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“Scar. You’ve been watching that rabbit run around in circles for at least ten minutes. What’s up?”
“Oxytocin.”
It’s been about a week since Grian let him preen his wings. He’d woken up to the soothing feeling of Scar gently running his fingers through his secondary converts, his neck a little sore as he realised he’d fallen asleep on the other man. He’d scrambled away, horrified, embarrassed. Scar had tried to insist that it was fine even though his other arm was near completely numb and his legs weren’t much better as he almost fell off the bed chasing after Grian, and they’d laughed it off. Scar seemed genuinely happy that Grian trusted him with his wings, and Grian…well, Grian certainly wasn’t unhappy to discover just how good Scar was with them.
Now, Scar is leaning on a fence post at the top of Monopoly Mountain, watching a brown rabbit running around the desert below. Talking about oxytocin. Grian sucks in a breath, already feeling his cheeks grow a little warm. He knows he’s decidedly bad talking about anything vaguely romantic without turning into a blushing mess, even without having feelings for other person involved. And with Scar, uh. Well. He’s already a little red.
He takes a deep breath, praying this doesn’t go in the direction it sounds like this is going. “Scar. Elaborate.”
“I want to get how it feels,” Scar says, still gazing into the distance. “To have your wings fixed up. I’m trying to think of an equivalent.”
Grian blinks, caught off guard. Oh, so he doesn’t want to talk about the love chemical, exactly. Which is a relief. Grian’s not sure if he can stomach re-explaining that yes, preening can have romantic feelings and implications attached to it but no, not necessarily all the time just like how all physical touch is, while also knowing for himself that yes, he does maybe possibly feel those feelings towards Scar but no, no way is he going to tell Scar that. Not— not until he’s sorted it all out for himself a little more. Decided what he wants to do about it.
Eventually, he just shrugs. Tries to come up with a metaphor. “I dunno, dude. I guess it’s a bit like someone giving you a massage? That feels pretty nice. And makes your limbs all goopy.”
“That doesn’t make your brain turn off though.”
“Okay.” Grian’s brow furrows as he tries to come up with something else. “What about someone else giving you a massage, and also you’re drunk? It’s a similar sort of out-of-control feeling to drunkenness.”
Scar frowns, still deep in thought. “Hm. That might be getting closer.”
“I don’t think a drunk massage quite captures it,” Scar says out of absolutely nowhere.
Scott has just watched him and Grian blow up three people. They’re making the trek together to find Jimmy, to comfort him. Or laugh at him. Or something. Honestly, Scott’s just as keen to reunite with his husband as he is to sit back and watch what the chaotic sand duo do next, so this is a win either way.
Unfortunately, he has absolutely no clue what Scar’s talking about. “Er. What?”
Grian seems to catch on immediately. “Dude, I don’t know what to tell you. It’s an imperfect metaphor but it’s the best I’ve got.”
What?
“But it’s missing the friendship part,” Scar asserts.
“The friendship part?” Grian echoes.
“What friendship part?” Scott says. Maybe, possibly, one of them will explain what on earth they’re going on about.
Scar gestures with his hands as he speaks, clearly very hung up on this. “The bonding part! I’m pretty sure even if someone gave me a massage while I was very drunk, I don’t think I’d want to be friends with them for life just based on that. It’s not the same.”
“I would,” Scott says, immediately.
But Grian’s shaking his head. “No, no, I see what you mean. It’s not the same.”
Scar’s brow is furrowed, deep in thought. “What about hand holding? Hand holding can be platonic. Or, er. Not.”
“That’s a relevant and astute observation, Scar,” Scott quips. “This is a truly riveting conversation that the three of us are having, in which I certainly feel very included.”
Grian pays Scott as much attention as he has for the last two minutes, his cheeks flushing a shade or two darker. “Scar, I— maybe? But also no. It’s probably more like, someone being really nice to you? Really careful with you? That’s part of it.”
“So someone giving you a massage, really carefully, and you’re drunk?” Scar says slowly.
Scott glances between them, squinting. He’d like to be drunk, at the moment.
“Maybe the massage is making you progressively more drunk,” Grian says. “That’s getting pretty close, as a metaphor.”
