Archive of Our Own

Scar has always liked clubs.

From the dim lighting, to loud music, to the mess of sweaty bodies on the dancefloor, to the overpriced drinks⎯ He’s always liked them. Even before he was technically legal, Scar used a fake ID to get into places. His home city’s clubs had never cared if their patrons had looked a little too young and fresh-faced to be dancing amongst the rest, even less so if they ordered from the bar. Scar had taken gleeful advantage of that fact, and the lack of prying eyes.

There’s something about being in a club that makes everything feel impermanent, like whatever happens can’t affect Scar after the sun has risen and burned away the morning dew. It’s a spot stuck in that grey area between time and space, and Scar has lost himself in the feeling one too many times. Danced against strangers, hardly clothed, sweat pouring down his back, hair braided, feeling closer to human here than anywhere else.

The scent of alcohol and people hangs heavy over the space, too many perfumes and colognes crammed into such a small place. Scar has never preferred those high-class establishments his coworkers drag him out to. He breathes in deep, head tilted back and eyes staring at the dark, dark ceiling. The bassline of some overplayed, popular song thrums through his ribcage, and he imagines it’s in sync with his heartbeat, like everything that keeps him alive is powered right within these very walls.

It’s hard to see, dazzling neon blue highlighting the bar while everything else is hidden in shifting shadows, ceiling lights dimmed to create an intimate effect. Seating tucked snug into the corner, barred off with simple wooden fencing and lighter-coloured dividers, creating the illusion of privacy where there is none. His eyes flick past the space, working girls seducing men that are on the wrong side of tipsy, a particularly enthusiastic couple dancing with the line of public nudity⎯

Scar turns his head away, throwing his hands up and shouting along to the music. He never knows the words, too difficult to distinguish for all of the noise, but that doesn’t matter. His enthusiasm makes up for it. The vibrations of other singing and shouting travels through the air, scattering against his skin like the best of massages. Scar dances, moving his body smoothly. He doesn’t know if he’s on time with the beat or not, doesn’t care, frankly, lost in his own world. He opens his eyes, gaze catching on every potential enemy around, every person who came here looking to escape, just like he did.

A dark gaze catches his from across the dancefloor.

Scar’s lungs stutter.

A purple-haired girl wearing a black leather top and a tiny skirt makes her way over, slipping in and out from throngs of people with ease. She looks like they’d part for her like the Red Sea, if she so chose to ask. Scar’s always liked a little bit of authority. She grins with all her teeth when she reaches him, grabbing for his wrist. Scar tilts his head, too languid to be startled. Here, it’s like all of his senses are muffled, responses dulled from where they’ve been sharpened against the reality of living as a weapon.

She shouts something indistinguishable from the music and yelling of everyone all around them, and Scar shakes his head, pointing to his ears. His hearing aids are turned down low, but it’s more the interference that’s getting him than anything else. She nods, pulling him close, hand clammy on the underside of Scar’s wrist. He wonders if she can feel his heartbeat, or if there’s a deadened lack where his pulse should be. Her grin turns sly, and she moves closer, lips brushing the skin of his face just before his ear. Scar shivers reflexively, not all that sensitive but knowing that’s what should happen.

“Let me buy you a drink,” She whispers, seductive, and she hasn’t introduced herself, but Scar decides then and there that he’ll call her Violet.

Scar pulls back, not bothering to use his words as he nods, the movement clearly overexaggerated. Violet’s eyes light up, and her grip tightens on his wrist, pointed nails digging into the fragile skin there. Scar relishes the pain, tugging just a little to feel them go deeper. Violet tugs back, pulling him out of the sea of people, hands reaching out and catching on Scar’s skin as they bypass everyone. He leans into the feeling, flashing smirks whenever anyone looks at him for a second too long. They make it to the bar in one piece, but Scar suspects he wouldn’t mind if it ended up being otherwise.

“What’s your preference?” Violet calls over her shoulder, black lipstick smudged at the corner. She’s easier to hear, the music becoming fainter the further they get from the dance floor. Scar shakes his head, a lazy grin playing on his lips as they squeeze into a free space at the crowded barfront.

“Whatever you’re having,” He replies loudly, head tipping back again as he closes his eyes. Scar breathes in deep, noticing that Violet smells like black cherries, and barely listens as she turns to the bartender and rattles off their order. It doesn’t matter. It’ll burn going down the same way everything does⎯

Like blood, splattered against his lips, sliding down his tongue, hot and unforgiving, molten⎯

Scar shakes his head, snapping out of a daze to find Violet already looking at him. Her eyes sparkle, dark, and Scar doesn’t know if they’re contacts or simply a brown so deep it appears black, but either way… He’s starting to wonder what her lips will taste like. Whatever godawful drink she’s ordered, or black cherries, the same way her skin smells? Maybe something else entirely.

Magic, Scar thinks idly, as he studies her.

Maybe she’ll taste like magic.

Violet is starting to get uncomfortable with the way that he doesn’t blink, Scar can tell. She’s shifting where she stands, eyes glancing nervously around the room, though her expression is remarkably calm. His wrist is still trapped by her cold hand, but Scar doesn’t mind. He knows that he should blink, say something, do something to be reassuring, but he wants to push it.

Wants to see just how unsettling he can be before the boundaries between him and humanity grow too wide to feasibly cross.

The movement of the bartender passing over their drinks catches Scar’s attention too soon, and Violet turns, clearly happy for the distraction. Another breath fills Scar’s lungs, black cherries ever present, and he deigns to look at what their drinks are, finally. Violet lets go of his hand, reaching for a tiny black clutch that he’d barely spared a thought to before, to pay the bartender. Negronis, it looks like.

Doesn’t matter.

Scar has long since lost his taste for drinking.

“You did say whatever I wanted,” Violet reminds him, noticing where he’s looking. They’re practically pressed together here, her shoulder right up against his chest, and the rest of her skin is warm compared to her hands.

“I did,” Scar agrees, feigning cheerfulness. He leans in close, brushing her hair away from her ear. “How did you know my favourite?”

“Lucky guess,” Violet says confidently, and she doesn’t know his name either, he realises belatedly. Good. Makes it easier that way. It’s hard to be disappointed in a man you don’t even know the name of. Scar hums, lips brushing the shell of Violet’s ear in what could be a facsimile of a kiss.

