body leaning forward against the wooden table. His elbows press onto the surface, hands keeping his head up, all to continue seeing a man sway himself through the kitchen.
He’s not really doing anything. Dinner was early, their bones nagging for a sooner rest, and they worked together through the dishes and tidying. The hums seem never ending, and Scar feels like he can lay upon the table instead of their bed to sleep.
Scar’s eyelids slip shut. But just for a second, he swears.
A small poke jabs at Scar’s shoulder and he blinks his eyes open, looking up. The sunlight pours around the man’s frame and the wind brushes against them both. The curtains ruffle from another breeze and a hand settles itself on the side of Scar’s cheek.
It’s rough, fingertips chilled, but his palm is warm and the caress is nothing else but familiar. Hours of work are burned into this hand, into the ridges and calloused skin. Scar brings up his own to cover it and turns his head slowly, lips pressing into the loving flesh. His eyes stay connected, and he watches as Grian’s smile softens further. Along with the feel of this man’s hands, the very expression is something Scar has seen only himself.
“Scar,” and along with the expression, his voice only ever turns breathy within their privacy, “still tired?”
Scar runs his thumb over Grian’s knuckles, “I should ask you. You’re the one dancing ,” Grian scoffs. “Are you still tired?” Scar tilts his head into their hands.
“Yeah.” Grian said. He brings up his free hand and slowly retracts the other, now offering leverage to Scar. Scar takes it and pulls himself onto his feet. The throb aches and he stumbles forward, Grian moving his arms quickly to hold him up right.
And despite this, the shuffling and aching, Scar leans into Grian knowing he can hold him. They talk in hushed conversation, even though the house holds nothing but them, and giggles filter the hallway. When the windows are eventually pulled shut, two bodies crawl under soft blankets and huddle until they lie flushed together. Scar tucks himself under Grian’s chin, nose burrowed against his collarbone, and allows himself to simply breathe.