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One moment you’re standing in a cactus ring, sun in your eyes, swearing that everyone will be victorious (they won’t be. You know this even then, that victor isn’t a title for two. Liar liar liar, you lied. But you say it anyway) and the next it’s over.
And the next you are standing on a mountain top alone (so so alone) with the blood of your best friend (more) on your hands and you’ve won (you’ve won, you’ve won, you’ve won).
In the next moment, there’s sand stuck to the wetness in the corners of your eyes and you can feel the cactus prickles left behind in your back and everything feels more real than it’s ever felt before.
In the next moment, you're standing on the edge and you’re jumping (you’re jumping, you’re jumping) because you don’t think victory should taste like regret like violence like blood. You’re jumping because what else could you possibly do?
(It’s strange, you think just moments before you hit the ground, that falling can feel so much like flying.)
***
Grian wakes up.
Grian wakes up and it’s wrong. It’s wrong because he wasn’t supposed to wake up. It’s wrong because that was it, he jumped, he was on his third life, that was the end. It’s wrong because it was supposed to be over.
But he wakes up, and he’s in a soft bed, no, nest, and his wings are unbound, and he’s alone.
He’s alone.
He’s alone.
He’s alone.
Grian is not supposed to wake up alone. He’s supposed to wake up in a too small bed with another body pressed close along his back. He’s never woken up alone before.
Except that he has. This Grian has. This Grian is used to waking up alone. He prefers it. This Grian has barely seen a desert, doesn’t know what it’s like to always have sand in his base, so much sand that he stops even trying to get rid of it. This Grian has never felt bloodlust. He thinks he has, but what he’s had is barely a shadow of what he now knows he is capable of. This Grian only sees Scar every few weeks, he hasn’t spent every second of his life standing by his side. This Grian doesn’t know the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he’s truly happy, this Grian hasn’t watched his fingers play with the skin on his elbow when his lying, hasn’t felt the way those same fingers traced his collarbone.
He is this Grian.
And it’s back. The memories, the life, the home. He remembers the watchers, the agreement. Safety in the form of abandonment, in exchange for a game.
One game, fourteen players, no memories. Shit.
***
It was an accident, really. You know that. And yet somehow it feels unavoidable (there’s a pinprick at the back of your mind, something telling you this has happened before). But the others backed away when Scar did not, and he died (died died dead). So, you pledged yourself, it didn’t even feel like a choice in the moment. It was always going to happen (always).
***
In theory, Grian is okay. In theory, he is getting up every morning and eating breakfast. In theory, he’s brushing his teeth. In theory, he’s making his bed and washing his clothes and hanging them up to dry. In theory, in theory, in theory.
In practice, Grian hasn’t seen anyone else in two weeks (someone knocked each morning for the first few days, he never answered). In practice, his dinners consist of plain noodles, without toppings because he refuses to touch knives. In practice, he cut himself while shaving yesterday, and couldn’t get off the floor for three hours.
In theory, Grian is okay. In practice? He’s not so sure.
***
You look at him, and he’s smiling. Always smiling it seems, in every moment but the last. Don’t think about the last moment (don’t think about the way that his arms tried to shield his face from the blast. Don’t think about the fear in his eyes. Don’t think about the moment you couldn’t see those bright teeth as he screamed in terror. Don’t think don’t think don’t think).
You stand on a mountain of sand with the blue sky above you and the sun beating on your neck and you tell yourself that you’re here because you have no choice. That you’re just doing what he tells you to, because you have to (you didn’t need to offer yourself up. He never would have asked it of you, you know that).
But he’s smiling at you (smiling smiling smiling) in this desert that he’s desperate to call home, and he tells you, “Everything the light touches is ours.”
(Ours ours ours)
And you want so badly to believe him. To look across this stretch of wasteland and call it ours. You know it won’t work. The desert is too big too harsh too dangerous. The us won’t last. There will not be an ours.
But you see a flash of teeth, a cocky grin, and you hope (pray), that his conviction will be enough for you both (both both both).
***
It has occurred to Grian that he needs to talk to Scar. About what is still to be decided, but he definitely needs to talk to him. The only issue with this plan is the little problem of his house. Or more, the fact that he hasn’t left it since the game ended.
It’s not that he hasn’t tried. He wanted to fly, he knew it would help, and his wings were itchy! He just wanted to feel the wind through his feathers again. The weighted bones, the bound wings, they were almost worse than the blood and fighting. The worst part was, he hadn’t even known. Hadn’t known that his bones were supposed to be hollow, hadn’t know that his wings could stretch three times as wide as he was tall.
He would just find himself, inexplicably, on walls, on cliffs, on Monopoly Mountain, staring down down down.
Everything would have been different if he had had wings. They wouldn’t have let him jump, or if they did, they wouldn’t have let him fall. They’d have sprung open at the last second, catching him before he hit the ground, saving him in their unwillingness to be ground-ridden by a dead body.
Maybe he could have even saved Scar the second time. Maybe he could have caught him in time, if he could fly.
Or maybe he couldn’t have. Maybe Scar still would have fallen, maybe they wouldn’t have cared enough to save Grian in the end.
Maybe nothing would be different at all.
***
Scar falls, and for a moment, you think you can catch him. You’re blocks behind him, you certainly can’t make it to the bottom of the ravine before gravity can, it’s a ridiculous thought. But for a split second, you think that you can do it.
In the end, you’re just on your knees on the precipice watching him fall.
He dies. Of course, he does (how could you ever have thought differently, this was how it was always going to go after all). It was a long fall, he’s clumsy, his stolen boots certainly weren’t lucky enough for feather falling.
You hear your own voice scream his name as if down a long tunnel (scar, scar, SCAR). It’s raw and tearing at the seams. You’re pretty sure that you’ve been screaming for longer than you should.
That was his second life. He only has three. You’re not entirely sure how you know it but everyone does. Green, yellow, red, one more and you’re out (die die done).
It occurs to you that you don’t want Scar out. And perhaps this realization should have come sooner, but for someone who reason tells you you only met a few days ago, you’re pretty sure you’d miss him. A lot. And you suppose, for more selfish reasons, you really don’t want to be alone. The desert is cold at night.
You’re still screaming. You shut your mouth.
***
Unfortunately, despite Grian’s desperate need for flight. He can’t seem to be able to even leave the house to try. Every time his hand lands on the doorknob he hesitates. Every time, he remembers doorways very much like this one that he himself had trapped. Every time he remembers the knocking from the first few days. Every time he thinks that maybe just maybe there’s someone on the other side holding a knife.
