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Now Scar usually had a knack for entertainment.
Not to toot his own horn, but he was pretty good at improv, and even more so a performing what he had been paid to do for the last two hours – magic tricks.
Kids birthday parties usually called for self-proclaimed magicians looking for a quick buck to entertain them for the day. And since Scar had had a talent for performing tricks since getting a magic set for Christmas that one time, it felt as if duty had personally dialed up his number.
Make no mistake – Scar was not like those mediocre magicians that would show up and pull worn colored tassels out a hat. He was intensely dedicated to his craft, and thrived on creating an atmosphere that his LinkedIn description described as Disneyland.
Today’s supposed illusion of magic, however, had been, for lack of better word, shattered. Scar had rocked up with his gear as always. The first hour had been relatively smooth-sailing, as he plucked cards out of hands and nickels out of ears. It was easy to get into the rhythm of it all, lost in the moment of allusive storytelling to a crowd of spellbound eyes. That’s why he had taken up magic acts as a side hustle.
Scar had been scheduled to perform in the last few hours of the birthday party, so he expected an air of restlessness especially during the last hour. When he had initially came by, he had spotted a man with a proud tussle of hair on his head, sleeves rolled up under his swath of red sweater, in the corner of the venue on a stool.
He had exchanged a brief look with the man, who in return had offered him a mildly bored look swept under his soft features. As Scar had been setting up, he could feel the man, who he now knew was a face-painter, looking at what he was doing.
In fact, it had happened several times during Scar’s performance – where their eyes would momentarily catch each other’s. A handful of times he had been shot a quietly amused smile behind the head of a kid being painted.
The disaster of the second hour of the act had been lightly foreshadowed by little mishaps – such as when Scar had accidentally sprayed water on the front row of his eagerly captivated audience, or accidentally stepping on someone’s foot. Still, relatively harmless, and certainly not a detriment to his reputation.
Then Scar had performed a simple card trick on the birthday boy. It wasn’t anything extravagant by any means – a good, old, classic that usually never failed to elicit murmurs of childlike awe. However, one thing had led to another and the swift pulling of a card out of the kid’s hand had caught against his thumb, and suddenly Scar was responsible for a dreadful thing – a papercut.
Since generally a birthday party is about the birthday boy, the birthday boy himself storming out with a bucketful of tears streaming down his snotty face is usually a no-go.
So, that’s where Scar found himself, mellowed and feeling awfully defeated after offering his sincerest of apologies to the birthday boy and his parents before the party itself had wrapped up and the venue was left deserted.
Except – when Scar had barged into the back storage room to collect his stuff and to further take a minute alone to wallow in his own sorrow, the door had swung into something solid.
‘Ow!’ Was what accompanied the thud, tone caught on an obvious scowl. There was a brief scuffle, and suddenly the head of the face-painter from before popped out from behind the door, hand curling round its edge.
‘Sorry!’ Scar responded in an instant, already stepping back from the door, before realizing that it was the face-painter. And in the same breath, another thought occurred to him, as he surveyed him up close – he was cute.
‘Oh, it’s you.’ Is what the face-painter replied with, face morphing from minor irritation to something more friendly.
Scar scratched the back of his neck, and tried not to think about the bore of his pretty eyes. ‘Yeah, just came to collect my stuff. If you don’t mind.’
At that, the man retreated back behind the door, offering muffled response, ‘I don’t.’
Scar slipped through the narrow doorway again, adjusting to the dimmed lighting. He peered behind the door a found the face-painter crouched over a duffel bag, hair caught in a halo of wisps under the singular lightbulb above.
Scar moved passed him to where he had haphazardly abandoned his own bag. The storage room was narrow, scaling with various shelves, and old boxes and crates stacked on top of each other against walls. It was so narrow, in fact, that Scar had to shuffle awfully careful to get to his bag, as to not accidentally brush his leg against the face-painter’s back.
His companion was silent as Scar too crouched beside him to grab gather his stuff. Scar stole a glance over, finding the other man neatly placing what looked to be his equipment in his bag - secured plastic tubs of paint brushes and sponges, pots and palettes and books that were stained with dried paint.
There was an on-going quiet only broken by awkward shuffles. Apparently, Scar’s gaze lingered on the face-painter for too long, for suddenly the silence was interrupted by the clearing of a throat and -
‘You want me to paint your face?’