“Do you think you’re feeling lucky tonight?” Scar wonders curiously, reaching for his drink. He grabs the glass⎯ careful, wary of the thing shattering right in his touch. That doesn’t happen so much nowadays, but still. The last thing he needs is an angry Violet with glass shards in her skin. Violet gives him a sly little smile over her shoulder, dark eyes lidded.

They should be closed, Scar thinks.

He won’t feel so watched, then.

“Oh, baby, you have no idea,” Violet says, knocking her Negroni back in a couple long drinks. Scar blinks, somewhat impressed, before doing the same. All he tastes is warm copper, and there’s an itch under his skin pressing him to get rid of it, to replace it with anything else. Violet’s tongue, perhaps. Whatever she’s willing to give. “How about we get out of here, pretty boy?”

“I’ll do you one better,” Scar murmurs, licking his lips of the last of the alcohol. Violet tilts her head, intrigue in every line of her body. Discomfort forgotten; chalked up to him being dazed, out of it, drunk, or even high. Human minds will conjure the easiest of stories to cover up the discrepancies they notice. “Ever fucked in a bathroom before? There’s nothing like it.”

“What do you take me for?” Violet asks, quirking her lips in a way that reminds Scar so painfully of someone else. He blinks, forcing the after image of his memory away.

“A girl who likes to have fun,” He replies without missing a beat, raising an eyebrow. “Unless you’re too scared of getting caught? Do you know how to keep quiet…or are you loud?”

“Why don’t we head over there and you can find out?” Violet’s tone has a hint of challenge to it, one that Scar is looking forward to meeting. He knew he had her clocked right, knew that she wouldn’t be able to resist the dare, the tabooness of having sex in public. It might not be unusual in a seedy place like this, but it’s still a new experience for the likes of Violet.

“Please, allow me,” Scar says, before he’s pressing a kiss to her temple and then wandering away. Colder, now that he’s away from all the body heat, air lancing through the sheer, glittering mesh top he’d thrown on before he came here. All the better to show off his assets, as Bdubs calls them. It’s almost nice that the man is never talking about Scar’s actual assets, and instead exclusively referring to his abs.

Refreshing, that change of pace.

Scar walks over to the men’s bathroom, grinning when a stroke of luck proves that the room is entirely empty. The door locks, too, and this night couldn’t possibly get better. Scar moves to the sink, washing his hands out of habit, not bothering to look up when there’s movement in the mirror. The scent of black cherries reaches him as Violet’s warm, warm body presses up against his back. She’s nearly as tall as he is, aided by the thick platforms she’s wearing, but Scar’s always liked a bit of height.

“How courteous,” she says, teasing. “Of you to wash your hands before fucking me in this filthy bathroom.”

“I aim to please.” Scar looks up, shooting Violet a wink in the mirror. Her lips curve up into a smirk, that black hole gaze boring into his, and the tension stretches like a rubber band. Scar reaches for the tap, turning off the water, and flicks his hands out to get rid of the excess water. As soon as he’s done, Violet grabs his shirt and turns him around, tension snapping as her lips meet his in a feverish, hungry rush.

Violet doesn’t waste time, doesn’t bother building up before she’s licking into Scar’s mouth, and she doesn’t taste like magic but she’s real and here and that’s enough. He groans into the kiss, hands finding her waist, as he flexes just a little bit of his strength and lifts her. Violet breaks off the kiss with a noise of surprise, but Scar doesn’t give her time to react before he’s placing her on the bathroom counter and leaning in for the kiss again.

Her tongue slides against his, hot and wet. Scar’s never liked kisses that were too wet, never enjoyed feeling like he would suffocate when he kissed his partner, but right now he pushes all those thoughts aside. Sensations are all he focuses on, losing himself. Violet’s hands move all over his shoulders, slipping down to his pecs and groping, reaching for the hem of his shirt as he kisses her like he could steal the breath from her lungs.

“More,” Violet says in a puff of breath, tugging the mesh shirt over his head, and Scar’s hands dance up her thighs. They’re not corded with muscle, petal-soft and bare, miniskirt riding up from where she sits on the counter. He glances down, catching a pair of striking red lace underwear hiding her cunt, and bile rises in his throat. “Kiss me, come on⎯”

Scar is nothing if not obedient.

He kisses her again, pushing his tongue past her lips, searching for that ever elusive feeling of humanity. Her fingers dance across his bare chest, nails scratching lightly, and Scar yearns for the little pinpricks of pain that come along with it. Her skirt has ridden up further as she scoots back, pulling him close between her legs, and Scar’s hands move without him making the conscious choice to do so. One of his fingertips meets a lace border, and he pulls the fabric between it and his thumb, getting a feel as disgust mounts in the back of his mind.

Violet breaks away, panting against his mouth, forehead pressed against his. Scar feels too hot all of a sudden, desperate for the breeze that caressed his skin like a lover before he came into this bathroom. His body is tight, fit to burst, like a balloon that’s been stretched to its furthest limits. He can’t catch his breath, eyes flicking rapidly between Violet’s smeared black lipstick down to her thighs, skating across her chest, pushed out by her leather top.

“Touch me,” Violet urges, moving closer on the filthy counter. Scar’s fingers brush against real, warm skin underneath lace, and every thought flies out of his head.

“I can’t,” He chokes out, stumbling away, wide-eyed. Violet looks at him in obvious confusion, hands still raised around empty air, like he could slot back right there if he so chose. If he was normal. Instead, all Scar can taste is that fucking Negroni coming back up, and he barely manages to turn around before he’s collapsing to his knees next to the somewhat gross toilet bowl.

Violet says something that lilts at the end like a question, but it’s too soft and indistinct for Scar to make out. He leans over the toilet, stomach churning, and dry heaves. The second time, he actually throws up, alcohol and stomach acid mixing unpleasantly and burning his throat on the way back. 

“I can’t deal with this tonight, oh my God,” Violet exclaims, sounding half-indignant. She’s right to be, but he doesn’t care. Scar barely pays the woman any mind, hearing the sudden rush of sound as she opens the door and leaves the bathroom. He throws up again weakly, unable to take his mind off of how wrong she felt.

With fumbling fingers, Scar pulls his phone from sinfully tight jeans.

He clicks on the first number he sees, eyes blurry and mouth tasting like fiery vomit. Scar swallows reflexively, but that doesn’t help, just making his stomach turn again as he brings his phone right up to his ear. He’s on his knees in the dingy bathroom stall, slumping down when it becomes apparent that he isn’t going to throw up again. The line rings once, twice, a third time⎯

Sluggish panic swirls with the disgust in Scar’s brain.

