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“Wow, you’re still up?” Scar asked.
Grian blinked at the question, barely looking over his shoulder. He was sitting on a log, outside, underneath a darkening sky. The remnants of a campfire was sprawled before him, surrounded by forgotten rocks, smoking but not quite burning.
It was late.
“Yeah,” Grian answered after a beat, moving over a little to make room for the man. Scar shot a grateful smile as he lowered himself slowly onto the wood, setting his cane to the side.
There was a long, awkward pause. Grian shifted, glancing at Scar one moment and ripping his gaze away the next.
“Whatcha thinking about?” Scar finally asked as he turned his gaze toward the fading embers. Grian followed his line of sight; the coal Scar was starting at glowed with a soft red, the heat gentle as it wafted toward them.
Grian shrugged. “Nothing.”
Scar shook his head, stuck out his tongue in that playful way he had mastered. “Liar,” he declared, the word kind of singsong.
Despite themselves, they both laughed softly, the sounds of their mirth playing off of the trees around them.
All too soon, the sound faded. Scar raised his eyebrows at the avian, letting him know that the question was still hanging in the air.
Instead of answering, Grian shot back with a question of his own. “Is anyone else still awake?”
Scar looked at him sideways, obviously noting the topic change. But he didn't comment on it, just looked back towards the fire remnants and nodded. “Etho and Joel are working on another project together. Bdubs and Skizz, I think, are still eating dinner?” A small pause. “Oh, and Gem is on a walk.”
Grian nodded, absorbing the information. “What about Mumbo?”
“He’s sleeping late.”
Grian cracked a small smile, chuckling a little to himself. His friends’ movements were kind of easy to guess, their predictable hybrid traits simple to memorise for anyone who paid close attention.
Etho, as a wolf hybrid, had a lot of energy and didn’t sleep much. Likewise, Joel, with his little alien antenna, liked to work on projects and build machinery. Because of that, the two of them were good friends, often up late into the night tinkering with the latest machine they'd built.
Bdubs, another dog hybrid with a large appetite but a mind that tended to forget about meals. Hence, the eating late at night thing. Skizz was an avian, like Grian, but his diet was far more selective and it took him a while to prepare his meals.
Gem was a little harder to predict, but taking long walks was pretty normal for her.
And then there was Mumbo, their resident nocturnal moth. He slept through the day and normally awoke just after dinner, sometimes earlier if he wanted to eat with them. But today he’d slept in. The sun was already beneath the horizon, steadily falling lower, and he had yet to stumble from his cabin.
Scar smiled at Grian as he laughed. As a Vex, Scar’s ears were carefully crafted into points at the end, and his skin was marred by markings that stretched with his grin.
A long time ago, Scar had hated his skin for that exact reason. When Grian had first come here, he'd found Scar, more than once, staring into the water at his reflection.
There was no mistaking the hatred in his eyes. Hatred directed at himself.
Grian thought that maybe he understood that, at least a little bit.
Most hybrids…they didn’t have great childhoods. It was almost a fact, really.
If you had wings or claws or a tail, you should expect to be treated like an animal.
And they had been.
Grian shivered a little, leaning closer to the dying fire as if that might shove some of the ghosts away.
But ghosts were slippery things, and as he sat on that hard log, it was difficult not to let his mind wander to each of their misfortunes.
Etho and Bdubs, dogs forced into muzzles and then into arenas to fight.
Joel, an alien experimented on by cruel, professional hands.
Skizz and Mumbo, creatures kept as pets in cages for people to gawk and marvel at.
Scar, ridiculed and mocked for the way he looked.
And Grian…
Well, Grian tried not to think about what happened to him.
He told himself it didn’t matter. The memories were distant, intangible things that slipped through his fingers when he tried to grab at them.
They didn't matter. They didn't–
Grian took a deep, trembling breath. He ran his fingers on the log underneath him, feeling the rough bark, counting to ten in his head.
He wasn’t there anymore.
Grian held onto that thought as tight as he could, repeating it like a mantra in his head. A prayer, a plea.
He wasn't there anymore. He wasn’t forced to perform, forced to entertain, forced to be an exotic attraction for rich quests who didn’t know how to spend their money on anything other than their own selves.
He was–he was safe.
Scar glanced at Grian sideways, his eyes slightly concerned, and Grian realised he’d started to shake. He forced himself to relax, twisting his features into something more complacent.
He was okay. He was fine.
“You’re not there anymore, you know,” a voice said, and both of them jumped, turning to see Gem emerging from the trees.
Gem was a deer hybrid. She had long, twisting antlers protruding from her hair and droopy, doe-like ears. Her green eyes were wide as she studied the two men, a sense of knowing emanating from her.
