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It had been a long day.
Grian sighed, feeling the heaviness on his shoulders lighten the slightest bit as he exhaled. His whole body ached, a sort of tingling sensation that ran down his skin and settled in the tips of his fingers. Despite the thick, heavy jacket that rested on his shoulders, he felt a little bit cold.
He was leaning against the railing of the deck of The Monopoly, staring out into the ocean. The ship was sort of drifting; no destination was charted, and so the waves tossed it about as they saw fit.
Grian took his eyes off the ocean, tracing them upwards. Evening was coming upon the sky. The once bright blue expanse was dimming before Grian, darkening into a purple twilight that would soon fade into darkness.
Grian grimaced at the view, quickly dropping his gaze down again. He wasn't a huge fan of the dark.
Before he could spiral down that particular train of thought, a voice sounded behind him. “Ahoy, there!”
The voice was light, peppy, and Grian knew it immediately. It was Scar; who else? The avian turned to greet the man, watching as his partner slowly climbed the steps to reach him.
Scar offered a smile when he caught Grian’s eyes. He wasn't a big man, but he was taller and larger than Grian, and even though he was a ways away, Grian could see his muscles flex as he walked.
Grian liked to say that Scar was taller just because Grian was an avian. After all, avians were typically smaller, more petite, to mimic the bird-half. It made sense that everyone else would be larger.
(But in the back of his mind, Grian suspected that even if he was fully human, Scar would still tower over him. He shoved the thought away.)
Despite Scar's obvious strength that would make up for any uncomfortable personality, a perpetual smile rested in his face. He always seemed to be grinning; at least, around strangers. Grian knew him well enough to know that that was mostly a facade, a curtain displaying one picture to distract from the other.
The smile stretched his skin a bit. Scar was a Vex hybrid, with nothing to show for it except strange markings covering his skin and face, which grew paler as his smile grew wider. When Grian had first met the man, he'd thought they were scars, which made everything a bit ironic.
But, no. Just a natural part of Scar's skin, like freckles or pimples or, well, scars.
Scar finally reached him, his hand gripping his well-loved wooden cane, the reason he had taken so long to ascend. Scar couldn't walk right without it, and as far as Grian knew, he'd used it for his whole life. At least, from the day Grian had met him. He was too scared to ask about before that.
“Watcha doing?” Scar asked as he came up beside him. His voice was silky, smooth, and Grian leaned into the noise.
Ever since the two men had met, about a year ago on that rainy, horrible night, Grian had liked Scar's voice. There was something so comforting about it, and that made him so believable when he said obvious lies. Lies that he told Grian often when they'd first met, lies like, “It'll be okay” and “You're safe”.
Lies that had, eventually, turned out to be true.
Even still, that was another thing Scar was good at: lying. It made sense; he was a pirate, after all. But Grian had never seen anyone else form such a convincing, tall-stretching story meant to swindle some poor lad out of their week's pay. Sometimes, Grian even felt sympathy for the mark. They were falling for the same soft, sweet voice Grian himself had fallen after, except Scar wasn't waiting to catch them like he had Grian.
“Just watching the waves,” Grian finally answered, keeping his gaze turned to the ocean.
He could feel Scar glance at him, but he didn't look. Only stared as the water rolled and tumbled, tossing their lonely ship around. Above them, the sky was growing increasingly dark. Grian shivered.
“They're nice,” Scar commented after a few moments of silence. Grian nodded in answer. Everything felt awkward, dry.
He knew what Scar was really doing, even if the man wasn't out right saying it: checking on Grian. In a way, it made Grian feel the slightest bit better.
In another way, it made him feel like a burden.
But he didn't say that. Instead, he said, with a small glance at the Vex, “How's your leg?”
Scar tapped his stick on the wood. His face tinted a little red, the way it always did when someone talked about his disability, but Grian kept a passive expression until Scar swallowed and responded, “It's good. Hurts a little.”
Grian hummed and didn't push. This was the game the two of them played: dancing around each other's issues, the game that required more trust than either of them knew how to give.