“It’s two in the bloody morning, Scar, you had better be bleeding out or lost a limb to be calling me this late.”

Grian’s wonderful, right voice washes over Scar in a wave that feels like relief. He slumps, whole body relaxing with that sound in his ear. Grian’s accent gets heavier when he’s sleepy, but looser when he’s angry, the more casual tone that he’s picked up from Joel seeping through. Scar thinks that he likes this strange mix, the way he draws out his vowels. Scar likes every form of Grian’s voice and accent that he has the privilege of hearing. Scar likes…Scar likes every form of Grian.

“Scar? Scar, are you actually bleeding out⎯”

There’s anxiety suddenly souring his tone, and Scar manages to notice that he hasn’t said anything this whole time, only breathing against his phone.

“‘M here,” He says lazily, sloppily. He doesn’t curl his tongue around his consonants the way that Grian does; Scar sounds like the city that he came from, that he escaped at the ripe age of eighteen and never looked back at. He’s never cared very much for his own voice. “Sorry.”

“Jesus, Scar, scare the living daylights out of me, why don’t you?” Grian sounds like he’s rolling his eyes right now. Scar can almost picture him, sitting upright against that plush headboard, glasses left on the nightstand where his phone had formerly been. Sandy blond hair mussed with sleep and covers drawn up around him as he slowly starts to burrow again over the course of the call. “What’s wrong?”

“Why’s somethin’ gotta be wrong?” Scar mumbles. “Maybe I just wanted to talk to you.”

“Nice try, big guy.” Grian snorts, the sound coming through crackly. Scar really should get a new phone, but he’s never bothered with that kind of needless expense. Maybe he’ll finally take Tango up on his offers of brand-spankin’-new tech… “You never call me unless something’s wrong.”

“Do you like kissing, Grian?” Scar wonders, soft, quiet. Dangerous. He can just barely make out the way Grian’s breath stutters at the question, that steady inhale-exhale pausing as he takes in the meaning of Scar’s words. It’s a frightening game that they play. Scar wants to tear it apart with his teeth. “I like kissin’.”

“Are you drunk?” Grian asks flatly. Sparks of resentment dance down Scar’s spine. The door to the bathroom opens, but the person stumbling in pays no mind to his stall, marking it off as occupied in their puny human brain and not glancing at it twice. Scar wishes he worked like that, wishes he could write off such occurrences as nothing out of the ordinary. “Scar. Answer me.”

Authority, Scar thinks with a delirious giggle.

“You know I can’t get drunk,” He whispers in reply. “They didn’t want to risk tainting me.”

“High, then,” Grian says. He sounds impatient. It makes Scar want to frown, but his lips are uncooperative, the corner of his mouth tasting like throw-up. “God, Scar, what did you take this time? You can’t keep forcing your body to go through these things.”

“It isn’t even mine,” Scar argues. “Not mine. Never has been. Always theirs.”

“Scar…”

He tilts his head back against the wall of the bathroom stall, gaze listlessly roving around the room.

“Where are you? Come on. I’ll come get you.”

“You can’t be mad,” Scar says, eyes finally wandering up to the ceiling. It’s dark, much like everything else in this place, and covered in bumps. Looks like it’d be nice to touch. If Scar concentrates, he can almost picture the texture under his hands instead of the phone case and jean fabric that his hands currently rest against. “Don’t be mad at me, Grian.”

“I’m not mad,” Grian says, and he sounds considerably softer. “I’m not mad at you, Scar.”

“Promise?”

It feels childish, asking for this when he’s half a wreck and he knows that Grian is going to be upset with him regardless, even if those repercussions don’t face him right now. And maybe it is childish, but what part of Scar actually ever was a child? When did he ever get to be anything other than something to be used as a bargaining chip, to be passed back and forth like the weapon he’s been moulded into as an adult? He figures he’s due some slack now. Grian must agree with him, to indulge him in these flights of fancy so often.

“Promise, Scar.”

Damn it all to hell, but Scar believes him.

“I’m at The Raven,” He murmurs into the receiver, knowing that Grian will recognise the name. This is a familiar haunt of Scar’s⎯ He’s never needed Grian quite this badly before, though. “I think Violet…I think she did something to me, G. I don’t feel like I’m here.”

“Don’t move,” Grian orders, sharp, and Scar can sense the worry and fear behind the snappish tone. He wants to protest, wants to go back to the bar, but even the thought makes his head spin. “You’re here, Scar. You’re right here with me. I’m not hanging up the phone until I see your stupid face, yeah?”

“You mean it?” Scar whispers again, barely resisting the urge to make Grian promise once more. He’s fragile right now, feeling like everything could slip out of his hands at a moment’s notice and shatter against this shitty tile floor. He doesn’t want that to happen, can’t bear the thought of the tenuous bond between he and Grian finally snapping. Not when they’ve done so much to keep to the status quo.

“Of course I mean it, Scar. God knows what you’d do if I let you off the phone, anyhow.” Grian’s voice lilts teasingly, so Scar manages a soft little chuckle, even though it isn’t all that amusing. He can’t help but be endeared by Grian, no matter what kind of flack the man gives him. “Do you know what she gave you?”

“No,” Scar mumbles, though maybe he could figure it out with a little deduction skills. He knows she had to have slipped it into the Negroni, which he’d foolishly disregarded in his sphere of attention, so it was most likely some sort of roofie… He doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out, so whatever she spiked his drink with was more along the lines of ecstasy. Whatever dose she gave him was too much⎯ he still feels sick, and he knows it isn’t mixing easy with the weed still in his system. “Ecstasy.”

“Are you sure?” 

Scar huffs irritably at the question. “She bought me a drink to fuck me at her place, Grian. I don’t think she was trying to kill me, I think she was trying to make me more susceptible to the idea.”

“Alright,” Grian murmurs, sounding subdued. Instantly, a feeling of regret washes over Scar, but he can’t manage to force an apology off of his thick tongue before Grian moves past it, business-like. “What else have you done?”

“Just weed,” Scar answers, honest. He closes his eyes to stop the room from spinning, breathing in steadily through his mouth in an attempt to ignore the scent of puke. He should really get up and flush the toilet, but it’s so far, and Grian told him not to move. “You know I know my limits, G.”

“You do,” Grian agrees carefully. “Anything else?”

