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Grian sat curled on his bed, his knees drawn to his chest and his back to the wall. His arms were tight where they hugged his legs, and his eyes studied the man settled on the floor across the room.
Scar.
Grian heaved a breath through his nose, tasting the air, trying to calm the swirling feeling in his stomach. He kept his eyes trained on Scar's skin. It was pale underneath their yellow light, too pale. He wasn't looking at Grian, but the avian knew what colour the man's eyes were.
Red.
Scar was on his last life.
In fact, he was freshly red. Just earlier that day, he'd fallen into the chasm, his yelps echoing down until sound suddenly went quiet.
Grian had frozen, the cry tumbling from his lips in wretched horror. And when he’d looked over the edge–
The blood had been dark enough to see from the top. He’d almost puked.
A moment later it had cleared away; Scar had respawned. But that hadn't stopped the overwhelming guilt, the horror, that consumed Grian from the inside out.
Because it had been Grian's fault. He knew it. If he had warned Scar, if he has been faster, then maybe–
Maybe this wouldn't have–
Grian shook his head, hard, trying to clear the memories away. Scar didn't notice. His eyes were trained to the side, looking out the window at the swirling sand.
It was late. Realistically, they should have been sleeping, but both of them knew that wasn't going to happen. Their emotions were too high, running hard, and there was too much antsy energy in the air.
On top of that, the wind had picked up, throwing sand around, faster and faster until they’d been forced to take shelter from the growing storm.
They couldn't leave right now. The desert had forced them together, inside their little tower of traps and heavy memories.
A cage.
Grian tightened his grip on his legs, overlapping his hands. His heart felt like it was beating fast, too fast to be safe. He couldn't seem to stop glancing after Scar, the guilt strong, the regret stronger.
Both of Scar's lost lives–they were his fault. He was responsible.
What did that say about him?
Grian swallowed. He tried to find comfort in a small solace. Chances were, it wouldn't be him who took Scar's final life. That responsibility would, realistically speaking, lay with one of the other members, the other players.
He’d taken one, and then two. But he–he wasn’t going to take three. He wasn’t–
But for some reason, that thought didn't bring much comfort. There was a sense of something foreboding in the air, a heavy fog that hung over their little castle.
It felt heavy. It smelled like blood.
Across the room, Scar shifted. He trailed to Grian, and they locked eyes, both of them freezing like deer.
An impossible fear took over Grian. Ever since Scar had gone red, he'd been erratic–slightly crazy. Jumping from one plan to the next, misguided rage directed at everybody he came across.
And now…now he was alone with Grian.
What if Scar attacked him?
Grian tensed underneath Scar's gaze. He knew that maybe the idea was crazy, but he didn’t miss the way Scar’s body looked tense. His gaze was sharp where it met Grians, decided. Grian swallowed heavily.
No way. No, Scar was his friend, his partner. They were–they worked well together, they were a pair, a team. Scar wouldn’t–
–would he?
Grian could feel his heart beating spasmodically in his chest, faster, faster, breathing picking up in the shared space. He was frozen, sure that the panic was leaking into his expression. He fought to keep it at bay, to ready himself for the inevitable moment when Scar pounced.
His hand twitched and he shifted slightly, leaning to the left, shifting his eyes over. There was a sword in the chest next to him. If he was quick, he could grab it, defend himself, become responsible for Scar's finally death–
He looked back at Scar, determination settling over his nerves. Their eyes locked again, gliding over their opposite’s expression. Grian was breathing heavily.
Scar's body tensed, and Grian gripped the edge of the bed, preparing to launch himself off of it.
Three, two, one–go!
Grian jumped up, feet hitting the floor with a heavy thud. He swung the chest open, heart thumping, and grabbed the sword, spinning around with his arms extended in one smooth motion.
The tip of the blade was inches away from Scar’s chest. Grian braced himself for the attack, sweeping his eyes over Scar, searching for a weapon.
Except–except Scar wasn't holding anything.
No, instead, his hands were raised in surrender, his eyes wide with fear as he took in Grian's hardened stance.
“Wha-?” Scar asked, staring, pupils dilated as his gaze dropped to the weapon directed at him. He couldn't seem to finish his sentence, too shocked, the supposed betrayal hot on his skin.
Grian's breathingg came in heaving gasps, confusion threatening to overwhelm him. His brain couldn’t comprehend the situation, couldn’t think past the fact that Scar should have a weapon and he didn’t. He didn't drop the sword.
“I–I–” Grian tried to speak, but his tongue spasmed. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t move. He was frozen, a statue of fear and adrenaline and regret. He didn’t understand.
Scar held perfectly still, a drop of sweat dripping down his temple. From where Grian stood, with the blade just barely spaced away from Scar’s heart, he could see the rise and fall of the man’s chest. Quick, sharp breaths, hardly controlled. His eyes were wide. “Grian,” he breathed, “put down the sword.”