The sun continued to sink. Grian watched it, the golden rays thrown casually across the deck of their ship. Grian leaned against the wooden railing and traced his fingers along it.
“You'll get a splinter,” Scar told him.
Grian shrugged. “I don't care.” But he pulled his shaking hands away anyway.
“Did you eat?” Scar asked after a moment.
Grian tensed at the sudden, invasive inquiry. He could feel the way his wings rippled behind him, sharp, taking that question and reacting to it without his permission.
Grian didn't answer, but he didn't have to. Scar was observant, he saw through immediately. “Grian,” he said, like a sigh, “you need to eat.”
“I know.”
“No.” Scar leaned off the railing and turned, facing Grian head on. “You don't.”
His tone offered no place for arguing. It was firm, voice carrying that concerned tilt that Grian had learned to read well.
He sighed. Rocked on his heels. He wasn't hungry, but after a moment, he turned his back on the whispering ocean and dimming sky. “Come on,” he told Scar.
The Vex didn't argue. Together, they slipped down the stairs. Scar's cane tapped on the wood, a background noise that they both used as an excuse not to talk.
It was a short time before they made it to the kitchen. The Monopoly wasn't very big, but the kitchen was impressive: a large space, complete with materials and necessities for cooking. It was a place made for a lot of people, but instead, two men used it, one much more sparingly than the other.
Wordlessly, Grian settled himself at a lonely table, watching as Scar shuffled to the rickety counter. He wanted to help, but that argument had happened one too many times for him to know that Scar would push him back into the seat and insist he stay there.
“Toast?” Scar asked.
“Yes,” Grian said.
It wasn't really a question. That was the go-to when Grian missed a meal: plain, buttered toast. Light on the stomach, lighter on the mind.
He wished this didn't happen often enough for them to have a routine. But, as it happens, habits are hard to unlearn, and bad habits are even harder. Those tended to stick around like unwanted guests.
Grian had first learned those habits on his previous ship, The Watcher. He's been with them for a long, long time. Training, adapting.
Surviving, but only barely.
He'd been on a mission to the mainland. A scheme planned by the higher ups, something meant to swindle a tavern out of their money. Grian was given a simple job to help with prep: spy on the place; sit in a corner and observe. He was good at that.
Except, that particular time, he got distracted. Because when he was sitting there, watching like he’d been commanded to, he saw a man with a cane come in, exuberant and loud as he advertised his ship.
“Crew members wanted!” he yelled, waving flyers, that intoxicating voice of his cutting straight through Grian.
Grian listened for a long time, fighting the urge. The temptation was there, strong, hard to resist, growing stronger the longer he listened to that siren voice, those piercing green eyes scanning the room.
And–and he had been alone, without the Watchers near him. No one to watch him, no one to hit him if he made a mistake. That made everything way harder to ignore, until suddenly he couldn’t resist it anymore.
And so, with his heart beating way too harshly, Grian did the most reckless thing he had ever done: he took a flyer.
He’d immediately stuffed the paper into his pocket without reading it and took back his post, watching the tavern again. That night, he crept back onto The Watcher, into the sleeping quarters, and by the light of the moon filtering through the round window, managed to read the advertisement.
The man's name turned out to be Scar. He was looking for people, anyone, from any walk of life, to join his crew. He was holding an interest check, a meeting the next night.
Grian debated with himself for hours, well into the night. He knew he shouldn't go, he knew that if the Watchers found out, they'd beat him and hurt him and starve him and–and–
And it was a horrible idea.
But despite that, the next evening, Grian did the unthinkable: he went to the meeting. He met Scar, learned that the pirate wasn't really interested in a whole crew. Just a right hand man, a first mate.
A friend.
And Grian, with his dirty, unpreened wings and malnourished body, somehow fit his standard.
So that was that. Grian went to that meeting and he never went back. He ditched the Watchers, he ran away, he fled like the coward they always said he was.
