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They're so close.
So impossibly close, Grian can smell Scar's musky scent, the notes of sweet, enticing, syrupy amber wafting around, the perfume putting him under a spell.
Thunder rages above, and rain soon drowns the both of them—neither seem to care.
Delirious, still desperately camouflaging his wound with his sweater's sleeve, dancing on a running clock, he attempts to caress Scar's cheek, his small fingers delicately brushing against Scar's marred, tanned complexion.
A lightning bolt of pain crash-lands into his forearm, crawling into his bloodstream and traveling across his system, and he sucks on a breath, huffing, biting his lower lip, almost drawing blood, tears springing to life underneath his fluttering eyelashes.
"Scar—" Grian begs, whimpering, writhing in agony, pertinently knowing that they are growing, feasting on his misery, nourished by his dolour, sprouting from his flesh.
The bizarre, sudden urge to pluck them one by one possesses him, sliding down his spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind, but he swallows it down his esophagus—their roots connected to his heart, the vital organ would fail, cease its beats, and he would collapse into Scar's arms, soulless.
"Let me help you, G," Scar crows, anguished, distressed, rupturing his rêverie into thousands of shards, and Gods, the taller man looks magnificent, and Grian gets lost into emerald irises, their waves of worry engulfing his whole being. "What is happening?" Scar cries, panting, his blood-stained hands hovering over Grian's, mutely asking for permission.
The reverberation of the gunshot still haunting him, echoing around his mind, Grian cowers on himself, recoiling as much as he can, his back colliding against the alleyway's bricked wall, dreading the end. He cascades down alongside it, haphazardly sitting atop the broken, dirty bitumen, and sobs wreck his body when Scar crouches, reaching his level without a second thought.
The soldier's governmental badge glitters underneath the moonlight's radiance, and Grian feels like throwing up, a scream of pure, raw terror lodged in between his vocal chords.
"I'm—I—" he stammers, fright infesting his synapses like a colony of ants, and, fully comprehending that it is but a lost cause, translucid pearls of water rolling down his face, gracing the constellations of freckles etched into his skin, he wordlessly rolls his sleeve up, hiccuping with discomfort.
In between the gash that adorns his limb, embedded in flesh and bone, copiously feeding on webs of crimson, lies two flowers—one as cinnabar as rubies, one as purple as amethysts.
Scar gasps, the sound muffled, swallowed by the rain.
Grian mourns. The poppy and the sole strand of lavender wilt, their petals rotting, as if consumed by his grief.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles, his teeth chattering, the cold seeping into his carcass. "I'm sorry," he repeats, the apology constituting a mantra of some sorts, but Scar shakes his head from left to right, his chestnut-hued hair, now darker than normal due to being wet, curtaining some of the scars that embellish his visage.
"It's okay," he coaxes the other in hushed whispers, trying to convince himself, and before he can fully process the revelation, Grian tackles him to the ground, jumping into his strong arms, snaking his own around Scar's neck.
"Please," the redhead pleads, nudging Scar's jugular, seeking warmth. "Please treasure them," he asks, feeling as if he were on the edge of a cliff, about to take a deathly descent.
"I will treasure you, Grian. Forever and always," Scar promises instead, determined, and Grian's heart skips a beat before resuming its flurried course, madly pounding against a prison of bones, reassurance cloaking his trembling shoulders.
Two planets slam into each other, vital organs waltzing to the same harmony.
A kiss is sealed.