Chapter Text
The first time Grian meets Scar, it’s through a camera lens and a blinding amount of charisma.
Scar arrives twenty minutes late to the shoot, sunglasses perched on his nose, every inch of him draped in confidence (and a frankly absurd coat of shimmering fabric that could probably fund an entire village).
“Sorry I’m late,” Scar says, grin wide and shameless. “My reflection in the mirror and I had a disagreement. I won, obviously.”
Grian, who’s been fussing over lighting setups and muttering about deadlines, looks up—and promptly forgets what he was doing. The man in front of him looks like someone sculpted charm out of sunlight.
“Uh—right,” Grian says eloquently. “That’s… fine.”
Scar flashes him a grin that could melt glaciers. “You must be my photographer. The one with the artistic vision and the very serious expression.”
“I’m serious because you’re late,” Grian retorts, adjusting his camera strap.
Scar gasps. “Late? No, no, I prefer fashionably delayed. Adds mystery. Drama.”
Grian rolls his eyes and mutters, “Adds wrinkles to my schedule.”
Once the shoot begins, Grian’s focus should be on angles and lighting—but Scar makes it impossible.
He’s effortlessly magnetic. One moment, Scar’s giving the camera a sultry smirk; the next, he’s pretending to faint dramatically onto the set couch, declaring, “I suffer for art!”
Grian bites back a laugh, trying to stay professional. “Scar, please—just hold still for five seconds.”
“Hold still?” Scar gasps, hand over his heart. “Darling, I was born to move.”
Grian lowers the camera. “I will actually tape you to the floor.”
Scar leans closer, voice dropping just a touch. “Promise?”
The shutter clicks—he didn’t even realize he’d pressed it.
The rest of the session is a blur of laughter and half-serious posing. Scar somehow turns every adjustment into an excuse to tease Grian.
When Grian adjusts the lighting, Scar murmurs, “Ah, yes, bask me in your golden glow, maestro.”
When Grian crouches to get a low angle, Scar grins down at him. “Careful down there, angel. You might start worshiping.”
“Scar,” Grian says, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I am this close to using the flash.”
“I’d shine brighter,” Scar says, winking.
And maybe he’s right.
After the shoot wraps, Grian’s scrolling through the photos, expecting half of them to be unusable. But no—the shots are stunning.
Scar in motion, Scar laughing mid-twirl, Scar with that soft, unguarded smile between poses. There’s something real in them, something warm and alive that Grian doesn’t usually capture.
He doesn’t even realize he’s smiling until Scar leans over his shoulder, voice a low hum.
“Do I look that good, or is it just your magic?”
Grian startles, elbowing him lightly. “Don’t sneak up on me!”
Scar just laughs, a sound that vibrates through Grian’s ribs. “You make me look better than I am, Grian.”
“You don’t need my help,” Grian says before he can stop himself. Then softer, “You’re… kind of impossible to miss.”
For once, Scar doesn’t have a comeback. He just smiles, small and genuine.
“Well,” he murmurs, “then I’m glad I’m in focus.”
And Grian—Grian feels his heart stutter behind the camera, because maybe, just maybe, it isn’t the lens doing the focusing anymore.
~-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------~
The next shoot isn’t supposed to happen for another week, but Scar “accidentally” shows up early.
By “accidentally,” Grian learns, Scar means “I got bored and figured you missed me.”
Grian doesn’t even look up from his laptop. “You can’t just walk into my studio whenever you feel like it.”
“Can’t I?” Scar says, spreading his arms wide like a man presenting himself as a gift. “I bring light, color, and undeniable charm. I improve any space.”
“You tracked glitter into my workspace.”
“Ah,” Scar says, squinting at the floor. “Then I improve it visually.”
Grian sighs, because somehow arguing with Scar always feels like standing in sunlight—it’s impossible to stay cold for long. “Fine. Since you’re here, we can check lighting setups for the new concept.”
Scar grins. “So you did miss me.”
“I said lighting setups.”
“Sure you did, sunshine.”
Scar lounges in front of the backdrop while Grian fiddles with the camera. It’s not an official session, but Scar still manages to look like he’s been styled by the gods—rumpled shirt half-open, sleeves rolled, easy grin.
He’s watching Grian. Always watching.
Grian feels it like static on his skin. “Stop staring,” he mutters.
“I’m not staring,” Scar says innocently. “I’m… admiring.”
“That’s worse.”
“I’m a model. It’s literally my job to appreciate beauty. You’re in my line of sight; I’m just fulfilling my contract.”
Grian tries, tries not to laugh. “You don’t have a contract with me.”
Scar leans in just enough that Grian can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. “Not yet.”
The camera clicks again—unintentional, reflexive. Grian glances at the preview. The photo’s slightly out of focus, soft-edged, the world hazy except for Scar’s smile.
Scar peers at it. “That’s my favorite one so far.”
“It’s blurry.”
“It’s warm.” He looks up, grin softer now. “Feels real.”
Grian doesn’t answer. He just raises the camera again to hide the way his cheeks are heating.
Scar laughs quietly, that low rumble that sneaks under Grian’s ribs. “Careful, Grian. Keep pointing that thing at me and I might start thinking you like what you see.”
Grian fires back without thinking, “You already think that.”
Scar grins, triumphant. “You’re catching on.”
They don’t touch—never quite—but the air between them hums like a live wire.
Scar perches on the stool, pretending to pose. “So,” he says casually, “if I did ask you to dinner, would that be unprofessional?”
“Yes,” Grian says immediately.
Scar tilts his head. “What if I made it sound like a business meeting?”
“Still unprofessional.”
“Fine, fine. Hypothetically, if two professionals were to happen to end up at the same restaurant—”
“Scar.”
“—and if one of them happened to look devastatingly handsome under candlelight—”
“Scar.”
“—and the other couldn’t stop taking mental pictures—”
“Scar!”
He stops, laughing, hands raised in mock surrender. “Just checking the boundaries, my dear photographer.”
“You’re testing my patience.”
“And your focus.”
Grian narrows his eyes, but the corners of his mouth betray him with a smile. “One of these days, I’m going to stop falling for your act.”
Scar leans in again, voice a whisper now. “Then I’ll just have to make it harder to tell which parts are the act.”
The camera clicks.
And maybe—just maybe—neither of them is entirely sure who’s in focus anymore.