Grian turned away first, face burning at how see-through he was. The other hybrids knew his background, just like he knew about theirs. They knew about the performing and the beatings and the forced preenings and the hands and–
And he hated it.
He hated how transparent he was, how just by looking at him, Gem could tell what he was thinking. She could tell he was on the verge of a panic attack from the tensing of his spine, the glazing over of his eyes.
It made him feel weak. Pathetic.
“She’s right,” Scar murmured, scooting closer, drawing Grian from his thoughts.
He didn't answer, just watched as Gem came over and sat on an opposite log. She studied him for a long moment, listing her head to the side before she murmured, “You’re safe here.”
Silence, for a while.
“I know,” Grian finally told them, when he couldn't take the quiet anymore.
And he did. He'd learned that when the people here said that, they meant it.
Though it had, admittedly, taken him a long, long time to accept that. To understand those words and take them at face value. Longer than most, according to Mumbo.
Grian was the most recent member of their little group.
Apparently, the small cluster of hybrids had been around for a while. Longer than Grian had realised when he’d first stumbled upon them, wearing robes and the mark of the Watchers.
Everyone who saw that mark knew who he was, what he had been. There was no hiding it from anyone, not when the House of the Watchers was the most infamous place for miles.
Everyone was well aware of the types of things that happened inside, the cruel entertainment, the vulgar atmosphere. And Grian, standing there shaking, had worn the trademark uniform, had the trademark tattoo, the wild and defensive look to him.
And yet…Mumbo, the first to find him, hadn’t judged him. He’d just spoken to Grian in a soft, quiet voice, hands held out in a complacent gesture, a show of kindness.
Somehow, he’d managed to calm Grian down. To get some food into him, to clean his various wounds.
And then, after that, Grian had just…stayed.
The other hybrids were wary of him, at first, and Grian responded in tandem. He didn’t trust them not to hurt him, not to steal his things or shove their hands into his feathers or hair without asking.
But as time passed in its wavelike manner, he realised…that wasn't going to happen.
Maybe it was the way Scar waved at him, or the way Etho timidly shared some food. It might’ve been Skizz’s quiet admission of how he had been treated, or Mumbo staying by his side when he couldn’t sleep.
Whatever it was, something like trust started to build between them. Joel and Gem took walks with Grian, Bdubs coaxed a laugh out of him.
And slowly, that trust turned into something more. Care.
Love.
But Grian wasn’t naive. He knew that love was strong, but it couldn’t erase all the bad things that had happened to them. The bad things that he slowly learned about, the bad things that he slowly told everyone.
“They made me perform,” Grian had whispered, voice choked, one night. “They beat me if I didn’t. And guests just–they just did what they wanted. H-hit me.” A horrible pause. “Preened me.”
Skizz had sucked in a sharp breath at that last one, his white wings twitching behind him as his face paled to match.
Only avians knew how personal, how sensitive it was when someone preened you. It was a sign of trust, love, dignity. A direct show of intimacy.
But to Grian, he’d only feared it. Dreaded it. The feeling of hands over his feathers, yanking and twisting and, at times, being sickeningly gentle–
Skizz knew the significance of that. He knew.
And yet…he didn't judge Grian. He never said it was Grian's fault.
And that quiet show of support, the mutual understanding, pushed Grian in the right direction. And even though it took him a long, long time to let someone from the group help preen him, he had done it.
The first person was Scar, and even that was only because the Vex had walked in to see Grian hunched and struggling.
“Let me help,” Scar had murmured, his voice sounding slightly broken.
For some reason, Grian had listened.
All through the session, he's been tense and fearful and flinched at the slightest sound. But Scar had been patient, kind, working slowly and soothingly until Grian inevitably relaxed into the touch.
He’d come a long way since then. His progress could be measured by how welcoming he was to someone helping him preen, how much touch scared him. And now, months later, he had let nearly everyone preen him at least once.
His way of giving back. His own show of support.
But even still–sometimes, when the glow of the embers was just right, when his emotions tilted a certain way, the memories burned sharp.
“You’re safe,” Scar said again. They were words that dragged Grian back to the present, back to the little logs he was sitting on. He cast a glance at the Vex, then looked away again.
Gem nodded her agreement. “You are.”
Grian took the words; held them close to his heart. Even if he already believed them, they were nice to hear.
Safe. Safe.
“Sometimes I forget,” he admitted, his voice soft, frail. The words trembled a little in the wind, but somehow, they held strong.
“We’re here to remind you,” Scar responded lightly. He offered his hand, and after a moment, Grian took it. Squeezed once, twice, then let go.
