Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The day Grian considers himself a married man is an entirely mundane affair.

“Right, so then he kept asking me all of these questions!”

“Mhm.”

“And you know, I’d like to think I answered them well, but the guy across wasn't looking too happy to see me.”

Fifteen past twelve is when Grian finds himself — sitting in his office cubicle slumped over his laptop, break time all but abandoned in favour of other matters.

It’s a bit of a slow day, if he’s being honest, so an extended phone call with Scar in the middle of his job was reasonable enough. Given the fact that it’s the end of the year, he’ll take any kind of reprieve as a mercy.

“And how old was this kid, exactly? Surely at their big age he’d have a bit more tact,” Scar says, voice lilting.

“If my memory serves me right, sixteen,” Grian says, despairingly. “It never doesn’t surprise me, with how daft they can be sometimes. You’d think they’d have a little more sense in their developing noggins at this point in their lives, but no dice. I gave them chances, too! Covered the syllabus on what they needed to do for their final — thrice.”

In front of him is his work anointed laptop, age-old and fighting for its life on the crappy school wifi as it downloads the slides for his next class’ material. Beside all of that is his mug of tea, placed haphazardly next to a set of ceramic miniature fish sculptures, a trio of cod glazed with red paint, holding a stack of his future problems in place.

A beautiful display, had it not been in the context of the weight of his ungraded papers, multiple pounds of which rest on top of his table.

He’ll find time for them! Eventually. It's about the journey of the whole thing, more rewarding once he gets other assets of his life in order.

“Oh man, that must've been awful, I imagine,” Scar says, emphatic.

“Dang right. These kids, man — all sorts of trouble, I tell you.” Grian huffs out, leaning back into his office chair, sticking his tongue out all the while. “At that point, any pitfalls they get into are entirely their own fault. I can’t be condemned for that.”

There are other, more important things to focus on, like his phone on one hand— pressed tight against his ear as speaks into it, or the other — begrudgingly typing out an email to his supervisor to get his final exam approved. As it is, as much of a wonderful distraction as Scar is, the rest of what he’s working on is not doing too hot. A precursory glance was all you'd need to know just how far below the industry standard it was.

In his defense, he was just starting to draft something out, so he was cutting himself a little slack. There's no need to be so precious with it — grammatical structure was overrated, anyway.

“True, but the little guys would find a way to blame us anyway,” Scar tuts, smooth baritone matching his pity.

Then, Scar pauses for a moment, catching a memory of something. “You know, the other day, a kid got it in his head that I wouldn’t notice them plagiarising the front page of a paper that was cited over a hundred times. It was a thousand word essay at most — Plenty reasonable, I’d thought! Somehow, they still went along with it, thinking it was a good idea to bend around the rules.”

“No…,” Grian mock gasps, mildly scandalised.

“Oh, but it is,” he confirms. “You and I understand the joys of teaching quite well now, don't we?”

At the mention of it, a full body shiver wracks through him. They’ve been doing this for years now, but it doesn’t get much easier. Scar takes note of it.

“Sorry, sore spot?”

“Urruugh,” Grian replies, eloquently.

Idle chatter bounces around the faculty office, and the sound of heavy objects being hauled in and out reverberates with every hefty drop, presumably the latest props made for something in the art department. Curiosity tells him to look over and remark about it, but he’s halfway through the school day and his energy is barely enough to focus on what he’s doing as is, fighting for his life to grade papers for over a hundred students.

He loves his job, but to say that it was rough was an understatement.

Over half a decade in the education industry, and the most important thing his experience had taught him was the importance of building resilience above anything else. It was always going to be a necessity regardless of anything, but the holiday season was made that especially clear — to have a particular breed of misery built to beat into you.

To be fair, that’s how it is in most months of the year, but the wintertime is rife with activity for an extensive list of reasons, leaving his admittedly kind of boring class requirements on the backburner.

It’s all a mess, from the absurd amount of unnecessary requirements he needs to write in for assessments, to the last minute emails of students announcing their early absence in places much nicer than his paycheck can afford. Most weeks, idiocracy like that would get some kind of rise out of him, honesty being important and all. But when every other student was using some method or the other to cheat themselves out of a good paper, he couldn’t find it in himself to give much of an individual damn. At this point, it's all turned to mush.

Their grades will be compromised because of this, but if nothing else, he could at least sympathise with not wanting to finish seven essays in a week, not dealing quite so well with the increased workload himself.

“At the rate things are going, I’ll be dead on my feet by the end of the week.”

From the other line, Scar chuckles.

“Look on the bright side, at least you don’t have to think nearly as much soon enough. Ole Scar here can barely get it on without a certain British fellow to set him straight.”

“Yerp.” He nods along without much thought, eyes stuttering. A deep exhaustion weighs on him as he thinks of everything he has to do.

Then, after a moment of processing what he had just said: “Scar,” Grian says, positively miffed.

“Don’t you start!”

The head of the science department — Etho, peeks over the divider surrounding his cubicle, an eyebrow raised. Silently, he points to a poster of a muscled cat telling him to hang in there. In response, Grian’s eye twitches lightly.

Had he not been on call, he’d like to admonish him and say no, the silly cat poster does not help. Actually, because of this transgression, I am going to become a bedraggled fisherman and live the rest of my days offshore catching salmon or cod or whatever it is you find by the edge of the ocean instead of finishing my assignments so your department will be catching up together forever, where all of this misery will be in no small part thanks to you.

He tries to convey this sentiment through sight alone. Etho briefly glances by him, shrugs, and walks off.

“Oh come off it, don’t play dumb with me now. I’m at work.”

“I’ll have you know that I,” Scar says, taking a moment of silence for dramatic effect, “am very, very, sleepy. Clearly, I’m not in my right mind.” To well and truly hammer his supposed exhaustion, he yawns, all exaggerated and cartoony in its cadence, to which Grian huffs in indignation. Behind his eyelids, an image manifests before he can will it to stop: Scar with a nightgown and matching hat, one eye closed and the other open, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, ringing in all kinds of wicked evils. He shivers.

“Scar,” he says again, snapping to reality with his best flat affect.

“Grian…” he responds back, so sly it’s almost sweet.

An anticipatory pause comes after. Scar more than likely has a monstrous grin.

To be fair, it is a mutual habit, the bastards they are — but Scar loves to say these sorts of things at the most inopportune of times.

He itches to do something about it, but it's not quite late enough for his tolerance of silliness to be lowered to such non-respectable degrees. He’s at work — there has to be some professionalism spared at least.

Against his better judgement, Grian relents.

“Whatever,” he mumbles out, metaphorically raising his white flag.

“Pfft.”

