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"It is physically painful to watch," Pearl whispered, leaning against the row of battered blue lockers. She nodded toward the end of the hallway where Grian and Scar were currently 'fighting' over a borrowed pen.
"He literally just called Scar a ‘dim-witted drama queen,’" Mumbo muttered, checking his watch, "and yet, Grian has been wearing Scar’s oversized hoodie for three days straight. When I asked him about it, he said he ‘stole it as a trophy of war.’"
Jimmy groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Yesterday, Scar spent twenty minutes ranting about how much he hates Grian’s face, then immediately asked me if I thought Grian’s new haircut made his eyes look nice. They aren't enemies; they’re just exhausting."
The group watched as Scar leaned into Grian’s personal space, pointing a finger at his chest.
Grian didn’t flinch; he just smirked, his wings ruffling with a pride that looked a lot more like a crush than a grudge.
"That’s it," Pearl declared, her eyes gleaming with chaotic intent. "The Janitor’s closet in the West Wing. It’s cramped, it smells like lemon floor wax, and the lock sticks from the outside. We’re ending this today."
The execution was seamless.
During the chaotic passing period before lunch, Mumbo sprinted past the duo, looking frantic. "Grian! Scar! Someone left the sprinkler valves open in the supply room! The theater sets are going to be ruined!"
The two 'rivals' didn't even hesitate.
Driven by a shared—and secret—need to be the hero in the other's eyes, they bolted toward the narrow door at the end of the hall.
The second they both crossed the threshold into the dark, cramped space, Jimmy and Mumbo slammed the heavy oak door shut.
Click.
Pearl slid a screwdriver through the external handles for good measure.
"Hey! Open up!" Grian’s voice muffled through the wood, followed by a frantic rattle of the knob. "Mumbo? This isn't funny!"
"We’re going to the cafeteria!" Pearl yelled back, grinning at the boys.
"Don't come out until you’ve admitted you'd rather kiss each other than kill each other! Have fun with the mops!"
As the friends walked away, the shouting from inside the closet died down, replaced by a thick, heavy silence that smelled of cleaning supplies and teenage tension.
The heavy thud of the oak door echoed in the tiny space, followed by the definitive clack of the lock.
For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of their synchronized, jagged breathing.
The closet was barely four feet wide. Shelves loaded with gallon jugs of lemon-scented floor wax and stacked crates of scratchy brown paper towels pressed in from both sides.
Grian was backed against a shelf of lightbulbs, and Scar was so close Grian could feel the heat radiating off his chest through his school blazer.
"Mumbo? Pearl?" Grian rattled the handle again, his voice cracking just a pitch too high. "Funny joke! Hilarious! Now open the door before I report you all to the Dean!"
"They’re gone, Grian," Scar murmured. He sounded uncharacteristically subdued.
He tried to take a step back to give Grian space, but his heel caught on the handle of a mop bucket. He lurched forward, his hands slamming into the wall on either side of Grian’s head to steady himself.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Grian froze, his back pressed hard against the shelving. In the dim light filtering through the door's bottom crack, Scar’s eyes looked darker, wider. The "enemy" persona—the witty barbs, the dramatic eye-rolls, the constant bickering—felt suddenly, terrifyingly flimsy.
"You’re… you’re in my bubble, Scar," Grian whispered, though he didn't move to push him away.
"Nowhere else to go," Scar breathed. His voice was a low vibration that Grian felt in his own chest. "Unless you want me to climb the mop rack."
Scar’s thumb brushed, seemingly by accident, against the collar of Grian’s shirt—the one Grian had "stolen" from him.
The fabric was a blatant admission of everything they weren't saying. Grian’s heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, and he was certain Scar could feel it.
"You’re still wearing it," Scar noted, his voice dropping to a velvet shadow of itself. "My hoodie. For someone who hates me, you sure like the smell of my detergent."
Grian looked up, intending to snapped back a sarcastic retort about "spoils of war," but the words died in his throat.
Scar wasn't looking at him with spite.
He was looking at Grian’s mouth with a raw, terrifying hunger that made Grian’s knees go weak.
"I don't hate you," Grian admitted, the truth slipping out in the dark because there was nowhere else for it to hide. "I just... I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?" Scar whispered, leaning an inch closer.