It was the little code they'd developed, one used between all of them whenever one of them was in distress. Grab a hand. Squeeze. Let go.
A mini hug when most of them weren't used to real physical touch. For some stupid reason, it always served to calm Grian down.
“Remind what?” a voice suddenly asked, and the three of them turned to see Etho and Joel.
“Nothing,” Grian answered, quickly.
The two hybrids exchanged a look with Scar and Gem respectively. Grian pretended not to see it, face burning as he looked towards the coals.
He knew no one would judge him. But that didn't stop the desire to deflect, to change the topic, from bubbling in his throat. His defensiveness was armor he wore around himself, his shield from the world.
Dodge. Hide. Lie. Words he used to live by.
It was hard to remember that he didn't have to live by them anymore.
“You know, a fire is typically more enjoyable when it's actually lit,” Etho finally said, breaking the awkward silence that had settled. He crouched by the fading pit, tail wagging once and ears perked as he blew on the hot coals.
Joel snatched some wood from a nearby pile and stacked it on top, along with a few stray pieces of kindling. Grian watched silently as they started up the fire again, eyes trailing the start of sparks as they jumped around.
It was…pretty.
Their mismatched group settled into a little silence, all of them gathered around the starting of the fire like it was something sacred.
“How’s your project going?” Gem finally asked, directing the question to the newest members. It was an opening for not just them, but for Grian, a way for him to get out of his head and back into reality.
“Good,” Etho answered at the same time Joel said, “Bloody awful.”
The rest of them burst into laughter, even Grian, their voices lifting towards the stars starting to peak out above them.
Etho and Joel exchanged a look before, begrudgingly, they laughed too. Their expressions were mirrored versions of amusement, and Grian sighed out a chuckle, watching them.
This was what he loved about these people. Everything was so easy with them. They didn’t push, they didn’t shove for an answer when one wasn’t at the ready.
No, for them, talking was easy, laughing was a norm. Chaos fueled them often, but not in a way that made it hard to catch your breath. In a way that made it feel like you were breathing for the first time.
In, out. Inhale, exhale.
Their little group was still missing a few people, and as conversation trailed around, those people showed up. There was Skizz, plopping hard next to Gem, his starch white wings lifted so they didn’t drag on the ground. He launched into some sort of long anecdote of something or another, punctuated by exaggerated arm motions and half-hearted jokes. The rest of them watched amusedly.
Bdubs came soon after, offering a wide, vibrant grin to each person as he walked by. Grian smiled back, softly. It was impossible not to greet someone like Bdubs with a smile; somehow, the dog hybrid dragged one out of you.
Bdubs settled himself on Etho’s other side. The conversation titled and swayed with each member that arrived, with each joke or loud laugh. It ebbed and flowed like the tide, the wind, and Grian let himself be dragged along.
“Hey,” Mumbo sleepily greeted, yawning loudly. They all turned to see him standing, rubbing his eyes.
“Hi,” Scar responded, leaning back a little so Mumbo could get by. The moth hybrid smiled tiredly, a thank you, and stumbled over. He sat next to Grian.
Mumbo was a lot taller than Grian was, even when sitting. He had deep black moth wings, broken into two parts, that protruded from his back, and tousled hair that hung in waves.
“Hello,” Grian told him, quietly. “Good night.”
Mumbo's lips flitted into a soft, tired smile. That was a sort of inside joke between them; because Mumbo slept through the day, Grian had figured saying ‘good night’ rather than ‘good morning' was appropriate. Mumbo had laughed the first time, hard, and after a moment of hesitation Grian had joined in.
“Most people just say good morning,” the moth hybrid had explained, still chuckling, “or just say hi.”
After that, the greeting had become a joke between them, something steady, expected, delivered and shot back.
Mumbo did not disappoint. “Good night,” he said, stretching his long legs out toward the fire. “How is everyone?”
He asked the last part louder, inviting the others into their semi-private conversation, and they all launched into retelling of their days. Grian stayed mostly silent, content to listen to the stories, watching as Mumbo slowly woke up and the rest of them slowly got tired.
It was a well known cycle, a nice routine to wind down by. Even if Grian's mind was a little sluggish, a little too caught up in the past, he felt…calm.
Good.
He was surrounded by people who had each lived through hardships. People who had been hurt, over and over and over, but–
But still people. Still living, still breathing, despite it all.
And maybe that was the point.
“It's getting late,” Scar eventually murmured to Grian, leaning over to whisper in the avian's ear.
Grian blinked, glancing up at the moon steadily traveling across the sky. Scar was right; it was definitely past the time he normally went to bed.
“We should all settle down,” Gem agreed, already standing. Her long, frizzy hair poured over her shoulders.
