Chapter Text
His best friend’s funeral was starting in five minutes and Grian was in a pub on the opposite side of the city where no one would thing to look for him.
The woman behind the bar had slid him some free (overdone) chips fifteen minutes before, but Grian couldn’t find it in himself to eat more than a few, even when the woman kept glancing over at him as if she was checking on him.
He couldn’t imagine why.
He was in all black when he’d left for Scar’s funeral, and he hadn’t changed when he decided to skip. For all she knew Grian had just come from a funeral. Instead Grian had done the scummiest thing someone could do to their best friend.
Grian bit the inside of his cheek.
The second scummiest thing someone could do.
“You alright, love? Need a refill?” She tapped her nails against the grain of the bar, tilting her head down to indicate to his empty glass.
He slid it the few inches to her hand, nodded, and went back to staring at a painting on the wall.
It wasn’t a trashy pub by any means. One of those spots with placards on the walls for tourists to ooooh and ahhhh at. Something about the history of the building, the owners. Maybe the street they were on. Whatever someone had managed to make sound even slightly interesting. It was probably still dull as nail, though. He wondered what it said.
The painting looked old, but it was probably just a print. He couldn’t tell from this far.
There were poppies, just there-- in the corner beside the start of a picturesque country road.
Grian dragged his eyes away from it, tried to remind himself someone had probably found it in a discount bin somewhere, and accepted his glass, now full. Not with the drink he’d ordered.
He didn’t bother asking why. He probably shouldn’t drink anything else, even if he wanted to glare at the woman for deciding he was too sorry a sight to drink.
Scar would’ve understood skipping the funeral, he thought. Maybe not getting sloshed instead.
He took a sip. Sprite.
Resting his hand on his fist, he shoved a few chips into his mouth. Maybe to sober up, maybe to get the woman to mind her own business. Either way he resigned himself to an afternoon in the pub, if only to keep Mumbo from finding him and dragging him to their friend’s grave by his ear.
He could handle the woman’s misplaced pity and concern if it kept Scott from flipping between lecturing him and waiting for Grian to break down and cry on his shoulder. He could handle an afternoon knowing people were talking about him, commenting why he didn’t show, if Jimmy didn’t look at him with his wide eyes and barely held back tears asking if Grian needed anything, telling him over and over that Grian should come get dinner with him, Tango, and Scott. If he didn’t have to watch Pearl stare into nothing and try to be strong for Grian instead of cry like she wanted to. If he didn’t have to look Scar’s mother in the eyes and accept the hug she would pull him into, thanking him for being Scar’s friend.
Yeah, right. Some friend he was.
On the bar, his phone buzzed. Mumbo, probably. Maybe Joel. He let it ring out, but checked the time. Two minutes till the funeral.
The painting behind him clattered to the floor.
Grian didn’t go to visit Scar’s grave.
He was busy. He kept himself busy, really. His coworkers had offered to cover his shifts over and over, but he’d turned them all down. All but one. He was as surprised as anyone else, but if there was one thing Gem was good at, it was pushing people to bow to her will.
She was the reason he had the next few days off. The reason he suddenly had more time on his hands than he knew what to do with.
The weather was nice. Sunny. Warm. A bit of a breeze to cut through the heat. It was a perfect day for a walk, and luckily for him, Scar had been buried a twenty minute walk south from his flat.
Grian had loved living near a graveyard. They were, after all, the perfect place to read, or jog, or turn his brain off as he sat on one of the old benches and watched the birds. He’d taken Mumbo once, but his friend wasn’t quite as morbid as Grian himself was. Scar had found it odd, but endearing. He’d told Grian so himself, just three weeks before when Grian had mentioned his hobby.
He went for a walk north of his flat, through the old town where the buildings were still pretty instead of the boxes the flats near him were.
He waited at a corner for a break in the traffic, then kept going.
Inside his pocket, his phone rang. He didn’t answer it.
Grian ignored the voice in his head that sounded an awful lot like his friend.
“They’re just worried. Let them know you’re still alive.”
Grian was avoiding his friends again, this time by going on a jog. His usual jogging spot was… well he went somewhere new.
He had one earbud in, blasting one of the musicals Scar had recommended to him that he’d never intended to actually listen to. It was nice, and he could almost see Scar’s smug smile. The thought jarred him enough he didn’t notice he was on a collision path with someone else.
Their grocery bags fell to the concrete, and Grian rushed to help pick it up, taking his earbud out to dangle around his neck and rushing out apologies one after the other.