Logically he knows that no one is outside his door. Logically he knows that even if they were outside his door and holding a knife, they wouldn’t kill him. Logically he knows that even if there was someone outside his door holding a knife who kills him… he would respawn. Here, in this world made to last.
Grian really doesn’t want to respawn again.
Someone knocks on the door.
***
You’re still sitting next to the ravine when Scar returns. You haven’t moved since he fell (you can’t stop thinking about it, the falling). You don’t remember where his spawn was, it could have taken any amount of time for him to get to you. Fifteen minutes? An hour?
“Grian? Are you alright?”
A hand lands on your shoulder and before you can process the words you have stood and spun around, twisting the person’s wrist behind their own back.
And then you hear the words, and then you see his face and it’s Scar (Scar, Scar, Scar). You knew he was coming, he needed his stuff, of course. But somehow it’s a shock. His skin has gone ashy (not like greyish, like the literal colour of ash) and he has his leg braces on. The ones he hasn’t worn in… you’re not actually sure how you knew he had them (it’s there at the back of your mind, itching, if only you could read out and grab it…). He usually just sticks to his cane, but you suppose a fall like that doesn’t come without mobility defects.
“Um, Grian. As much as I get this whole moment you’re having, would you mind letting me go?”
And, oh, yes. Scar’s still there, still there with his arm twisted uncomfortably, while you stare. You release him, “sorry.”
He turns to face you, a beautifully vibrant smile on his face, the hand you released brushing himself off. You realise he’s clutching something close to his chest with his other arm, it’s purple and red, and oh…
Scar bends forward with a flourish, presenting the bouquet of flowers to you in a bow. “I present to you, as a token of our alliance, the only thing I could find as beautiful as you.” It’s a joke. You’re so very sure that it’s a joke.
He looks up at you, still grinning, still gorgeous, still absolutely irresistible. “Grian? Can we still be friends?”
Your mind is still stuck on the fall, still stuck on the hand on your shoulder, still stuck on beautiful, but before you even think about it you’re hugging him.
“You fucking idiot.”
“Pardon?”
“I cannot fucking believe you. You’re singing about science and fucking discovery and then you’re falling and you died. And now you’re on red and you brought me flowers and-“
It occurs to you that you’re crying. You probably should have cried earlier, when he fell, when he died, when you were sitting there, just waiting. But it happens now, with your face buried in Scar’s bare chest with no fabric to soak up the tears, with his hands spread firmly on your back, with the flowers squashed between you.
“I’m sorry.”
“Does- what?”
“Sorry about the flowers, I’ve squished them.”
Scar laughs and you can feel his whole body shake with it, you feel it in his chest, his throat, his hands. You pull your face away and glare up at him, he’s looking down at you already (and his eyes are soft, oh so soft).
“Does that mean yes to friendship?” He asks.
You bury your face again, and maybe it’s just because you can’t stand to look into his eyes for any longer. “I hate you.”
***
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Someone is knocking on the door and Grian has no idea what to do. He’s frozen standing there, staring at the doorknob.
He should probably open it, right? Wasn’t he just thinking about how he should talk to somebody (not somebody, Scar)? He should be grateful for this perfect opportunity.
Two more knocks come and he still doesn’t move. He hears a voice mumble, “okay, Grian,” before the sound of one step, two step, back down the stairs.
It’s Scar, he doesn’t think he’d have recognised it before… everything, but now he knows it as well as his own heartbeat.
Without thinking about it he wrenches the door open, and he has less than a second to process the circles under Scar’s eyes, his creased shirt, his shocked expression, before Grian is flying at him.
Scar catches him in an embrace and Grian hears his cane clatter to the pavement. Scar’s hands settle securely on his back and Grian’s wings wrap around the both of them, and it‘s so so familiar, it’s so so safe. He feels, for the first time since the desert, like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.
***
“Grian?”
“Yeah?”
“Why are you still here?”
You roll over and he’s there, facing you already, inches away on the too small bed. You usually put two next to each other, but the bunker was only stocked with one, and neither of you wanted to try and find another in the wreckage of your base (neither of you wanted to be alone, not after everything). So now you’re sharing body heat with a man with red eyes, who you probably shouldn’t trust as much as you do (and you do trust him, more than you’ve ever trusted anything else).
“What do you mean?” You know what he means.
“One life and you’re done, that was supposed to be it. You only pledged your first life to me Grian, you have no reason left to stay. You’ve fulfilled your end of the deal. So, why are you still here?”
“Do you want me to leave?”
Scar looks so shocked you want to laugh, that had certainly sounded like what he had been saying.
“No! Of course not. I just-” he cuts himself off, and his expression seems to shut down, his face suddenly lacking all emotion.
“You know what it’s fine. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth or whatever. I’m sure whatever plan you have works best without changing allies mid-game. It’s fine.”
He begins to roll over, but you catch his shoulder, keeping him from turning away. “Scar, it’s ok. I’m not going to leave just because you asked about it. You’re ok. What brought this up?”
“Oh nothing, nothing at all apart from the fact that I’ve been waiting for you to leave since the moment I met you! You don’t even realise how much you say it do you?” He sits up abruptly, the blankets pooling at his hips as they expose his (still) bare chest.
Scar puts on what is clearly supposed to be a mean impression of you, in reality, he simply pitches his voice a few octaves higher. “‘This is only temporary Scar! Remember I’m leaving Scar! I’m only going to be your lackey for so long Scar!’ Every third word out of your mouth is a reminder that this,” he gestures between the two of you, “is temporary. So, Grian, why did you stay?”
You’re sitting up too now, he sounds angry, sure, but it doesn’t even seem to be directed at you. And, despite the proximity between the two of you, between his flying hands and his sword, you can’t bring yourself to be scared.
“Well, it is temporary, whether we like it or not someone is going to win in the end and one or both of us is going to be dead. Whatever we have, here, won’t last Scar.”
“That isn’t what I asked, I want to know why you aren’t somewhere else, with someone else. Someone else that might give you a better chance of being the last one left standing. Because that person, sure as hell isn’t me. I have done nothing but drag you down this entire time, so why aren’t you leaving me?”
“Because I don’t want to leave you, Scar! I don’t want to go somewhere else. I don’t want to have a better chance of winning if it would mean winning without you. I like being with you no matter what I say. And I couldn’t imagine you alone in this desert without me by your side.”
Scar has tears in his eyes now. Shit. Did you say something wrong? “You like being with me?”
“That’s what you gathered from everything I just said?” You shift closer to him, because he’s warm, because he’s crying, because you want to. You put your hand on his forearm. “Of course, I like being with you Scar. Idiot. Why do you think I’ve spent this entire time with you.”