Grian’s breath hitched. The "I don't know how to do this" hung in the cramped space between them, thick and heavy like the smell of lemon wax. Scar didn’t pull away; he just stayed there, hovering, his thumb tracing the line of Grian’s jaw with a gentleness that was far more dangerous than any of their high school "battles."
"You don't have to do anything," Scar murmured, his voice dropping to a low, devastating vibrate. "Just... stop fighting me for once."
That was the breaking point.
The years of pretending to hate the way Scar tilted his head, the months of "accidentally" brushing shoulders in the hallway, and the sheer exhaustion of keeping up the "rival" act finally snapped inside Grian.
"Oh, shut up, Scar," Grian hissed.
He didn't wait for a response.
Grian reached out, his fingers hooking firmly into the knot of Scar’s loosened school tie.
With a sharp, sudden yank, he pulled Scar down, eliminating the last few inches of agonizing space between them.
Scar let out a muffled gasp of surprise that was immediately swallowed as Grian crashed their lips together. It wasn't a soft kiss; it was desperate and messy, fueled by years of repressed tension and the adrenaline of being trapped.
Scar’s hands, which had been bracing against the wall, immediately scrambled for purchase, one sliding into Grian’s hair and the other gripping his waist to pull him flush against his chest.
A stack of paper towels tumbled off a shelf behind them, hitting the floor with a dull thud, but neither of them noticed.
Grian’s fingers tightened on the silk of the tie, anchoring himself as Scar kissed him back with a ferocity that proved the "hatred" had been mutual—and entirely fake.
The closet felt smaller than ever, but for the first time, Grian didn't want the door to open.
The muffled sounds of the school hallway—the distant slamming of lockers and the faint chime of the lunch bell—faded into a buzzing hum in Grian’s ears.
All he could feel was the weight of Scar pressing him back against the cool metal shelving and the frantic, rhythmic tug of his own fingers on Scar’s tie.
Scar broke the kiss for a split second, his forehead resting against Grian’s, both of them gasping for air that tasted like lemon polish and cedar.
"Grian," Scar breathed, his voice wrecked and vibrating. "If you’re—if this is some kind of elaborate prank to humiliate me—"
"Shut up," Grian hissed, his eyes blown wide and dark. "I'm not that good of an actor, Scar. Neither are you."
To prove it, Grian reached up, his palms sliding from the tie to cup Scar’s face, his thumbs brushing over the high cheekbones he’d spent three years pretending to ignore.
He pulled Scar back down, deeper this time, a low groan vibrating in Scar’s throat as his hands found purchase under Grian's blazer, gripping his waist so hard it was going to leave marks.
Scar shifted, hitching one of Grian’s legs up around his hip to get closer, his back hitting the door with a heavy thud that shook the frame.
Grian’s wings—usually tucked tight and hidden—shivered under his shirt, a sharp rustle of feathers against the cramped walls. He was a mess of contradictions: biting at Scar's lower lip one second and leaning into the touch of Scar’s nose against his neck the next.
"You're so loud," Scar whispered against the sensitive skin of Grian's throat, his smirk audible even in the dark. "The whole hallway is going to hear you."
"Let them," Grian retorted, though his voice was barely a tremor. He tilted his head back, exposing his pulse point, his fingers tangling in the messy chestnut curls at the nape of Scar's neck. "Let them see the 'hero' and the 'villain' finally kill each other."
Scar chuckled, a dark, honeyed sound, before sliding his hand up to Grian’s jaw, forcing him to look at him. "Is that what we're doing? Killing each other?"
"Something like that," Grian whispered, before pulling Scar’s head down to start the war all over again.
The air in the closet was sweltering now, the small space acting like an oven for all the heat radiating between them.
Scar’s hands were anchored firmly on Grian’s waist, pinning him against the shelves so effectively that Grian could feel every hitched breath Scar took.
Grian pulled back just an inch, his lips swollen and his hair a bird’s nest of golden-blonde chaos.
He was trembling, and not from the cold.
"I hate you," Grian whispered, though he was currently threading his fingers through the soft hair at the back of Scar’s neck. "I hate how you look at me in Trig. I hate how you always have to have the last word. I hate that you're the only person who actually makes me try."
Scar let out a breathless, jagged laugh, his forehead dropping onto Grian’s shoulder. "Is that right? Because I hate that you stole my hoodie just to have a reason to talk to me. I hate that you pretend to be annoyed when I flirt with you, but your wings twitch every single time."