“It’s fine, it’s fine.” The man was saying.
Grian wasn’t listening anymore, to focused on the small bundle of flowers that had fallen out of the paper bag.
Poppies.
“Oh!”
Grian’s head shot up at the sound, the man now staring down at him, eyes wide with shock before he blinked and it was gone.
“Here.” Grian dropped the flowers back in the bag and stood up, handing it back to him.
Instead of taking it right away, the man frowned for a moment, glancing over Grian’s shoulder. Then he reached in and pulled one poppy from the bundle. More resolute than he had any right to be, he took his bag and dropped the flower in Grian’s now open palm.
“As thanks.” He said quickly, already ducking around Grian to continue on his way.
Grian was sure he stared at the flower for a moment, but it shouldn’t have been long enough for the man to walk too far. By the time he turned around to call out, give the flower back, say thanks, the man had turned the corner and left him alone.
In his hand, the flower rolled in the wind, like it didn’t want Grian to hold it either.
He didn’t know why he kept it.
On minute he was holding it over his trash and the next he was pulling out an old vase he hadn’t used in ages. He hoped he didn’t fill it with too much water.
The vase and single flower went on his window sill.
He avoiding looking at it except out of the corner of his eye, so he didn’t notice when it first started to wilt.
The day he did, though, he pulled a chair to the window, crossed one leg over the other and stared at it. He tilted his head, squinted, leaned in, leaned back.
Still wilted.
Sleep didn’t come easy to him that night. He didn’t know why.
He was a liar.
When the first petal fell Grian nearly had a panic attack. He was taking care of it, wasn’t he? Flowers didn’t die so fast, did they?
He couldn’t even remember when he’d bumped into the man, couldn’t remember how long he’d ignored the poppy. It hadn’t been long enough for it to die, though.
Had it?
He shook his head, trying to free himself of his thoughts for even a moment. He tore his gaze from the flower, checked the grocery list on his fridge. He hadn’t made a new one since--
The flower was still missing a petal.
He could go out to the shops later that night. Could pick something quick up, maybe finally give in and buy a few of the frozen meals he hadn’t lowered himself to eating since uni. Could jazz it up, make a salad or something. He was out of dressing, but he could easily make that. He was pretty sure he was out of vinegar though. He’d have to add that to his list.
The flower seemed so sad, all alone.
Grian hadn’t even noticed it was wilting until two days before. What kind of person did that make him?
He could order in. Pizza. Chinese. Indian. A new place had opened up the month before, hadn’t it? Ethiopian, he was sure.
The poppy had been a gift, and Grian was just letting it die.
Grian should have seen it coming really. He could admit it was on him for being surprised when he unlocked the door to his flat and found every single chair or otherwise seat-able object occupied by his friends. Except one.
He glanced over at his window sill to find his vase and single poppy undisturbed, petal still laying untouched.
“Mate,” Mumbo began.
Grian turned on his heel, glaring at Martyn when he grabbed Grian by the arm to stop him.
“Absolutely not.” He rose his brows. “Do you have any idea how hard this was to coordinate?”
Grian let out a huff of air that could have been considered a laugh and shook the hand off. Martyn must’ve thought it was a good sign, since he quirked a half smile at Grian, jerking his head over to the chair clearly meant for Grian.
His gaze caught on the poppy again. He could swear it was moving just a bit, like there was a draft.
“-I know you don’t like talking about all this stuff,” Mumbo was saying when Grian finally started listening. “But we’ve been really worried, Grian.”
Pearl stood up and held a hand out. When Grian took it she led him to his seat like he was a child. “You don’t even have to talk to us, Gri. Just someone.”
The only person Grian wanted to talk to was dead.
He sat down.
Everyone took turns. They went in a circle and talked about Scar, their favourite stories about him. Most of them had Grian in them too. A few times people would mention how much talking about it helped, how the people in the circle were good listeners.
His friends were subtle like that.
When they finally got to Grian, he knew at least a quarter of them didn’t expect him to speak. Grian would call them his realistic friends, as opposed to his hopeful friends, who were all trying not to stare at Grian too much.
Their eyes were wide, vulnerable, teary.
It made Grian’s stomach churn.
He glanced at his poppy just in time to watch a second petal fall.
“Get out.”
Grian didn’t speak again.