“The Negroni she spiked, but that was just one drink, promise. It’s not like I can get drunk anyway⎯ stupid fuckin’ body,” Scar huffs. Normally he isn’t so quick to curse, but his daze is plummeting fast, and he feels the beginnings of anger and depression creeping in. Scar has never known how to turn his sadness into anything other than drive, and when he can’t do that, he gets mean.

He’s never liked being angry.

It reminds him too much of his father.

“Yeah, okay. Those aren’t going to mix well, but you’ll live, and that’s the important part. You said The Raven?” There’s rustling noises on the other end of the line, like Grian’s left the little cocoon that makes up his bed and is now venturing around his apartment. Like this, eyes closed, it’s so much easier for Scar to envision. Imagining Grian putting on his house slippers and refusing to turn on the light, the click of the doorknob proving that he’s opened his bedroom door, the cat that’ll trip him up in the darkened hallway⎯ “Oh, shit, Maui! Buddy, you need to get out of Papa’s way when he’s walking around blind, don’t you know?”

“He likes a little danger,” Scar teases, grounding himself as he drags his fingertips up and down against the fabric of his tight jeans. His mesh shirt is discarded somewhere on this dirty floor, but that’s alright. Scar didn’t like it anyway; too itchy. Easy enough to ignore when he was high, but he thinks he’ll start clawing his skin off now if another bad sensation touches him. “Adrenaline junkie like his dad.”

“Har har, very funny,” Grian says dryly, keys jangling loudly. He must’ve made it to the little apartment entryway he has, and put on his shoes without too much difficulty, given that there wasn’t any other cursing.

“You’re the one who spends his time rappelling through the air and onto buildings,” Scar hums, voice lilting with something akin to playfulness.

He envies Grian sometimes, for that. The other man isn’t capable of flight, not yet⎯ They don’t have the money in the budget for that kind of tech, but it’s a matter of time. Scar is grounded, always. He might have grappling hooks, but it’s Grian’s job to be his eyes in the sky, to be the sidekick to the ever-glorious living weapon that is meant to be Scar. Still, the high ground always has the advantage. He knows that firsthand. Even with Grian’s help, and Grian is digilent, Scar is inescapably familiar with what it’s like to be dropped in on from above. It’s awful, put simply. Once, just once, Scar would like to be the one with the high ground.

He thinks that maybe it’d give him a feeling similar to when he smokes⎯ Untouchable, like the rest of the world doesn’t matter, only phantoms and shadows for him to pass through and ignore instead of beg at their feet. Wind in his hair, sun rising over the top of the city, dawn blinding him in its newness, the potential for change that inevitably brings… Grian makes rooftop sunrises sound magical. Scar wouldn’t know. He is, as always, perpetually and ever flightless.

“Scar, shut up! I don’t know who can hear you right now,” Grian hisses, making Scar roll his eyes.

“You’re fine, I’m alone. Besides, plenty of civilians…rappel.”

“Oh yeah? Buildings, do they, Scar? There’s classes on that sort of thing?”

“No, no, there’s definitely some kind of⎯ Window-washers! They rappel, don’t they, Grian?” Scar exclaims, snapping his fingers together. Grian snorts on the other end, like he doesn’t want to find the words funny but can’t help it. It fills Scar’s stomach with the flitting sensation of butterflies, which doesn’t feel too good given that it’s still flipping every now and then sickly. “Besides, I bet there’s CuteGuy building rappelling classes nowadays, they’ve got our faces plastered all over this stupid city⎯”

“You love this stupid city,” Grian replies softly. “And somehow, Scar, I think that’s the one thing that they haven’t sought to make money off of.”

“Sure, sure.” A comfortable silence lapses over them, only broken up with the sounds of jostling and the engine of Grian’s car sputtering slightly before starting. That’s good. Scar would hate to have to slip Grian some money again to repair it. Not because of the costs, of course, but because Grian gets so stubborn about accepting supposed charity.

He’s stupid like that.

Scar is stupid in different ways, so maybe they balance each other out.

(Oh, who is he kidding? As if someone like him could ever balance Grian.)

“You still with me, big guy?” Grian checks in, using what Scar calls his concentrated voice. Despite living in the city for almost a decade now, Grian still gets nervous about driving, even this late at night. It’s similar to the voice that he puts on when he’s CuteGuying⎯ Ultra-locked in, laser-focused on his activity. It eases some of the leftover anxiety coursing through Scar’s veins.

How can he be nervous when Grian sounds so confident?

“Yeah, ‘m here,” Scar answers before Grian can panic again. He opens his eyes slowly, peering around the room. The neon backlights for the mirrors blind him, making him blink the spots out of his vision. The walls bend towards him, and Scar can’t tell if it’s a trick of the light or⎯ “Waitin’ for you, G. I’m not movin’, just like you told me not to. It stinks in here, though. Are you far? Feels…’s kinda hard to breathe, like the room’s getting small.”

“I’m about ten minutes away, Scar. Do you think you could move for me? I know the space feels like it’s getting smaller, but it isn’t.” Despite how Grian says it, like it’d be foolish to believe otherwise, Scar still can’t get rid of the feeling that he’s being closed in on. His breathing starts to quicken noticeably. “Scar. I need you to listen to me. I know I told you not to move, but now it’s safer for you to get out of the room, okay? Go into a bigger space.”

“That an order?” Scar manages, sounding choked, and he wants it to come off as a joke but it sounds like anything but. Grian inhales a little sharply, perhaps not expecting that, but Scar can’t make himself take it back. He doesn’t know how to smooth things over right now, can’t summon that social chameleon charm that makes him so good at what he does. “Please, G.”

“Yes, Scar. It’s an order.”

“Okay,” Scar says, heart rabbiting inside his chest. He can feel it, hand lifting from his jeans to his neck to measure the beats. It’s reassuring in a way little else about his body is, assuring him that he’s still human. More man than machine. Slowly, He draws his legs out from under him, and manages to stand on wobbly feet.

“You up?”

“Yeah,” Scar replies, eyes catching on the glitter of his mesh shirt kicked into a corner of the bathroom. “Don’t got a shirt, though.”

“That’s… Fuck, Scar.”