His hands have come up to wipe frantically at his eyes and he’s properly crying now, snot and everything. “I thought you owed me.”
“I’m not honourable enough to pledge myself to someone because of a prank gone wrong, Scar. If you didn’t know that then, you should by now.”
The tears are still there, he’s still trying to wipe them away. “It’s ok, it’s ok Scar. Look, I’m sorry, just- do you want a hug?” You spread your arms slightly in invitation, and he falls into them.
He’s crying harder now, but his head is under your chin, and your arms are wrapped around him, and you maneuver the two of you so you’re horizontal on the bed. You’ve never comforted someone while they were crying before (you think you haven’t at least… but no. Scar’s the only person who you would comfort, and you’ve never seen him cry before. Not even when Pizza died. So, this must the only time), and you’re not exactly sure what to do. But you lay there, and you move your thumb in what you hope are comforting circles on his shoulder, and eventually, he stops crying, and he shifts into a more relaxed position, his breathing evens out, and he falls asleep.
You don’t realise you fell asleep until you wake up to sunrise and Scar, still there, still in your embrace. And, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
***
“I’m sorry Scar, I’m so so sorry. I didn’t want it to end like that, but it did and I could have done something else and I didn’t and I’m so sorry.” He looks at Scar, who still just seems shocked to see him, “It should have been you, it should have been you Scar. You deserved it more than me.”
The exact last thing Grian expected Scar to do was laugh. And yet.
It sounds shocked and breathless but Grian can feel his chest heaving against his own. Scar hugs him tighter and buries his face in Grian’s hair, “That- that can’t seriously be why you’ve been avoiding me. I forgive you Grian, hell, I forgave you back in the pond! It’s fine, I’m happy you won, we both know I wouldn’t even have gotten that far without you.
“Wait, you’re happy I won?”
“Of course I am. It was the plan, wasn’t it? I wasn’t going to win, it was always going to be you. It was quite selfish of me honestly.”
“Selfish. What could possibly be selfish about losing?”
“I knew I didn’t have it in me to kill you Grian, so I didn’t even try. Which left you to deal with the guilt. See? Selfish.”
“Scar- that’s not. Ok. Ok. Yeah, alright.”
“Processing are we?” Scar draws away from him and he feels the loss so distinctly that he almost tries to keep him there, against him.
Scar leans down with not insignificant effort to pick up his cane, and gestures for Grian to follow him inside. “C’mon Grian, I think we probably need to talk about- something. It’ll be easier inside.”
Inside, Grian makes tea. He leaves Scar at the kitchen table and puts the kettle on. He walks over to his cupboard, he takes two tea bags out, he places them in two mugs. He gets out some milk. He waits for the kettle to boil.
Scar is staring at him, and now that Grian can look at him without grief overtaking his every thought, he can see him properly.
Scar has deep bruises under his eyes and he’s wearing quite possibly the least put-together outfit that Grian has seen on him. Including their time in the desert, during which Scar had only been wearing pants for the most part.
His trousers are stained and cuffed unevenly, and he has forgone his usual jacket in favour of just wearing his white undershirt, which is creased nearly beyond recognition.
“Scar, are you alright?”
Scar exhales harshly in an approximation of a laugh, “No, Grian, I’m not alright, and I don’t think you are either.”
“I’m-“
“Please. I can see the state of your wings, and the state of the rest of you for that matter, you haven’t taken that jumper off since you got back, have you? Besides, you’re looking at me like I’m a ghost.”
And well, maybe Grian is looking at Scar like he will disappear any second, like he isn’t really there. He died, didn’t he? How much more does it take to make one? By those standards Grian is a ghost too he supposes, he doesn’t feel far off. “Aren’t you?”
He realises that he can feel tremors going through his body, out from his chest, and making everything shake. He presses his feet together so hard the jutting bones on his inner ankles hurt. Fuck. He wasn’t supposed to think about that. The not existing, the part where maybe he doesn’t belong here after all, the part where this is all a mistake. Because every time he thinks about it this happens. He panics.
“Grian?”
Scar’s coming towards him, and his teeth are pressed together and it’s hard, but he manages to say it, all in one burst, “Please don’t touch me.”
Grian sits down on the ground and breathes. It sounds suspiciously like hyperventilating, but it’s helping, hopefully. He is hyper-aware of how insane he must sound, must look. Head in his hands on his cold kitchen floor, just because he thought about being a ghost. It’s strange, really, how he can be so entirely focused on his panic, while simultaneously thinking about how stupid he must look.
This line of thought probably isn’t helping him calm down.
When Grian’s breathing evens out, when he’s able to open his eyes (he hadn’t even realised he had them shut) and sit up a little straighter, Scar is lying on his kitchen floor. He can’t be more than half a metre away, and he has his eyes closed. He’s just there, on the tiles.
It takes Grian almost an entire minute to be able to speak (a minute he spends staring at Scar), and when he does, it sounds hoarse. “Why are you lying on the floor.”
Scar's eyes open slowly, and he turns his head to look at Grian, “You were on the floor, I figured it was only fair. Besides, your tiles are cold, it feels nice.”
He wants to laugh. He’s not really sure he can right now. “Sorry.”
“You keep apologizing, what is it for this time?”
“Freaking out like that. You didn’t have to stay.”
“You do realise how ridiculous that sounds?” Scar sits up and leans against some of Grian’s drawers. The metal knobs look uncomfortable against his back. “Where else was I going to go? Home? After I finally got you to open the door? Into a different room? For what purpose? Not to mention, we just got back from a literal death game Grian. I feel like freaking out is perfectly reasonable.”
Grian isn’t sure what he’s supposed to reply to that. He doesn’t want to apologise again. He just shrugs.
As he watches Scar trace the edges of the tiles with his fingertips he has a clear view of the moment an unfamiliar expression crosses his face and his gaze snaps up to meet Grian’s, “Wait, did you want me to leave?”
“What? No! I mean. Don’t get me wrong, it’s wildly uncomfortable to have you here, but I actually wanted to see you. I don’t want you running off and it’s nice that you stayed in the same room as well.”
“Ok, good. I’m glad that helped. I generally find things easier if someone else is in the room. But you’re less people-ey, so, I wasn’t sure.”
“I- I don’t think I’d like it if the person in the room wasn’t you.”
“Oh. Ok.” Scar says, as if what Grian just said to him meant as little as “I like cereal!”
“That’s useful to know I guess.”
Grian shifts from where he’d been sitting in the middle of the kitchen to lean against the shelf opposite Scar, Grian’s feet between his. His wings are a little squished behind him, but he’s dealt with worse. “Do you want to talk on the floor or the couch?”