From the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Bdubs look at him funny. He also points to the cat poster, albeit more rigorously. Grian makes a point to look absolutely peeved at him. He’s not in the mood to be patronised by something he made to annoy other people.

“You,” Grian tuts to the screen with great emphasis, “are a menace.”

Scar snickers. “You love it.”

Grian blows a raspberry in response. Scar gasps in mock offense, before falling silent.

For a moment, neither of them say anything. Pulling his best stone face, he refuses to fall for his ploy. Scar sneaks out a snippet of what might be a giggle, then all too quickly the tension breaks — a burst of laughter erupts from them both. Grian’s eyes crinkle as they do, the other’s windshield laugh filling the space between his ears and his mind.

It lasts a few seconds at most, but when his palm brushes against his cheek, it feels warm.

“What have you been doin’, anyway?” Grian asks, once they settle down. “Aside from what you've already told me, that is.”

The email he needed to send is halfway to being properly typed out now, a hundred words or so words of red lined, professional, faux-niceties. All that’s left to do is to send it, and hope that upper management will grace him with acceptance and not dare to admonish him with a slurry of thinly veiled insults implicitly directed to his entire being.

“Oh you know, the usual, the usual. Just work stuff. You know how it is.”

“And nothing else?”

“Nope,” Scar says, popping the p. “I mean, unless you wanna hear me organize my hospital records.”

“Those are for your documents?”

“Mhm,” he hums, “you interested?”

Grian stops to think, almost contemplative — as if seeing his highschool report cards really could have held all the secrets of the universe. “A tempting prospect, but I’d rather suffer through my excel sheets, thank you.”

Scar makes a noise of acknowledgment as Grian takes a sip of his tea, chewing thoughtfully.

While he hasn’t had any major life events happening as of late, Scar has been doing quite the opposite.

When they first met, one of the first things that Scar told him was his dream to live overseas. He’s been working overtime for a good half decade to attempt to get his worker's visa, and it’s been a hell of a process. Now, a full two years of work later, he's right on the edge of grasping his dream, and Grian has never been happier to see it.

Embarrassingly, he feels a twinge of jealousy finding his own achievements lackluster.

Make no mistake, he's proud of his job and what he does, but his life is nothing to write home about. What’s his grand equivalent of moving across the world? Of brand new prospects and opportunities? Battling against the odds? Nothing, as far as he's aware. Grian's not exactly a homebody, but the furthest he’s been from his hometown in any recent times was at a slightly more provincial area in town — an hour or so over to meet with some friends.

Now that he’s thought about it, even that hasn't been happening as often as he'd like. He should visit them.

“How have you been, then?” Grian asks while peeling off a sticky note. Call Tim and the gang up, he writes, then languidly places it on the wall of his cubicle, smack dab in the middle.

No response comes from the other line. Their calls often end up like this, push and pull with quiet and loudness, so it's just casual, no bits. Though, there have been a couple of times where he's straight up forgotten to see if Scar was still lucid on the screen. Grian checks if the call is still ongoing, which it is. Good, but a small sense of worry rests on the back of his neck.

“Scar?” he asks once more, quietly. “You okay over there?”

After a straight minute of silence, Scar speaks. “I, uh… yeah. It's fine.”

“Bad health day?” If it was, it wouldn't have been the first time. He’d rather check for the worst case scenario first.

A tired chuckle flows out. The way he says it attempts to sound carefree, but it’s off. “No, not that — I’m feeling okay.”

“What's wrong then?” He cups a hand around the speaker to reduce the noise, pulling his phone closer to himself. It makes the officer quieter in the dull open air, and helps him with overstimulation sometimes.

“Just being a bit of a worry bug, is all.”

Ah, that's it. Grian groans out in exasperation. “Scar, I’ll be the worry bug if you keep saying things like that.”

“Can't a guy ponder in peace?”

“Not if I can help it, knowing you and your tricks.” Deflecting as a prime example of it.

“I’m doin’ wonderful, G. Don’t you worry your pretty little head.”

For what it’s worth, Grian doesn’t believe him. It’s a possibility that he’s overthinking it, but he also knows him and his tendencies, self-neglect included. The way he says it comes off fake — with all the makings of his classic showman charm.

“What’s on your mind then?” It’s deceptively stern, considering how softly he says it. Bad health days were never great.

“Nothing to be all up in arms about.” At Grian’s silence, Scar winces. “Okay, well — In your arms, I mean. But not literally, obviously.”

“Scar, what are you —”

Scar continues before Grian can finish his sentence. “Though, maybe it would be nice to be in someone else’s arms. Like a change of pace, kinda!”

There, his thoughts stop dead in their tracks. “...And why is that?” he asks, slowly dragging each word along.

Over the years, Grian has had the invaluable pleasure of opening him up and reading him piece by piece. As long as he’s known him, Scar has had a certain air of reticence that circled him. It's why Grian likes him — Scar had quirks, things that all too easily became avenues to many a great late night conversation, leading him to slowly but surely learn the way one of his favourite people in the entire world works, for all that he is.

“Nothing important.”

“That isn’t going to work on me.”

Grian does what he hopes comes across as a glare over the phone, to which Scar sighs, long-suffering, and relents.

“Okay, okay — you got me. Honestly? I'm considering getting married.”

That being said, when Scar tells him he’s getting a lifetime commitment without any prior notice, Grian can't stop his mouth from hanging open.

“Dude, what?” he says, incredulous.

No words could ever properly encapsulate his bewilderment.

Scar hadn’t ever considered himself much of a romantic. Rarely did they ever talk about those kinds of relationships, and rarer still about the desire to pursue anyone. The most enthusiasm he’d bother to share was about some failed attempt at pursuing someone back when he was a teenager, younger and dumber.

So the sudden change of heart is weird. Extremely so.

“I was just thinking about it a little bit —”

“What on earth are you saying?” he interrupts. “You’re not actually marrying someone… are you?”

They're both too old for these kinds of shenanigans. It's the kind of youthful insanity he'd expect half way through college drunk on life and with significantly less regard for his liver. They were proper adults now, with fuller lives and even more choices.

“Oh, I um..” Scar stays still in what Grian can only imagine as him blinking in surprise. “...Maaybe? Wait, no —”

He interrupts, well intent on shushing him over the phone. “Can you explain? Cause I’m well confused at what you’re implying here.”

Horrified is more like it, seeing as he hasn't heard a whiff of anything until today. In response, Scar does what can succinctly be described as blinking in surprise.

“Okay, okay, point taken,” he laughs out, not doing much to placate Grian’s palpable annoyance. “D’you think an explanation would quell your worries?”

Yes, because Scar is driving him nuts here. “Not if you keep being absolutely ridiculous.”