For a while, he'd been terrified that they would find him. Those first few weeks were almost equivalent to torture. Scar would stumble on Grian, curled into a ball, shaking and hiding and mumbling to himself. It would take hours to calm him down.
But Scar did it. And when he took notice of Grian's poor eating habits, egged on by stress and insomnia and habit, he helped with that, too. He never asked why, or what Grian had gone through, and Grian didn’t tell him much.
“They didn’t let me eat often,” he whispered, one night, and Scar had taken that information with wide, fearful eyes. But he didn’t ask. He never did. And that was the only part of himself Grian offered willingly, when he was fully in his right mind.
But no matter what, Scar helped him. Continually, over and over.
Just like tonight, Grian thought, as Scar placed the toast in front of him. The gratitude lodged in his throat, but he still managed to croak out, “Thank you.”
Scar smiled gently and settled across from Grian, his own toast in front of him. Grian found it easier to eat with people who were also eating, so Scar made sure to make more than own serving. “You're welcome,” he responded, lightly.
Grian waited for Scar to take a bite before he did. Part of that was force of habit, fear that Scar would be angry if Grian didn't wait. The other part was old fashioned courtesy that hadn't been beaten out of him yet, no matter how much everyone had tried.
“Difficult day?” Scar asked, softly, in between bites. His cheerful demeanor seemed to pull back, a bit, in this quiet space that they both shared.
Grian glanced away and shrugged. He wanted to answer, but the words felt stuck in his throat, the bread between his teeth suddenly turning his stomach. He forced himself to swallow, forced himself to say, “I guess.”
Scar eyed him. Grian couldn't hold the man's gaze for long; Scar had incredibly vibrant green eyes that looked like they were going right through you, seeing all the way to your bones. It could be comforting, but also unnerving.
Scar didn't seem to notice. After another awkward moment in which Grian didn't talk, the disabled man said, voice kind of low, “You should tell me. I mean, you should tell me if it's a bad day.”
Grian felt his face flush. He wanted to throw the same words back at Scar. You should tell me. Because even though Grian knew he had had a hard life, he also knew that Scar had things in his past, too. It was part of the reason the Vex had such a hard time sleeping, part of the reason he could never seem to sit still.
But Grian bit his tongue. That old desire to fight, to constantly be on the defense riled in him, but he stamped it down. Arguing wouldn't do him any good; it was just an instinct he had, was all. He shouldn't give in.
Instead, he murmured, “I know.”
Scar shook his head. “No, you don't.”
Grian sighed, a huff of air, that familiar defensiveness showing itself plainly again. “I know,” he repeated, emphasising it.
The Vex sitting across from him let out a long breath of air at the snap and released it slowly. He drummed his fingers on the table, once, twice. Grian could tell Scar was annoyed, even before the man grumbled out, “Okay, then. You win. Don't tell me anything. It's not like that'll be new.”
Grian recoiled a little, anger branding itself across his skin to cover the hurt. "That's not fair,” he snapped at Scar. Behind him, his feathers twitched, his body's betrayal of his emotions.
Scar shook his head, hard. “How am I supposed to help if you don't tell me anything?” Suddenly he sounded sad, less angry. Just tired. “How?”
Grian didn't have an answer. He felt like he was reeling, a fish tossed on a deck, gasping in the sun. He couldn't form a response; his lips just moved uselessly.
“I want to help,” Scar finally admitted, the fight completely out of him now, replaced by a heavier feeling that Grian didn’t know how to place. “I want to do more than make you toast. I want–I want you to rely on me.”
Grian leaned back in his chair. The defensiveness had drained out of him and he felt cold. His toast sat forgotten on his plate, one lonely bite taken out of it. “I don't know how to,” he whispered, not taking his eyes off that tired, abandoned bread.
Scar didn't answer for a long time. Then, “It starts with trust. Just a little bit.”
Grian shook his head. For some reason, his eyes felt like they were burning. “I don't know how to do that, either. I don't know how to do anything.”