“I feel like that’s your decision to make. Are you sure you’re good with talking now?”
“Ok, floor it is then, and yes, I’m sure.” He presses one of his feet against the inside of Scar’s shoe. Considering his state of disarray, he’s surprised he’s even wearing any. “So, do you have questions to ask me or something? I suppose I could tell you the logistics of the game, about why it happened and stuff. Or I suppose we probably need to discuss like. Emotions and-“
“Wait, sorry for cutting you off, but, you know why it happened?”
Grian is hit by a wave of guilt, “Scar, I’m the reason it happened.”
“Sorry?”
“You know the Watchers, right?” He waits for Scar to nod, “Well, you also know that they also seem to really- like is the wrong word. They seem interested in us, our group of people. So, I made a deal with them. I asked what it would take for them to leave us alone, forever, and they told me that they’d settle for a game. A game with fourteen players, three lives, one winner. It sounded fine at the time, we play plenty of games, plenty of games involving death. Why should this one be any different? Of course, our memories weren’t part of the deal.”
“We weren’t supposed to forget Hermitcraft?”
“I wouldn’t say we weren’t supposed to, I just didn’t agree to it. I should have known better.” Grian only realises that he’s started shaking again when he hears the tremor in his own voice. Fuck. He can’t have mature conversations if he just wants to curl into a ball.
“Grian, we really really don’t have to talk about this right now. It’s ok. We have time.”
And they do have time. They do. Here, where everything is infinite. There’s no pressing danger, no ticking clock on his life. So why does he still want to run? Grian presses his thumbs into the ground in an effort to ground himself, or something. It doesn’t work.
He can’t even feel Them watching. He’s just as he wanted to be, abandoned. And this is better, he knows that, but it still feels like a loss. Like maybe without Them he doesn’t matter, maybe without Them he’s irrelevant, maybe without Them, nothing he ever does will make a difference.
But, Scar’s foot is still against his, and he’s smiling softly at him like he cares, and Grian remembers a time when he felt like the most important thing in the universe.
***
You’re pretty sure that falling into the chasm would kill you. You would jump, bound wings straining in a futile effort to reach the sky, and in a moment, you would fall. Down down down, and your bones would crack and your tendons would rip and you would die. But, you can’t seem to stop coming back, especially now, in the early morning when you can still feel the chill in the air. Watching the horizon past the border as the sun rises over the dunes. The structures in the desert are few and far between, but here there are plenty of places for shadows to be cast, rendering the wasteland dreamlike and ethereal.
Though the view is beautiful, though the sun reflecting off tiny grains of sand sometimes feels like the only truth in this game, it is not this that draws you to it.
Scar blew up Monopoly Mountain. And to be fair, it was your trap, it was your plan, it was made to kill. It didn’t. You know that Scar wasn’t truly meant to survive the blast. Just like how he wasn’t supposed to survive the bunker, just like how he wasn’t supposed to survive trip after trip, fall after fall, blunder after blunder.
Fate had dealt you a cruel hand in refusing to kill Scar on his last life. The opportunity for his end had come again and again, until you had to accept it. Chance wasn’t going to kill him a third time.
Its sister had a much more sinister plan.
And so, here you are. Staring off a cliff of your own creation, thinking about falling. Thinking about one jump, and then another. Thinking about how easy it would be, removing yourself from the equation.
You hear footsteps approaching and soon enough Scar sits down next to you, as he does he reaches over to take your hand from where it’s been clutching the sharp edge of the precipice. He puts it in his lap, laying it out so that your palm faces the sky, and you become aware of the pain in your hand. You turn to look and see tiny pinpricks of blood from the sharp rocks you were gripping.
“Hey,” you say.
“Hey.” Despite the cuts, Scar begins tracing the lines of your hand, life line, head line, heart line. “Why are you out here?”
Your fingers are tingling, and your arm is at a weird angle, but you don’t want to move it. “Do you ever think about falling?”
“Last time I died, I fell, Grian. Sometimes falling is the only thing I can think about.”
“What was it like? Falling?” Was it scary? Was it horrifying? Did it feel, just for a moment, like you were free? “Was it anything like flying?”
Scar taps your wing bindings with his free hand, careful not to touch the feathers. “Wouldn’t you be the one to tell me that?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever flown before.”
“Do you want to?"
"I think so."
“Then you will.”
There was no way Scar could say that, could know that. You don’t even know if it’s possible. But here he is, with such complete conviction, that you believe him.
“Do you want to?”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Do you want to?”
Scar looks up at the sky, glowing orange as the sun crests the horizon. He smiles, and it’s more beautiful than the view could ever be, “Yes.”
Your hand in his lap moves almost of its own accord to grip his, tightly, fiercely, “then you will.”
You believe it.
His smile shifts to you, before drifting to the horizon. Your hand is still in his, it’s grounding, comforting, you no longer want to jump. But you do want to keep looking at his hair, at his face, at the way his scars intersect across his nose, at the twitch at the corner of his mouth, at the wonder in his red red eyes. You want to keep looking at, keeping thinking about, keeping being around Scar.
So you sit there, holding his hand, thinking about falling.
***
“Can you hold my hand?”
Scar doesn’t even hesitate before reaching across the gap between them, “Of course.”
His grip is tight, and despite the scars and the constant work (but completely in line with the look on his face), his hands are soft. “Do you want me to sit next to you? Or stay here?”
“I’m- it’s different than it was before, can you sit next to me? Close please.”
“Yeah.” Scar moves to sit next to Grian, still holding his hand, their knees are pressed together, but Scar has stiffened before relaxing completely.
“Scar?”
“Can I- um, lean against your wing.”
In all honestly, Grian had forgotten it was there. It’s surprising, considering that both of them are spread on either side of him, taking up most of the space on the small kitchen floor. It’s also surprising, considering Grian’s near-constant stress around them, trying to keep them in check, close to his body, not puffed up, not touching anyone. It was probably just the itchiness and the time alone. He had been trying for days to ignore them, and he simply hadn’t had to think about their effect on anyone else since… before the game he supposes.
Whatever the reason, he finds himself not caring in the slightest if Scar leans against his wing, especially if it means he gets to keep holding his hand. “Yeah, go ahead, I don’t mind.”
Scar learns back, slowly, carefully, onto his wing, and Grian tries to repress a shudder at the contact. It’s not bad. Just strange.
“Are you sure you’re ok?”
“Yeah, they’re just sensitive, it’s fine.”
“Ok.” Scar shifts a little closer to him, and Grian slowly slumps to rest his head on his shoulder. He still has Scar’s hand in his, it’s… the first words that come to his mind are a lot. And it is.
