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The cool water lapped against Scar’s too-warm body, the blood of his friend tinting his world red. Grian looks like a god- standing over me, wings, eyes glowing, skin glinting, standing still in the water that feels like it will pull me down. Wearing his offering, a cape. The only thing that ties him to this mortal realm.
Scar remembers weaving the cape, days and nights spent, his hands weak and shaking by the end- nights spent for someone who laughed at Scar liking him, days spent collecting fibers, sweating and carrying pounds at a time. Now it hangs heavy over Grian’s skin, stained and dyed in various hues of blood.
Light, not nearly filtered enough by the old trees that bore the names of the pair, dug into Scar’s retina, leaving temporary marks.
Pure silver, that's what I stand in. Not nearly water. With the reflection of light, it is nearly impossible to tell the difference- despite this being some of the most familiar waters to Scar.
Rocks the pair had skipped for entertainment were now sunken out of sight, engulfed by the cold depths, blanketed by algae. This algae now trips him, giving no hold on the rocks as his feet nervously shift from side to side.
“Grian, listen, take my sword, okay?” Scar whispers. The cold water pushes him away from the grass that stained his knees, away from the silvery sword that lay just out of reach. Just one step- one step and the warm leather of the handle soothes the calluses of his hands.
The sword, forged in blood and unfamiliar, balanced Scar, gave him a weight to counter the shaking of his hands. Throughout him, nerves burned to strike the water into the face of the man behind him, to pierce his ribs and slash through his wings. Feeling came back as his fist tightened over the leather. His lungs and nose burned with the smell of blood.
Blood, is that all Scar is after? When all he can think of is the rush of blood over his hands, staining his nails. The feeling of flesh peeling, digging under his skin, the scrabbling of weak hands that fight against him. The final burst of layers of viscera that stunk of a sweet rot, the purple tone to the muscles that tore apart once revealed- all this, all this under his hands.
“You deserve it far more than I ever will, G,” whispers betrayed him along with his hands. The point of the sword against him now, leaving a line of red across the points where the sword shook under his hand. Eyes watched blood pool, Grian’s eyes.
What is he thinking? Does he keep his training when it is against the one who trained him? And what if his trainer deserves it? Deserves for the starved beast to turn its starved frame back home and realize there is one last thing that it can do. He had been trained for this, trained to bite in pure venom.
“No.”
Scar’s body once again betrayed him- the betrayal through the blood that rushed through his chest and carried the fear out at the single word- or was it the fact that Grian’s eyes shimmered with tears?
Regardless, a second after, he recognized what that meant Grian wanted. He didn’t want a clean kill. But to feel his hands once more? What does death mean if it's by the caring hands of your only lifeline? This is his last wish, and he wishes to only feel the brush of Grian’s hand one last time over his face.
Maybe he would play this off as a play for equality, the wish for a fair fight, an equal chance, a final rush of adrenaline as he convinces himself he has a chance. Blindly taking the pills on the floor for hope they keep him alive.
My home, my house, my killer and my grave. the same fingerprints across. My doing is my undoing. At least in my last moments I can only find comfort in the pain.
Folly, that is what dragged the pair into a ring. Folly, the reason they had so many cacti in the first place. Folly, the flowers that adorned their grave of a home. And folly, the reason they kept lava. Their own joy in live is now their grave.
Folly is Scar’s fatal flaw, after all. The only difference from his prime to now is that the fatal flaw is visible for anyone to see. skin embroidered with cactus spines, dyed in shades of his own blood. His skin a mirage of the colors of wilting lavender, poppy, and only the hints of sunflower. And the most obvious sign, the sprawling tapestry of burns, interdispursed with stained glass- sand that burned into his skin and mixed with his blood.
Out of the pair, he was the one worse for wear. In comparison, the spines that found hold in Scar’s skin were deterred by the feathers- the burns that so plagued Scar’s legs were not felt by the scales that Grian bore. His muscles were damaged yet Scar showed the effects if the fight throughout his skin and muscles. While Grian was callouses, feathers, and scales, Scar was flesh and blood.
