Chapter Text
Grian is tired.
He's so unbelievably tired. He didn't even know that it was possible for a person to be this tired.
He's been feeling bad today – the kind of bad that slumps your shoulders for you and sticks your feet against the floor. The kind that leaves you paralysed.
Everything is distant and dark, and every movement, every twitch of his feathers and flutter of his lashes, brings tears burning behind his eyes. His mind buzzes helplessly, thoughts numb and fogged-over as he turns to and fro in bed, tugging the uncomfortably hot but undeniably grounding sheets with him. He hasn't done anything today, hadn't felt any drive strongly enough to fight that badness encroaching in his mind, so he's just been lying in bed, staring at the floor or sobbing into his pillow. Nothing particularly interesting, nothing particularly taxing.
He's just so, so tired.
And normally, normally that would be okay. After all, Grian hasn't got any pressing projects to be working on, no looming deadlines suffocating him currently, so, normally , he would be able to afford having a single bad day like this.
But today isn't a normal day, unfortunately.
In fact, today feels like it's the furthest from normal that he's lived in a long time, and an uncomfortably hoarse huff of laughter passes his lips at the thought.
For months now, Scar has been putting together a fundraiser.
He's been gathering Hermits and building minigames, creating a huge event backed by a few select charities and sponsors that would be sure to draw in thousands of curious eyes. Every detail of it has been planned meticulously, every backdrop, every machine, every game tried and tested over and over. There's an itinerary that he'd given out a while ago, every minute accounted for and made the most of, creating such a perfect plan that there's practically no chance of anything going other than expected. It's admirable, honestly, watching him pour his heart and soul into the event, spending sleepless nights and hyper-focused days working towards it, and talking about it proudly to anyone who would listen.
Almost everyone has been involved in some way, whether by creating a game, planning a show or simply providing supplies. Many of the Hermits have been putting together builds and contraptions with their own signature flair, making sure that everyone who could be interested in watching has something to look forward to. They've all been promoting it for weeks, including Grian himself, and the hubbub around it has been immense, to say the least.
Grian signed up to participate in almost the same instant that Scar sent out invitations, and he finished working on his act almost a week prior. He had been practising it over and over, perfecting aerial stunts and dramatic monologues, ensuring that his quick outfit-changes between personas would work. He's even bringing back some of his more renowned characters for the occasion – Ariana Griande and Poultry Man would be showing face, for instance.
Everything has been going so well, not a single hitch or stumble holding him back, and he's just been trying so hard.
He wanted to make something perfect for Scar, he wanted to put something together that could help the cause. But, it's– it's–
It's tonight. The event.
It's tonight, and for Grian, that's a problem.
Getting out of bed, getting into the outfit that he had sewn just for this very occasion, interacting with the Hermits and doing everything that he has been working for– it just feels so, so impossible.
It's overwhelming. It's like some far away dream, and Grian distantly curses himself for signing up in the first place.
His thoughts are blurry, his heart beating sluggishly in his chest, and he feels so, so heavy that the idea of even moving a single inch makes him wish that his mountains of blankets and sheets would swallow him whole. Though, maybe that's wishful thinking.
Mumbo had called him earlier, the incessant ringing of his communicator grating in the dim, oppressive atmosphere of his bedroom. He had almost rejected the call, letting it ring until almost the last chime as he considered whether he should, before summoning up the strength to swipe and accept it.
Mumbo had been happy when he picked up, exclaiming his name with such a contagious joy that it had Grian's lips pulling upwards just a little. He's always been good like that, and, just like the sweet, attentive partner that he is, his call had only been to check in.
(Distantly, Grian wondered how on earth he ended up manipulating someone like Mumbo into loving him.)
Mumbo had asked how Grian was feeling, whether he was excited for his big show. Grian had hummed in response, barely saying a word for the entirety of the conversation.
He thinks that Mumbo probably chalked it up to him being groggy and half-awake, very intimately familiar with how late the avian can sometimes sleep.
(He wishes he had been sleeping. He's so, so tired.)