Mumbo nodded, struggling to his feet, too. His moth wings twitched a little and Grian trailed his eyes over them. “Yeah, I need to get some work done. Actually start my night.”
One by one, the hybrids around the fire got to their feet, bidding each other goodnight as they went their respective ways.
“Come on, Grian,” Scar said, when they were the last ones left.
Grian didn't argue as they started to walk. Part of him felt a little bit babied, but every night, one of the others walked him home. Part of it was safety in numbers, part of it was because for the first week or so, Grian hadn't been able to bear being alone.
He guessed some things never changed.
They filed down the dirt path towards Grian's cabin, silent, lost in their respective thoughts. Scar's heavy walking stick thumped steadily along with their footsteps, and though they didn't talk, the quiet wasn't awkward. It was nice.
Slowly, the house came into view. It was smaller than most people would be comfortable with, more run down, but to Grian, it was a mansion.
It was a home.
His steps faltered as his mind caught on the word.
“You okay?” Scar asked, turning to face him, his eyes flashing with concern.
Grian nodded, swallowing hard, staring at the house.
Home.
“What's wrong?” Scar asked, stepping closer. He looked worried, his face paling, pointed ears standing straight up.
Grian shook his head, standing there, slowly wrapping his arms around himself. For some reason, his eyes were burning.
Shocked, he forced himself to blink the tears away.
He was not going to cry. Absolutely not.
But Scar saw them anyway. Slowly, slowly, the man reached out, barely brushing Grian's skin, clearing the tears away before they could fall. “What's wrong?” he repeated, but this time his voice was softer. Kinder.
Grian opened and closed his mouth. For some reason, speaking was hard. Words fell through his lips, but they made no sound, carried no meaning.
Scar was patient. He waited for Grian to sort his mess out, to handle himself.
Slowly, Grian's mind rearranged, caught up with whatever trend it had been curving towards. He breathed deeply through his nose, the oxygen hitting him like a drug, a narcotic. He held it close.
“It's just,” he whispered, finally, watching the way Scar became alert at the sound of his voice. He grappled with his hands, willing the words to fall into place. “I just realised, I'm n-not–this place is–”
“Birdie?” Scar prompted when Grian's shaky voice trailed off. There was a moment of hesitation, then slowly he reached out, making sure his hand was visible as he placed it on Grian's shoulder.
Grian closed his eyes at the touch. His body felt tense beneath Scar's hand, a rubber band stretched to the max.
He prayed that whoever was holding it didn't let go. He prayed that they eased the pressure slowly, gently, softly. That they didn't pull so hard he snapped.
For once, his call was answered. After a moment, his mind stopped trying to play flashbacks and instead led him back to the present. To the forest, to the hand touching his shoulder.
The hand that wasn't like the other hands at the House of the Watchers. The hand that didn't poke or pry or pet. The hand that just stayed, a soft reassurance, a steady hold.
And suddenly, the words fell into place.
“This is a home,” Grian told Scar, staring at the cabin, “this is a home. You guys–you gave me a home.”
Scar lifted his hand, turned, looked at the cabin. He didn't say anything for a long, long time. So long that Grian wasn't sure he would respond.
But then he whispered, “We were all given a home.”
Grian cast a sideways glance at Scar, sniffing, taking the words in for as much worth as he could.
A home. For all of them.
He realised it was true. The lives they had led, the hurts they had carried…they had brought them here.
He knew it didn't make it better. It didn't make it all worth it, or make them forget all that had happened.
But it did make the load a little lighter. It made it easier to bear, the burden got the slightest bit more insignificant when you carried it with friends.
With family.
“Come on,” Grian murmured to Scar, pulling the man forward.
Scar followed without hesitation. They stumbled together into Grian's cabin, the cozy room warm and soft.
Scar wordlessly settled himself on the bed. This was another thing that happened often: one of the hybrids would stay the night with Grian. It happened impromptu, randomly, but no one questioned it.
Some nights you just can't face alone.
Grian went to his nest in the corner. It was piled with dozens of blankets, pillows, clothes--anything soft that he could get his hands on.
A year ago, Grian would have been mortified at the idea of anyone seeing him sleep in a nest. It was embarrassing, pathetic, stupid. Something he had been conditioned to be ashamed of.
But now…
Well, now, people regularly gifted him items to add to it.
Grian switched off the light. A yawn tugged at his mouth, wings automatically relaxing behind him as he covered himself in blankets.
He was closing his eyes when Scar said, voice soft in the air, “I'm glad you found a home.”
Grian took a long time to choose his response. “I'm glad it's with you guys.”
He fell asleep before he heard Scar's reply.