Not when Lizzie stared at him, expression soft and sad, before nodding. Not when Etho began ushering everyone out, glancing back at Grian full of concern. Not when Scott reached over to pat him on the shoulder, but stopped last minute. Or when Jimmy went to hug Grian, crying harder when Grian shifted out of the way.
Or when Mumbo stayed. Tidied his living room back up, glancing over at Grian a few times per minute like he was waiting for Grian to grin at him and announce just kidding!
Grian didn’t.
He said nothing when Mumbo stood next to his chair, following Grian’s line of sight. He must’ve thought Grian was staring at the window.
“Sorry if I overstepped.” Grian didn’t say anything. “And I really don’t want to make you feel worse than you already are, mate.” He paused. “It’s like I’ve lost you both. In one fell swoop the world took my best friends, only one of them is still here. I just can’t get to him.” Grian could feel Mumbo turn his head to look at Grian. To watch him. “I’m sorry I can’t get to you, mate.” He set a hand on Grian’s shoulder, squeezed it once, and finally made to leave.
He cleared his throat, and if Grian was a better friend, he would be upset with the way his voice sounded strained. “We’ll all be there if you call. And we’ll keep calling too, if you decide to answer.”
The door locked behind Mumbo, sure to be using the key Grian had given him for emergencies.
He hardly thought this had counted as one.
His phone buzzed, and when, hours later, he checked the notification, it was Mumbo.
Left some food in your freezer so you don’t have to cook.
False helped, so it shouldn’t be poisoned.
Sitting on the ground underneath his window, Grian cried.
When Grian went to the shops next, he found himself buying a packet of poppy seeds. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t like he had a flower pot or soil.
He went to a garden supply store and stood in front of an aisle of different kinds of dirt, scrolling through his phone frantically to find the right kind. He didn’t know why.
He picket an obnoxious green and orange pot, the kind that someone had handmade so was priced exorbitantly. It had llamas crudely painted on. He wondered how the maker thought anyone would ever buy it. He bought it.
He didn’t know why.
He hated getting dirt under his nails.
That night he washed his hands until they cracked.
Grian was tired, okay? He wanted to get home and go straight to bed. It had been a long day, and Xisuma had been walking on eggshells with him since the failed intervention.
Sure, it was warranted, but it didn’t make Grian want to slam his own head into a wall any less. He’d finally clocked out, and he’d been stupid enough to take a short-cut.
He was never taking a short-cut again.
“Whoa,” Grian held one of his hands up, a wobbly smile on his lips. “I’m sure we can figure this all out, yeah? He’s just a kid, right? Not like uni students have much cash to begin, mate.” He tried to joke.
His other arm was back and behind him, both keeping the teen from doing something stupid and keeping the man from seeing he was on an active call. Had since he turned the corner and saw the boy getting robbed, which had to have been a couple of minutes ago by now. The teenager behind him already had a black eye and a split lip before Grian had came through the alley. Maybe a bruised rib, his breathing didn’t sound great.
(“Hold these for me, Gri?” The bundle of flowers were dropped into Grian’s hand as Scar pushed his way in front of Grian, an arm back to hold him in place. His other hand braced himself on his cane.)
“He’s got plenty.” The man spat. “Why don’t you just stay out of it, hmm?”
(“I won’t tell you again. I don’t want to, but I will.”
“Hey man. I’m sure there’s been a misunderstanding.” Scar’s expression was easy, like there wasn’t a gun in his face. Grian tugged at his sleeve, trying to step up beside him, but Scar didn’t budge. “How’d you even get that anyways? Aren’t those, like, super illegal here?”)
“Okay, well, have you tried the cafe ‘round the corner? They’re hiring. Make a great cappuccino—”
(“I will, man—”
“Nah.” Scar grinned. “You don’t have to. Grian and I aren’t causin’ any trouble. Just went for a walk, that’s all.”
Grian hid his phone as he dialed emergency services.)
From the other side of the alley, a police-man appeared, her partner just behind her.
“Back away, sir.” The first called.
Grian didn’t relax yet, not until the man tucked his knife away and took off away from the police. Away from the teenager. Away from Grian.
(“I can’t just let you—”
“I get it man, but I won’t tell.” Grian just knew Scar winked. “Your boss doesn’t have to know, we can all just go our separate ways, and—“
Grian’s ears rang with the shot loud enough he couldn’t hear his own scream.)
The second officer stopped with them long enough to let them know an ambulance would be over shortly, but they had only been a block away when they’d gotten the call, so it may be a few more minutes.