The avian swallowed, tightening his grip. He could feel emotions building inside of him, threatening to choke him, drown him, but he shoved them away and narrowed his eyes. He still suspected a trick, an attack. He was sure one was coming. “No.”
Scar listed his head, tilting it to the side, trying to be casual. Grian knew him too well to believe the aura of nonchalance he tried to emanate, but he couldn’t place the concern and the hurt he saw building in Scar’s eyes. “Grian,” Scar tried again, and the word sounded like a plea, a prayer, “stop.”
Grian shivered, looking away. He flexed his grip, shifted forward a little and then back again.
He didn’t–he wasn’t–
“Please,” Scar begged, something in his tone desperate, scared.
And Grian lowered his weapon.
He couldn’t meet Scar’s eyes as he turned, face burning, and placed the sword back in the chest. He slumped over, gripping the edges, breathing hurried and ragged, heart pounding pathetically fast beneath his skin.
It was all he could do to remain standing.
No one spoke. Outside, the storm raged, wind howling as it slammed into the walls of their mock-fort. Distantly, Grian wondered how much force would be needed to tear the place apart–to blow the walls wide open, to shatter the windows and kill them both.
He didn’t know.
“Look at me,” Scar finally said. The words were sharper than before and Grian winced, hunching over himself. He didn’t want to turn, didn’t want to face the man who had every right to hurt him and yet hadn’t.
But he shoved his feelings aside and forced himself to comply.
Meeting Scar’s eyes felt the storm outside: sharp, strong, dangerous. They were flashing, the anger prominent, the confusion stronger. “What the heck?” he spat, crossing his arms, his anger a living thing.
Grian pressed his lips together in a thin line. He supposed he could try and explain himself, to tell about the guilt in his heart, how Scar would be justified in killing him and he’d just–just reacted–
He kept his mouth shut.
Scar continued, hardly pausing, his voice like fire, “What was that about? Are you–are you betraying me?”
Grian felt his jaw drop, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “Are you insane? Of course not!”
“Then why?” Scar was yelling now, waving his hands, and Grian flinched. “Why would you do that?”
The explanation was hot on his tongue. “I thought you were going to–” but then just as suddenly, the words died, leaving behind a sour taste in his mouth. He was fuming, wanting to tackle Scar, but he couldn’t move.
Scar didn’t have the same reservation. He sauntered over, close, invading Grian’s personal space. His hand reached out; poked the avian in the chest. “Going to what, Grian? You thought I was going to what?”
Grian felt the sharp jab, pain exploding on his skin, and the words leaked out before he could stop himself. “Kill me!”
Scar froze, hand still on Grian’s chest, and Grian heaved beneath it. His skin felt like it was on fire, a steady bruise forming under his shawl, right where Scar’s finger connected with his chest.
He knew he deserved it. That didn’t stop the pain.
He tried to take a deep breath, but it stuttered in his throat, a sort of silent sob, and he leaned away, wrapping his arms around himself. It was a hug, but his grip was tight, his nails digging into the skin of his arms hard enough to draw blood. He welcomed the feeling of the warm liquid dripping down his skin, the way it made everything seem just a little bit quieter. Behind him, his wings shook in fury and something else, something stronger.
“I thought you were going to kill me,” he whispered again, but this time the words were softer, a dying fire. He still couldn’t breathe around the burning in his eyes. He wondered if sand had gotten in them, a result of the storm, and then shoved the thought away.
Scar looked stunned. His anger had faded, revealing the exoskeleton of a haunted man, a man ridiculed with concern and confusion and hurt. His hand hovered uselessly against Grina’s chest, hot to the touch. “You…you really thought–?”
Grian looked away, taking a small step out of Scar’s reach. The pain in the man’s eyes was impossible to face head-on. “I don’t know,” he whispered.
Scar was quiet for a long time. Then, “Why?”
Grian swallowed, the air suddenly heavy as it filled his lungs. He felt a little claustrophobic, a little scared. He wanted to run outside, to flee, but the storm was trapping them both inside.
“I just,” he finally started, letting his hands fall and bringing them together, twisting his fingers. He still wouldn’t look at Scar. “I just, because I’m responsible for you losing your two lives, I–”
His voice cut off. He didn’t make any effort to revive it.
It was silent. So silent, in fact, that Grian risked a glance up. His heart skipped a beat when he saw Scar’s expression: devastated, sad, concerned.
Betrayed.
“You…you really thought I would…?” he couldn’t even seem to speak it.
Grian felt the desperate need to defend himself welling up again. “Well, you’re on red,” he snapped. “And we all know reds are dangerous, revengers. And I cost you your first life. And your second, kind of.”
Scar shook his head, as if the information wasn’t commuting. He took a step forward, reaching out, back in Grian’s space, “Grian–”
The avian stepped back. “No,” he snapped.
Scar sighed, the hurt on his features twisting Grian’s heart, but he stayed where he was. His arm fell and dangled uselessly at his side. “You aren’t responsible for my second death,” he said, slowly.