Grian can still feel his heartbeat winding down, his hands are still shaking a little, and it’s like he can feel everything everywhere. The cold tiles, the scratch of his jumper against his wrists, Scar against his wings, pressed to his side.
The second word that comes to his mind is perfect. And by all accounts, the word should not fit. The situation is far from idyllic. He’s still stressed, he still wants to run as far away as possible and maybe never talk to anyone again, his neck kind of hurts. Nonetheless, it’s somehow, perfect.
Grian’s wing twitches and Scar’s free hand appears in front of his face holding, inexplicably, a stick. “Why on earth was this between your feathers?”
“I, well, I suppose it got stuck there?”
“But. Why? You don’t usually leave stuff in them, do you? I thought you said that the sand made them itchy.” Scar’s fingers brush against his feathers again and reappear with a ball of dust. “Grian?”
“Yes, the sand did make them itchy. But since they were bound it didn’t really get that annoying, I guess. It was fine if I just pretended they weren’t there.”
“And now? Are they itchy?”
“Well, yes. I’ve just kind of been ignoring them. I haven’t left the house anyway, I don’t actually need them in good condition.”
“Apart from for your own comfort.”
“Yeah.”
Scar sighs and grabs his cane from next to them, using it to help him to his feet. He keeps his hand in Grian’s and tugs a little, looking down at him, “Okay, come on, you’re coming with me.”
“What? Where?”
“To your bedroom, or the couch I suppose. Unless you want to fix up your wings on your kitchen floor.”
Grian allows himself to be hauled to his feet, “and I don’t get a choice in this?”
“Nope,” Scar begins pulling him across the room before looking back, “unless, like, do you really not want to? I don’t actually want to force you.”
“I… yeah, it’s ok.”
“Good!” He’s grinning again, and Grian can feel himself falling all over again, his wings aren’t going to catch him. “Because of course, you don’t get a choice in the matter.”
***
You’ve spent a long enough time around TNT that it feels that gunpowder is perpetually under your fingernails. It’s thinner than sand, and more dangerous, days ago you tried to use a flint and steel. Only, to hear a pop and look down to find your fingers bleeding and burnt.
So, so much more dangerous. Especially when it covers an entire swath of the desert.
TNT, sand, TNT, sand. Over days of work, the mantra becomes ever present in the back of your mind, TNT, sand, TNT, sand, one, two, one, two.
It’s suicide and you know it, it’s doomsday it’s Armageddon it’s everything blown up, gone. You’ve already destroyed one home, what else is there to lose?
Truly, when the fight starts, when hell breaks loose, when the lever is pulled, the casualties couldn’t have been worse. You, Scott, Timmy (Timmy having his final life taken from him, the first to fall in this game built on consequences. In the moment you see his name on your communicator you feel the world hold its breath, if only for a second, because now, you, and everyone else, know it’s real).
And, although you know it would have broken you (into millions of pieces, you’re not sure you would have stood again), you can’t help the hatred and anger boiling at the fact that no beings held the decency to defy fate in bringing Scar to his end.
Instead, the battle left you, weaker and alone, and yet somehow one step closer to survival. One down, twelve more to go.
Your fingers, still covered in fine grey dust, don’t want to grab a new sword, don’t want to put on armour, don’t want to drag you out of this hole in the ground to face the world above.
But, hand over hand, you use them to pull yourself, up, a little bit closer to something that you don’t think deserves the name of victory.
***
Grian stops outside of his bedroom and turns to Scar, “Scar, do you plan on preening my wings?”
“Yes? I don’t have to, but I figured it would be easier.”
“Ok, yeah. Ok, do you know anything about preening?”
“Like, physically? Not really, I’ve seen you try and get stuff out of your feathers before but that’s about it.”
“No, the physicality is pretty easy to learn, I meant socially.”
“No idea.” Scar is still trying to smile but Grian can see is wavering more and more as they continue to speak.
“It’s fine with me,” he’s pretty sure it’s fine, he’s trying very hard for it to be fine, “but I feel like it would be rude not to tell you. Preening is very… intimate, it’s only done by family members, very close friends, and partners. It’s a very different experience to be preened by someone other than yourself, I might go a little weird.”
“Weird?”
“Just, I’ll be a lot more relaxed. It’s ok. Is that all good with you?”
“Yeah, I’m perfectly fine with that, as long as you are. I’m quite honoured actually.”
Grian, smiles and opens the door, trying to break the tension, “You should be. Come on.”
He leads Scar to the nest in the corner of the room, sitting him down with his back to the wall, slightly propped up on a few extra pillows, before sitting in front of him, taking off his jumper and shirt under it, and spreading his wings to their full length. It hurts, unsurprisingly, considering the weeks without use, plus whatever effect being bound for the game had on them. Were they even the same pair of wings? It’s easier not to think about it.
He looks over his shoulder to find Scar with his hands hovering awkwardly over his wings, unsure what to do.
“Hey, it’s ok.” He bends one of them over to face him slightly, they’re malleable and it only strains his muscles a little. “Look,” he makes a start on some of his secondaries, working his fingers between and under the feathers, working bits of grime from under them and straightening them as he goes. “Like this. Just make sure you’re only preening in the direction that they lay naturally. Any loose ones should just fall out, but if one seems pretty mangled and isn’t loose, it’s okay to pull it. It’s fine if you mess up, it’s your first time.”
“Ok. I can do that.” He sounds unsure, but he continues from where Grian left off as he turns back around. He’s much more gentle than Grian would have been with his own wings, and his short nails feel amazing scratching between the feathers.
Scar stops. “Hmm?” Grian can already feel his brain going sluggish, “What is it?”
“Has anyone else preened your wings for you before?”
Grian looks over his shoulder, Scar doesn’t look distressed exactly, just uncomfortable. “Yeah, of course. Pearl used to do it quite often when we were younger, and Mumbo has once or twice. Why?”
Scar resumes his work on his secondaries, “Just curious, I’m glad they could help.”
Grian turns back around, a small smile forming on his lips, “Yeah, that’s fair enough, Pearl’s my sister, and Mumbo’s a great friend.”
“That’s good.”
“Yup.” He feels like laughing, he can’t believe Scar was jealous of Mumbo.
He continues preening his feathers. Starting with the left wing, Scar makes his way through his secondaries and has to move his seat to a different pillow in order to get to the larger primaries. He pulls out a few feathers but, really not as many as he should have, Grian will have to check over them afterward. But for now, it’s fine, it’s perfect.