Then off he went after his partner.
Grian waited with the teenager outside the alley, he was adamant about leaving without being checked over until he saw Grian’s look.
It must’ve been severe, because his mouth closed mid complained and he sat down on the curb.
The sound of sirens made Grian watch until the ambulance turned the corner. He waved them down, and the back opened up.
The man he’d bumped into weeks before stepped out, looking equally shocked to see him. It was only a moment, and then he jogged to the teenager to check him over, asking very familiar questions.
(“Can you hear me? Can you tell me what happened? Did you hit your head?”
The EMT rested a hand on Grian’s shoulder, making him jump. He tore his eyes away from the gurney Scar had been lifted into.
He wished he’d known it would be the last time he would see him.)
The teenager would be alright, but Grian waited until his brother showed up to be sure. The man had long pink hair, and Grian could tell he was both unsurprised and relieved to see his brother alright.
Grian tried to leave then, but the EMT turned to him, and it must’ve been the same look he’d given the teen, since he found himself sitting on the back of the ambulance, feet firmly on the road as he himself was checked over.
“Tommy mentioned you called this in?”
He filed the name of the teen away, not that he knew why.
Grian nodded.
The man quirked a half smile. “Good thinking. Most people have a hard time thinking straight during stuff like that.” He clicked his pen light off. “No concussion for you, my friend.” He glanced over Grian’s shoulder into the ambulance, smile fading. “I should learn your name if I’m gonna keep bumping into you.”
“Not just for the paperwork?” Grian deadpanned.
The man laughed softly. “That too. I’m Taurtis, if it helps.”
“Grian.”
“… Okay I might need the last name too. For the paperwork.”
“Crescent.”
“Nice name.” Taurtis reached over Grian’s shoulder, the other EMT handing him a clipboard to fill out. “Alright, now onto the boring stuff.” He had Grian answer a few more questions before giving him the all clear.
(Grian fell to Scar’s side when something hit the back of his head.
That was fine, it was where Grian wanted to be anyways.
His ears were ringing, but he saw the man run off. He saw Scar scramble for Grian’s hand, eyes bright with fear that Grian used to feel honored to see.
Scar was so closed off, even with his friends, he never told them how he really felt. The first time Scar had called Grian to complain about something, Grian had felt his whole body fill with elation that he was who Scar trusted with this.
Now he just wanted Scar to smile at him, tell him he would be alright, he was always alright, wasn’t he? He was Scar, and Scar was always alright.
He needed to tell Scar that. Scar needed to know it would be okay. Grian opened his mouth.
The grip on Grian’s hand was weak.
Nothing came out.
“It’ll be alright, Scar.” Scar’s hand had gone lax before he could finish his sentence. “It’ll be alright.” He swallowed harshly. “Ambulance’ll be here soon, yeah? They’ll fix it, promise. And I’ll bring you new flowers.” His voice cracked. “And we’ll never go on walks again, because Mumbo will bubble wrap you until you can’t move.” Grian held Scar’s hand in place, closed his finger’s around Grian’s with his other hand, Scar would want to hold Grian’s hand. “They’ll coddle you, and you’ll hate it. But you’ll be okay. It’s going to be okay.”
Scar had needed to know he would be alright.
Grian took too long to tell him.)
Grian doesn’t know where he’s going, just that his phone is pressed to his ear, dialing.
“You’ve reached the phone of the one and only Goodtimes, Scar. I’m off doing something or another, so leave me a message.”
Grian hung up. Dialed again.
“You’ve reached the phone of the one and only Goodtimes, Scar. I’m off doing something or another, so leave me a message.”
When Grian hung up his eyes were too watery to see his screen, so he guessed and clicked again.
“You’ve reached the phone of the one and only Goodtimes, Scar. I’m off doing something or another, so leave me a message.”
And again.
“You’ve reached the phone of the one and only Goodtimes, Scar. I’m off doing something or another, so leave me a message.”
And again.
The line connected before the first ring.
“Grian?”
Oh.
“Hi, Mumbo.” He bit the inside of his cheek when his breath hitched.
“Mate,” Mumbo sounded terrible. Grian sounded terrible.
Scar sounded alive. On the voicemail.
“I’m, um.” He glanced at the closest street sign. He read it to Mumbo.
“I’ll be there. In ten minutes.”
And there, on a dirty curb, Grian sat and broke down.
The flowers in the ugly pot were blooming.