“Alright mister, I’ll spill. Hands up in the air and everything.” Knowing Scar and the pause after saying that, he did just do that, all to prove a point.

Then, as if reading his mind, he adds, “don't say I didn't do anything for you! I surrendered and everything!”

“Scar.”

“Dang G, ” he says in astonishment. “Just spitballing. I didn't think you'd get so upset!”

“Yeah well, if my friend told me he had some very important goings on without even a peep of it until it was right about to happen, they’d probably be bloody upset too.”

Grian isn’t a child, trailing after anyone he holds dear at the first instance of the troubling fear of being left alone. He doesn't need to know every excruciating detail of his life as it happens. Life happens regardless of anything — slipping up on updates is just how it tends to be.

But this? This was a different story entirely. This was massive news. Marriage. He hadn't even so much as mentioned dating anyone. They've been talking nearly every day for the past half decade, for goodness sakes. How could he have missed it?

Before his mind could speak out and tangent, Scar coughs, bringing him back to reality.

“Calm down, Gri.” Scar sighs out. “I can hear your thoughts from here.”

“Sorry,” Grian says, only half meaning it.

In a more comedic scenario, he might find himself tapping his foot impatiently on the unevenly spread cement floor. As it currently stands, dread builds where the space in between them follows.

“So,” Scar starts, measured and slow. Strangely, he sounds like he's been caught in some kind of act. “You know how it's been for me, right?”

Again, Grian pauses. Considering the state of everything else in his life, there’s only one real answer.

“With what? The visa?” Grian asks, confused. “What does that have to do with anything? Just last week you told me the interview went okay, didn’t you?”

“About that…”

“Oh.” At the realization, his heart sinks into his chest.

“Yeah. You can see why I didn't wanna tell you.” The bitterness sat well on his tongue, frustratingly calm, despite himself.

“What even happened? For how long?”

After a reluctant consideration, Scar answers. “A couple of weeks ago, if I remember right. Mr. Bossman decided he didn't want a guy like me working. I was less than happy, of course. ”

Briefly, Grian hears him shuffle around, reaching for something. The distinct crinkle of a stack of papers sound from his end. Documents, if he had to guess.

Scar flips through them as he speaks. “Lost my chance for who knows how many times in a row now, so eventually, I started considering other methods, since clearly a stable job wasn't working out.”

“But…”

“Any sort of higher education was a no-go, so the only other real option I had was marriage,” he says, matter of fact. “Then… that was that. Another couple years of waiting, but it’s whatever.”

“Oh Scar,” he says, as close to austere as he could get.

It’s awful, is the thing. Scar was careful, he knows. His first experience with improper records had told him that. Having to experience it once over was already bad enough, but Scar had gone through all of it multiple times, each failing, one way or another.

He really thought he had it this time. Few things are worse than that.

Somehow, he has the gall to laugh. It sounded strained, but it’s more optimistic than something like this would allow. “It’s whatever, G. Knowing me, I’m half sure I dodged a bullet of a company, anyhow.”

“It’s not. You got done dirty man!” he mutters, petulant in the way he says it, but there isn’t much else he can say.

“Working as a high school teacher wasn’t exactly the most noble employment option, so really it’s better off —”

“Scar,” Grian interrupts, voice soft, “are you not okay? I'm not gonna…”

At that, his mouth shuts, unable to say anything else. It's empty enough to hear Scar’s ragged, half-step breathing — the kind that only comes on his worst days, not that this wasn't too far off.

“It’s… manageable,” Scar mutters out, but he sounds unsure, even to himself.

“I’m sorry,” Grian says, for lack of a better answer.

“S’okay, G. Not your fault.” His voice is tightly wound, carefully neutral — but he’s not fooling anyone.

“Yeah, but you deserve better than that, at least.” His own voice is not much better, weakly protesting Scar’s deprecation. A wave of disappointment washes over him, as the grief of it all reaches him. It was unfair.

“I know.”

The urge to reach him is there, but there’s little he can do beyond offering his limited comforts; It’s painful beyond belief. Utterly and truly so. But what could he do? He's only a friend.

His eyes glaze over his desk, refocusing for the first time in minutes, when his eyes catch around the shiny metal band of his cod hung around its neck.

Unless…

“About the marriage thing.”

That word hangs in the air, and already he can feel some inkling of regret; Despite that, he holds firm. No point in attempting to second-guess himself — he’s already made his choice.

“What?” Scar says, soft as night and rightfully confused, considering how the past five minutes have been an absolute downer.

“You were considering it, right?”

“Yeah, but I don't wanna get you involved,” Scar says, dismissive. “I was just thinking about it.”

It’s barely a few minutes before the clock strikes and he’s forced to deal with other matters. His tea’s gone ice cold and he still hasn’t finished any work, but he’d rather suffer and deal with it later than leave Scar with the impending anxiety of his future without him there, consequences be damned.

“But if I wanted to?”

It's a conversation between friends. It’s a conversation that could have long term repercussions. There’s so much to consider for this lie to be kept between them. It’s crossing a line in the sand — One that if they go through with, they can’t go back from.

“Grian…” his voice is cautious, but more importantly, it’s hopeful — and that's all he could ask for. “What are you suggesting?”

When he replies, it's with a renewed sense of confidence. “Exactly what I just said. You needed someone to help right? I’ve got a spare bedroom you can take.”

“That’s…” Scar trails off. “You do realise what you’re offering, do you?” You really want this?” For better or for worse, Grian decides it’s worth it.

“I mean if you'd consider it, yeah. I am.” Grian swallows.

When Scar asks once again, it’s hesitant. “Would you really do that for me?”

It’s easygoing. There's neither pretense nor romance to it. Just a question, and the expectation of an answer.

“I… I think it’s worth trying. Genuinely.” His chest feels tighter than it's supposed to. Kind of like a moment of quiet at the end of the world. It may as well be, with what he’s suggesting. “We've been friends a long time, haven't we?”

“We are,” Scar chuckles quietly, in disbelief. It has an almost sleepy edge to it. “But… that’s a lot of responsibility, you know.”

It is, but…“Don’t be silly. We’re friends, Scar.”

Grian feels compelled to say something more, but as if on cue, is stopped by the bell. Soft piano chimes a tune he’s heard hundreds of times, signalling his next class. It snaps the tension in his body back to place. Whoever of his coworkers are still remaining filter out of the office in hurried footsteps. Crap.

“Sorry Scar, I gotta go,” Grian blurts out, apologetic. After a moment, more for himself than anyone else, he adds on, “it was nice talking with you today. We’ll talk about this later, okay?”

“…Okay.” He can hear Scar standing up, the bed sheets rustling as he does so. Grunting as he reaches beside his bed gripping something, likely his cane. “I’ll call later, yeah.”