“I’m sorry,” He whispers, feeling miserable. Standing doesn’t help with making the room feel bigger, and he thinks that he might be getting lightheaded. Scar eyes the counter of the sink warily. It’d be bad if he passed out and busted his head open now; no guarantee the doctors would be able to put Humpty Dumpty back together after bleeding out.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. Don’t worry, Scar, I’m almost there. Five minutes.” Standing alone had taken Scar five minutes? It’s baffling that something so simple could’ve taken so long. Scar tries to concentrate on his heartbeats, feeling panicky if he looks anywhere for too long. “You still gotta get out of that room, Scar. Move into a more congregated area, okay? They might not notice the…lack of a shirt. Do you have a coat?”

“No,” Scar answers, shuffling over to the bathroom door. Before he reaches it, a group of guys pushes inside, rowdy and drunk. Only one of them glances at him before they all move to the urinals, thank God. He manages to slip outside without even touching the door, the full force of club music hitting him at once.

“It’s freezing weather, Scar, what do you mean you don’t have a coat?” Grian sounds incredulous. Guilt sours in Scar’s stomach, but he tries to ignore it, staggering away from the dancefloor and in the direction of the bar. Maybe he can hide amongst the bargoers; going back to dancing now feels hellish.

“Just didn’t bring one,” Scar mutters, averting his eyes once he makes it to the bar. He wedges himself between a couple large groups, ones that are loud and distracting. The patterns, backlit with more neon, create an interesting environment for his gaze to dart about. Plus, the longer he avoids eye contact, the more likely it is that he won’t be noticed. That’s…how that works, right?

“Jesus, Scar. I’m almost there.”

“Okay.”

Scar lifts his free hand, tracing lightly against the cool glass. It feels good; he hadn’t noticed before, but his skin is almost feverish, likely a result from the combination of weed and too much ecstasy. He can hear the reassuring sounds of Grian driving, the muttered directions he says under his breath as drives towards The Raven. Standing against the bar, almost leaning, in fact, it’s easier to breathe, and Scar can feel his breathing even out from the panicked rush that it’d been before.

“Hey, man, you can’t be shirtless in here⎯” The voice stops as soon as Scar lifts his head, meeting one familiar blue gaze of one of The Raven’s bartenders. Skizz’s entire expression changes once he recognises Scar, putting down the glass that he’d been cleaning and walking closer. “Scorpio? Buddy, what happened to you?!”

“‘M fine,” Scar says, not convincingly at all. Both of Skizz’s eyebrows raise, that’s how little he believes the words coming out of Scar’s mouth right now. He grimaces to himself. “It’s⎯ It’s under control, don’t worry.”

“You sure?” Skizz asks, not judging, never judging, but kind. That’s one of the good things about Skizz. He’s never once approached Scar with judgement, but he’s always made sure that Scar was taken care of.

“Scar? Who’s that?” Grian interrupts before Scar can say anything, sounding reasonably worried.

“It’s just, just⎯ A guy I know, don’t worry, G. He’s a bartender at Raven,” He assures, knowing that his friend won’t rest without an actual answer. Skizz looks less troubled as he notices the phone call that’s still ongoing. “And yeah, I’m, ‘m sure, Skizz, ‘m gettin’ picked up by a friend.”

“Okay, that’s good. Still can’t have you going around shirtless I’m afraid, though, bud.” To his credit, Skizz does look genuinely sympathetic. Scar shivers reflexively at the thought of venturing outside right now, but obediently pushes his body weight off of the bar counter, only for Skizz to hold his hands up in a ‘stop’ motion. “Whoa, whoa, hold on! I can’t send ya out in the cold like that, I’m not heartless. Just wait here a sec, I’ve got a black shirt in the back, should fit you peachy-keen.”

“Don’t think that’s how you use that word,” Scar mumbles on autopilot, used to Grian saying the same thing to him enough times. Skizz chortles, waving him off, before turning around and slipping into the rooms behind the bar. Storage, Scar knows, as well as a small breakroom with lockers for each of the employees. He’s scoped out The Raven plenty of times to make sure that it wasn’t compromised.

It’s not paranoia if there are actually people out to get you, Scar thinks.

“You still with me, big guy?” Grian checks in because he’s good like that. Different in the way that Skizz is good, but good nonetheless. Idly, Scar notices that Grian’s barely called him his name this whole time, except for when he was scolding Scar.

“Yeah, I’m here,” He says, glancing around the bar. Nobody is paying him all too much attention, and he can’t see Violet in the immediate vicinity, either, which is good. Scar’s not one for revenge himself, really, he has enough blood on his hands without that business. He knows that Grian would stop at nothing to ensure that she got what was coming to her, though, knows that Grian is more protective of the ones that he cares about than anyone gives him credit for.

Meaner, maybe. The public doesn’t see it, not when he’s covered in flashy pink, hearts decorating his guns, but all the glitter in the world shouldn’t be able to hide the fact that he’s still shooting bullets. Scar knows it does, though. Grian smiles and waves and wears the stupid outfits they put him in, all for the sake of protecting Scar. Of course he wouldn’t hesitate to get revenge, when it comes right down to it. He has orders to shoot to kill every time they’re in the field. 

Scar is more than happy to let karma do the work for him.

Grian hums in acknowledgement, allowing a gentle silence to fall between them once more. Skizz comes back out of the storage rooms, turning around and finding Scar, a bright smile immediately dawning on his lips. Scar’s own twitch in response, unable to help it when Skizz is just so happy to see him. A naturally boisterous man, one whose presence invigorates Scar rather than tire him out. He’s learned to appreciate that kind of person. They’re rare, in his world.

“Here ya go, bud! Might be a bit loose around the belly, you’re much leaner than I am, but hey, I’ve earned this gut through a many a donut, am I right?” Skizz winks, tossing a soft black ball of fabric at Scar’s chest. He catches it instinctively, reflexes only slightly dulled by the drugs coursing through his system. He doesn’t know if that’s due to the superhumanness, or simply because his reflexes have been worked into his muscles so deeply that there’s no changing them.

“Thanks, Skizz,” Scar says, soft, as he pulls the shirt over his head. He has no reason not to trust Skizz; plus, it’s not the easiest to poison textiles. If Skizz was really trying to do him in, he’d offer Scar a drink. Refreshing water or even alcohol itself, counting on the burn to mask the taste… There are many options.

“Of course, man! Couldn’t leave my best buddy hangin’ like that. Now, you bring a coat with you? Lose it somewhere in this swanky joint?” Skizz wonders, tilting his head to the side. His arms are crossed over his chest, but only loosely, everything about his stance screaming casual and relaxed. Scar feels on edge for some reason, and he can’t place why⎯

The drugs, maybe.