Grian feels himself slumping more and more the longer he spends in his nest, with Scar. The warm fuzzy feeling is growing in his stomach and his head. So, really, he can’t be blamed, when Scar’s hands make their way back to the base of his wings, and his thumb brushes the skin between his shoulder blades, and Grian gasps.
Scar pulls his hands away immediately, “Sorry, sorry, are you ok?”
Grian’s hands feel too big as he reaches behind him to guide Scar back to his wings, “Mmm, no, I’m okay. It’s good.”
Scar resumes his work, fingers smoothing through the sparse feathers that fade into the skin of Grian’s shoulder blades. Strictly speaking, they don’t need to be preened, but it feels amazing, and Grian is warm, and the very last thing is wants to do is tell Scar to stop. So, he sits, and he feels and he tries first not to make any noises of pleasure, and second not to fall asleep. Perfect.
Scar works his way through his right wing, this time more confident, every centimetre quicker, more thorough, and yet still with the same care.
When he finally moves back to his original seat after finishing with the last of the outer feathers, Grian’s self-control is far past gone, and he immediately slumps to lean thoroughly against Scar’s chest. Scar’s hands come up to wrap securely around his waist, the cold of his nose pressing into Grian’s neck.
They sit there, and Grian thinks about breathing in unison, he can feel Scar’s chest moving and he tries to match it, in, out, in out. It’s a losing battle.
“Hey,” Scar whispers into his skin, “do you need me to do the underside?”
He does, Grian doesn’t want to move. “In a bit.”
“You’ll fall asleep.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
“Won’t.”
“Pesky bird. Come on, we can sleep after.”
It’s the nickname that makes him turn around and sit up. Scar smiles at him, it’s worth it.
The feathers on the underside of Grian’s wings are even more delicate than those on the outside, and being able to watch Scar’s face as he frees the grime stuck between his feathers makes it all the more intimate. His tongue sticks slightly out of his mouth as he’s concentrating, it’s adorable.
Grian can feel himself move progressively closer to Scar as he continues, he’s not sure if it’s just slumping or if he is physically moving forwards, but soon enough he’s close enough that if he wanted to, he could simply lean forwards into him. But of course, he won’t. Because Scar is busy. Helping him.
Grian is completely lost in the blissful haze of his own mid-preening brain when a sharp pinprick of pain breaks through the fog.
He looks up to see Scar, obviously distressed and holding a gorgeously red feather with a barely noticeable dot of blood at the end. “Oh goodness, Grian, I am so so sorry. I thought it was ready to come out, so I pulled it and it wasn’t and it was an accident-”
Grian grabs the hand holding the feather without even meaning to, enclosing Scar’s fist in his own. The pain has faded so quickly he can’t even feel it anymore, but even so Scar’s obvious anguish has broken through his stupor. “Scar, Scar, Scar. Hey, I’m fine. It’s ok. Do you have any idea how many mistakes Mumbo made when he first tried preening them? Way more than you, that’s for sure. It barely even hurt.” He smiles, to show that he’s fine, that everything’s ok. On a whim, he takes Scar’s hand to his lips and kisses the knuckles.
Scar has relaxed after his outburst at Grian’s reassurance. His face moving from distress to sadness. “But it’s so pretty, I hate that you can’t use it anymore. I really am sorry.”
Grian plucks the feather from Scar’s grip and tucks it into the other man’s hair, weaving it into one of the many braids. Seeing it, a part of Scar, makes a genuine grin form on his face. “No reason to waste a perfectly good feather, huh? Now you can put it to use, keep it for me.” And surely, even Scar knows what that means, an avian giving away a feather? Surely.
From the look on his face, he does. “Of course. It’s gorgeous, I’ll look after it.”
Grian knows he only half means the feather.
***
When you die you wish you were more surprised.
You wish that the slash through the stomach, a wound made with the sword of your closest friend, had been out of the blue. A complete shock, the last thing you would expect.
You wish you hadn’t seen it coming, but every second since the clock had been spent in anticipation. Waiting, waiting. For someone to snap, for someone to realise. You were on two lives, them one. There was no way they could have let you live.
You wish you were shocked, but it was always going to happen, wasn’t it?
You wish BigB had succeeded, at least then you could have died without the weight of betrayal. You even wish Scar had stabbed you in the back, a clean cut at an unexpected moment, because then, at least, you wouldn’t have to see him decide to kill you. To choose to swing. Technically, Bdubs had gotten the pay swing. But Scar? Scar had made a choice.
“BETRAYER!”
You stab Bdubs in the back before he has time to hear you coming, you push him off the cliff before he has time to get a glimpse of your face.
“Betrayer! Both of you!”
Your voice is raw as you turn to Scar, and you can’t process his expression before you slice at him too. Your blade grazes his shoulder, and with another swipe to his legs, he’s falling too (you don’t think about it. Not the falling, not the flying). You’re playing dirty, you know he lost his cane in the bunker, you know he’s in pain, you know. You try not to care.
“Both of you!” You’re screaming to no one.
You look over the edge, and there’s a small pool of water where they both landed. No deaths by falling then. You realise the second after you jump that this is dangerous, that you, unlike them, are not near the water. It didn’t even occur to you to be afraid of the drop.
You land in the bushes at the base of the cliff, and you struggle out of them just in time to see Scar, sword bloody, and standing over Bdub’s body.
Betrayal. You charge towards him swinging. You don’t stop for the body, don’t stop for the scratches covering your exposed skin, don’t stop to think. Scar is still turned away from you, standing between you and the water, staring down at his own bloody hands.
You use the weighted pommel of the sword to shove him into the water, you should have stabbed him, you could have, he was looking away. You don’t know why you didn’t. He’s still standing, knee-deep in the pond, and you swing once, twice. He drops to his knees as a gash appears across his upper arm, his collarbone, you swings are erratic, weak, he’s not fighting back, he should be dead by now. You slash again and your arms feel like lead, you miss completely, and the water dances where you hit it.
Scar looks on, his expression is mild, without fear, without pain, with something like…acceptance.
He’s not fighting back.
You stop, sword hovering in the air, “Scar?”
He looks at you, properly, for the first time since he killed you, and he smiles (he smiles he smiles he smiles). “Grian.” There’s a pause, too long. His pupils are blown wide and a cut on his cheek is steadily dripping blood. It’s covering his lips, dripping off his chin. His teeth are red when he grins (it’s still beautiful).
“You can kill me.”
***
“Hey,” something jostles Grian’s shoulder, he doesn’t move. Maybe if he stays still, it’ll go away. “Hey pretty, I’m done. I said we could sleep, but you’ve got to let me lay down first.”
Oh. Right.