Then, he gently whispers out, “love you, G. Take care of yourself, alright?”

“Yeah, I will,” Grian automatically mumbles out. “Love you too.”

Thoughts linger, but he pushes them back. The call ends. Grian takes one look at his mess of a desk, and glares at it. Still a mess.

He quickly drafts his email, then heads to his next class.

Once he gets home, the first thing he does is scream into his pillow for ten straight minutes. The second thing he does is buy an overpriced caesar salad online. When he finishes, he lies flat on his back to question his life choices.

Generally, chaos is something he revels in. Hell, it’s why he’s friends with Scar in the first place — But he also tries his best to be sensible, for the most part. For his own sake.

Changing his last name was not sensible.

It was impulsive, it was stupid, and most of all — he's more conflicted than he is upset.

In all his years of life, he'd never expect to be in the driver’s seat of something quite so… cliche, almost. Really, the more he thinks about it, the more it sounds like the plot of some cheesy rom-com he'd watched half-lucid on the telly at an hour far past his bedtime.

Everything else was there, first inciting incident of the three act structure, only lacking with the spectacle of the leadup to the eventual finale — the ceremony before the ceremony, buildup of excitement and anticipation and everything else you’re supposed to feel before you’re bound by a piece of jewelry. Except this was unannounced. Unplanned for.

There was no meticulous preparation counting down the days to the climax of some big love story. It wasn't even a love story in the first place — Just them on call, in Grian’s office, of all places, where his mind spoke before the rest of it could catch up.

The first time he hasn’t been single in years, and this is how it goes down. Sort of, anyways. It’s a lot to grapple with.

Here's the thing: despite his internal scolding, he can’t find it in himself to regret any of it, even if it was really stupid in hindsight.

Scar has struggled so much more than he needed to for a whole host of reasons, whether it be from his lack of experience, or failure to comply, or simply because they’d deemed him inherently worthless, all based around some arbitrary system that barely made any sense in the first place. Embarrassing him like that… it’s an awful feeling. To Scar especially so.

He should’ve said no. The correct answer would have been to do so. But for some reason, he didn’t.

Grian sits up against the backboard, his cheek dipping into the lightly padded wall. The plush backing feels against his too-hot skin, clearing his head.

He’d love to yell to the high heavens and curse himself for being an idiot, but his throat is scratchy and he still has work tomorrow. Instead, he rolls around, making do with silently staring at the ceiling once more. If Mumbo could see him now, he’d call him a spoon. Honestly, he wouldn't be wrong.

If anyone were to eavesdrop on their earlier conversation, they’d think nothing was wrong. That Scar was perfectly chipper and fine, yammering on like nothing was wrong, even though he’d just relayed devastating news to Grian just moments prior. He was simply that kind of person, and that fact was exactly why he wanted to do this. Needed to, even.

Grian might be being a bit of a spoon, but Scar is doubly so. It would be nice to finally be able to help take care of him beyond his limitedly effective platitudes. Comforting too, to finally see someone you care deeply about in the flesh. They’ve stayed close even in spite of those barriers, but it’s different when it’s made face to face.

It wouldn’t have to be just the two of them either. He’d be able to meet Tim, and Mumbo, and the rest of his whole lot of friends fully in the flesh — people that Scar's only heard stories about. He'd get to know them and his friends in return, and it would all be really nice, hanging out and having his worlds colliding.

Well, minus Pearl. But Scar and her have known each other a long time now, and she visits Grian yearly without fail, so neither of them need to miss her in between nearly as much. Though, it would be nice to have them all meet together in real life again… It's been years since…

Agh, now he's just homesick. In his apartment too, damned dramatic irony. What did he expect, getting all nostalgic?

That’s enough of that. At least he's making a little more sense in his brain now. Ultimately, what he's doing is a good thing. There was never a guarantee with this sort of thing, but if it gave him even a modicum of a chance to just get here already, then he'll take it.

Anyhow, it's a friendship marriage that hasn’t been officially sanctioned yet. They were going to talk about it. Even if there was a required commitment to keep up appearances, they didn't have to keep up with the sanctity of an actual relationship. When it’s just them, they don’t have to pretend it’s anything else but two mates hanging out, no need to overthink it.

Beside him, he feels his phone buzzing beneath his palm. When he checks it, there’s a new message from someone, and that his salad has arrived.

Later, Grian — half awake after attempting a nap and failing, is stuck on his laptop organising his final grading. Very, very slowly.

Seriously, you’d think with an automated system, they’d be more efficient than just jotting things down by hand, but the auto-sorter’s decisions on how things must be sorted was between it and god. Manually managing his excel sheet wasn’t an ordeal he’d considered much better, but it was better.

Checking his earlier notifications, he is unsurprised to see his current log of unread messages being terribly chaotic. Most of them are things he can put off, but at the top of it all is a message from Scar.

> Scar: Do you have time to call today?

> Scar: img.png

Below the texts is an image of his cat, Jellie, rolled over a tan blanket. Immediately, he saves the picture to his collection to stare at later. Consequently, it makes the content of what he’s read feel more important.

He looks at the excel sheet he has to manage, and is reminded of the harrowing stack of final essays left untouched on his desk back in his office.

Between figuring out how he was going to systematically grade his future papers versus encoding already finished work, one was marginally more mindless than the other. Not by a lot, but enough to be something.

A bit absurd, to be considering working over something so much more set in stone, but such is the case of modern pseudo-romance when you're halfway through your thirties; it takes a little bit of finagling before the proper terms and conditions are enacted.

Do the ends justify the means, he asks himself — to which he speedily decides is a negative, if only because he actually has a good time with Scar, true to his last name.

It’s a bit too early to be having a phone call, much less another conversation with Scar after the day he’s had, but he picks his phone up anyway. The call rings twice before it’s answered.

“Hi, Scar,” he greets, leaning into the soft plush of his pillows.

“Tired?”

“I am… dead on my feet.”

His half eaten salad rests on his bedside table, left untouched beyond the first few preliminary bites. Grian would love to eat more of it, but he isn't doing anything particularly useful. There needs to be something going on, otherwise it's undeserved.

“Oh, we can't have that,” Scar says, cooing to him the same way he does with his cat. “Do you want a picture to cheer you up?”

Grian immediately perks up. Exhausted as he is, he's not above bribery. “... and if I do?”

“Well,” Scar starts, a smile evident in his voice, “then I'd like to think it's your lucky day.”

The other’s camera is off right now, but if past experience were to tell him anything, he’s sure he’d see Scar in a state such as this: Snuggled up in bed, tired smile half hidden in the teal superhero quilt he’s had since he was fifteen. On better days, a sweet cat with more spark than her age would suggest would bring herself in full stride, forcibly plopping herself to sleep atop it all, blocking his face entirely. He’d laugh and coo, and Scar would pretend to be affront without any actual malice.