Maybe.

“I’m pulling up now, Scar. I’m coming in to find you, okay? Don’t move, I don’t want you getting lost in the crowd or passing out.” Grian’s voice comes through slightly muffled, like he’s speaking from a distance. There’s some rustling as Grian picks up his phone, probably, and Scar nods foolishly before remembering that his friend can’t currently see him.

“Got it,” He replies a bit hastily, cheeks warming in embarrassment. The dial tone echoes in his ear, and he slides his phone down into his pocket, no longer needing it. Skizz raises an eyebrow curiously. Scar swallows, hoping to get rid of the dryness in his mouth. He’s too aware of his body parts, eyelids heavy while the insides of his ears ache, and not in the way that comes with his hearing aids. “I forgot my coat at home, Skizz, but don’t worry! My friend is here, he’s gonna take me back.”

“Scorpio,” Skizz says, sounding kindly reprimanding. Scar winces automatically, unable to help it when faced with a tone like that. Like a dad might, he thinks. Not that he’d know personally. “Not on nights when it’s below freezing out, man! There’s snow on the streets outside, Scorp, what were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t.”

“I can see that,” Skizz replies with a nod in the general direction of Scar’s… everything. He bristles.

“I didn’t⎯ I’m not stupid, Skizz, I didn’t do this to myself. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Skizz looks troubled. “Did you get something that was cut bad? Or did something else happen, Scorp?”

Mulishly, Scar keeps his mouth shut. It’s not worth explaining, not really. He knows that Skizz would do everything in his power to at least ban Violet, or whatever her real name is, but it’d be impossible. The distinction of her features isn’t going to go far, not when hair is so easily re-dyed, and when she could easily deny it. Scar doesn’t feel like going through all of that trouble.

“There you are!” Scar turns around on instinct, and he’d know that voice blind, knows it even with his hearing aids turned low and distortion of club music in the background. Grian looks sleep-rumpled, shiny black puffer jacket over that familiar red sweater with the stretched-out neckline with a pair of slightly too big grey sweatpants. His sandy blond hair is mussed, just as Scar predicted it would be, and he has on the chunky black glasses that he normally reserves for ‘at home’, since he thinks they make him look like an old man. Scar can’t disagree, but he likes them anyway.

“G,” Scar says, flushing at the sheer amount of relief he’s infused into one letter.

“You the friend?” Skizz asks, sounding a bit stern, but Grian doesn’t hesitate as he comes up next to Scar and crowds him against the bar. One arm slips firmly under his shoulders and across his back, pulling Scar closer to him and making him lean his weight against Grian instead of the counter. He’s warm, Scar notices, so warm that it’s seeping through the material of Scar’s borrowed shirt.

“Yessir,” Grian answers, chirpy with sarcasm. His eyes are narrowed, made darker by his glasses. They sparkle in the neon lighting, but nothing like Scar has ever seen before. Galaxies and nebulae, black holes and the Mariana Trench couldn’t hold a candle to his friend’s eyes. “I’m taking Scorpio home. I appreciate you looking out for him.”

He’s stiff in his thanks, stiff in the set of his shoulders, and Scar feels all loose-limbed, jellylike.

“Alright,” Skizz says, though there’s something to the way his smile has dimmed that makes it seem like he doesn’t trust Grian all that much. Scar wants to reassure him, wants to promise that Grian’s the greatest friend he’s ever had, that sometimes, when he thinks no one in this world could possibly care about the Scar of it all, instead of Scorpio, Hotguy, a mere body⎯ Grian proves him wrong.

But Scar’s tongue is thick and clumsy, and he’s never been good at words anyhow.

“See ya, Skizz.” Scar lifts a hand in a lazy wave, one that Skizz returns with a softer expression on his face.

“Make sure to get some good rest, buddy. Can’t have our champion fallin’ on us now, can we? Who else is gonna beat me at Midnight Chessker?” Skizz chuckles heartily after the question, teeth gleaming pink in the neon lights. Scar giggles along, sensing Grian’s confusion in the way his grip tightens just a bit on his side. Bony fingers digging into the meat of Scar’s skin. It’s a sensation that he should really hate more than he does.

“I know, I know, the champion will return! Victorious, at that,” Scar declares confidently, smirking at Skizz. With that, he starts shuffling away from the bar, letting Grian take the lead through the groups of people. He doesn’t hesitate to get pushy, snapping at anyone who comes too close, and it’s…nice. Scar isn’t one who gets taken care of very often, and even though everything is still too wrong, and there’s a leaden ball of shame sitting in his stomach, this is nice. He allows his gaze to dip down, trusting that Grian has his back, and giggles again when he notices the choice of footwear that his best friend has gone with.

“What are you snickerin’ about?” Grian mutters, cadence softening the harshness of the words.

“You’re wearin’ your kitty-cat slippers,” Scar teases, looking down at the very same shoes. They’re mismatched, one a silly tortoiseshell cat to represent Maui, whereas the other is a perfect cartoon replication of Jellie. Scar has the other set, the ones that are switched for opposite feet.

“They were the easiest ones to put on, Scar, don’t go mocking me,” Grian complains goodnaturedly. Scar hums, something inside his ribcage glowing warmly at the idea that Grian wears such silly things with enough regularity that they were the closest ones he could find. He wears his own often, of course, but Grian is so resistant to the idea of appearing gentle in any way. It’s rare form when Scar sees him unguarded like this.

“I’m not, I’m not mocking you. I think it’s…think it’s cute,” Scar admits, quiet.

Grian doesn’t acknowledge him, and he doesn’t know what hurts worse: the idea that he’s gone unheard by someone who listens to him the most out of anyone, or the idea that Grian doesn’t want to hear him say such things. They aren’t friends like that, can’t be. Scar must withhold the affection threatening to spill off of his tongue like a waterfall, lest they crash and drown like a ship losing sailors against the bluffs.

“I can’t believe you didn’t even bring a coat, Scar,” Grian mutters under his breath as they exit The Raven, still supporting Scar with one arm under his shoulders. It’s not needed, not really, but Scar doesn’t mind the extra stability. His head lolls back as he takes in the stars, bitter cold nipping at his cheeks and nose. 

“I didn’t want it,” Scar hums, searching for Orion’s Belt. “Ruined the outfit.”

