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There's something watching.
As they walk through this desolate landscape. Not a soul in sight.
Yet something watches.
Past buildings and cars that have started to rust and decay. Not a soul in sight among the slow erosion of what used to be.
Something watches.
It’s different from the unease you get before a vex’s shriek. Different from the eyes watching you as you fail. It’s a prickling at the back of your neck, something that screams danger, yet you can only hear the whispers. It’s unclear whether it’s a blessing or a curse that the scream never gets louder. You have outrun danger for now, but it still lurks.
Watching.
There are no other eyes except his. That startling green that brings so much warmth. The watcher knows he cannot bring such comfort. You cannot find warmth in the void.
Something is watching, yet it is not the watcher.
He does not like something else watching them.
Watching what is his.
It watches yet he does not see anything except those green eyes.
Those green eyes that loved to be watched.They revel in the game of putting on a show. There's always a glint to them whenever he gets a chance to spin another tale, another lie. Those green eyes have not known watching the same way the watcher has.
He can only be glad for that.
The watcher quite likes his companion’s stories.
They keep him from wanting to watch more.
He is a watcher, yet it feels wrong to watch. Wrong to see things he is not privy to, the small routines and actions of the other survivors they encounter. Like the prickling on the back of his neck, but it has spread to the rest of his body.
The watcher does not like to watch.
It’s all he knows.
Words often allude him; you cannot be a good watcher if you are not silent.
His companion does not mind the silence. At least not to his knowledge. They have to be quiet on the road anyway. Smaller threats are listening.
When they’re safe, holed up for the night away from the dangers of the world, the watcher tries his hand at listening. Each night he curls up against his companion’s side and those green eyes will light up as he starts to tell a story. Sometimes it’s something new, sometimes it’s not, most of the time it’s made up, occasionally it's real.
The watcher listens regardless.
He has never been taught how to listen properly and does not know if he’s doing it wrong.
But his companion smiles when the watcher nods his head, when the small hums and wide eyes show he’s still listening.
Maybe, this once, it’s okay to not know something.
When the story has ended, when the watcher has been lulled to sleep by the tale, it replays in his head. To let him watch instead of listen.
The watcher wakes up in the middle of the night.
Something is wrong. He feels weird and something has to be wrong. He’s never felt this before. Something is wrong.
The watcher jumps from the sleeping bag, ignoring the way it makes his legs ache as he circles the room. He checks that their supplies have not been disturbed, he checks the wooden planks over the windows, the hastily made barricade in front of the door. Nothing.
Something still feels wrong.
On the watcher's third lap of the space there’s a rustling from the sleeping bag that causes him to whip around.
There is no danger.
Only a mop of sleep muse brown hair rising from the sleeping bag. A scared arm pushes away the hair to reveal sleepy green eyes.
“Birdie?” a voice mumbles,
No, not just a voice.
Scar.
The watcher relaxes.
He’s not so much of a watcher anymore.
He’s Grian.
Scar’s birdie.
Grian’s shoulders drop, trudging back to the sleeping bag and tucking himself into Scar’s chest. An all too familiar gesture already being formed by his hands. His fingers curled into an almost claw-like position as he shakes it back and forth over his mouth.
“Sorry,” Grian signs, his hand only stopping the movement when Scar captures his wrist in a gentle embrace. Grian brings his hand back down to his chest, curling it around Scar’s as he holds both their hands in the space above his heart.
“There’s no need to be sorry Birdie,” Scar murmurs, squeezing Grian’s hand, “your just looking out for me, yeah?” Scar’s voice is so impossibly warm, Grian almost feels like he’s been set alight. Grian nods before quickly shoving his face into Scar’s chest, not ready to see the warmth in his eyes.
Scar chuckles, letting go of Grian’s hand to hold him closer against his chest.
“You’ve made a wonderful protector Birdie,” Scar says, pressing his lips to the crown of Grian’s head, “but it’s my turn now, get some rest okay.”
Encased in the warm embrace of Scar’s arms, Grian can’t bother to protest.
There is no danger.
Scar is his safety.
So Grian falls asleep.