Grian squints his eyes open to see Scar’s face hovering above him, his hair slipping from behind his ears and falling over his eyes.
Grian can feel his wings still spread, but they’ve shifted, either in the preening process or while he’s been asleep, to cocoon the two of them. He feels warm, safe, with his head against Scar’s chest and the light tinged the blue and green of his primaries, but still he moves, sitting up to give Scar room to lay down in the nest.
As soon as Scar looks comfortable Grian’s back, making sure none of his feathers are being squished as he curls up into the curve formed by Scar’s body and laying an arm over his waist.
Grian’s wings drape over them again and he feels warm, oh so warm. He looks up at Scar’s face, only centimetres away, “hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
“You’re warm.”
“I have your wings to thank for that.”
“I suppose so.” Grian stares at him, at his eyes, his lips, the feather still tucked securely into his hair. He reaches up to touch the feather with his fingertip, before tangling his hand in Scar’s hair. He runs his fingers through it, working through knot after knot.
Scar closes his eyes briefly, seeming to revel in the feeling of Grian’s fingers against his scalp, before leaning down and kissing him.
It lasts barely two seconds. Scar’s lips are chapped, and Grian’s mouth is dry. But even so, when it’s over he feels breathless, his heartbeat in his throat.
Scar’s hand cups his face, his thumb swipes under Grian’s eye, “get back to sleep, G,” he whispers.
And, it’s all too easy to lower his gaze, to relax his body, to let himself drift back off into nothingness.
***
You can kill me.
Scar isn’t fighting back, he isn’t trying to win anymore. He’s just given up.
The tip of your sword tips down, dipping into the water as your grip slackens, “What?”
“You can kill me Grian. We both know you deserve it.”
Deserve it. As if this was about deserving.
“No- Scar I-,” you stumble a little, almost tripping on a stone. “I can’t. I literally can’t.”
Scar’s still there, still kneeling, still smiling. He takes hold of your sword by the blade and presses it to his own neck. “You can. Just do it, you can win.”
Win, win, win. Isn’t that what you want? Isn’t that why you’re here? To win?
You could do it, right now. You could drive the blade through Scar’s throat, and it would be over. He would be dead within seconds, and you would win. So why don’t you?
The smile has fallen from his face, and somehow the blood only makes his eyes more blindingly red. You remember, a lifetime ago, when they were green.
You remember when it had been a game. His first death, a joke. Friendships instead of alliances. Monopolies and pranks and homes. You remember ours, the world at your fingertips. You remember flowers and trust, you remember falling and flying. You remember why you have spent your entire existence standing next to this beautiful, beautiful man.
You drop the sword completely, leaving it to slip from Scar’s grip and sink to the bottom of the pond. You hope it stays there, you hope it rusts, you hope someone finds it in one hundred years and puts it on display, you hope it’s never ever used again.
Drop to your knees in front of him, the water reaches your chest. A hand goes to his face, and you smile, you feel dried blood cracking against your skin and it’s been a long time since you’ve made that expression. “There’s no winning this, Scar, just finishing it. And I told you, I can’t kill you, not like this.”
Somehow, more than anything, he looks sad. “Why not, Grian? It was supposed to be you, you were supposed to be able to do it.”
“Maybe it was supposed to be me, maybe it still is. Maybe this will end exactly the same as if I killed you right here, right now, maybe everything really is up to fate. But I know that I cannot kill you holding a sword, in this pond, without you fighting back.”
Scar closes his eyes for one, two, three seconds, and then his shoulders relax. He leans into your hand, still resting on his cheek, and sighs, “I wish you would, it would make it so much easier.”
“I know.” You lean forwards and kiss him, and it feels inevitable. Like it was always going to happen, just like this. His lips taste like blood, and his hands as they come up to grip your hair are covered in it. You’re glad for the reminder, you wish it were different.
Scar pulls back, eyes opening slowly, “thanks. I’m glad you did that.” He sighs, he seems tired, “Can we be friends when we die?”
“Of course.”
“Can we do it by Pizza’s grave?”
“Of course.”
You sit there, staring at each other. Neither of you want to be the first to stand, to walk, to take the first steps towards the end.
Scar reaches towards his own face to scrape away some of the blood, before giving up when he sees the sheer quantity on his fingertips. He drops his hand and looks at you, “Can I have a hug?”
You hold him tighter than you’ve held anyone before, and he grips you back just as hard. Maybe you’ll suffocate each other, it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go. “I love you, G.” He whispers it into your neck, soft, private, like it’s special.
“I love you too.”
***
When Grian wakes up he’s alone.
Again.
It shouldn’t be as distressing as it is, it’s obvious that two people had slept in the nest, Scar must have simply needed a drink of water. Or something.
When his bare feet touch the floor it’s cold. Grian pads out into the living area, expecting to find Scar, maybe sitting on the couch, reading a book. No such luck.
He notices that for the first time in so, so long there is no ache in his back, no itch between his feathers. It feels wonderful.
Glancing out the window Grian sees the moon, high above the tree line. He has no idea if it’s closer to sunrise or sunset, has no idea what time it was when he fell asleep. But there, on the grassy patch next to his pathway, lays Scar. Hands behind his head, staring at the stars.
Scar startles when he sits down next to him, half sitting up before settling back into his former position when he sees Grian. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
Grian lays down beside him, staring up at the stars. He’s never been good at constellations, but they’re beautiful. He remembers making up stories for them when he was younger, giving them rivalries and romances, epic battles based on where they were placed in the sky. He rolls over to rest his head on his bent arm and looks at Scar, “Why are you out here?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Grian finds Scar’s hand in the grass to hold it. His hands are still soft, still delicate. He doesn’t ever want to let go.
Scar turns to look at him, “Grian?”
“Hmm?”
“What happened to you after you- after I died.”
This, he didn’t expect. He thought Scar knew. “I died too.”
“How?”
“I jumped off Monopoly Mountain.”
Scar’s face falls at this, morphing into something like grief. “I think I knew. I just needed to make sure.” He grips your hand tighter, “oh G, why did you do it? You were supposed to win, I wanted you to. That was supposed to be your happily ever after.”
“Scar, that shattered world? That could never have been my ending. I thought you understood, this is my happily ever after.”
“This? Hermitcraft?”
“Yes! This. With my home and my wings and the stars and you!”
“You had me in the desert.”
“In the desert? In the desert, I had an illusion of you. I had you with three lives and fate looming over us. Always knowing that it was temporary. That wasn’t real.”
“It felt real, to me.”
“Yeah, it felt real to me too.” The realest thing in the world. Even in his memory, everything was so vibrant that he could feel his heart breaking again and again and again.