That certainly startled Scar out of his stupor. It took him a second to realize that it was the face-painter speaking, and that he hadn’t imagined it. Caught off guard, he fumbled for the words, as the other man still refused to look up. ‘Uh, what?’
‘You look really interested in what I’m doing, so.’ Came the simple reply, as he dumped a rag into his duffel bag.
Okay, way to make him sound like a total creep. Scar immediately diverted his eyes, glancing down to the face-painter’s sweater, eyes caught on a light gleam of something under the low lighting. It was a name-tag, hanging on for dear life by a poorly secured pin. Scar angled his head ever so slightly, not to attract any attention, to get a better reading. Grian – is what was etched into it.
An oddly fitting name.
And now, Scar, realized, as he not-so-subtly lifted his head again, that Grian was looking back at him.
Scar made a light noise; words briefly caught in his throat. For some, odd, odd, reason he suddenly found himself struggling to adjust to the weight of Grian’s attention on him. He was a performer - for Christ’s sake – his job was to be the center of attention. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I am interested in what you’re doing.’
‘I’m putting away my equipment.’ The word obviously was spelled out under Grian’s half-amused response, as he gestured to his assortment of equipment laid out next to him. ‘You?’
‘I’m getting my bag to put away my equipment.’ Scar retorted with a wonky grin, praying that the little light-bulb above was casting enough shadow to mask the heat that had rose to his cheeks. It was just a speckle of blush that he could feel, really, that somehow grew when Grian shot him an agreeable smile back.
‘Ah.’
There was a brief pause. Scar, who never usually found himself lost for words, opened his mouth and shut it again, a tinge of flustered awkwardness settling at the back of his neck.
And Grian was still looking at him, as if in expectance.
Okay. Speaking to someone attractive is just the same as being up on stage. No big deal.
‘So…?’ Grian spoke again, looking mildly humored, stealing Scar’s words from him, ‘You want me to paint your face or not?’
Oh, that’s what Grian was waiting for.
And – oh, he was being serious. He was actually asking to paint Scar’s face.
There was a beat, where Scar considered.
‘Sure.’ he said then, still without really thinking. Change of plans - he was going to get his face painted instead of going home. ‘Yeah, why not?’
The smile that spread to Grian’s lips immediately solidified the reasoning for his choice. ‘Okay…’ his eyes flicked downwards, latching onto something on Scar’s ridiculous purple blazer, ‘Scar.’ He squinted, head jerking up again, ‘Does that say Scar?’
‘The one and only,’ Scar nodded, feeling a slight embarrassed, knowing Grian was referring to his poor excuse for his name written on his name-tag. ‘Sorry, my handwriting sucks.’
‘That’s why I took up paints instead of becoming an English teacher.’
‘You couldn’t willingly stick me in an English class again.’
Grian laughed at that, a light, pleasant thing that positively squeezed Scar’s chest. Then, his expression smoothed out again, as his laugh petered out, ‘Alright. Find yourself a seat.’
‘Oh.’
‘Something wrong?’
‘I guess – I thought,’ Scar said, stuttering, voice going a pitch higher with uncertainty, ‘in a storage room? Really? You are being serious about doing this? Now?’
‘Why not?’ Grian shrugged, already turning to re-gather up his equipment, refusing to offering further explanation. Guess he couldn’t argue with that.
Momentarily, Scar, waited, unsure, then glanced back at the crates and boxes stacked against the wall. That was probably what Grian was referring to when he said to take a seat. Surely. At that, he stood decidedly, walked over and found himself plonking himself onto one of the crates. Opposite him was another crate of equal height, a make-shift artist’s chair for Grian, while the boxes and crates surrounding provided ledges for his equipment.
Grian joined him not long after, returning back into the room after leaving to get a cup of water, juggling that, paint block palettes, a box of brushes and a mirror.
Scar peered at him as Grian stumbled towards him. ‘Need any help with all that?’
‘No. I have it handled.’ Grian replied, sounding half-strangled, setting down his equipment with determination. He then ceremoniously sat down on the crate opposite Scar and shuffled it forward so that their legs were near-bumping together.
Squashed together in an unhelpfully cramped space with an attractive guy. Definitely not a recipe for disaster.
Scar tried to stay rigid in his spot, careful not to let their legs brush, as Grian turned to him again. ‘Okay, Scar. What can I do for you?’