In the end, Grian didn't have the heart to tell him that he didn't think he could get out of bed. Mumbo just sounded so excited as he spoke about his own plans, the new redstone contraptions that he was going to showcase to the Hermits, and he just couldn't do it.
So, as the minutes tick by, uncontrollable and taunting, Grian finds himself trying to muster up the strength to get out of bed. He doesn't want to let everyone down, he doesn't want to disappoint Scar or Mumbo or any of the viewers that he had been so mercilessly teasing for these past weeks. He has to get up, he has to get dressed. He–
It takes until fifteen minutes before the beginning of the event for Grian to pull himself up from the uncomfortably sweltering cage he's been trapped in. Every movement is painful, something in the back of his mind attacking him for every step that he takes, but he manages to get into his stiff, stuffy, restrictive suit in a blur. He can't recall the actions themselves, simply that one moment, he was standing in one of Mumbo's sleep shirts and some ugly cat-patterned boxers, and the next he was staring at himself in the mirror, dressed up in the outfit he had made for this very occasion.
Breathing is hard, and he doesn't know if it's caused by the fact that it's a bad day, or by the fact that his binder is a size too small, and he’s been wearing it for at least three days straight. It doesn't matter, not really.
He checks the time on his communicator. The event starts in three minutes. He has eighteen unread messages from Scar.
Everything is so heavy, and breathing hurts, and his suit is uncomfortable, and Scar must be so disappointed–
At some point, he has graduated from standing in front of the mirror to being slumped on the floor, the cold wood panelling sending a freezing chill through his body. At some point, his comm begins to ring.
Grian doesn't– he doesn't remember sinking to his knees. His ringtone is too loud.
He rejects the call.
The event started 7 minutes ago, now.
Scar is calling him again.
Grian can do little more than stare, honestly. His knees throb as though they're bruised, and his hands are shaking uncontrollably. He wants to go back to bed so badly, he doesn't know what else to do, and everything is so much.
He should have messaged Scar earlier, he should have said something to Mumbo, he should have done anything other than what he's doing right now – sitting by himself on the cold, hard floor, panicking over the fact that he's currently a no-show at the event that his friends have poured so much into.
God, he's such a fuck up, he's such a mess. Everything is going wrong, and it's all his fault, he's going to ruin the entire event because his stupid, no-good brain won't let him function like a normal human being for five fucking minutes–
His chest is heaving as he reaches a trembling hand forward, his breaths choppy and sharp as he picks up the phone.
"Hello?" The warm cadence of Scar's voice erupts from the speaker immediately, tone tight and anxious. The sounds of laughter can be heard faintly in the background. "Grian?"
He tries to take a steady breath, whispering a soft, "Here," between gasps for air.
"Grian, where are you?"
Scar sounds angry now. There are tears in Grian's eyes. He can't think of a single response.
"Gri?” Scar prods, “You– you realise it's the charity event tonight, yeah?" He's obviously trying so hard to keep the annoyance out of his voice, but Grian feels like a child being scolded nonetheless.
His chest hurts, and every inhale sounds rattling.
"G-man? Are you okay?" Scar asks after seemingly realising he won't be getting a response, "Please tell me you're on your way, dude..."
"'M not feeling good, Scar," his words hitch breathlessly, and admitting such a thing feels like he's sinking. Like he's trapped on the ocean with waves crashing over him, their ruthless claws dragging him under.
"What?" Scar exclaims, the word peaking the speaker and hitting Grian's ears with an uncomfortable sharpness. "What do you mean? Gri, we're waiting on you–"
"I can't– I can't come," he sobs, lungs burning as he gasps shallowly.
"Grian– Grian," Scar repeats, before something muffled is said and he seems to move away from the background noise. His voice becomes clearer again after a moment, "Hey, breathe- breathe with me, Gri."
"I'm sorry–" Grian wails, dropping his communicator to the floor to wrestle with his suit jacket, trying desperately to rid himself of the clothing that clings so tightly, so uncomfortably, that it feels like a second skin.
