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Grian wasn’t quite sure he believed it when it caught his attention.
The moment it showed up in his periphery, distracting and taunting, he was sure that it was fake. The Watchers were cruel, like that. Who was to say they wouldn’t get his hopes up like this? There was no way that they’d let him have something he wanted for even a moment. They weren’t merciful, and they certainly weren’t generous.
Who was to say they wouldn’t give him back just to take him away?
Where Grian’s undershirt stuck to his skin was sticky, stained with sweat. He’d ditched the sweater and shawl the moment he could. The moment the funeral was over. The weight still hung off his frame, where actually there or not. It was heavy and suffocating, pulling him downward for what seemed like eternity. He’d probably be dragged through bedrock and into void if he rested now.
Even without extra layers, it was still so damn hot out in the desert. Exponentially worse when he was alone and without somebody to throw the contents of their water bottle at him because they’d been ignored. When Scar’d been ignored.
Grian regrets every time he’d done that in the past, now.
He wasn’t built for heat, like Scar. No, rather, he’d been made to survive the cold climate of the northernmost servers. A place like this, bordering on something past even what the cowboys had going on, was much too southern. And, therefore, much too hot.
How he’d give to be an elf like Scar was, built for smoldering sun and too-hot sand and brick. How he’d give to have the cold-blooded man holding him right now, temperatures mixing to create something uniquely neutral. Grian’s mind threw blinding smiles and calloused hands holding his own at him.
As it stood, he could have all of that.
He could, if he let himself turn right now and run toward the figure in the distance. Grian could. Grian could . Sand swooshed and grinded against itself as a brown scratched up boot—made to fit somebody larger, taller—disturbed it. Hesitance racked through him, flexing his muscles in intervals.
It’d only take a moment, though. Barely any of his time when considering the fact he’d be stuck here for as long as they found it entertaining. If he just turned , looked and ran toward it—toward him—he could have it back. Grian could have it back, and that pushed his heart cruelly against bone, sternum, much too eager. Trepidation relaxed his body, lightness taking over quickly. Dangerously.
Feet moved by themselves before he even had a chance to protest.
Maybe they could talk for a bit. Maybe Grian could do up Scar’s hair, he always liked that. Maybe they could exist again, just for a little bit. He’d take anything over nothing; wouldn't dare ask for everything. Whatever they did, it’d make up for all of these past weeks.
Something akin to hope flashed through him as he got closer. It flickered and then managed to start a stable flame. Grian swore to himself and the Watchers above that his vision becoming blurry was nothing more than fatigue. Becoming pinpoint and precise, eyes locked in on broad shoulders and a small braid lost in poofy hair.
Sand poured itself slowly into his boots, sloshing upward with every movement and seeping into the cracks between his ankles to hide. The itch proved to be nothing more than motivation to Grian. Grit scratched skin through socks as momentum picked up further.
Nearing the edge of the desert, the figure and its details remained blurry. Like a memory one wasn’t quite able to remember. Slowly, sand grains completely disappeared under him and boots hit down on cool, dry earth. His pace didn’t slow, even knowing he’d traveled well across half of the desert.
Grian kept running.
Branches and leaves were tossed out of the way as he chased after the man, always too far out of reach. The pull was always there, when they were apart, but now it was demanding. It tugged his heart nearer and nearer, toward the silhouette.
Hope struck through him, clogging and sludgy, as he stopped. In front of him, a man he thought he’d never see again. Words spilled out before they could be shoved back down, scraping and dry, “Scar! Scar—It’s okay—Scar,” without permission, his upper half leaned forward and had him fumbling with his feet to get closer, “Scar?”
Fluffy, brown hair flowed as the head of his elf turned around, face false and blank. Literally, blank. Like a memory one wasn’t quite able to remember. Hands sunk into air rather than a soft, thin shawl. The ground found his face quite fast.
Scar . Scar was gone. Of course he wasn’t standing in front of his beloved, of course they wouldn’t bring him back. Not even to mock him. Of course they pumped false ambition into his system. It shook Grian’s frame, still. It hadn’t caught up yet, still firmly under the impression there was something to be had. Something to be taken back.
There wasn’t. Because Grian had killed that something long ago.
Within his heart, thread snapped and disconnected the two, leaving him completely alone once again. It was almost worse than if he’d never been tricked in the first place. Cheeks burned as his chest rose and fall rapidly, staring forward for a beat. A beat turned into a full minute as Grian remained frozen.
As if finally processing, his brain let his body roam free again, unlocking joints all at once.
Throw up came up and nose scrunched, skin pulling tight and stabbing his eyes. He cried tears instead of blood. Grass tore apart flesh as palms dug at it, as if the body sat six feet below. Beyond the heavy breathing, brain pushing and pulling his diaphragm to work faster , something grossly similar to giggles sounded.
Ragged sobs sucked out of his mouth through an exhale. Lightheadedness forced his forehead against green blades, letting the ringing in his ears worsen now that movement had ceased. Everything began to feel so distant , filled with fluff and blur.
Almost too-rough hands met his back, rubbing it. Grian felt distinctly sick, then. Nothing was worse than them. Nobody was more violating and condescending, and this was not the time. It was never the time.
Spit coughed itself out as he hacked, quickly becoming dry and pulling nothing up with it. Abdomen screamed as Grian’s stomach messily and miserably tried getting out any food, any sustenance. It was left disappointed at nothing more than its own acid ripping apart his throat and absorbing into dirt.
Usually, Scar would have been there with cold, soothing hands and water. Usually, Grian wouldn’t be alone.