Scar was hyperaware that Grian was looking right back at him. Now, that usually wouldn’t be a problem if he had an audience, but here he was facing one singular person that happened to be stupidly good looking. He couldn’t tell if it was a curse or a blessing.
‘Paint my face.’ Scar said, dumbly.
The look he received in return was priceless. ‘Nothing gets passed you, hm?’
‘Sorry,’ Scar ran a tired hand down his face, punching out a weak laugh, ‘my brain gets all jumbled after a job.’
‘It was a good performance; I’ll give you that.’ Grian murmured. ‘Never seen someone so passionate about magicking a shoelace out their pocket.’
Scar grinned, catching onto his humor. ‘You looked pretty deceived to me.’
‘I think you should’ve spent time focusing on your actual audience than on me.’
‘Not my fault when I could feel your eyes on me the whole time.’
‘You had me entertained.’ Grian shrugged, as if it were a no-brainer. ‘You’re good at that.’
Scar sighed, trying to pretend he wasn’t delighting in the warm tinge of Grian’s approval, ‘I was until I gave the birthday boy a paper cut.’
Grian’s eyebrows raised, lips curling upwards. ‘So that’s what that whole fiasco was about.’ Then, as if realizing Scar’s dejection, he added, ‘Well, maybe not a fiasco but –’
‘You’re right.’ Scar cut through, sounding dismayed. ‘It was a disaster.’
‘I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.’
‘It was!’ Scar bemoaned, as Grian shot him a cynical look, ‘He was crying. Nobody wants to cry on their birthday.’
Grian, for all he was worth, was quick to school his expression, though Scar didn’t miss the slight snicker he hid behind his hand. ‘Okay, but at least you’ll never have to see him or his family again.’
Scar was ever the dramatic, however, and shot back, ‘And be hailed as the birthday-ruiner that magicked away that kid’s happy memory of an eighth birthday party. Sure.’
This time, Grian let out a full-on giggle, unconcealed and boisterous. It bounced off the walls like birdsong, and Scar found himself laughing along at the ridiculousness of it all. ‘I can see why you’re a children’s entertainer.’
Scar tilted his head, unable to wipe off the grin on his face. ‘Are you calling me dramatic?’
‘You’re imaginative.’ Grian corrected, though the glint in his eyes betrayed a different sentiment.
Still, Scar certainly didn’t mind hearing that laugh, so he decided not to jab back, letting their laughter drift out.
‘Okay.’ Grian said, back to professionalism. Or as much as you could be professional squashed in a dusty storage cupboard with a makeshift set of chairs and table. ‘Give me something creative I can do. You seem like a creative guy.’
‘Will you kill me if I request a superhero one?’
‘You can’t force my hand to paint another Spiderman mask for the twentieth time today.’
‘He’s a popular guy!’ Scar defended, as Grian rolled his eyes. ‘I wish I could shoot webs out my hands or whatever Spiderman does.’
‘Nope. Absolutely not. Not superheroes, no Spiderman.’ Grian reiterated firmly, then narrowed his eyes, as he gave Scar a once-over, ‘And no Disney princesses.’
Scar gasped in mock-surprise. ‘How did you know that was my next suggestion?’
Grian shot him an unimpressed look. ‘Har, har. You’re hilarious.’
‘I feel like you’re being sarcastic.’
‘No seriously, that suit you’ve got on is the most hysterical thing I’ve seen for a while.’
‘What’s wrong with my suit?’ Scar asked, feigning offence. Truly, it was a hideous thing – yellow and black striped pants accompanied with a bright purple jacket and red bow snuggly fitted on his collar. It was relatively new, and he had picked it up a few months prior at a party store when he was out of town, instantly falling in love with its, in his words, whimsy.
Grian, however, obviously was not impressed. ‘It’s just – purple.’
‘C’mon, it’s fun!’
‘You look like the Mayor from Power Puff Girls.’
Scar sniffed, turning his nose up, mildly offended. Their legs brushed, a brief spark on contact. He pointedly ignored it. ‘I see no fault in that.’
‘Of course you don’t. Anyway,’ Grian said, rolling his eyes again, preventing Scar from jabbing back at his condescension. ‘Stop distracting me. I need ideas.’
Scar thought for a second.
‘Something colorful.’
‘Not monochromatic.’ Grian nodded. ‘Something to match your suit, then?’