“Is that so?” he asks, quirking up an eyebrow.

“Yes siree,” Scar whispers, a certain kind of subdued self-assuredness, “I think I hear a certain kitty cat scratchin’ up a storm just over yonder —” he tries to casually remark, but instead yelps, the aforementioned scratching getting louder.

Then, an exasperated, “Jellie — !” as he hears a whole lot of low, whispered expletives and shuffling about.

He silently munches on his leftover salad as he hears Scar shuffle about and open a door. After what he’s sure is less than a minute or two at most, Scar returns lightly grunting, heaving at something that sounds quite a bit weightier than his phone. From the other line, Grian giggles, sorrows lifting.

“C’mon then. Don’t keep me waiting,” he says, half-teasing and positively giddy, “turn it on, I don’t got all day.”

Scar makes a noise of affirmation as he follows, humming a gentle tune along.

As he opens his camera, Grian is briefly graced with a delightful little scene: Scar leaning against his bed’s headboard, a sleepy cat swaddled in a familiar blue blanket. His head is pressed directly atop Jellie’s, face smushed and grinning. It’s a bit laggier than he’d like, but as far as he’s concerned, it wasn’t too far off what he was imagining.

“Why hello there,” he says, fond.

A light hiya, sways back, gentle. Scar paces, and it’s quiet; Grian can almost hear purring. His heart is warm, like it is most days. The routine of their relationship sticking like the short scruff on the back of his neck: a constant.

This however, does not last for long.

As Scar attempts to say something, his voice gets washed away by rainbow static, teetering about. It's cluttered and laggy, and distressing enough that below, Jellie mewls desperately, begging to be free of her detained state, as her mildly clumsy owner flounders to keep her still.

“C-Can you see-e?” he asks, and tries to wave in front of the camera.

“Ah, no,” he responds, though he’s not sure it goes through properly, more to signal his dismay than anything else.

The only feedback Grian receives is a gray blob of low quality picture and Scar’s chopped up, distorted voice. Pixelated and blurred, all there is to see is disappointment.

“W-w-wait, let me —” more sounds of movement, probably to get a better signal, “w-ha abo-o-ut this one-e?”

“It’s still not —” He wants to say something, but is promptly cut short with a narrowed green eye zooming in closer. “Oh, I think I can see her? A little?”

A little is a bit of an understatement, considering her coverage of the screen, but he’s more concerned with holding back a mildly sorrowful laugh. Jellie’s wonderful bum is fully enveloped by the screen at this point, but the glitching audio is less than ideal.

“He-e-ey —” Scar tries to say something, but the audio hisses out, leaving whatever he was saying indiscernible.

Grian groans, then begrudgingly cuts the video call short. In the corner of the screen, Grian looks to a mirror of himself, eyebags evident even in the dim reflection. Curse LAN internet. Their apartment’s internet provider must be particularly hateful today, since they usually do just fine calling like this most days.

He then immediately calls back, but with a regular faceless call this time, seeing as they weren’t going to get anywhere otherwise. Their chat icon rings once before the call is answered.

“Aw," Scar says, voice much clearer now, though still not on par with how it usually is, slowly echoing to something apologetic. “Sorry you couldn’t get to see Miss Jellie in all her glory.”

“You already send me pictures of her on the daily. I'll live.”

Grian’s not sure how his own voice sounds on the other line, but judging his own experience, he wouldn't assume he was much better.

“I know, but I wanted you to see her!” he responds, put out. “Maybe I’ll — ack! Jellie!” he yells at her, phone presumably falling to the ground as Scar scrambles to pick it up.

“Scar? You okay there?” Grian calls out.

“Yeah, all good! Just… Don’t expect Jellie for a little while. I think she’s run off to take a post-dinner nap on my router.”

“Oh goodness —” Grian laughs out, “ well, she’ll come yowling back eventually. She always does.”

“Yeah,” Scar says, audibly sighing. “It is a shame though. I wanted to cheer you up.”

“Mhm..”

It’s sweet, the things Scar does in consideration to him. Even for as long as it had been, he hadn’t tired himself of these daily conversational affairs. Not everything is quite so simple, but he can always count on these things as a reprieve.

“Really butterin’ me up, aren't you?” Grian responds, mouth curling up into a smirk.

“Ah, if we’re getting married, may as well, right?”

For the first few seconds of processing what he’s said, the feeling that washes over him is almost peaceful. It’s far too easy to relax and forget about everything, the exhaustion waning like stones skipping over water, a ripple effect of quiet ease looming over his body.

Once it settles, the reality of their situation fully sinks into him.

“Right,” he murmurs, but doesn’t continue. Scar can’t see his face right now, but he keeps trailing off, eyes wandering to anything but the caller ID on the other side.

“So… how are we doing this?” Grian asks this in what he hopes comes across as curious. Casual, even.

“However you’d want us to.” Scar sways as he says it, much smoother than Grian’s meager attempt at calm. “I mean, if you still want to get married at all.”

They had to actually discuss it at some point. He’s resigned himself to it, but an underlying nervousness still pricks beneath his veins.

“I mean, it’s why I called.”

Dead air during calls is nothing new to them, but he comes off blunter than he'd like. Grian would love to give more enthusiasm, but he’s already exhausted, and it’s barely halfway through the day

Scar, for what it’s worth, does not sound particularly bothered. He’s as relaxed and laid-back as he always is, and if Grian didn’t know anything about the pressing things sitting in their minds, the only thing he’d note was how it sounded sleep-addled, whispering wind in the light evening.

Again, they sit in contemplative silence. Grian sighs, leaning further back into his pillows. It’s long enough for Scar to fill the air by calling for Jellie, ignoring him. There’s a million different ways they’d ought to go about approaching this, but each question feels like a bit too much.

“How convincing do you want us to be?” is what he finally decides to go with, setting his phone aside and putting it on speaker mode. His previously abandoned laptop is pulled into his lap as he passively scrolls through his previous assignments to gauge what’s incomplete.

Scar seems to have given up on calling for her, piping into his phone, full attention on Grian. “What do you mean?”

“Like, how ridiculously do you want us to act around each other? We’ve been friends for ages now, but on paper, we’re newlyweds. That’s a whole different ballpark.”

Friends, is the key word for his apprehension. Because that’s what they are. Friends. The expectations between that and wedlock were vastly different. He’s not exactly the kind of person who innately screams ‘romantic’, much less corny and lovey-dovey, head over heels in love — but they have to be, for this sort of thing.

Scar takes a moment to breathe in the open air. More than once, the thought of asking if he’s regretting this already crosses Grian’s mind. He refrains.