He didn't, not really. All he knew how to do was take orders, take the hit, take the fall. He wasn't good at–at being human. At emotions, and things like that.
He never had been.
But Scar–Scar was. The Vex was a master, balancing his own feelings with those around him. Grian had no idea how that man did it.
“I can teach you,” Scar murmured, dragging Grian out of his mind. “I can. I can.”
Doubt swirled in Grian's mind. “It would be a difficult job,” he told his partner, staring at his bread. “Taking care of someone like me is a chore.”
Scar shook his head. “No.”
“Yes. It's tiresome.”
I'm tiresome. That's what Grian really meant.
And still, Scar shook his head, hard, as if to dispel the thought. “No. Never.”
The words sat in the air. Grian shifted, his wings twitched behind him. He realised he was leaning across the table and forced himself back, away from Scar and his ridiculous, siren-like voice.
“Don't say that,” Grian finally told him, harsher than he meant to.
Scar blinked at him, surprised. “Why?”
“Because I might believe you.”
Scar's emerald eyes turned somber, flashing with sadness, with pain unmistakable. “That's why I say it,” he murmured after a moment. “So that you believe it.”
Grian sucked in a breath, heart thumping dangerously. He was taken aback, and he moved his gaze away from Scar. It landed on his toast again. That tired, lonely bread.
“Eat,” Scar told him, maybe following his line of sight. Grian hesitated for only a moment before he listened, dragging the bread to his mouth like a body to a coffin. It tasted like nothingness.
Scar resumed eating his own meal. They ate in silence for a while, nothing but their breathing sounding in the air.
Grian finished first. Despite himself, he had been hungry.
He lifted his gaze to Scar. He stared; the Vex was in the middle of raising the bread to his mouth. But suddenly he froze, feeling eyes on him. He lifted his gaze, green eyes locking onto Grian’s catching him red-handed. Grian's face burned; he felt like a dog scolded for begging.
But Scar didn't say anything. Instead, he split the half of his bread into quarters and passed Grian a piece.
The avian wanted to refuse it. It was Scar;s, after all, and Grian had already eaten his share. He didn’t deserve to have more, that wasn’t how it worked.
But he knew none of those arguments would go down very well. So even if it went against his instincts, he reached out and took the bread. He ate the piece in ashamed silence.
“Your wings,” Scar finally said when they had both finished.
Grian swallowed and tossed a lazy glance at his feathers, falling nonchalance. He knew his feathers were crooked; he hadn't had time to preen them lately, and he hadn't wanted to bother Scar by asking.
But now, in the quiet confession stand that was the kitchen, Grian risked opening his mouth. “Preen them?”
The words were a whisper, a wind on the sea.
Somehow, though, Scar heard him. “Of course. My cabin?”
Of course.
Grian nodded and together they clamored to their feet. Scar's room was technically the captain's quarters, but he didn't call it that. Just his cabin, which made it sound a lot more inviting.
Grian led the way, and soon enough, they were settling on a small couch in the corner of the room. It was bolted to the floor in an effort to keep it in place through storms, and Grian trailed his eyes on those bolts as Scar settled behind him. He laid his cane on the floor with a small thump.
“Is it okay if I touch you?” Scar asked, softly, fingers barely brushing Grian's feathers. Still, Grian tensed beneath them.
He forced himself to relax. It took longer than it should have, but someone, he got there. “Yes,” he finally breathed, and Scar didn't ask again before starting in.
Even though Grian was always filled with apprehension when someone else preened his wings, it was better with Scar. After just a few minutes, he was already leaning into the touch rather than away, muscles relaxing, body uncurling into a safer, more comfortable position.
They didn't really talk, even though it felt like there were a lot of unsaid words between them. Grian could just barely hear Scar's breathing behind him, feel the brush of the man's fingers as they danced in his feathers, but that was the only sort of communication that tethered them. Other than that, they were alone. A piece of driftwood in the sea.