“What outfit? You were shirtless!” Grian exclaims, leading Scar over to his car. It’s still running, meaning that the inside is a toasty warm once Scar has safely slid into the passenger seat. Grian glares at him for a second before shutting the door with more force than necessary. He storms over to the other side, breath crystallising against a backdrop of worn brick and the night sky.

“I had a shirt,” Scar points out stubbornly once Grian’s in the driver’s seat. “I just didn’t put it back on.”

“Let me guess, it was that stupid mesh glittery one that you think you can hide in the back of your closet,” Grian replies, sharp and sarcastic. Scar blinks, feeling surprised. He never does expect just how much his friend pays attention to him. “Put on your damn seatbelt, Scar.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Scar mumbles, hurrying to do just that. His fingers are clumsier than normal, but the seatbelt is a familiar texture, the same way everything else about Grian’s shitty car is familiar. There’s not enough room for Scar to stretch out his legs, never has been, so he pulls them up closer to his chest, one foot barely fitting on the lip of the seat itself. 

Like this, he feels smaller than he actually is, something fragile. Meant to be protected, taken care of in a way that Scar so rarely is. He knows he doesn’t deserve it, knows that he’s meant to be the one doing the saving, that his hands were built into weapons for the sake of a future that isn’t his own. Most of the time, he can be okay with that, too, even when it feels like he might drown under the guilt of everyone he was too late to save.

Scar closes his eyes briefly at the taste of blood in his mouth and the memory of crushed stone all around him.

“If you’re going to do these things, at least be bloody well safe about it, Scar⎯”

He doesn’t like how Grian is saying his name anymore.

Unforgiving.

“You promised you wouldn’t be upset,” Scar says quietly, looking out of the window at the blurred cityscape passing by. He can hear the exhale that Grian gives in response, heavy, cumbersome with regret. “And it’s not like I asked to get roofied, Grian. I didn’t want this to happen.”

“You shouldn’t have been out here in the first place. You know The Raven is a hotspot for crime, someone could’ve tailed you, or whatever else, and superstrength wouldn’t save you from a bullet to the head, Scar.” Grian is white-knuckling the steering wheel of the car when Scar glances at him. “Whatever. I’ll talk to you in the morning. I’m not going to be upset with you tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” He whispers.

Grian doesn’t look at him.

Scar feels cold as they pull out of the parking lot. He draws his arms tightly around himself, leaning his head against the still-chilly window pane. The temperature feels like it should clear his head, make things easier to process, but it doesn’t. Scar knows that it’s likely he’s burning up, running a fever, and that whatever sleep he gets tonight will certainly be some of the deepest he’s gotten in a while. Even so, he can’t shake the deepening, freezing pit inside of him, loneliness clawing at the corners of every thought.

The drive back takes longer than it should. They wander through the city for a while, slowly moving out of the ramshackle districts that surround The Raven towards greener pastures. Eventually, the cityscape transforms into something that he’s more intimately familiar with, even though he spends most of his time amongst the skyscrapers. Scar’s eyes lid before slowly falling shut, exhaustion overtaking him. He can’t sleep, not like this, but with the car rumbling under him and Grian’s presence nearby⎯ Well, it’s enough.

It reminds him that he’s still here, still alive.

The car turns, slowing down almost completely, and Scar rouses himself from his rest. He blinks blearily, realising belatedly that they’ve pulled into a rather familiar parking lot. Not on the street in front of the penthouse that Scar calls home. They’re in the back of the apartment Grian lives in, instead. He pushes himself off of the car door, still feeling somewhat dazed, and looks at his friend in confusion. Grian unbuckles his seatbelt after killing the engine, only just catching Scar’s gaze before he exits the car entirely.

“What?”

“Why are we here?” Scar asks, tongue feeling thick in his mouth. The streetlight slants across Grian’s face through the windshield, distorting his features and making everything feel that bit more unreal. His lips curl, displeased, as his eyebrows draw together. 

“You can’t seriously think that I was letting you back home after this, Scar.”

Scar doesn’t say what he thinks, which is that home has always been with Grian.

“But…” He doesn’t have a good counter argument, and they both know it. Grian raises an eyebrow pointedly as if to say I told you so, and exits the car. Clumsily, Scar goes to follow him, struggling with the seatbelt for long moments before he finally manages to get it to click. Grian is waiting on the sidewalk in front of the car, breath crystallising in the air.

He looks a little freezing, but not irritated. Arms crossed tightly over his chest, keys clutched in one hand, but face more open and calm than it’s been all night. As if he doesn’t mind doing all of this for Scar, in the end. It’s a ridiculous thought. Scar knows that it’s only through some kind of miracle that Grian has stuck around him for this long. He joins Grian on the sidewalk, taking his arm when the other man offers it.

Scar isn’t all that off-balance, not anymore, but…

Well, it’s Grian.

Shouldn’t that be reason enough?

Scar remembers getting up to Grian’s flat in flashes. The lobby, darkened and empty, and the stairs that made his legs ache in protest, and Grian’s sandy blond curls that smell like his minty shampoo. He thinks he stumbled on the stairs, perhaps, and knows that he heard Grian’s familiar voice, even if the words that he said are missing from the memory. He knows, absolutely, that he spent too much time so close to his friend.

But the journey itself escapes him, and before he knows it, they’re standing in the dark entryway of Grian’s apartment. Scar looks around, attempting to orient himself. From here, it’s easy to see into the living room and the kitchen on either side of the door. Further back is the hallway that leads into Grian’s bedroom and bathroom. Moonlight floods in from the living room on the left, windows giving a wonderful view of the building parking lot. Maui is curled up in the biggest patch of it, fur shining silver, and Scar wants to touch.

Before he can move, there’s a tug on the sleeve of his borrowed shirt.

“Scar?”

“Mm?” Scar manages, turning to Grian. It feels like he’s moving in slow-motion, or underwater, everything strange and off. The air itself is wrong. It’s unexplainable, but Scar feels it down to his core. Grian sighs, soft. He’s already shedded his coat in the time that Scar wasn’t looking at him, and now looks considerably sleepier. A twinge of guilt passes through Scar at waking him up so late. He shouldn’t do these things, shouldn’t be such a burden to someone who helps him so much.

“Shoes, Scar.” Grian gestures towards Scar’s feet. “Get them off before you track God knows what across my apartment.”

“Mean,” Scar mumbles with no heat, immediately moving to sit criss-cross in front of the door. There’s a small shoe rack nearby, although Grian’s shoes are mostly scattered around it instead of on it. Grian makes an aborted sound of protest, and Scar looks up at him in confusion, hands stilling on the tied laces of his shoes.