“Oh, man. I really don’t… I really don’t know.” Scar says, quiet.

His breath shakes. “Are you… having second thoughts?”

Distantly, he worries about how embarrassing it would be to have him reject his admittedly dumb plan. It’s not hard to imagine. Grian just threw himself at him, locking his life away because of what — pity? Scar was at a low, but what he did was less than fair. The whole thing was, but that must’ve been salt in the wound.

He takes a moment to consider his Grian’s words. “No, but you might.” He breathes out what sounds halfway between a snort and a sigh. “We could fool em’ all, G. I trust that we can. But don’t you think it’s a bit unfair? To you, I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

“The whole expectation of it all. Not to be a wally, but the whole process takes five years, minimum. That’s a long time to be with me.”

“Scar,” he says, and there’s a heat to it that wasn’t present earlier, “stop with that.”

They'd talked about it before, of course. Meeting up in the airport, staying in Grian’s perfectly spacious apartment, showing him all of his favourite spots — It was all planned out. Granted, it was through half-remembered conversations tinged with wistful thinking, but hanging out with Scar in real life is something that he's genuinely wanted for a long time now.

These are normal things to look forward to, though not the circumstances he imagined them being in. Despite that, he’s happy with where they're at.

“I’m just saying! I know we’d talked about me staying for a couple weeks, but it’s a bit different when you’ve got to be taking care of me way longer than that.”

If he were physically there, he’d hold his hand or look him straight in the eye or do something to make it clear to him that in the years and years that they’ve known each other, not once has this part of him ever bothered Grian. That taking care of him would be a joy and an honor because he’s worth it.

But he can’t do any of that, so the best he can do is speak what's on his mind and make it as genuine to him as it gets. “It’s not. Scar, it’s really not.”

“I don’t know about that,” he says, waving it aside. It itches at Grian's skin.

“You can't seriously believe that can you? You're not a bother.”

Scar sighs.“Half a decade of being face to face with my reality, G. That's a long time to be dealing with all that.”

It is a hard commitment, and so much goes into this — but it doesn't have any caveats he wouldn't already have wanted to cover for anyway. Given the choice, he was always going to want to help in any way he could. This was just an extension of that.

“I do. I really, really do.” He asserts it as firmly as he can, to get the message straight. “I'm literally the one who asked, right? If you being disabled was some unreachable wall, we wouldn't be talking at all.”

“Still..”

“Stop with that!” he yells, and hears Scar audibly wince.

“Okay, okay. I get it — jeez!” he laughs out, a little pained. “Damn, G, you’re so persistent on this.”

At that, Grian scoffs.“Sometimes, you need to be very obviously reminded that I care about you.” Grian insists, mildly fuming. If being persistent was what it took to get him to stop being a spoon, then so be it.

“I know…”

“You’re being a spoon,” he says out loud, to be sure.

“Okay…” Scar says again, defeated.

“No it’s — sorry. It’s okay.” Grian continues, gentler. “It's just fancy living together, okay? So don’t worry yourself to death over me not being happy here. I am.”

Since they’re both very stubborn people when it comes down to it, it’s not rare for them to be yelling at each other for whatever reason. Still, he doesn’t like it when Scar sounds so.. upset.

Scar takes a moment to recollect himself, and relaxes a little, voice deepening. “You’re sure?” he asks, voice so quiet it barely registers.

“Positive.”

It’s kind of the best and the worst thing, when they’re like this with each other. A disconcerting thing, to hear that distant softness, though one he’s felt many times — the way where they get kind of open and raw in the way that only they know how, only possible because of how they met.

Scar chuckles, lightly. “I am quite the silly man, aren’t I?”

“Right you are,” Grian affirms, smiling alongside him, “and I love you for it.”

“Hah, I know. I love you too, G.”

Beyond the numerous technicalities in the fine print — he’s still meeting with his best friend. It’s almost a bit reminiscent of their early days, being awake at awkward hours of the day even though they had responsibilities, because this person you met by chance was the most interesting thing you’d talked to in a long, long while.

Even now, Scar is still one of the most eccentric people Grian knows. He’s just a little more comfortable with him, is all. His eyes get a little damp at the thought.

Scar must sense his nostalgic stillness, because then he too respires, wistful. “We've known each other for… How long has it been since we've met?”

They both know, but Grian pushes that aside to count on his fingers the years since their first conversation, something much harder than it looks. It's been too long now; The years start to blur after the first.

“Six or seven years, give or take.” As far as he remembers, anyway.

“Knowing that, I’d like to think I know you pretty well. D’you think the same for me?”

For a second, his breath catches in his throat. Nevermind the fact that it was well past night and moving into the early hours of the morning — for a moment of eternity, his attention was solely locked in on him.

“I do,” he nods, slowly, “but where are you going with this?”

“Right,” and the way he says it sounds a little too conniving to be without intent, “so you remember back in high school when I used to do theater?”

Any weakness in his heart immediately comes to a halt. “Scar, no.”

He loves Scar. He really does! Every year of friendship between them has been a wonderful time, appreciating every second and whatnot — but okay, this was pushing his affections a little bit. Maybe he’s having a bit of an emotional rollercoaster of a heart attack, who knows.

“I know what you’re thinking, but — hear me out!”

Grian groans. “Scar. Please hear yourself. You’re trying to convince me that your two years of tech work in high-school are sufficient to convince government officials that yes, we are madly in love with each other and have been for the past half decade.”

“They were good learning experiences! I learned a lot from Grease—”

“Scar.” If he were a lesser man, he'd end the call. He instead settles for holding in a horrendously ugly giggle. “Scar.”

“Yes…?” Like a dog, he very nearly whimpered. Grian would laugh, but he’s getting married to the guy.

“What are you even saying?”

“I just thought it'd be funny, you know! Scam those immigration officials with all the ‘evidence of our love’ crap, plus all the tax benefits — then fool everyone else into thinking we were crazy about each other for free cake.” Scar stops, thinking for a moment. “Or other newlywed gifts, I don't know.”

“Which, considering our circumstances, are a definite need.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, lost in thought. “I'd lead, and you'd follow. Or the other way around. Or however you wanted to arrange this whole thing, but...”

“A lot easier said than done.”

“Yeah.” It was a lot to take in. “I had ideas, but…’

“But...?”

“I mean, since this is mostly about you doing all this for me, I can't have you be pressured to always be acting out and all that,” Scar thinks aloud, voice clear. “Well that, and because I don't think my future partner would like me using our hypothetical marriage as a joke.”

Grian groans, though there’s little animosity. “You already know I don’t mind. Stop acting like you're taking my first born child or something every time I—”

He can hear Scar stifle his amusement. “Scar!”

