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Scar remembered the feeling of falling. He remembered hearing Grian screaming. He also remembered hitting the ground and everything going dark. But what Scar held onto for the longest time, the longest of the moments, was that he had been singing and Grian had been laughing, and they had been in the middle of the something. A task is something that sticks around, a goal something infectious, parasitic. And it is one of the things that hangs around the dead and dying like flies.
It always took Scar longer to respawn than everyone else, and always, he would be somewhere different. His heart, his mind, those had started this time in the middle of a forest, buried somewhere dark. His tendons crawled to him from across the server, his bone fragments and nerves and muscle tissue following suit. It was his skin that took the longest, was always spread out the farthest alongside his blood, the splatter knitting together like yeast cut apart and mixed into a dough.
When Scar could finally feel, finally think, finally breathe, Scar knew he was somewhere dark. More importantly, Scar knew he was somewhere far. Dirt scraped against his skin as he writhed, pressed on all sides by something heavy, something dry, something that you could never quite get rid of. All he could taste was earth, all he could smell, breathe, choke upon. It was in his nails, his eyes lashes, tangled in his hair. There was something so tempting in staying still, in letting the dirt sap his air, his energy, letting it drain him until there was nothing left to do but respawn somewhere new.
But something was tingling in his brain, in his chest. It was something he could not shake, something that exhaustion could not combat. The only thought that ran through his mind was one that was familiar, and yet oh so distant. Grian is waiting for me. It was the only thing that sat on his mind as he dug through the soil, as his fingers ripped open on stones and nails caught on roots of unseen trees. And it was the only consolation he had when he burst from the earth and he could spit the dirt from his mouth, gasp with ragged lungs, and wipe the grass from his eyes.
It took much more to drag himself from the earth this time than it had the last time, but it had taken him longer to reform that last time. Falling is different than exploding, in that sense. And yet, Scar was different this time. He had died— was he still dead?— and he had come back different. Maybe he had come back wrong. Maybe Grian will think I’m wrong. But Scar didn’t have the time to think like that, not when he knew Grian was waiting for him, in a place much warmer than this one.
It’s cold, Scar decided, staring down at his gray hands, the new scars that shot up his legs. Maybe it’ll be warmer when I find Grian. There was something else that settled in his chest, alongside his need for the warmth, the need to finish what they’d started. It was a something sharper, a rustier something. Something unfamiliar, and yet addictive, like the taste of something he had yet to try, but knew he was going to love. It felt like the kind of thing that would be all consuming, yet the heat that he craved seemed to win out. For now, something whispered, but before Scar could question it, it had slithered away, leaving only a chill in his chest.
It was a long walk back to the desert, and every step felt heavier than it should have, the chill of the forest harsher than Scar had expected. He had been near shivering when he finally reached the edge of the trees, when he could see the sand, but as he was about to step back into the light, another step towards Grian, the spark within his chest fizzled. Fear clawed up his throat, a dusting of dirt coating his tongue and choking his lungs as he froze at the lip of the hill. What if Grian doesn’t want me back?
He stared back down at his hands, the hands that shook much more than they should have, the hands that were grayer than they needed to be. His skin that was hanging, stretching in a way it shouldn’t, his arms and fingers looser than they needed to be. Would Grian want someone so disgusting, someone so tainted with death, on his team? His loyalty was no longer needed, Scar was red. So would Grian even want him around?
Scar swallowed, turning away from the desert, the spark shaking in his newly reassembled ribs, that he could feel with his newly repaired fingers, the world he could see in his newly red eyes. Something caught these eyes, however, as he turned away from the sand, from the comforting heat, from the desert. A flower, crimson, like the world had been painted the first time he’d died. Scarlet petals like the eyes he had seen reflected in the river back at him. Scar reached for the flower, but found that it fell apart as soon as he closed his hand around it. Death had rendered not only him more fragile, but all the world he touched, apparently.
He had to be much more careful when he picked the scarlet flowers, the now unnaturally gentle movements to do the simplest task of collecting flowers. He had a handful before he was satisfied moving on, and he stepped into the heat of the sands with a fist of scarlet and lavender.
The warmth of the sun, Scar soon discovered, was not what he had been needing, but the farther he walked, he knew it was better than the shade of uncaring trees. He could sense Monopoly Mountain long before he could even see the outline, because the warmth was starting to spread through the center of his chest in that now familiar way. He could see the chasm in which he had fallen, but he could hear Grian’s heartbeat from across the sand much sooner. It was a new sensation, feeling someone else’s heat beating inside of your chest, in your mind, on your tongue, but it was not one that he disliked.