Scar hummed, considering. He shook his head then, ‘No. You decide.’
‘Scar.’
‘I’m indecisive!’ Scar defended, as Grian grumbled. ‘Think of it as this – I’m giving you the reigns of creativity. You can paint whatever you want.’
This time, Grian’s response was a half-whine, ‘Scar, please.’
It was hard not to give into that lilt of Grian’s voice, but still, Scar relented, ‘I’m giving you the freedom to do anything. I’ll just sit here and look pretty while you, y’know, do your artist…thing.’
‘Anything.’ Grian repeated in deadpan.
‘Anything.’ Scar nodded solemnly, hand over heart. ‘You can leave a bad review on my website if I fidget too much.’
At that, Grian huffed, and Scar got the feeling he had won him over. There was a beat, before he eventually groaned. ‘Fine.’
Scar’s lips curled up into a satisfied smile. ‘You have an idea already?’
Grian sighed, giving in, ‘I do. Let me get set up.’
Scar watched him curiously as he organized himself. He prized open the paint palette box, a compact object that had an array of colors. The red, black and white in particular looked thoroughly used, and Scar couldn’t help but smirk at the sight. Spiderman really was that popular.
Another small plastic box was pride open, the one full of brushes and sponges. There was now the smell of paint in there air, a nostalgic taste that also mirrored Grian’s own smell. Up close, Scar caught drifts of aftershave and paint that lingered around the face-painter. It was fitting.
And then Grian was turning towards him again, a look of determination on his face. He shifted, moving forward with the crate again, and suddenly their legs were neatly slotted against each other’s.
Scar willed himself to relax against the touch. Grian’s legs were solid against his, warm and crowding. It was, for lack of better words, close.
Grian was now holding up a sponge that had a splotch of white on the end.
‘Okay,’ He said, sounding strangely softer now. ‘I need you to sit still.’
‘I can sit through getting my face painted.’
‘Good. You’re already doing well.’
Scar couldn’t help but flush at that, hopelessly spellbound for a lick of praise. ‘This isn’t a doctor’s appointment.’
Grian simply hummed, and was leaning toward Scar. Without warning, his free hand curled round the side of Scar’s head, tilting it ever-so-slightly forward. The hand shifted, Scar’s mouth drying as he tried to look anywhere but Grian’s face that was right in front of him, and found its resting place in his hair, where his thumb dug into Scar’s forehead.
It was just part of the process, Scar had to keep reminding himself, as Grian’s breath fanned over his face. Face painters actually have to touch the face to do their job.
‘Close your eyes.’ Grian said, gentle. Scar obliged, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to swallow down the thrum of heat that had pooled in his chest. It was mortifying, that such simple touch could fluster him like this.
If Grian knew of Scar’s flustered frenzy, he didn’t show it, for he continued, ‘Not so hard. Just relax, Scar.’
‘I’m relaxing.’ Scar replied, tone a pitch higher, as he relaxed his shut eyes.
Despite only seeing darkness, Scar could picture Grian’s amused expression. ‘You haven’t gotten your face painted in a while, have you?’
Definitely that. ‘Been a few years. Don’t usually have face-painters at my birthday parties.’
A snicker, as Grian started to dab at his left eyelid. ‘I’m offended.’
Scar adjusted to the contact, allowing Grian to do his work, and a silence fell between them.
He felt Grian shift again, hand moving ever so slightly, still half-cradling his scalp, as he began to ebb toward Scar’s right eyelid.
‘So is this your actual job, then?’ Grian asked.
‘Something I just take up on the side.’ Scar replied lightly, feeling the sponge press into the corner of his right eye. ‘When I feel like it.’
‘Oh?’ Grian responded, sounding a slight surprised. ‘So what do you do?’
‘I work for this company,’ Scar said, trying to figure out how to word it. ‘That I helped my best friend start up.’
At that, the sponge paused on his face. ‘You founded a company?’
‘No! Just-a, helped my friend out with it. I’m an assistant, kind of.’
‘Stop being humble. You’re a CEO, aren’t you?’
Scar shook his head, ‘Honestly, I’m not! I’m just a higher up sort of guy.’
Grian made a noise of disbelief. ‘Uh huh. And I’m the CEO of Face-Painting Incorporated.’ He said, then continued, before Scar could reply, ‘What company do you work for?’