That was fine by Grian. He liked to talk, sure, but sometimes the silence felt a lot more welcoming. Particularly on nights like this, where he could see the windows getting darker, the long black tunnel forming in his vision.
He really, really hated the dark.
“You should preen more often,” Scar finally murmured, breaking the spell, and Grian blinked hard to clear his gaze.
“I know,” he said, and didn't continue. His voice was a little hoarse. Scratchy.
Scar didn't seem to know how to respond, so he didn't. Just went on with his job, fingers well practiced from so many prior times before. He was well rehearsed, well trained in his craft, and Grian was the instrument he played.
As the minutes trudge by around them, Grian could feel his eyes growing heavier. This was often a side effect of preening, and a main reason he avoided it: it made him tired. And Grian, for all his exhaustion, didn't particularly like sleep. He didn't enjoy being dead to the world, the knowledge that anything could happen whilst he was sleeping was enough to deter him from it.
Well, that, and the nightmares.
But, as it turns out, he didn’t drift off. Because a moment later, Scar’s voice cut like a knife through the silence.
“I want you to–” the Vex started, as if picking up a conversation, but his voice broke off just as suddenly. He made a sort of noise in the back of his throat, a sound of frustration.
Grian shifted, the smallest bit, and tossed a small glance over his shoulder. He could feel apprehension rising in his blood, but he tentatively prodded, “What?”
Scar was quiet for a few more minutes, long enough that Grian turned back around, facing forward again. Then, finally, he whispered, “I want you to trust me.”
Grian stilled. Those words, those whispered, cracked, careful words, burned into him like a brand. “I…do,” he murmured, face hot.
Scar continued preening. He didn't speak.
Grian shivered. “I do,” he insisted.
Scar still didn't speak. His silence felt like an executioner.
Grian couldn't take it anymore. He ripped away from Scar and whipped around, heart pumping loudly, face burning hot, breathing quick. “I do!”
The words sat suspended in the air; fat, large vibrations traversing through the ship, leaving an aching quiet in their wake.
Scar's vibrant eyes were squinted, crouched and sad, when he lifted them to Grian. “You do,” he whispered, but it wasn't an affirmation.
It was a surrender.
Immediately, Grian slumped, his body giving up. It felt like the ropes holding him upright had suddenly been cut, and his throat burned with the wasted words. He was lying, he was, and Scar knew it just as well as him.
“I'm sorry,” he croaked out, because he couldn’t think of a single other thing to tell the man. His voice sounded thick, heavy, weighed down. His eyes were burning, and when he blinked, he could feel the wetness gathering there. Tears.
Scar shook his head. Even in the face of his own hurt, the hurt Grian had put there, Scar's gentleness showed through. Without a word, he opened his arms, and, without a word, Grian folded himself into them.
“I'm sorry,” he said again, an apology for everything, for his very being. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry–”
“Shh,” Scar hissed, stroking Grian's hair. “Shh, it's okay.”
Grian growled, of sorts, the noise building in the back of his throat along with what felt like a sob. He pushed both away and leaned closer to Scar, that comfort, that stupid comfort that he knew he was being selfish by indulging in.
“I do,” he lied again, insisting, pulling at Scar.
Scar held him closer. “You do. You do.”
But he didn’t. Neither of them were naive; they both knew the truth. Grian didn’t trust Scar, just like the sky didn’t trust the ocean and the sun didn’t trust the moon.
He knew it was stupid. He had been Scar’s right-hand man for over a year, twin pirates sailing the seas. Scar had calmed him down from countless panic attacks, and Grian had even returned the favour once or twice. Scar made him food, was gentle and kind and soft and yet–and yet–
And yet Grian still didn’t trust him. Not enough to count, anyhow. Not enough at all.
“I’m sorry,” Grian told him again, closing his eyes, like maybe that would block it all out. He wasn’t even really sure what he was apologising for anymore. The trust he couldn’t give? The withdrawal of care they both dealt with on a daily basis? The way he was?