“Sorry! It's just — imagining you with children is extremely entertaining.”

“I am literally a teacher,” Grian adds, flatly. One with half a decade of experience, and technically Scar’s senior.

“One that is very normal and surely does not have any nefarious intentions,” Scar says, implying that he indeed has many nefarious intentions.

He purses his lips. “Are you saying I cook children or something?” Scar tries to pipe down, but brief breaths of suppressed giggles do not make it easy. “Noo..” he drones, a clear smile as he does. “Well, maybe! You never know if your best friend is a cannibal or the other!”

“I am not,” Grian denies, then briefly considers it. “Kind of fun, but no.”

“Oh absolutely. I mean, think about it; It would be really funny to mess with Jimbo and Mambo and all your other British hooligan friends!”

Grian sniggers. “Of course you'd call them hooligans.”

“What's a man supposed to think, when all I've heard from you is how they're apparently all wild creatures of the north!”

That was something he mentioned once while terribly drunk some months ago — probably new years, honestly. Nearly a year ago. Grian didn’t think he gave that much of an impression during that time, but Scar’s a bit too observant for his own good.

“Endearingly so, I want to remind you.”

“Yes, yes — like our nuclear relationship that is as messy as it is withstanding.”

“Oh, as if our marriage wasn’t doomed to end from the beginning?”

That has them both pause. Grian isn’t sure on how seriously he should be taking all of this. Like they’re okay, but Scar might still be — He shakes his thoughts away, clearing away the dust that’s developed in place of his brain cells.

Thankfully, Scar responds before his brain could run away from him.

“So we’re joking about our marriage now?” Scar accuses, though to not much effect, giggles interspersed between him trying to smoothly monologue. “Chivalry is dead now, is it?”

“You tell me,” he chuckles out, relieved, a low rumble in his throat. “I mean, I proposed before even buying a ring. That’s breaking at least a few unspoken rules of promised fidelity, isn’t it?”

Despite the implied ramifications of what he's just said, the words easily fly off Grian's mouth, slow yet smooth, molasses slipping off his tongue. Part of that was probably his easily drooping eyelids, but a good chunk of it had to have come from the warmth of the recipient of his calls. It’s always easy, with Scar.

“Oh, about that actually,” Scar says brightening, the sound of bed sheets rustling once more, “I have a solution to that!

“Say what?” Grian says, confusion evident.

From the other line, he hears a light chuckle, then the distinct static of shuffling, Scar sitting up straighter. “Well, my good friend Grian, I've got just the thing for all your marriage-y needs!”

“Scar? What do you mean you got —”

Scar turns his camera on, despite the earlier static. Thankfully, the distortion is not nearly as prominent.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, flabbergasted.

“Mhm…!”

Thankfully, Scar hadn’t just spent who knows how much on rings. Instead, they’re ones made of paper. Not just that, but proper origami ones, folded delicately to become a ring shaped like a butterfly.

“Scar… what is that?”

“Our rings! Oh, but they’re not matching.”

Evidently so when he focuses his camera, the lens sharpens to Scar holding up two rings: one red, and one blue, drastically different in shape. His phone is kind of crappy, so it doesn’t do it justice yet. He can imagine though; Quaint, but undeniably a beautiful piece of handiwork, likely.

“Wh — Engagement rings that don't match? Isn’t that the entire point?” Frankly not much of a point, considering they’re made out of paper, but still.

He giggles, like a kid with a colorful yet impractically large lollipop. “I thought the themes might match, I don’t know! Yours is a butterfly… and mine is a cat.”

A second later, he sends a picture of his efforts, exactly as described. The red one was shaped into a butterfly, though the wings seemed to be a little crinkled — and the other folded into an orange cat, with a perfectly drawn, cute, little, face, just to emphasise it all.

“Why couldn't I also get a cat ring?”

“Cats chase butterflies, Grian! I mean, sweet ol’ Jellie still does, so it makes sense, but that’s besides the point.”

“Oh come on, that can’t be the reason, can it?”

“Fine, fine. I couldn’t decide — both of ‘em were just too darn cute!”

“You are…” Kind of adorable, actually. But he's not going to be saying that kind of nonsense to his face. “Insufferable.”

“Hey now! ” Scar exclaims, with much offense, “if you don't have any whimsy and fun in your life, that's your own fault!”

“Not a very practical ring is all I’ll say.”

“But it is cute, isn't it?” Scar sounds so chipper at the sight of it, that Grian would be lying if he didnt feel giddy looking at it too.

Grian snorts. “This is awfully nontraditional, Scar.”

“You proposed in the middle of work and we are literally getting married for tax benefits — I think we have a little bit of leeway here.”

“That is true,” he agrees, nodding.

Scar turns his camera from the front facing one to the other, much smaller, selfie one. Grian gets an eyeful of his less than stellar appearance in the top corner of his screen, and Scar in a similarly unappealing position, looking down at Grian through the limited expanse of his phone. When they see each other, they smile, though it’s a small thing.

Another comfortable moment of silence passes. It’s so peaceful he could fall asleep right now; Wouldn’t have been the first time, either. It seems he senses Grian’s exhaustion from today, because Scar hums, this time in acknowledging something, considering his next words carefully. Grian awaits his answer.

“It's getting late for you, isn’t it?”

He hadn't checked it properly since the second call, but when Grian properly glanced at the top corner of his screen, it was late; It was some hour in the early dark hours of the morning, and Scar was starting to move into evening territory, though still far off from proper night time, at least for him.

He adjusts his position on the bed, yawning all the while. “It is, yeah.”

“Should we speed things up then?” Scar yawns alongside him, his own tiredness mirroring his own.

“Mhm,” he mutters, “like we’re some business people in a very important meeting.”

“Pfft, yeah.” Scar snorts, before working his thoughts out. “Anyway, I think if we’re…” Scar starts, then hesitates. “Are we really doing this marriage shtick? Like, this is something you want?”

He asks it so casually, but it feels like leading to the cusp of something greater.

“Yeah, I do,” he says, easily. “Said it a million times now, haven’t I?”

He isn’t mad about it. It’s a bit silly, though. Grian thinks Scar questions himself too much. Not that he’s much better, the overthinking lot they are, but he’d thought he had a little more faith in him, all things considered.

“Good. That’s… yeah,” Scar mutters out. “Sorry, it’s just… I should probably do something with those rings, shouldn’t I?”

“You’re doing the whole..?” Grian questions, though they both understand well enough.

“I mean I guess?” Scar says, shrugging. “We don't have to, honestly. It's just a label. You don't have to actually treat it like we're actually together."

“It’s fine,” Grian says without a second thought. “I think it’d be fun, right? If we're really getting married, then we have to make it official somehow."