From his place on Grian’s couch (where he’d been staying since Grian had accidentally called him a week before) Mumbo had complimented them.
Grian wanted to rip them out.
So he did.
He also trimmed off their roots and tied them at their base with a ribbon.
“Do you want company?” Mumbo asked when Grian slipped his shoes on.
“No. Thanks.”
His friend only nodded, and Grian left with his poppies.
He stopped on the way for coffee, and nearly ran over the man who was trying to leave just as Grian opened the door.
“Oh, sorry- Grian!” Taurtis looked much less serious out of uniform. “Oh, those are- are those poppies?”
Grian blinked, then looked down at the bundle. “Yeah.” Taurtis glanced over Grian’s shoulder. Grian followed his gaze, frowning when there was nothing there. When he turned his head back Taurtis’ face had flushed. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Special occasion?” He asked, nodding to the flowers.
“They’re for my dead best friend.”
“Ah.” Someone else walked between them out the door, muttering about blocking the path. “Are you doing alright… otherwise?”
He couldn’t help the huff of laughter, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, small smile forcing its way onto his face. “Otherwise I’m alright.”
“Would it be okay to say I’m sorry for your loss?”
Grian shrugged. “Uh… sure? I mean, it’s been a couple of months, now. So.”
“In that case, I am sorry for your loss.”
“Right, well,”
“Yeah, I’ll get out of your way.” He did so, but paused. “Hey, I’m about to stop for flowers, but I haven’t seen any as fresh as yours. Did you get them somewhere near by?”
“...I actually grew them. Sorry.”
“Oh! That’s really cool, man. And don’t worry about it, I’m sure I won’t be shunned for showing up to a cemetery with slightly wilted flowers. It’s the thought that counts, and all.”
Grian blinked. “...Which cemetery?”
“It’s just a bit south of here-”
“Milton Road?”
Taurtis nodded before his eyes went wide. “Oh! Um, yeah. Milton road. I, um. I don’t actually know anyone who- but it’s a really great spot-” His eyes went wider and he waved his hands frantically. “I mean, I like to go on walks there, so I like to leave flowers every so often. Sorry if that’s, like, offensive? It’s just-”
Grian tried to muffle his laughter behind his hand, but gave up when it did nothing. He split his bundle in half as he giggled, holding one half out to Taurtis.
“It was my favorite place to jog, I don’t have the right to be offended.” Taurtis took the flowers, looking like he had no idea what was going on. He looked down at the poppies. “If we’re both already going there.” He offered as explanation.
Taurtis looked over Grian’s shoulder again.
“Oh.” Taurtis voice was soft, but he smiled at Grian. “That… yeah. That sounds good.
They were quiet for the first few minutes before Taurtis hesitantly asked about his friend.
Grian had intended to say something short, but he ended up telling Taurtis about how they met. It wasn’t a short story in the slightest. From there, Taurtis asked a few questions, and Grian answered them, going from story to story.
“The weird thing is,” Grian began. “I’d asked him out right before.” He didn’t say right before what. He didn’t need to. “We were on our way to our first date when he…” He shook his head. “We hadn’t told anyone else. Of it turned out we were better as friends, we didn’t want people to be weird about it, you know?” He shrugged. Taurtis nodded, and blessedly didn’t comment on the reveal the Grian was there when Scar died. “But,” Grian continued after clearing his throat. “I brought him poppies that morning. So.” He held the flowers up a bit. “Poppies.” He lamely finished.
“I bet he’d like that.”
“He would.” Grian took a deep breath. "The date was a stupid idea anyways." He shrugged. "I went out with a few guys, they were all shit, by the way, and I figured why not ask him? Worst case scenario, we laugh about it for the rest of our lives." He swallowed. "Best case I could fall in love with my best friend."
"Do you think you would have?"
Grian didn't say anything for a long moment. "I think Scar was humoring me. I knew him for a very long time. I think I would've had feelings for him already if it was in the cards."
They’d reached the entrance, and Grian led Taurtis to the grave.
It wasn’t like seeing a ghost, which Grian had expected. If Scar were a ghost, he wouldn’t be hanging around a boring rock anyhow. He’d be keeping an eye on his family, making plates fall off the wall, because he’d be clumsy even in spectral form.
He didn’t feel much looking at the name. It felt anti-climactic, if anything. He’d spent so long avoiding this for what?
Scar was there. Just under the dirt. And Grian felt nothing.