Ofcourse, it didn’t help that Grian had killed plenty more than Scar had.
Yet, what was experienced when what you are doing is something only seen through the worst and truest of premonitions? Grian could not predict the future. Not when he can’t even keep a track on himself. His muscles ached, his legs were raw and pained, his stomach was in his throat, his mind delirious and his conscious struggling to see the reality of this. That he, a watcher, a caregiver, could do such a thing. To see Scar stumble, to see him take longer and longer to recover, it made him sick. So he paused to breathe and keep down what little food he had.
So he could let Scar recover, so he didn’t throw the first punch.
Only then was he puppeted into striking.
His angel, that's what he called me. What am I now?
The only hallowed element of Grian- despite how much Scar tried to convince him that he, as a being, was holy- were his tears. they were the only thing not baptized in blood or gunpowder. In this way, then, he was sanctified. for the hallowed tears that fell cleaned his face of their shared blood and dust. Grian smeared the blood back over the tracks so Scar wouldn't lose faith. Not again.
He hoped, if Scar was to go, he would at least still trust in the fact that strength and conviction were the greatest values he can have.
Another breath, another hit, the pain of sand digging into Scar’s palm.
Scar gritted his teeth, despite his jaw pain, and grabbed sand in one hand while pretending to brace himself.
Time was working too fast for him, his heart trying to give more blood than he had.
The sand in my hand would have made a lovely shade of glass, had Grian collected it for our house.
Scar looked up at Grian, the way he breathed harshly, the blood spattered on his face, the dusty wings, the calloused legs of his, and his tattered, blood soaked clothes made and embroidered by Scar what felt like years ago.
Wilting flower petals surrounding his feet like he summoned them through their likeness on his skin.
It was at this point that he realized the fact that his once-guardian angel was now his angel of death.
“Scar what the-”
The sand thrown is a nasty move, he’d admit, especially when Grian’s eyes were so sensitive. Especially when he had spent nights helping the blond rinse his eyes of sand for the chance Grian scratches at them unconsciously.
He watched the bloodied man in front of him stumble backwards and close his eyes by instinct. What he hadn’t expected is for his wings to flare out and leave his bare back vulnerable.
He lost his breath and reached out, skin pulling against the tines the cacti had left, pain forgotten for panic.
“No, Grian-” Scar managed the moment Grain hit a cactus and folded forward, a strangled cry escaping. He slid on the sand to get to Grian, gravel cutting through his already mangled skin.
“Scar,” the voice that left Grian was animalistic and was of rage and pure pain, a voice only heard once before, in the same dunes they now fought.
Scar watched Grian claw at his eye with one hand, not paying attention when his other found purchase with the muscles between Scar’s ribs. Maybe, had Scar spent that hour actually filing down Grian’s talons so they wouldn't be a hassle in a fight, maybe then he wouldn't feel short of breath. Maybe then he wouldn't know he had hours, probably less, with the blood loss.
An eye opens and sees its work done, the human adrenaline reveling in the horror of its work.
Talons, blood, the satisfaction of a hunter. Years maybe, who knows. What are years to blood? Blood, the blood of Grian, the blood he felt in his veins everyday. Maybe it was the same blood Scar had. With all the skin and meat and blood of Scar that had sunk into Grian’s skin over the course of their time together, it might as well be the same blood.
the two shared everything, after all. The same fights. The same enemies.
Everything except the wild animal that clawed at Grian’s mind.
Grian had always been one for the hunt, despite his status.
Chase after chase, after chase, after chase.
The heretic.
The traitor.
The lovers.
Anyone.
The waiting, the chase, the fear in their eyes, the adrenaline, and the warm blanket of life given back.
It’s quite possible he had always been dead.
Maybe the only time he was truly alive was when blood was sacrificed over his grave of a body.
“You take my breath away, my dove.”
