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For all Mumbo knew, he could be dreaming. He thought he was, surely, and certainly would've tried to pinch himself if not for the fact a pair of hands found their grasp steady on his arms.
It was a warm sort of weight, only pressing down further whenever Grian's fingers would give a hesitant, uncertain squeeze. Because truly, it really seemed like Grian had no idea what he was doing either.
Grian's hesitation was in part, mostly, to the fact Mumbo sat still like a deer in headlights despite the fact he agreed to this. It came back faintly, to him, though it happened probably not even a minute ago— he had asked Mumbo if he could kiss him.
Against his better judgment, before he could think or word, “what about Scar?” That stupid, ever-active mouth of his ran before he could make an actually intelligent decision.
“Yes, please.” he had said to Grian's request with all the rushing desperation of years and years of suppressed, shallowly buried feelings. Something had broke in his mind, a levee, before he could even process it had been destroyed.
Now, here he was, pressed up against the very couch he and Grian had shared countless drinks, talks, even tears as they sat through reruns of their favourite shows; as friends, something Mumbo thought was all they'd ever be. All they had ever been, no matter how so badly he wanted it to be more.
Even though he'd said yes, and even though that's what every single shrieking crevice of his body yelled at him to do, he just sat there, entirely still with his back aching from the armrest digging into it.
“Mumbo?” Grian asked, feeble, as if he was unsure of his own actions. Surely, if Grian had half the mind Mumbo was so sure he had, he'd back out now while there was still time to salvage the relationship he was so close to destroying.
And he didn't understand. He really just couldn't, for the life of him fathom why Grian would throw away something so seemingly perfect for something that'd been within arms reach for years. It ached, and no matter how badly Mumbo wanted it, Scar had become a friend to him recently— betraying him was something he couldn't do. And he couldn't see why Grian would.
For him of all people.
It was a quiet, meek thing, but Mumbo eventually found his voice again, “But.. Grian— Scar. What are you doing?”
And Grian's face flashed with something Mumbo couldn't read, but only for a second, and then it immediately relaxed. The furrow in his brow, that worried edge to his voice of which Mumbo's grown so familiar too— it was all gone. Dissipated, entirely, like what Mumbo said was something he'd already worked through.
He wanted to speak again, open his mouth and let Grian know just how cross he was getting with him because seriously how could one man be so completely daft—
“You don't have to worry about that, Mumbo,” he assured him, with a fondness to his face that shouldn't be reserved for him, but it was, “Scar knows. Honestly it was him you can thank for me suddenly getting so bold.”
Now it was Mumbo's turn to feel daft, for doubting Grian. Perfect, amazing, stupidly incredible Grian.
“Well why didn't you start with that?“ Mumbo finally asked, “You've scared me! You can't do that to a man, especially not your best friend."
“My favourite guy?” Grian asked, cheekily, falling into that same, easy type of banter that he'd come to expect out of the other.
Underneath him, Mumbo's usual pale face was flickering to life with more colour than Grian was used to seeing out of him, and it gave him a sort of thrill to keep pushing.
He opened his mouth, uselessly, with the only words that he wanted to form dying right there with the gravity of what was really happening weighing down on him.
“If— If Scar's okay with it,” Mumbo began, struggling to gather his bearings and words, because those, for once, struggled to come, “And you're okay with it, if... If this is really what you want..” he trailed off, and with a sudden gravity,
“Please, Grian, I might actually die if you don't.”
It was years in the making, Grian finally barrelling forward and finding his hold on Mumbo's arms just as strongly as before, to catch the other man's lips in his and let out the ghost of a chuckle into their kiss at the slight tickle of Mumbo's moustache.
He couldn't help but get antsy, letting his own arms which twitched there where they clung uselessly to his sides eventually found their way to the thin fabric clinging to Grian's middle.
Cupping it in his fists, letting it get caught between his fingers, he tried to bring Grian even closer— as close as he could.
Mumbo had waited far too long for this, and with how Grian only pressed himself harder against Mumbo and deeper, deeper into his lips, into him, it seemed as if he shared the sentiment.
So easily, it was to completely let himself melt into Grian's needy touch, pushing for more but never too much, and just feel this. Weeks of absolutely nothing, six hundred and ninety three unread messages, so much hush-hush and hardly-truths was all so, so unbelievably worth it. Just for this.
As all good things do, it eventually ended, with them hardly pulling away and breathing in each other's air with hot, shaking pants fanning over their faces. And Mumbo, Grian thought, looked just so beautiful like this. There was something so endearing in the way Mumbo looked up at him, dazed with those dopey eyes that should've met a smile but his mouth was too busy gaping uselessly like a fish out of water.
It was cute, he thought, with a certain fondness. How stupid, he was, to think their friendship had been untouchable.