Maybe it was all of it. Maybe he was apologising for everything, everyone. The whole world. His whole existence.
“Stop that, now,” Scar murmured. That stupid, delicate voice of his was so gentle, so soft, and Grian knew he shouldn’t lean into it. He did anyway. “It’s okay. I understand.”
Maybe he did or maybe he didn’t, but Grian couldn’t tell. The truth was getting blurred, even to himself, and he wasn’t even sure which way was up anymore.
His muscles felt weak, body drained and tired as he slumped there. Scar, ever the friend, ever the comfort, held him without complaint. After a long, long while in which the only sound was Grian’s gasping breath, Scar reached out.
Grian didn’t flinch when the hands landed back in his wings. He knew it was Scar, hugging him as he started preening again, arms stretching around Grian’s abdomen to reach his wings.
“It’s okay,” Scar told him as he continued, his voice low, soft. The words were right into his ear, and Grian sank into it like silk. “It’s fine.”
“I’ll learn to,” Grian promised, something desperate filling him. He needed Scar to know this, to believe it. “I’ll learn to trust you. I will”
Scar froze. His fingers stilled where they twisted in Grian’s feathers.
Grian heard him swallow, the sound next to his ear. “I know,” Scar whispered.
“No,” Grian said, slowly. He leaned back to look at Scar; those green eyes that were, strikingly, surprisingly, filling with tears. “No, you don’t know.”
They stared at each other for a long time. Grian knew what he must look like: face red, eyes puffy and tear-filled, mouth quivering. But Scar didn’t pull away, he didn’t waver. He just stared, and Grian stared back, right into Scar’s eyes.
They were parallels, he realised. Mirrors gazing into each other, going on forever in every direction. On and on and on.
“I believe you,” Scar said after a moment.
Grian nodded slowly. He took a deep breath and let it out, softly, before saying, “I’m starting to. Learn, I mean.” He swallowed. “I’m starting to learn how to trust you.”
The confession was quiet, soft, everything Grian was not. But maybe something like that didn’t need to be bold or loud, proclaimed like a decree. Maybe it just needed to be.
Not an announcement. A confession.
Scar seemed to agree. His arms were still half-wrapped around the avian. He pressed on Grian’s back, gentle pressure, until Grian gave in and fell against him again, burying his head in the Vex’s shoulder. Scar restarted preening for the third time.
“You are,” he murmured in Grian’s ear, breath hot on the avian’s skin. “You’re learning.”
“I’m doing an awful job,” Grian told him miserably.
“You’re going as fast as you can,” Scar assured. “I shouldn’t have–I’m sorry for pushing you.”
Grian heard the words, absorbed them, but didn’t quite understand. Nevertheless, he relented, “It’s okay. It’s fine.”
Scar shifted a little. “It’s just–you can, you know. You can trust me.”
“I know,” Grian said immediately, because it was true. He did know, he could trust Scar. Logically, those were two ideas that existed like rocks in his mind: solid, always there. But…trust was just something he struggled to give, something that he didn’t quite understand. “I want to.”
Scar sighed a little, deflating. “It’s getting late,” he said.
The subject change was like a dagger. Grian didn’t point it out; he let it stab and bleed. Sighing, he forced himself to lean away from Scar, the warmth leaving him almost immediately. He spun around as quickly as he could so Scar couldn’t see the pain in his eyes. He settled down, allowed Scar to continue preening.
It wasn’t long that the familiar tiredness came back. Grian could feel it pulling him down, his limbs turning heavy, his eyes fluttering. He kept leaning forward and catching himself at the last second.
“You need to sleep,” Scar told him, finally finishing the tired process of preening with a delicate touch to Grian’s feathers.
Grian hesitated. He glanced at the window, blinking at the darkness. The long black tunnel, the one that would swallow him.
“Here?” he asked, hesitantly, still staring out that window. His voice sounded pathetic, even to his own ears, but he didn’t take it back.
Scar knew what he meant. There was an awkward silence, and Grian thought the Vex might say no, but he finally said, “Of course you can stay here, Birdie. Of course.”