Grian had heard the words, but never registered them, not as he felt Scar shift as he tried to untangle his hand from his ribs. Talons caught in a perfect curve to Scar’s ribs, like this is what was meant for them.
Horror sunk over Grian at the sensation of muscle trying to repair itself around his fingers. He felt a sudden rush of cold through his body and he shivered, Scar tensing at the movement.
“Oh lord,” Grian whispered, his eyes wide.
Long forgotten prayers to a sadistic god came back to him- of course, the prayer wouldn’t help, the god smiled and burned the sun brighter in their backs to watch the skin peel, stirred the winds to pelt sand into their skin. God let the rush of blood overtake their ears and make them forget their past together.
Grian’s eyes watered, seeing Scar cough the blood he added and watch it tint his familiar lips a shade of red. He wanted to run away, and realized how much more that would hurt, dragging his first and last friend through their home by the ribs and lung.
He, shaking with the effort of staying together because there was no one else to put him back together anymore, let his hand find his familiar divots and rises of Scar’s face, his calloused thumb wiping tears away.
“It's going to be okay, yeah, uh, it's going to be okay,” Grian whispered, more to comfort himself, to assure himself he is himself. He is human, he is blood. He has always been human.
Despite how much he feels like he is just a watcher, another brick in the wall. He is still the same man he always has been, always kneeling before Scar, always feeling the bite of cold gold against his arm. Now that band constrains his arm and takes the blood Grian draws.
What has he become, to hurt Scar and to kill at a word, yet still have no influence, still just sit in a cage Scar forgot to unlock, forgetting his own voice. He might just lose the fight from his lack of being.
From the words of a psalm Grian can’t seem to remember, “I think therefore I am,” but what constitutes being? To be, does one have to bleed, or make a difference? Is his adrenaline and rage enough? Is he just a soul stuffed in a body that didn’t even belong to him? What would he be, if not his physical appearance?
Scar seems figured out in what he is, but Grian is nothing but a set of eyes, observing his reality in a body not for him. Scar is his only reference to being. If Scar dies, the idea of this thing called Grian ceases to exist.
They say the whole is greater than the sum of the parts, and there is no sum to be had. Grian, like the stories of old, is the lesser of Scar, the rib, as the memories of a myth recalled. With empty bones and the decay of muscles sporadically used in excess then they sit in an atrophied state, Scar would always be the greater, the favored, and the first born.
Except now. Now that Grian had forgotten what he is, even who he is. Maybe this had been the reason Grian had refused the sword and dug his feet into their dunes multiple times just to get to a ring of cactus was so that he finally had a shot of being Scar’s half and equal, not just some lover on a leash of barbs. Maybe Scar had never realized a caged animal bites at who they think locked them.
Maybe, maybe, but Grian knows he is truly an insignificant, flightless bird. Scar never did anything. If Grian truly didn’t like his situation, he could’ve told Scar no, even if he would've gotten mad and added another bruise just to kiss it. The point being Grian never tried. Never tried anything. A bird never who was never interested in flying and never had the drive to learn how to flap its wings will never go far.
He should’ve tried. It's all his fault. He could’ve been as confident as Scar, or as influential as Ren, or even as decent as Martyn. Martyn was never bruised. Never had scrapes on his knees from hours of sitting in a maddening silence waiting for a word to be said that he can relax, watching the only man whose orders he could or would follow go run in the forest. Never was on the brink of death only to entertain the other.
Now he's going to kill his only caregiver, his only friend, just for a chance to.. To what? Change the server? Scar was the only one that brought him this far. Scar was his better counterpart. Scar had probably trained him to this point. Even Grian’s rebellion will mean nothing. He is nothing, if not a coward and an insignificant being. A not quite human, not quite bird, creature. A creature who doesn’t even make an impact on their handler. Grain should be the one dying, not Scar.
“Your eyes are gorgeous,” Scar breathes out, his green eyes glassy. At this, Grian’s lungs constrict and his breathing becomes sobbing. He gently untangled himself from Scar, just to lean down and kiss him.