How terrible of a friend did that make him?
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Taurtis asked, and Grian wondered if he’d said any of that out loud. “Sorry. Stupid question, I know.”
Grian thought it over. “Maybe?” He offered. He leaned down at set the poppies in front of the grave along with the many other flowers Scar’s friends and family had left. He stood back up. “I mean, I think most people who say their houses are haunted are just scared easily, but maybe there are a few ghosts out there.” He shrugged. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
Grian glanced over at Taurtis. He had said it with such certainty that Grian could help but tilt his head in thought, looking closer at the man next to him.
He wasn’t looking at Grian, but at the grave. No, Grian corrected himself, he was looking just above the grave. Like someone was sitting there.
“Hmmm.” Grian hummed. Taurtis always looking over Grian’s shoulder. He’d always looked shocked at seeing Grian. No, he’d looked shocked after looking around Grian. “Why?”
Taurtis jumped a bit, like he hadn’t expected the question. “I guess the same reasons as you?” His voice went up an octave before he cleared his throat. “I mean, you said it best, I think. People get scared easily, yeah, but maybe there’s some truth it.”
“Right.” Grian deadpanned. He took a shot in the dark and jerked his thumb over to Scar’s tombstone. “Not because you can see Scar right there?”
He could’ve sworn he could hear Scar laughing in the breeze.
Taurtis’ eyes went wide. He didn’t say anything, just slowly turned to look where Grian was gesturing. After a very long moment, he nodded jerkily.
Grian didn’t really know what to make of it. He’d expected Taurtis to look at him oddly and drag him to the nearest hospital for a psych eval. He glanced over at the grave as well. He could imagine Scar sitting there. He really could. It would be so like him to sit on his own damn grave, to pull his legs criss-cross and just wait for Grian to figure it out.
“He. Um.” Grian didn’t look away from the spot, a bit above the grave, where Scar’s head would be. “He’s saying something about llamas? I don’t know if that makes any sense, but he really wants me to say it—”
Grian snorted into his hand, trying to muffle the laughter building in him.
God, maybe he was about to be scammed, but that was such a gamble to make if Taurtis was lying. That stupid fucking pot.
Taurtis looked concerned, but quickly relaxed, probably as Scar explained Grian wasn’t having a breakdown. Scar.
“Jesus Christ.” Grian got out. He tried to make eye contact with Scar, but it was a bit hard when he couldn’t see him. “Worst first date ever, man.” He propped a hand on his hip, other hand coming up to massage his temples. “This is so weird.”
“At least no date could be worse?”
Grian didn’t need Taurtis to tell him that Scar had said it. He nodded, still giggling. “Right, right.” He paused. “This is so weird.”
“I’m not saying that, man!” Taurtis muttered under his breath, no longer looking at the grave, but beside it, next to Grian.
“What?”
Taurtis’ face flushed. “He said you missed his funeral.”
“I did, but that’s not what he said, is it?” Taurtis glanced off to the side, gaze focusing on something else. “Are there… other ghosts here?” Grian guessed.
He nodded. “Yes, and they are very annoying.” He glared at a certain patch of air.
“Right.” Grian agreed. “What did they say? You’re all flushed.” He quirked his head.
“Nothing that matters,” Taurtis said, annoyance dripping into his voice. “Trust me, Grian. They’re all gossips and nothing they say matters.” He focused back to the space next to Grian. “Scar is saying he needs to tell you something.”
Grian tried to follow Taurtis’ gaze, and waited.
And waited.
He turned to look at Taurtis, whose mouth was dropped open, indignant.
“Dude!”
Grian sighed, fighting to keep the smile off his face. “Annoying even in death.” He said sagely. “Whatever he’s saying, he won’t stop until you tell me.”
Taurtis himself looked haunted. Though he supposed that was an accurate way to describe him.
He swallowed. “He said to date me for my ghost powers.”
Grian shrugged. “It’s not the worst idea he’s had.” Taurtis blinked, mouth open, but no sound came out. “What? It’s true. His last idea was to tell someone with a gun he wouldn’t shoot him, so.”
Something in his chest caved in at the words, even if Scar was still there. Even if he was a ghost. Because that was absolutely something Scar would say, so Grian really couldn't help but believe Taurtis. Scar was still dead. He still didn't do anything as he was shot. He’d still held his hand when he died.
“He’s very insistent that it almost worked.”
Even through the knot in his stomach, Grian couldn’t help but laugh.