‘I don’t know if you’ve heard of it,’ Scar said, tentative, ‘but it’s called ConCorp.’
‘You’re the CEO of ConCorp? That company that runs a country club?’
‘Not the CEO, but yeah.’ Scar said, sheepishly. He felt Grian’s hand resume dabbing his face. ‘Though the country club’s more Cub’s thing.’
‘Wow.’ Grian murmured, after a moment, sounding genuinely impressed. ‘I didn’t take you for such a businessman. Now I know not to trust the handsome smile of yours.’
Scar laughed, secretly reveling in the way Grian had called his smile handsome. ‘I can promise you all my smiles have good intentions.’
The hand pressed onto his eyelid a few more times, before Grian lifted his hand. For a brief moment, Scar mourned the loss of contact, eyes still shut, while he heard Grian potter around with his equipment. The thumb on his forehead dug deeper, and there was the scuffle of the cup of water, before Grian returned. This time, the softness of the sponge was replaced with a thin brush-head, higher up on his eyelids.
'Okay, I’m gonna need you to hold really still for this.’
Scar hummed, as the cool brush swept his eyelid. ‘What about you? Is this your side hustle?’
‘Side hustle.’ Grian scorned lightly, and Scar pictured him wrinkling his nose. ‘And to answer, yes. Kinda.’
‘What do you do?’
The brush glided more firmly in a circular motion around his eyes. ‘I’m a student, doing an architecture course.’
‘Oh, that’s cool.’ Scar said, not bothering to hide his awe. ‘So you’re young. Twenty something?’
‘Twenty-three.’ Grian murmured, breath fanning over Scar’s face as he moved closer. ‘You?’
‘Twenty-four.’
‘Figured you couldn’t be older than thirty with that suit.’ Grian snorted, to which Scar let out a gasp of offense. ‘Though you being a business owner or whatever you are threw me off a bit. Young entrepreneur.’ Unable to stop himself, Scar cracked a grin at that, to which Grian grumbled and held his head more firmly. ‘Hold still.’
Scar couldn’t drop the grin. ‘I’m trying!’
‘You’re not doing a very good job at it.’ Grian chided, though he couldn’t hide the amusement in his tone.
The process continued on for a few minutes longer – Scar’s eyes firmly shut as he allowed Grian to glide his brushes over his face, as they flicked through conversation. Scar thanked the safety of his shut eyes that he couldn’t see their proximity, for feeling it was enough to make him feel a slight faint.
And Grian was – gentle. Gentle with the way he cradled Scar’s head and painted his face in light strokes. As the brushes danced back and forth over his eyes in soothing motions, Scar barely resisted the urge to further lean into Grian.
It was nothing short of humiliating that Grian had managed to enamor him in such a way. Too lost in their little bubble, Scar barely even questioned the fact that his face was getting painted by a cute guy he had only properly met around half an hour ago in a barely lit storage room. Still, the thought ended up occurring to him, and he couldn’t help but blurt –
‘Isn’t this weird?’
Grian made a light noise, feigning indifference, ‘What about it?’
‘I only just met you and you’re painting my face. In a storage room.’ Scar said. ‘Is it fate?’
He earned a snort in return. ‘Y’know what I think?’
Scar smirked, thinking Grian would play along somehow. Make a playful jab back, and they could resume their banter, ‘Tell me.’
‘I think it’s a case of me finally finding a handsome canvas to experiment on.’
And – oh.
Scar did not know what to say to that.
It was one thing that he had called Scar’s smile handsome; it was another that he was calling Scar handsome. Before he could stop himself, he cracked his eyes open, being met with the pleasant sight of Grian’s face, a breath away from his.
It was true – Scar was a glutton for attention. Still, his composure wavered, nerves coming in waves over his body as Grian stared back just as intently, and he found himself stuttering, ‘Yeah?’
Grian simply huffed out a laugh at that. ‘Scar. Shut your eyes again.’
Scar did as he was asked, but still couldn’t help himself from asking, ‘Am I your most handsome client?’
‘Yes, Scar.’ Grian sighed, making a show of reluctance. ‘You are the most handsome client I’ve ever had.’
‘I would hope so.’ Scar murmured, ignoring the swell of pride that accompanied Grian’s words in favor of getting the last word in. ‘Considering most of your clients are under the age of ten.’
Scar could hear Grian’s scowl. ‘Shush, you. I just gave you a compliment.’