Of course. Was there any other way, really?
Scar stood, stretched. Grian watched him from the bolted down couch as the Vex crossed to his bed and snatched a blanket, a pillow. He tossed both to Grian.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Lights?”
Grian shivered. It was weird, having someone he couldn’t even bring himself to trust know him so well, know him well enough to ask him if he wanted it to be dark or not. It was intimate, a friendship he had never had before. One he didn’t know how to have.
“It’s…okay,” he said slowly. “You can turn them off.”
Scar shot him a look. “The truth, this time,” he prodded.
Grian glanced out the window; that suffocating darkness stared back. “On. Please. Leave the lights on.”
He didn’t look, but he could picture that way Scar nodded. Concerned, but exasperated. Grian didn’t blame him; he knew he was ridiculous. A toddler, scared of the dark.
“I’m sorry,” he said, honestly. His voice wavered and shook, breaking like a wave against rocks.
Scar froze at those two words, then sighed, making his way back to the couch. “It’s okay,” he told Grian, standing close.
Grian blinked, hard, to make sure no tears came out. One did anyway, and he swiped at it with trembling fingers. “I don’t mean to, like–I know it causes you problems…”
He trailed off. Stupid.
“No, no,” Scar told him, softly. “Don’t feel that way, Grian. I want to help. You’re–I care about you.”
I care about you.
“Why?”
Grian hadn’t meant to ask that question, but it had tumbled out rapidly, and he didn’t take it back. He just turned to look at Scar, fresh tears trailing his cheeks, waiting for the man’s answer.
After a moment, Scar said, “Because you’re you. Of course I care about you.”
And something about his voice, that dumb, alluring voice, had Grian suddenly believing him. A little bit, the faintest drops of faith.
But he still wasn’t sure. Was it possible? To care about someone just because they were them? Just because you did? To love someone anyway, despite their flaws and fears and torments?
“I make your life harder,” Grian told him. “Don’t try to argue–I do. We both know it. I’m…a burden.”
Scar stared at him with wide eyes, but Grian stared back. He needed his partner to see the truth. Because, because Scar made him meals. Scar checked up on him, preened his wings, left the lights on. Scar took care of him, but it was–it was an inconvenience.
Grian was an inconvenience. He was. He was.
But Scar was shaking his head–hard. Suddenly he was leaning right into Grian’s space, words sharp as he spoke them. “No. No. I do those things because I want to. You’re not making me, no one is making me. I do it because I care. Because I want you to get better, I want you to trust me.”
It was the truth. Grian knew, from the shine in Scar’s eyes, the way his voice slipped into something more real. In fact, all of Scar seemed to step into reality, just for that moment. He wasn’t an untouchable, invincible force. He was just…Scar.
He was someone tangible. Real.
And he cared.
“Oh,” Grian breathed. He didn’t get it, not fully.
But…But he wasn’t stupid, either. He could connect the pieces, however jagged they might be. And staring up into Scar’s flashing eyes, he thought that maybe he got the picture. Just a little bit.
He wasn’t sure he would ever understand it completely. Caring about someone anyway, when they offered no real reason. It went above his head.
But–but he could see it, slightly. Just a little bit.
(After all, he cared about Scar, too.)
Scar sighed, the air puffing out like the wind; turned away, leaning out of Grian’s space. “It’s time for bed.”
Grian felt stunned into silence. “Right. O-Okay.”
He laid down without another word and drew the cover to his chin. Scar didn’t touch the lights, he just crawled into his bed.
They were quiet for a long time. Still, the words they both needed to say swelled and festered in the air, and Grian knew they were both awake.
Despite that, when he spoke, he did it in a hushed whisper, half-hoping the Vex was sleeping. “Scar?”
No such luck. “Yeah?”
Grian swallowed thickly. The words lodged in his throat, but he forced himself to say them. “Thank you. For–for caring.”
Silence.
“Of course, Birdie.”
Of course.