“Mhm,” he whirs, lost in thought. “How should I be doing this, though? I’ve never had the chance to marry someone.”

He’s nervous, he realises. This was his first time even getting close to the kind of thing you see in the movies. Grian himself wasn’t any less of that. His palms are sweating in the middle of winter, and he isn’t even the one proposing.

“Neither have I,” he says, rustling. “But people have done it before, right? Just say what’s on your mind,” he says, trying to be encouraging.

Scar releases a soft breath. “Yeah, you’re right on that. Gimme a sec to think about it.”

“Take your time.”

As per his advice, Scar does take his time. It’s enough to where Grian can take a minute to actually focus on the other text messages he’d received earlier.

It’s late, and he should get to bed. Or try to do something productive, at the very least. He still has to get up at the first sight of daylight, and staying awake has never ended well for him.

> timmy: now it’s not like making plans is something completely beyond you

> timmy: but i will have you know that i am incredibly suspicious and will not hesitate to bring lizzie and her meri with me

> timmy: you wouldn’t do that to her poor dog, would you??

Immediately, Grian smiles wide. Oh Tim. He speedily types out a response.

> Grian: :))

> timmy: grian.

> timmy: surely this means nothing right

> Grian: i dont know tim

> Grian: maybe

timmy: GRIAN

“Grian? You still there?” Scar calls, softly beckoning him out of his rabid texting.

Grian reacts to Tim’s text with a laughing cat emoji before the chat is put aside. “Oh yeah, I am, sorry. You're done thinking about it?”

“Yeah!” he says, halfway between excited and anxious. Then, calmer: “So, listen up, okay?”

“Mhn.”

“Okay, so.”

“So.”

Scar takes a deep breath, and swallows. The tell-tale sound of repetitive strokes fill the air, and in the corner of his eye, he can just barely see a piece of paper sticking out on the screen. “Actually, I sorta wrote an outline down?”

“Really?” he asks, surprise evident, “you’re committing that much?”

Outlining it doesn’t surprise him necessarily — he can be a really meticulous person if it came down to it — but to care for something as simple as this was… not necessarily out of his character, but not within it, either.

“It’s my first time doin’ it — Gotta make sure it covered some of the bases, right?”

“Ah, I guess so, yeah.” It does make sense, all things considered. It’ll make whatever they do in the future easier.

“You ready?”

He’s dead silent in response. Scar takes it as an affirmative to continue. His camera is still on, corners of his mouth slightly perked up to one side. Lovestruck, if they were anywhere else.

“Grian,” he starts, with the fondest voice he can muster, “I have had the pleasure of knowing you for seven whole years. Through it, I have dealt with countless amounts of trouble —”

Grian makes a surprised noise of indignation. Scar ignores him. “— But besides that, I have also made countless memories with one of my favourite people in the entire, entire, world. You have, way, way, too much going on in your life —” to which Grian giggles at, “but you always make time for me, even when you really don’t have to.”

He continues, voice slightly wobbling. “You’ve been with me through a lot, you know? My best and my worst times, and.. and stayed with me through it all. Even when it would’ve been better to leave me behind.”

“Scar…” he whispers, concerned. How many times have they —

“Grian,” he responds cheery, shutting him down. On the camera, he’s smiling, but it’s subdued — small. “It’s… I’m okay. Let me finish?”

Grian sighs, then hesitantly nods in response. Scar smiles a little brighter.

He coughs twice, then continues. “It has, and always will be — an honor to be in your life, and I can’t wait to spend the rest of it together.” It’s slow, languidly said. If he didn’t know any better, he’d almost thought Scar was actually about to cry.

“I um… I love you Grian. Always have, and always will.”

It’s quiet when Scar finishes. Any words Grian could come up with end up short. It’s… it’s a lot to take in.

“Damn,” he lightly chuckles out, flushing. “You are… Really good at this.”

There’s no better way to say it: he really is good at this. He’s sure that if this was meant to be for someone he truly meant it for, they’d be feeling twice of what he feels, or maybe even more. Even as he’s said them now, they’re incredibly overwhelming. All-consuming in a way he’s not sure he likes.

Scar tells him all of these things like thoughts like these live in his body. An impromptu monologue that felt tender and sweet and worst of all: sincere. That might be what’s getting at him, in the end.

“Gotta put my two years of tech work to use somehow, right?” he laughs, as if he didn’t just make his mind spin in circles.

“Sure,” he says, distantly.

It’s kind of embarrassing how hot his cheeks feel at a lie. He’s all up in arms over a proposal for a fake marriage. Scar has a tendency of doing that to people. Make them believe in the impossible.

“Was it too much?”

“No, no. It’s fine. Just… You did a good job. I’m proud of you.”

He does a thumbs up at the camera, to which Scar giggles at. The semblance of normalcy is enough to calm him down a little.

“Okay, okay. So…. This really is your last chance to back out now,” he says, a certain tenderness to it. “You really up for being in the long haul?”

He holds the ring he made out. The butterfly one, specifically, made of red construction paper with all sorts of crinkles and imperfections. Considering the nature of their relationship, it’s perfect.

He wishes Scar could see him properly right now, because he has no words to speak. Quiet as it is, everything feels like it's too much. What's happening right now was under the guise of nothing. It's just them, and everything else that will come after. The thought slightly terrifies him.

“Yes.” he says, braver than he feels. “Yes, I will marry you, Scar.”

He does not expect his staggering heartbeat to echo louder than the laughter through the digital screen, nor does he expect the inane feeling of sinking into himself — heart being whelmed with the overflowing melting pot of all his emotions, pulling his mind in multiple different directions. But it is there, sparks skipping lightning fast as he finishes his sentence.

The moment ends as soon as it begins, the rest of their conversation blurring into easy nothingness, until they say their goodbyes and Grian is left staring at a blank ceiling instead of the cold warmth of Scar’s voice, never not feeling bittersweet.

So, that solidifies it. In the dark of his bedroom closing in on him, they’re soon to come together in holy matrimony. Alone, ironically.

Seven years of waiting, and this is what it culminates to. Despite the dissonance, his skin buzzes with excitement.

Scar’s coming. His unhelpful mind repeats. Knowing that feels almost wrong, a final break to the status quo. He’d feel afraid if he wasn’t so excited, energy dancing beneath his skin. This was monumental. This was something to celebrate, and have celebrated.

This whole situation may not be the romance of a lifetime, but it doesn't feel like anything lovelorn either. He’s fine, all things considered. They're going to have each other, and it was going to be okay — that was the entire point of it all.

The way it happened wasn't grand, but it didn't have to be to be true. Grian goes to bed with his hand pressed against his chest.