The faint taste of iron reminded Grian of rust, the rust in the utensils in case Scar would forget. Scar often forgets. But it’s okay. It isn’t Scar’s job to remember, it’s Grian’s.
“I’m so sorry.”
“You deserve the win, dove,” Scar choked out, his voice cracking. He couldn’t stand the fact that Grian’s final kill that Scar would ever ask for is his own.
“My dove, I need a favor,” Scar‘s eyes met Grian’s. the cause of his first death, now his last. His ever willing partner, his friend. How could Scar ask anything more of this man? He always had been compliant, even when Scar was red. Even at the strangest of requests, even when Scar had messed up.
Grian was much better than him. So much better. Grian was so much more focused, so much more composed. How could Grian even give himself over like what he did so often? I mean, Scar wasn’t complaining, but he did raise an eyebrow a few times.
He would just say something, y’know, not thinking before he spoke, and Grian would just nod like it was an order. He had so much to give, and Scar had just taken it.
And the worst part is, despite his grief and mourning for the man, he still wanted to take.
He wanted to carve Grian’s pretty little heart out and eat it like it's an apple of life. He felt sick to his stomach with hunger and need sometimes. It was pretty cruel, he knew, but, god, was he starved.
And Grian just so happened to be his last meal and only sustenance.
“Kill me clean.”
“Scar, you know I can’t kill you.”
“Kill me so I don’t lose control and die with your flesh in my teeth, dove,” Don’t let me sin by eating my saint- my angel.
Grian opens his eyes, his nose just barely brushing against Scar’s. Grian can’t believe it. This is actually it. This night is their final.
Despite Grian’s suffocating need for clean air and freedom, he can’t stand the idea of Scar dying before him. Maybe it’s just fate that in their last moments, it mirrors their first, surrounded by friends. They're probably laughing and trying to warn Scar. The refection of the beginning. Everyone was alive, everyone is dead, Grian was bored, hes more than entertained, Everyone was laughing unaware of the world, no one’s laughing out of naivety. Except this is his end too, he won’t outlive Scar.
He stares down at Scar, his heart beating out of his chest.
“I can’t,” Grian manages, continuing that phrase in a litany of prayers that he does not have to do what has already been decided for him.
“Yes, you can, little bird, you’ve got it,” Scar’s eyes crinkle, like how they did when it was late at night and he said a joke that wasn’t even that funny, and he laughs, the laugh turning bitter with death and iron as God punishes his laughter.
“It's selfish, I know, but you’ve never said no before, have you? Why deny a dead man?”
Grian desperately shakes his head, his breathing erratic. He felt like his mouth was sewn shut, he couldn’t manage to speak a word, not even to protest.
“G, listen to me. I can’t win. You need to win. I don’t deserve it. You- I've always said you're my salvation. If you want to save me, let me die. Not slow. Quick and painless. I know you know how to. I can close my eyes.”
Grian got up, not looking where he was going, stumbling against a cactus here and there.
Scar’s eyes felt heavy as his head fell against the sand without Grian pillowing it. Tears welled from the pain. Would Grian actually leave like this? This wretched feeling that the two were mourning the other before they died.
“No-” Scar tries to yell, but all he manages is a gurgling sob of tears and blood.
Grian’s bare feet hit against the familiar stone of Pizza’s grave. The world felt silent for a single, terrifying moment. Am I reliving my life from the beyond already?
There were no eulogies recited or broken screams of mourning. Just the silence for a moment as the two men no longer felt the need to either kill themself or the other. No more bloodlust, no more blood lost. Just a string woven and dyed with blood that tied them together. One that was about to snap.
In a tired step, one life ended and one heart broke. A second apart, nothing left but mangled corpses, two hands reaching for the other in the final moment.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Scar jolts awake in a cold sweat, a really bad nightmare, something about Grian and a desert. There’s a nervous moment where he feels he’s forgotten something.
But he can’t place a hit on what in the world it could possibly be.