Grian stood at the edge of the chasm, staring down at the bottom. His red sweater was wrapped around himself, and his usually chipper face was skewed up into one of worry and concern. Scar swallowed, standing just far enough away that his heart was pounding like a hammer against his ribs, while Grian’s was slow and steady against the roof of his mouth. He didn’t remember saying Grian’s name, but he must’ve. The spark in his chest grew when Grian finally turned, green eyes widening in shock, and then— something that sent heat shooting across his skin— relief.
“What happened?”
Scar could taste blood and sugar, and the spark had him smiling, even though guilt laced his dry voice. “I didn’t mind the gap.”
Something crinkled in Grian’s eyes, something that released confetti into Scar’s ribs.
“I was so excited about science,” Scar continued, his mind going blank as his tongue filled in the words.
God, what were we even talking about? The spark reminded him, painted the task on his insides that way the games had painted his death on his skin. Grian remembered just as well, it seemed.
“Well,” he started, as if he hadn’t spent likely a day and a half waiting for Scar to return. “Now you can remove the boat without feeling guilty. Because your job has changed.”
Scar could barely hear what Grian was saying anymore as he recollected his things, his armor, his weapons. There was an ache somewhere deep when he realized just how close his uncompleted task was, how easy it was to finish. What happens when I finish it? Would the taste of blood take over? He was growing cold just thinking about it.
Finally, Grian stopped talking, and Scar found that he had been eying the flowers still gripped tightly in Scar’s fist. He held them out, instinctively, throat filling with dirt again as he avoided Grian’s gaze.
“Can we still be friends?”
Grian blinked at him and then laughed, taking the flowers immediately. “Well, yeah. I still owe you my first life.”
Scar nodded, the taste of rust rising into the back of his throat, but the smell of sugar and a spreading warmth won out. Nothing else really mattered, besides the handing off of the flowers, and seeing Grian again before he truly changed to the killer he knew he was going to need to be, but he followed Grian to the boat anyway. It was the moment of truth, really, releasing it to hunt Cleo, completing the task he had clawed himself from the ground to do.
Yet, when he released the boat, and the Enderman disappeared, the spark did not fade within his chest, the sweet taste on his tongue did not dissipate. Grian was cursing the Enderman’s failure, but Scar couldn’t hear it, as he was too busy basking in the heat that radiated from Grian’s sun. Maybe my goal is different, Scar thought, eyes on Grian like he was a lifeline. Maybe I won’t change at all. Maybe it’s over.
The change began much later that night. Scar wasn’t quite sure when it happened. He knew he was laying in his bed, eyes tightly shut, when he felt his skin grow icy cold. It was an iciness that was made of pain, made of rust and iron and teeth. It was hungry. The heartbeat in Scar’s mouth told him that Grian was not asleep, and without even opening his eyes, he knew Grian was not in the bed across the room.
Scar didn’t know why he got up— nether, he couldn’t even tell when he had gotten out of bed— just that he was up and that he was hunting. Grian was standing outside, on the sandy precipice of the mountain, when Scar opened the door. Grian was far enough away that he hadn’t heard Scar come outside, but he turned as soon as he heard the footsteps, the smile enough to slow Scar’s movements.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Grian said, glancing between the tower and the rest of the desert, dotted with torches. “Just wanted to plan out what we’re doing tomorrow. Shoring up the defenses, and what not.”
Scar didn’t say anything, metal slicking his tongue as he felt Grian’s heart beat speed up a half beat when he looked into Scar’s red eyes. Scar was having a hard time finding something to say, but the warmth that blossomed with each of Grian’s breaths helped him stall enough for words to form.
“You should get some rest, Grian. Lot’s of killing tomorrow.”
That last part was not what he had planned to say, not his intention at all, but Grian just nodded as if this was normal. He’s expecting me to change too.
“You’re right. Lots of traps.”
Grian started back towards the tower, almost making it all the way to the steps when something like melting snow washed over Scar, cold and smelling of metal. Iciness filled his chest and Scar found himself reaching out, grabbing Grian roughly by the shoulder. Grian’s eyes were wide as Scar spun him, slamming him against the outer wall of the tower, gripping him by the shoulder. Grian opened his mouth to say something, ask something, but Scar found his hand around Grian’s neck, lifting him up the stone inch by inch. They didn’t have the biggest of height differences, but it felt much larger as Scar dragged Grian’s feet off of the ground to dangle him by the throat.