‘And I accept it with gratitude.’ Scar vowed. ‘And return the sentiment.’
‘Yeah, yeah, alright.’ Grian replied, now pressing dots onto the skin beside his left eye. ‘I know your tricks, businessman.’
‘I’m being serious.’ Scar reiterated, now feeling emboldened. He could engage in casual flirting just fine. ‘You’re the cutest face-painter I’ve stumbled across.’
‘Really?’ Grian hummed, sounding mildly skeptical. ‘Or am I the only face-painter you’ve spoken to since you were eight?’
‘Well.’ Scar said. There was no denying that. ‘Yeah. But the point still stands!’
Grian giggled then, continuing to paint around his eyes, and Scar allowed himself to relax into the touch. Then, what only felt like a few minutes later, Grian suddenly pulled back completely, causing Scar to open his eyes to catch him gracefully plonking his brush into the cup of water.
‘That’s it.’
Scar raised his eyebrows, unwilling to let the moment go. He was feeling awfully floaty, the featherlight touches on his head still lingering all the while Grian grinned with pride back at him. ‘That fast?’
‘I’ve been quite slow this time, on the contrary.’
‘Why’s that? You wanted to spend more time with me?’
Grian’s lips curled up into a secret smile, cheeks rosy. Scar wouldn’t mind looking at him for a while longer. ‘No. Because you wouldn’t stop moving.’
‘I stayed perfectly still, mister!’
‘Tell that to all the smudges around your eyes.’ Grian said. Then, before Scar could get another word in, he continued, ‘Okay. Don’t have any expectations when I show you.’
‘I have a thousand expectations.’ Scar retorted. He was thrown an unimpressed look. ‘Kidding! Reducing all expectations to none. Zero.’
Grian nodded in approval. ‘Good. You ready for me to show you know?’
‘Please.’ Scar said instantly, already anticipatory.
Grian reached over for the stand-up mirror tentatively, as Scar waited with a baited breath. ‘Remember. No expectations.’
Scar couldn’t even get out any words of reassurance before the mirror was spun toward him. There, blinking back at him was an array of colors over his face that resembled –
‘Oh cool! It’s a fruit bowl.’
Grian barked out a laugh at that, bright and animated as if Scar had just uttered the most hilarious thing in the world. Apparently it was to Grian, for he wheezed, ‘Scar. That’s not a fruit bowl. It’s a parrot mask.’
Scar tilted his head, and – oh, yes. It was a parrot. The white on his eyelids was surrounded by intricate blocks of red, yellow and blue that resembled, now that Scar paid attention, wings. Patterned with dots, and swirls and flicks of white paint.
‘Oh God, I knew it was bad.’
‘It’s not bad!’ Scar reassured – it really wasn’t. ‘Not at all! Sure, it looked like a fruit bowl at first but now I can clearly see it’s a bird mask.’
‘Parrot mask.’ Grian corrected, still sounding unconvinced. ‘I mean, I know its bad but a fruit bowl?’
Scar almost lifted a hand to smack himself on the forehead. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry! Ignore me, I was just being dumb. It’s very obviously a beautiful parrot mask.’
‘I came up with it all from the top of my head, so.’ Grian replied bashfully, pink in his cheeks. ‘Not my finest work, I know.’
‘Well I think it looks amazing.’ Scar said, enthused, lifting the mirror again to admire himself. ‘How much do I owe you?’
Grian huffed out a laugh. ‘Don’t be an idiot.’
Scar caught his gaze over the mirror, relenting, ‘What do you want, twenty, thirty?’
‘Scar.’
‘I think I have fifty in my wallet?’
Grian playfully pushed his shoulder. ‘I’m not taking your money, stupid.’
Scar sniffed. ‘I resent you calling me that after I’ve sat still for you all this time.’
‘You’re right, my bad, my bad.’ Grian held up his hands in mock-surrender. Then, suddenly his expression shifted, morphing into one of mischief caught in the glint of his eyes. ‘Actually,’ he said, reaching to take the mirror back from Scar. ‘I think I have one last finishing touch.’
Scar let him take the mirror, and tilted his head, unsure of what was being hinted at. ‘Yeah?’
