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The feeling of being red wrapped his heart in barbed wire upon respawning. It was hauntingly familiar, an old friend, an old coat shrugged over his shoulders. One that smelt of smoke and hot sand.
Last Life was only proving to Scar, over and over again, that he only survived as long as he did on Third Life because of a certain winged partner. That on his own Scar was lonely and pathetic and helpless. And now he was as alone as ever, moving his tired body to sit miserably on his bed, head in his hands as he realized how screwed he was.
Then there were footsteps. And Scar allowed himself a little fantasy moment, a little weakness, that it was Grian come to visit him, come to make sure he was okay, to bring his items and fuss over him like it was Third Life all over again. Tugging along a llama, insisting he wear armour, watching his back.
The footsteps stuttered in the door, and Scar's heart stopped dead in his chest, like someone took the muscle from his chest and slapped it against the wall as hard as they could.
"Are you okay?" Grian said. He crossed the room in two frantic strides, immediately falling to his knees before Scar like a praying man and gripping his thighs hard enough that it restarted Scar's heart.
Scar inhaled, shocked that Grian was there and uncertain if his motives were kind. He said, "You're here."
"I... I brought your stuff." Grian said, out of breath. He was staring at Scar, eyes searching his face, with the faintest tremble of his lips.
Scar wanted this fantasy to be real so badly. He decided that whatever Grian wanted, he would give him, even if it meant the end of his game, right here and right now. He said, "Thank you."
"You're welcome." Grian's hands tightened and he stood up swiftly, turning his back to open Scar's double chest and deposit his inventory there. Scar didn't bother to watch and see if everything was accounted for, instead staring intently at the line of Grian's shoulders, the flex of his wings, the shake in his hands when he hesitated to shut the lid. Until finally he turned around, meeting Scar's burning gaze. Grian did not flinch away from it, even though Scar knew his eyes to be blood red. There was only one person who spent the most time with Scar in this state, and there was no fear there. There was just a strung silence, filled with things they weren't going to say.
Especially not Scar. Not now, when for some reason in the worst time of his life he'd been gifted with Grian's presence again, like a waking dream. The one person he actually wanted, here. He didn't want to say anything that might make him leave, so he said nothing at all.
Grian spoke after a while, voice thin and scratchy, "You didn't answer my question. Are you alright?"
"I'm..." That was a very hard question to answer. Scar was scared answering it would be what broke the truce. He shut his eyes and exhaled through his nose for a second, trying to compose himself. When he opened them again, he found Grian still looking at him. The expression on Grian's face jumped, and deepened, into something dangerous. All other words died in Scar's throat.
Because Grian was looking at him with the same expression he'd worn when it was the two of them against the world, when they shared everything, when the world spun around them alone, when there was only a drag of their lips together under the stars.
And wonder of wonders, Grian stepped closer. He reached out. All the signs had pointed to running, to his usual denial of anything remotely resembling their connection, their partnership, especially in this horrible game. Scar was so alone without him. It wasn't fair, for either of them. He wanted this so badly he felt like he might fall apart if Grian didn't touch him. Scar waited.
Then Grian touched his cheek, the expression on his face crumbling the moment he made contact. Something visceral and gutted, lips parting and brows twitching together. A line of misery, broad-stroked and full of his usual agonizing martyrdom.
Scar finally let himself breathe when Grian didn't pull away. He didn't know how long this would last, so he slowly clutched Grian's hand and turned his mouth into it. Just a butterfly wing against the life-line on his palm, feeling the tide of emotions at this drink of water after centuries alone in a desert, at having a stolen second of lost sensibility. A drowning man's grip of desperate straining tendons.
Grian audibly shivered, but did not move. Scar seized on the opportunity, heart racing, anxious to lose his chance. He practically wanted to devour Grian and settled on kissing each finger, feeling blessed every time he got away with pressing his lips to another then another then another. He moved to his wrist, kissing his pulse point and waiting a breath to feel it flutter, grateful, before managing one last to his inner arm before Grian moved. The timer was up, the clock struck midnight and the illusion fell.
The fantasy dissolved into reality. Scar knew it was coming, he had no other expectations, but it didn't mean his heart didn't plummet through the floor, that his blood didn't go cold and chilled, that his lungs didn't stutter as if he'd been punched directly in the diaphragm. Sorrow retook its home inside him, sheer, slimy, and sour.
"I shouldn't have come." Grian whispered. He didn't look happy, because he never enjoyed making Scar sad. He was a good person, albeit a complicated one.
Scar loved that about him, he promised himself. But in that moment the pain was so strong he had a rather uncharacteristic thought.
Regardless, Scar met his eyes one last time and said, "Take care of yourself, okay?"
Grian did not reply before he left.
Scar waited until he was sure he was gone before he let his head fall back into his hands. The uncharacteristic thought was, 'I wish he hadn't come.'