Grian stiffened, his face flaming. "They do not."
"They really do, G," Scar murmured, lifting his head to look Grian in the eye. The teasing smirk was gone, replaced by something dangerously sincere. "And I hate that I’ve spent three years wondering what it would feel like to have you actually look at me without a snarky comment ready to go."
Scar leaned in, his nose brushing against Grian’s. "I don’t want to fight you anymore, Grian. It’s exhausting."
Grian’s grip on Scar’s tie loosened, his hands sliding down to rest flat against Scar’s chest, feeling the frantic, heavy thrum of his heart.
The "enemy" facade didn't just crack; it shattered, leaving them both exposed in the dark.
"Me neither," Grian admitted, his voice small and stripped of its usual bite.
He looked up, his eyes searching Scar’s in the dim light. "I... I think I’ve been in love with you since the tenth-grade science fair, you idiot."
Scar’s eyes widened, a genuine, dazzling smile breaking across his face—the kind he usually reserved for his theater performances, but this time, it was just for Grian. "The volcano? Grian, I blew up your project on purpose just so you’d chase me down the hall."
"I knew it!" Grian laughed, a wet, shaky sound, before surging forward to catch Scar’s lips again, this time with a sweetness that tasted like a surrender.
They were so lost in each other that they didn't hear the heavy obsidian blocks—or in this case, the janitor's bucket—being moved from the other side of the door.
The silence that followed Grian’s confession was thick and sweet, broken only by the sound of their combined breathing and the faint rustle of Grian’s wings finally relaxing against the shelves.
Scar’s hands shifted from Grian’s waist to cup his face, his thumbs wiping away the flush on Grian's cheeks.
"Tenth grade, huh?" Scar whispered, his voice teasing but tender. "I think I beat you by a year. Ninth-grade orientation. I accidentally tripped you and you glared at me like you were going to end my life. I was a goner from day one."
Grian opened his mouth to retort—something about how it was Scar's fault for being distracting—but he never got the chance.
From the other side of the heavy oak door, a sharp, incredibly forced cough rang out.
Grian froze. Scar’s eyes went wide.
"Right, so..." Mumbo’s voice drifted through the wood, sounding deeply uncomfortable and several octaves higher than usual. "It’s been... forty-five minutes? Which is technically the length of a lunch period. And, er, the janitor is looking for his mop."
"Is it safe?" Jimmy’s voice hissed from further down the hall. "Are they still throwing things? I haven't heard a crash in at least twenty minutes."
"I think the silence is actually worse, Jim," Pearl chimed in, her voice brimming with a terrifying amount of glee. "That’s either the silence of a double homicide or something much more interesting."
Inside the closet, Grian scrambled to fix his hair, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled his iconic sweater.
Scar, on the other hand, just grinned, looking down at his crumpled tie and then back at Grian with a wink.
"Ready to face the music, 'enemy'?" Scar whispered, reaching for the handle just as the screwdriver was pulled from the latch.
"I'm going to kill them," Grian hissed, though he didn't pull his hand away from Scar's. "I'm going to actually, physically destroy them."
"Sure you are," Scar chuckled, squeezing Grian’s hand.
The door creaked open, flooding the dark space with the bold lights of the hallway.
Mumbo, Jimmy, and Pearl stood there in a semi-circle, their expressions shifting from cautious to absolutely triumphant as they took in the sight of the two "rivals" standing shoulder-to-shoulder, looking thoroughly kissed.
The heavy oak door swung wide, and the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway hit them like a physical weight.
Grian blinked, squinting against the glare, his hand still instinctively buried in the front of Scar’s wrinkled school blazer.
The silence in the hallway lasted exactly three seconds.
"Oh. My. Void," Pearl breathed, her eyes darting from Grian’s swollen lips to the chaotic state of Scar’s hair.
She looked like she’d just won the lottery. "Look at that. The 'blood rivals' appear to have reached a peace treaty."
Mumbo cleared his throat loudly, his face a shade of pink that nearly matched Grian’s sweater. "Right. Well. I did say it was a redstone—I mean, a plumbing—emergency, but I didn't realize it required such... hands-on coordination."