Something had frozen inside of Scar, and though he could feel Grian’s heartbeat inside of his mouth, in the pit of his stomach, skipping beats and speeding up, the taste of iron was stronger than the smell of sugar. Grian’s finger nails were scraping at Scar’s hands, but Scar could barely feel it, barely recognized at all the pain Grian was trying to inflict. His eyes were pleading, but Scar’s were unseeing, unfeeling as Grian gasped for air. Something inside of him had turned to rock, that something that begged for blood, for iron, for the sinking of teeth into flesh. It demanded a sound, a smell, a taste, and the only thing that would melt this ice Scar found inside of him was blood.
It was only when Grian writhed against the stone that Scar’s finger slipped, from beneath Grian’s jaw, to skate up the side of his chin, and something other than ice burst into Scar’s stomach. It was heat, but not a searing heat. It was warm, subtly so, and sweet. Scar’s grip around Grian’s neck loosened, and he started to cough, to gasp in that way that Scar found so familiar. The gasp that sounded like digging yourself from a grave. Fear was painted across Grian’s face as he stared at Scar, still pinning him against the wall with his other arm, and suddenly the warmth in Scar’s stomach sunk, a red hot poker dropping into his gut.
Scar’s thumb fit itself beneath Grian’s jaw, and without a further thought, Scar found himself tasting Grian’s lips, pulling the other’s face to his from off the stone. He used the rest of his body to keep Grian against the wall, other hand pressing flat against Grian’s stomach. Grian tasted of sweat and sugar, and Scar couldn’t help but run his tongue along his lips, hungry for the taste. More hungry for the sweetness in Grian’s skin than the metal beneath it, and as he slid his hand to the back of Grian’s head, he pushed his way into Grian’s mouth, tasting him further with each flicker of his tongue, each push of his lips.
Grian did little to pull back— or maybe he couldn’t, with how Scar had trapped him— and something in Scar’s mind took that as invitation to push farther, teeth skating Grian’s lips as he sucked the air from Grian’s lungs. His other hand, which was pushing against Grian’s stomach, pressed hard against Grian’s sweater, skating quickly beneath the hem and against the hot skin that was Grian’s flat stomach. He drank in the touch, and Scar could feel himself hardening, the fabric of his trousers much too tight as he ground against Grian’s thigh, slotting his knee between Grian’s.
When he had tasted enough of his mouth, teased his tongue and bitten at his lips, Scar sunk to Grian’s chin, tracing gasping kisses and nervous bites down his neck, and finally to his shoulder. Grian’s heartbeat was loud in Scar’s gut, pounding faster than Scar had ever felt it, but something tinged it that had the searing heat inside of him roaring to life more and more, feeding off of Grian’s fear like it was kindling. As Scar sank his teeth into Grian’s shoulder and Grian cried out for the first time, everything came into focus in one shuddering moment.
Fear. That was what Scar was tasting, alongside blood and sweat. Fear was why Grian was shuddering under his hands and beneath his mouth, against his body that was pinning him against the stone walls of their tower. The heat rushed away, and the ice retreated just as quickly, leaving Scar standing, pressing Grian against a wall with a tent in his pants and blood on his tongue.
Grian’s eyes were wide as Scar released him, careful not to drop him as he took several steps back. Grian’s heart beat loudly in Scar’s mouth, and Scar tried to swallow his own heartbeat down, somewhere he wouldn’t have to deal with it, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything but stare at Grian’s feet. Shame washed over him, guilt as sharp in his stomach as his arousal.
“Scar, we’re still allies, right? I’m not on your list?”
The question caught Scar off guard and he found himself looking at Grian again, swallowing hard.
“What? No! You’re my ally, I-” Scar swallowed, the blood dripping down Grian’s chin enough to stop any protests he was gong to make. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. It’s like I wasn’t here, and I-”
Grian shook his head, cutting Scar off.
“I know, Scar. Going red was bound to have some effects, and now, we’ll be prepared for next time. We’ll just have to figure this out, right?”
Scar nodded, the taste of Grian’s blood still at the forefront on his tongue. “Right. I think I have to kill someone for it to go back, right? Like, that’s what the game wants?”
Grian nodded. He did know a lot more about the games then everyone else.
“We’ll just have to get started ASAP, I guess.” Grian started to go inside, shuffling sideways instead of turning his back to Scar. When he reached the top of the stairs, he turned back to Scar. He gave Scar a once over, seeming to consider his words very carefully. “Scar, I’m yours until I lose my first life. I’ll do whatever you say. I just can’t kill for you. Remember that.”
Grian disappeared into the tower, leaving Scar with a pile of guilt, a handful of questions, and a hard on he would have to work out himself.