Scar’s free hand reaches to his face to wipe one of his eyes where a tear has leaked out. He turns back to look at the sky.
Grian shifts closer to him, inhaling, exhaling, they’re silent. There’s more that needs to be said, but they have time, they have eternity. He needs to remember that.
“Do you remember when you asked me if falling felt like flying?” Scar says.
“Yeah, I do.”
Scar looks at him, “I promised you that you would fly one day, and, well, does it?”
Grian looks back, looks at the sky, looks at his freshly groomed wings. He stands up, keeping hold of Scar’s hand to pull him to his feet. “I don’t know. Let’s find out.”
He leans down to pick up Scar’s cane for him, “Did you bring your elytra?”
“No? Why?”
Grian pushes the cane into Scar’s free hand before standing on his tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek, “You weren’t the only one who made a promise, love. You’re flying with me.”
He waits just long enough to see Scar blush before dropping back down to the balls of his feet and dragging him inside to get his spare elytra.
***
You cry as you kill him. You sob and you scream, and you apologise over and over and over.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.
In the end, he still dies. He still dies and there’s still blood on your hands (on your face, on your arms, on your lips where he kissed you).
You want to blame him, blame fate, blame the goddamn stars. But the truth is that you’re kneeling over a body and despite your tears, despite your head on his chest, you killed him.
You killed him, and you have no one to blame but yourself.
***
Grian stands at the top of the ledge, the forest stretching below the sharp drop. The moon still stretches high above, full and bright, effectively lighting up the world around him. He stretches his wings out to their full length and feels them tremble with the effort, how long has it been since he’s flown?
Too long, his wings tell him, much too long.
He breathes in the night air, in and out. He can smell the forest. Grian turns around to look at Scar standing a few paces behind him, his borrowed elytra is secured to his back and he’s just standing there, watching Grian.
“You ready?” Grian asks.
“Yeah, I’m ready. You can go first, I’ll follow.”
“Ok.”
Grian looks over the edge, at the straight drop to hard earth, and he jumps.
He’s falling (falling, falling, falling), the wind is rushing through his hair, and he can barely open his eyes, and the ground is rushing up and he remembers this. He remembers this moment, the moment before impact, the ground rushing up to meet him, the tensing of muscles, the anticipation.
His wings snap open and he’s flung upwards, his wings snap open and in an instant, he feels the rush of air in every groove of them, his wings snap open and he’s flying.
He soars up and up and up, the moon above him is so big, so bright, and he thinks just maybe, if beat his wings hard enough he could reach it. That itch, always there at the back of his mind, is gone. And Grian feels completely and entirely free.
He looks down at the trees below him, from up here it’s just a mossy green carpet. He tucks his wings in close to his body and plummets face-first towards the ground. It’s electrifying, it’s flying it’s falling it’s adrenaline rushing through his veins, setting him on fire.
Grian reaches just below the trees and swerves between them, weaving in and out, in and out. Just avoiding clipping his wing his shoulder his hip at every bottleneck turn. He twists sharply upwards and soars out above the canopy. He slows his pace to land lightly next to Scar, who is staring at him in some kind of awe.
Grian is grinning with all of his teeth, he feels euphoric. He feels alive.
“Hey,” he grabs Scar’s hand, “are we flying?”
“Yeah,” Scar whispers, “yeah, we are.”
“Perfect.”
He takes Scar’s other hand as well and walks backwards towards the ledge, pulling Scar along. “Ready?” Grian doesn’t wait for a reply, he just steps backwards off the edge, Scar falling with him.
Grian’s wings were already spread, and they right him almost immediately, positioning him upright and gliding, forcing him to separate from Scar.
Without his grip, Scar plummets, and for a moment Grian thinks that despite everything, this is it. Despite his wings, despite infinite respawns, despite happily ever after, he is about to watch Scar die for the very last time.
Scar’s elytra open and he shoots off a rocket and he’s flying, Grian following close behind. Elytra are finicky, hard to control, unreliable. Years ago, Grian clipped the edge of his right wing on a cliff face and had to use one while his primaries grew back. At the time he had thought the three months before his next moult would be the worst of his life.
Which is to say that Grian is faster than Scar. He shoots ahead above the trees, flying far only to return to circle him again and again. Despite being effectively left in the dust, Scar is smiling. He reaches for Grian’s fingers every time he returns to his side. It’s a useless effort, a losing battle against the wind rush and Grian’s breakneck pace.
Grian laughs, happy, happy, happy.
Where he goes, Scar follows. They soar above the clouds and weave between the trees (albeit clumsily on Scar’s part) and dive and swoop and spin. Grian feels so so lucky to be able to share this moment of pure euphoria.
Eventually, Scar runs out of rockets, he signals his descent to Grian before beginning his glide to the ground. Grian stays in the sky a moment longer, he hovers in the air and each beat of his wings feels like it’s giving him strength. He looks up and feels no eyes watching him, no judgment, no fate. It’s freedom he thinks, true freedom. He turns and flies towards the ground.
Scar is waiting for him, looking up at his descent, and Grian briefly considers landing next to him. Before he knows it he’s adjusting his trajectory to head straight for Scar. He tackles him at full speed, sending Scar straight to the ground. Grian lands fully on his chest. He tries very hard not to laugh.
“Oh, sorry! I guess I didn’t see you there.”
Scar groans, obviously winded, but he’s smiling, “A little warning might be nice next time,” he says.
“What’s the fun in that?”
“Very little I suppose.”
Grian lays there, pressed against Scar, breathing deeply, in and out, trying to calm his racing heart.
Scar stretches up for him, lips brushing against Grian’s ear, he feels breathless, “So, how do they compare? Flying and falling?”
Grian closes his eyes and thinks about flying, he thinks about his racing heart, he thinks about the muscles stretching in his spread wings, he thinks about the wind rushing through his hair, he thinks about euphoria. He thinks about falling, he thinks about standing on a cliff’s edge and looking down down down, he thinks about the decision to jump. He thinks about the free fall, he thinks about how sometimes giving up control is the most beautiful thing in the world. He thinks about sitting under the stars with Scar and that wasn’t real. He thinks about it felt real to me. He thinks about red. The red of poppies of blood, of the feather still woven into Scar’s braids. He thinks about hitting the ground, the ground they’re lying on, he thinks about impact, of the breath being knocked out of his lungs.
Grian opens his eyes and looks at Scar, he breathes out.
He leans down to press his forehead against Scar’s before kissing him. Adrenaline is still rushing through him, and he feels Scar’s hand gripping the back of his shirt. He pulls back and smiles, “They’re more similar than you might think.”