"Is that a hickey, Scar?" Jimmy suddenly squawked, pointing a finger with enough force to nearly poke Scar’s eye out. "On your neck! Grian, you beast! I thought you said he was a 'pestilence upon your soul'!"
"He is!" Grian snapped, finally letting go of Scar’s blazer to frantically smooth down his own hair, though he didn't move an inch away from Scar’s side. "A pestilence! A plague! I was just... neutralizing the threat!"
"Neutralizing it with your mouth?" Pearl cackled, leaning against the lockers. "Bold strategy, G. I didn't know 'enemies' held hands under the mop bucket."
Scar, ever the performer, didn't even try to hide it.
He just leaned back against the doorframe, slinging an arm casually around Grian’s shoulders and pulling him back into his side.
He flashed the group a dazzling, self-satisfied grin. "What can I say? I’m very persuasive. It was a very intense negotiation."
"You both look like you got dragged through a hedge backwards," Mumbo muttered, looking away with a grimace of secondhand embarrassment. "Please, for the love of everything, go to the bathroom and fix yourselves before the Principal sees you. You're literally radiating 'closet make-out energy.'"
"We’re going to the cafeteria," Grian announced, his voice regaining some of its usual sharp edge as he started to march down the hall, though he didn't shake off Scar’s arm. "And if any of you say a word about this, I will personally see to it that your lockers are filled with raw fish by tomorrow morning."
"Love you too, Grian!" Pearl shouted after them, her laughter echoing off the lockers.
As they rounded the corner, Scar leaned down, whispering just loud enough for Grian to hear. "So... tenth grade science fair, huh?"
"Shut up, Scar," Grian grumbled, but he leaned his head against Scar’s shoulder as they walked, the 'war' finally, officially over.
The school cafeteria was a roar of white noise—clattering plastic trays, the distant hum of the industrial fans, and the general chaos of four hundred teenagers.
But as Grian and Scar walked through the double doors, a localized pocket of silence followed them like a shockwave.
Grian was still flushed, his tie missing entirely—it was currently stuffed into Scar’s pocket,—and his hair was windblown in a way that had nothing to do with the weather.
Scar, meanwhile, looked like he’d just won a gold medal, radiating a smug, golden-retriever energy that was borderline blinding.
They reached the "Chaos Table" where the rest of the group was already mid-meal.
Etho looked up from his book, raising a single eyebrow.
Ren paused with a fry halfway to his mouth, and Cleo just leaned back, a predatory grin spreading across her face.
"Oh," Cleo said, their voice dripping with mock innocence. "Look who decided to join the living. Did you two finally finish 'murdering' each other in the West Wing?"
Grian didn't say a word.
He just pulled out a chair, sat down with a heavy thud, and immediately reached over to steal a chicken nugget off Jimmy’s tray.
Scar sat down right next to him—not across, not two seats away, but right next to him, their shoulders pressed firmly together.
He draped an arm over the back of Grian’s chair, looking quite happy with himself.
"The war is over, everyone," Scar announced, his voice projecting with theatrical flair. "A peace treaty has been signed. Annexations have been made. It was a very... thorough negotiation."
"He’s talkative for someone who was gasping for air ten minutes ago," Pearl chimed in, sliding into her seat across from them and winking at Cleo.
"Wait, wait," Ren said, leaning in, his eyes darting between Grian’s annoyed expression and Scar’s ecstatic one.
"Are you telling me the 'Great Rivalry of the 11th Grade' is officially dead? No more 'accidental' tripping in the halls? No more 'ironic' insults?"
"Oh, the insults will stay," Grian muttered, finally looking up. He took a pointed bite of the stolen nugget, then leaned back into Scar’s side, seemingly without even realizing he was doing it. "He’s still an idiot. He’s just... my idiot now."
The table erupted.
Jimmy let out a strangled "I knew it!" while Etho just shook his head, finally closing his book.
"Ten diamonds," Etho murmured. "I told you it would be the janitor's closet. Nobody ever expects the lemon wax."
"To the happy couple!" Pearl cheered, raising her juice box in a mock toast.
"May your future arguments be slightly quieter and involve significantly fewer mops."
Grian rolled his eyes, hiding a small, genuine smile against the rim of his water bottle, while Scar just beamed, tightening his grip on Grian’s shoulder.
For the first time in three years, they weren't fighting for the last word—they were just exactly where they wanted to be.