Scar’s voice rings loudly enough for him to make out even on the ground, even over the noise of his own breaths. Grian can’t tell if the man is just speaking loudly, or if he’s just so overstimulated that it simply sounds more amplified than it is.
"Grian, breathe– I'm going to count, okay?" Scar's tone wavers, bleeding with something akin to concern.
(Even so, Grian knows that there's still some annoyance mixed in there.)
He tries his best to focus on Scar’s voice and follow his instructions, eventually managing to rid himself of his jacket and shirt, rolling his binder up to let himself breathe more easily. It takes a while, far too long when considering how tight Scar's itinerary was planned to be, but eventually Grian manages to calm himself enough that Scar's affirmations and encouragements are slowing to a stop.
"Grian," he sounds so serious, so upset and tense that the avian finds his wings unconsciously crowding around him, protective despite being alone in the room. Scar continues, "Grian, I need you here tonight."
The words make him want to burst into tears again, because Scar has worked so hard for this, and he swore up and down that he would be there, but it's all just too much right now. He isn't certain whether he'd even be able to drag himself to his feet. He feels like a failure.
"I'm so sorry," Grian apologises again, trying not to choke on the words as they spill from his lips.
"Grian– Grian, please."
Every begging word has the avain's features crumbling further, his brows knitting together tightly, his nose crumpling. He doesn't want to hurt Scar, he wants to be a part of this, but his entire body throbs with the weight of his exhaustion. He should– he needs to–
"Look," Scar's voice trembles, "You're not feeling good, and I'm sorry about that, I just– you know me, Grian. You know I wouldn't ever normally ask you to push yourself like this when you're feeling bad, but– but tonight is different."
It feels like a stab in the chest, like he's been driven through by a sword. Every word that Scar says is true – he would never force Grian into something, and especially not after an... episode, or whatever, like that . He wouldn't ever push, not if tonight was just a normal night.
“This is a big night for me, Grian, and I just– you–”
It hurts, god it hurts – knowing that he’s being an inconvenience is more painful than he’s ever really realised.
Scar takes a deep breath and continues, his words firm and unwavering, "You agreed to this. You promised me that you would do this, and– and I've been planning it for months. I won't be able to find a replacement for your slot on such short notice. You know I wouldn't ask you unless I had no other options, so just– please."
He sounds so certain of himself, and Grian knows what he's going to say next.
"You can't do this to me, Gri. You promised you would be here, you can't just ditch me like this."
He's right.
“Please, Grian. Just help me out here.”
He's– fuck – he's right.
Grian has to be there, even despite the lethargy making its way through him, even despite the pounding of his head behind his eyes.
Because Scar has worked so hard for this, and Grian won't ruin it anymore than he already has.
Because he's already been causing problems for everyone involved, and– and–
He thinks about how excited Mumbo was for his showcase, about how much he must have hurt his partner by not showing up. He thinks about the gossip he's been overhearing, of all the spectacular, breathtaking plans that the other Hermits have worked so hard on. He thinks about Scar. About the blood, sweat and tears that he has poured into this. The hours spent figuring out logistics, constructing landscapes, organising advertising, gathering sponsorships.
Grian's mind is heavy, his thoughts are numb, and he doesn't think that he's excited about this anymore.
He wants to tear off his stiff dress pants, kick off his too-small, wingtip shoes, and climb back into bed; into the pool of burning warmth that won't ask anything of him.
"… Grian?”
Right. Scar is still on the line.
“Please– can you do that for me?”
He– he should– he has to–
Fuck.
"'M on my way," he says, as decisively as he can, and he listens for just a moment as Scar erupts into celebration on the other end of the line.
Grian hangs up the phone, plasters a smile onto his lips, and tries his best to breathe.
He dresses. He puts the restrictive, inflexible jacket back over his shoulders. He ignores the way that his mechanical, stammering movements leave the feathers of his wings all out of place and unaligned. He ignores the way that it itches.
With a deep breath, he makes sure that his smile shows teeth, that it looks excited and optimistic and enthused. He ignores the bags under his eyes, the bird's nest that has become of his hair, and he tries his best to look happy.
Then, Grian begins shakily towards the door.