“Never mind,” Grian says. Scar has the distinct feeling that he’s done something wrong. “Go on, Scar, take your shoes off.”

“Yeah, alright.” Obediently, Scar unties one shoe before moving to the next. After his laces have been appropriately loosened, he takes the trainers off and puts them neatly inside the shoe rack. Once done, he looks back up at Grian for further direction. “What next?”

“Jeez,” Grian mutters, half to himself. Scar’s brow furrows. He extends a hand, one that Scar takes on autopilot, because there isn’t anything else he would do, when presented with an offer like that. “Up we go, Scar, come on.”

“Birdie?” Scar asks, soft, after Grian’s all but hoisted him up off the floor. He hasn’t let go of Grian’s hand. He doesn’t want to. Yet, as soon as he’s finished speaking, Grian’s hand slides from his own, and the man in question takes a quick step back.

“Yeah?” Grian prompts, easy. “What is it, Scar?”

“There’s nowhere for me to sleep,” Scar says, biting his lip to keep anything else from spilling out. A deep longing is coursing through his veins, this inescapable want to tell all of it to Grian, every bad thought he’s ever had about himself, every emotion he’s ever harboured, including the ones that he feels all the time around the man himself. They’re complex, but if anyone could dissect them, it’d be Grian. Scar just knows it.

“Of course there is,” Grian scoffs, shaking his head. “I know we can’t all be Mr. Fancy Penthouse like you, alright, but I do have a bed, Scar. It’s not as if I’m still in uni, in that ridiculous cult with Mumbo, you know.”

“No, no, that’s not… I didn’t mean it like that,” Scar says, flustered.

Grian squints at him. “I believe it.”

“No, really, I didn’t,” He says, somewhat desperately. Grian frowns, what looks like concern flickering across his face.

“I know, Scar. I was being genuine.”

“Oh,” Scar replies, feeling a bit boneless with relief.

Grian’s expression softens. “Yeah, oh. Come on, Scar. You need sleep, alright?”

“I don’t feel good,” Scar agrees, following Grian as he begins walking in the direction of his bedroom. Grian hums in acknowledgement. “I don’t know if I ever feel good, Grian. You know that?”

He giggles, and the sound comes back to him hysterical.

“I’m so… I’m needed all the time! And, and, well, pssh, I was built for this, made by people in a lab and given to two people who could’ve..cared less about me. Everybody needs a hero. Everybody needs a hero, G,” Scar repeats, contemplative. They’ve made it to Grian’s bedroom, and it’s darker in here, to the point that he has to squint a little. His friend has stopped short in front of him, but Scar can’t tell if he’s facing Grian’s back or his front.

“Everybody needs a hero, huh?” Grian murmurs. The darkness makes him feel close, too close. Scar hums.

“Everybody but you, G. You don’t need me. I like that about you. Nice not to be needed, you know?” A yawn catches him by surprise, all but tearing itself from deep in his chest. Scar blinks a couple of times slowly, reaching up to rub at his eyes. “Is it time to sleep, yet, birdie? I’m… I think I’m sleepy.”

“Yeah, Scar, it’s time to sleep,” Grian says, some unidentifiable emotion in his voice. Scar flinches slightly when he feels Grian’s hands land on his arms, but his friend doesn’t let that deter him. Gently, Grian guides Scar over to the bed, knowing the room like the back of his hand. Scar allows it to happen, trusting that Grian has him.

It’d be novel, if Scar weren’t so used to trusting Grian all the time.

His leg hits the mattress first, and Grian pushes him gently down to sit on the edge of the bed. There’s a few shuffling sounds before a distinct click, and then warm, golden light floods the entire bedroom. Scar stares at the lamp, wide-eyed, and it burns but only in the way that reminds him that he’s still human. Grian clicks his tongue, drawing his attention almost immediately.

“There you are,” He says softly. If Scar didn’t know better, he’d say that Grian sounds fond. His traitorous heart gives a flutter at the mere thought. “Lay down, Scar. You can do that much by yourself, I know you can.”

“You’re the only one that believes in me,” Scar blurts out as he climbs beneath the covers. He’s still wearing his jeans, but it’s hardly the most uncomfortable that he’s slept. Either way, with the weed and ecstasy slowly wearing off, Scar feels like he might crash hard. Gran blinks at him, those dark eyes slightly wide.

“No, I’m not,” He says, short and sharp. Scar frowns.

“You are,” He argues.

“You have an entire city that believes in you,” Grian retorts, tone flat, but his hands are gentle as they pull the covers over Scar more. They reach up, next, tousling amongst Scar’s fringe before freezing entirely, as if Grian realises just what he’s doing. The touch recedes a second later, and Scar misses it already.

He shakes his head, looking at Grian. “No, I have an entire city that believes in Hotguy.”

“You are Hotguy, though.”

“It’s not the same,” Scar says, restless. Grian purses his lips.

“If you say so, Scar.”

He shouldn’t have said anything. He knew deep down already that Grian wouldn’t understand what he meant. Nobody seems to. Scar sighs, shuffling under the blankets and getting as comfortable as he can. He takes his hearing aides out and turns them off, leaving them on the bedside table under Grian’s watchful sight. Exhaustion pulls at his eyelids, but he keeps his eyes open. Grian reaches over to the nightstand, hand ducking under the lampshade, before there’s another click and everything returns to darkness.

Tentative, like Scar will spook easy, a pair of lips brush gently against his forehead.

His lungs stutter.

Grian doesn’t acknowledge it, only turning and shuffling away from the bed. He must cross the room without any mishaps, because not long after that, Scar can feel the mattress dip from the other side. It’s a decently-sized bed, but small enough that Scar can feel it when Grian’s finally laying down. He radiates heat, a comforting presence to Scar’s left.

It’s like magic, Scar thinks.

Grian is like magic to him.

He turns onto his side, hoping to fall asleep, and⎯

A dark gaze catches his across the bed.

“Goodnight, Grian,” Scar whispers.

“Goodnight, Scar.”

He doesn’t hear it, not quite, but he can see the way Grian’s lips form the words, and it’s enough. It has to be enough. Now, here, safe in Grian’s bedroom, Scar finally allows his eyes to slip shut. All that surrounds him is Grian, Grian, Grian.

Just as it should be.

⎯end.