Grian set the mirror down off to the side with haste, before his gaze flicked back to Scar’s. Their eyes met, and suddenly, he leaned forward, much closer than before, legs thoroughly crowded against Scar’s. Scar, in return, swallowed, fumbling for the last fragments of composure before he melted under Grian’s gaze, that had become startlingly dark.
In an instant, heat rose between their shared space, and Scar got the inkling that he was being asked a question. The feeling was solidified when one of Grian’s hand crept up, slow, but sure, sliding across the cut of his jawline, before settling in a cradle-like hold against his cheek.
Something curled in Scar’s gut then, molten and spitting with claws of intense heat. For the slightest of moments, he let his eyes flick down, down to Grian’s lips, before dragging them up again, meeting a swirl of lidded eyes.
The hand was warm against his cheek, and Scar desperately fought the urge to lean into the touch. Still, he resisted, in case he had somehow gotten to wrong message, though his breath hitched all the same.
‘Sometimes,’ Grian said, his voice now lowered, as he gazed back at Scar under long lashes, ‘when I get a pretty client, I seal my work with a kiss.’
‘A kiss?’ Scar responded, voice sounding faint even to his own ears. He was finding it harder to speak with Grian looking at him like that. His heart jumped to his throat, hammering and pulsing, causing him to say something impossibly stupid - ‘But I don’t wanna ruin the pretty makeup.’
Grian blinked at him, registering Scar’s words, murmuring in an awed tone, ‘Oh my God.’
For a moment, Scar bristled, panicking over his inability to flirt. Just as a string of apologies were on his tongue, however, Grian’s face broke into a flushed grin, shoulders beginning to shake.
He was giggling.
‘Sorry!’ Scar said quickly, his own laugh being punched out of him, sorely realizing his mistake, ‘that was stupid. Sorry.’
‘Scar.’ Grian half-gasped, between laugher, ignoring his frantic apologies, and his cheeks were pink and lovely, ‘That’s what you’re concerned about?’
‘I just don’t want it to get mushed up and everything!’ Scar argued, heat rising to his cheeks. ‘You - you spent a lot of time on it.’
‘Stop acting like I’m going to snog you.’ Grian scolded, still giggling. Then, he moved closer again, voice shifting to a more serious tone. ‘Unless if you want me to snog you. I wouldn’t mind.’
Scar couldn’t help the dopy grin that sported his lips, even as another hand rose to cup the other side of his face. ‘That – that could be arranged.’
Grian’s eyes flicked down to his lips, a blatant display of intent. He looked ravenous. ‘Mhm?’
Scar knew he was in a similar, hopeless, state. ‘Mhm.’
And then he was being dragged down by the hands splayed against his cheeks, pulled into breathless kiss. The hands moved as Grian pressed closer, fingers webbing into his hair and tugging him further into their entanglement.
Scar felt dizzy with feeling, chasing the pressure against his lips, a mount of spit-roasting heat crackling in his gut, as he found his own hands fumbling for Grian’s waist to pull him into his lap. Grian let out a noise at the touch, allowing himself to slide onto Scar’s lap, angling his head to deepen the kiss.
He could feel Grian smile against his lips as they continued to kiss, and faintly Scar thought about the humor behind the situation. All else thinking was sucked away, however, as Grian pressed harder, their chests touching, Scar’s hands digging into his waist, until his mind was scattered with thoughts and feelings surrounding Grian.
Reluctant, Grian was the first to pull away, breath labored as he looked down at Scar with bruised lips and gleaming eyes.
‘So,’ Grian said, breathless. It was a pleasant sight.
Scar couldn’t help but blurt, still caught up in his awe, ‘Can I get your number?’
Grian laughed lightly, voice slightly rough. It was unhelpfully attractive. ‘Of course, you idiot.’
Then they kissed again, and again, until Scar saw stars, and was positive that his face paint had been ruined, and was left wondering how on earth he had kissed someone in such a ridiculous suit.
‘How are you getting home?’ Scar asked, as they were re-gathering their things.
Grian sighed, slinging his duffel bag onto his back. ‘Bus. My car broke down the other day, so.’
‘Aw, man.’ Scar sighed loudly, as Grian shot him an amused look. ‘Sucks that you don’t have a nice five-person-seat car waiting for you.’
‘Is this your way of convincing me to let you drive me home?’
‘Is it working?’
Grian fixed him with a look, feigning reluctance. ‘Fine. But I don’t want to listen to any Disney tracks in the car.’
‘You have my word.’