Grian shook his head. “You’re wrong. I, I should’ve warned you. I should’ve–”
“No,” Scar interrupted before Grian could take that thought any farther. “That wasn’t your job. My second death was, was my fault.”
Grian shivered at Scar’s tone. He wanted to argue, wanted to fight and run at the same time. The words weren’t registering inside of him, the narrative something different than the story he had been telling himself. And that made it scary.
“Well,” he said, sticking out his chest, “even if that was true, your first death was still my fault.”
“And you’ve already dedicated your whole first life to me,” Scar shot back just as fast. “We’re even.”
Grian opened and closed his mouth, sputtering, trying to get past the anger and fight that were warring inside of him. He tried to think of a reason Scar might be wrong, something he could challenge, a plot he could poke holes in.
He found none.
Scar…Scar didn’t blame him. He thought they were even.
He had never been planning to attack Grian. It had just been the avian’s paranoia, his own blame, twisting what he saw, fitting into the narrative in his head.
Stars. Stars.
“Oh,” Grian breathed, absorbing the information, almost numb to the world around him. He sort of stumbled to the side, plopping onto the bed, eyes distant. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Scar said. He was still standing, still reeling from what had just happened.
Grian swallowed. The action felt heavy, his hands numb as he ran them over the sheets. He was back to the stuttering breathing, the words barely able to make it out. “I’m–I’m sorry.”
The phrase felt weak. Too weak, pathetic, sand being blown around in the wind.
But miraculously, Scar only sighed. He crossed the small space and settled down next to Grian again, the space between them charged. “It’s okay.”
Grian glanced at Scar, glanced away. The wind surged and he could hear the sound of tiny dust particles pelting their ceiling. He knew it wasn’t okay. It probably never would be.
He’d messed everything up.
There didn’t seem to be anything to say. Grian wasn’t sure how late it was, but his body suddenly felt tired, heavy. “I’m sorry,” he said again. He felt like crying, but he shoved the emotion away.
Scar shook his head. “It’s okay, Birdie. You were…scared.”
He had been more than that. He’d been desperate, guilty, insane. All the things he thought reds were known for.
Erratic.
The old nickname Scar had used, Birdie, swelled in the room. The way Scar said the word sounded exhausted, tainted, scared, but it was still the same name he had used for years.
They were the same people. Grian had to believe that.
As if a testament to that notion, Scar’s fingers twitched in his lap. He hesitated, then raised his hands, slowly reaching over.
Grian tried not to flinch when the cold hands landed in his wings.
“Let me preen you,” Scar murmured, a peace agreement. A treaty, proposed by one side and waiting for a desperate, scratchy signature. .
Grian swallowed. Didn’t argue. Instead, he turned to the side, spreading his wings so that Scar could reach all his feathers.
Scar didn’t pause or relay, he just began. His touch was light, gentle, intoxicatingly so, as he started combing through. It was comforting, but Grian hated the way he leaned into it, the way his body seemed to crave the gentleness.
He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve it.
Scar seemed to think differently, not wavering for even a moment. His rough hands served to smooth the delicate feathers, picking debris and sand from in between them in a swift, well practiced way.
Grian half expected the man to pluck feathers out, to hurt him, to punish him for what he had done. And Grian knew he would take it, too. He would sit there and take it.
But Scar didn’t do that. He just continued on, hands sickeningly gentle as always, fingers smooth and easy. Against his will, Grian’s body relaxed. He could feel his lids growing heavy, but the guilt in his heart made it impossible to sleep.
“I’m sorry,” Grian muttered again. It seemed to be all he could say, two words that would never be enough.
He’d taken one life. And then two.
For some reason, the possibility of taking Scar’s third didn’t seem that absurd now.
Scar’s hands stilled at the words, reminding Grian to focus. “Stop apologising," he finally told the avian, not moving, hardly breathing.
Grian sucked in air, his heart hurting, and drew his knees to his chest. Nothing felt right, not even this. He wanted Scar to keep preening, to pretend nothing had happened, but he didn’t say that. He didn’t say anything.
Scar didn’t let the silence continue for long. “I would’ve done the same thing,” he told Grian, hands still frozen, keeping his voice low to match the rumblings of the storm outside.
Grian knew Scar was lying. He knew the man wouldn’t have done that, wouldn’t have threatened him. He knew it.
…so why did the lie make him feel so much better?
Maybe his brain just wanted to believe he wasn’t the only bad person. Maybe he just wanted to fall into the narrative that Scar was just like him, they all were, and they all would follow his exact steps.
Maybe he was tired of being plagued by guilt and regret.
“You’re lying,” Grian whispered to Scar, tilting his head forward to rest on his knees.
“You’re tired,” Scar countered. “Go to sleep.”
Grian didn’t want to. He didn’t deserve the softness, the bed beneath them, the man behind him. He didn’t.
But he was selfish, and he took what he didn’t deserve and held onto it tightly. So when Scar told him to sleep, he did the one thing that came naturally to his thieving mind.
He listened.