That’s it. Scott can’t take it anymore. He steps between them, getting their attention, raising his voice slightly: “I am begging you both, what on earth are you talking about—”
Scar suddenly looks away, eyes lighting up with even more mischief than usual, somehow. “Oh look we’re here! Oh, Jimmy!”
Scott watches, stunned, as Scar races through the flower field to the door of Jimmy’s house without another word. Grian offers Scott the slyest of smirks, bemused. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Grian, please—“
“Don’t worry about it,” he repeats with a wink, before following Scar.
Scott is rooted on the spot for a few moments, staring after them. “Oh, I am absolutely going to worry about it.”
“Grian, there’s still a problem with the metaphor.”
Grian glances at Scar, who is standing next to Etho, who is loading the TNT cannon pointing directly at the Crastle. Scar can hardly be heard over the sound of Cleo and Bdubs yelling from thirty blocks away, either at the three of them or at each other, it’s hard to tell. Grian has rigged the Crastle’s bubble elevator with lava. All in all, there’s chaos everywhere.
He raises an eyebrow at his partner. “Is this really the time, Scar?”
“A massage doesn’t feel as intimate,” Scar says, avoiding the question entirely as he holds the piece of cobblestone Etho wordlessly hands to him, apparently actively choosing not to engage in whatever this conversation is. “And sure, it can be intimate physically, but not emotionally. There’s not as much trust involved,” Scar continues as Etho swaps the piece of cobblestone in Scar’s hand for a parcel of redstone dust, continuing his work. “It’s a nice thing to do for someone, but it’s not the same.”
Grian frowns, glancing at Etho, who shrugs. “Pass me some TNT, Grian?”
“Yeah, sure,” he says, absently passing Etho what he needs. Despite the circumstances, he’s strangely touched that Scar’s still thinking about this. Analysing it in so much detail. He definitely seems to understand what makes preening so personal, so intimate. It’s touching that he’s paid such careful attention to it all. It’s nice. Incredibly nice.
He leaves Etho to the cannon, focusing on Scar. “That’s…true. You want to try and come up with something else?”
The other nods. “There must be something, right?”
“Yeah. Okay, let’s go back to square one,” Grian says, holding a spare stick of TNT in his hand as he raises it to his lips, thoughtful. “All sorts of physical touch releases oxytocin and endorphins, right? The difference is just the amount.”
“That makes sense,” Scar says.
“So what if someone hugged you, for a really long time?”
Scar blinks. “And we’re forgetting the massage?”
“We’re forgetting the massage.”
“Are we drunk?”
“Hm.” Grian takes a moment to consider this. “The more we hug the drunker we get.”
Etho looks at the pair of them, confused. He says nothing, arming the TNT cannon.
“Okay,” Scar says slowly, frowning. “I don’t think I’d ever get overwhelmed by a hug though. Hugs are nice! It’s not—“ He breaks off as the pair of them hear screeching overhead. “Oh shoot a phantom—“
Grian wants to argue with him on the first point, hugs can absolutely be overwhelming, but he does have to concede that when a hug becomes too much it’s not exactly pleasant, let alone in the same way as being preened. He sighs, thinking about it as Scar fends off the skyborne monstrosity circling them. “I don’t know, what about…dancing? There’s the same physical closeness and sense of partnership, and the attention to detail.”
“Still not—“ Scar grunts, between swipes at the phantom, “—quite there, I don’t think—“
A voice pipes up from beside them: “What about kissing?”
Both of them freeze.
They turn to look at Etho.
Grian’s face has turned bright red. Scar blinks dumbly, absolutely nothing behind his eyes. The phantom bites into his head, and he doesn’t flinch. “Huh?”
Etho shrugs. Goes back to his work.
Grian and Scar look at each other. Scar coughs. “Um. Maybe we should—“
“Actually, I think Etho’s onto something,” Grian says quickly, beginning to pace back and forth across the grass. Scar shakes his head as if to clear it, dislodging the phantom and resuming his attempts to stab it out of the sky. Grian leaves him to it, deep in thought. “It could be like, someone kissing your hand? Or your forehead? I dunno, that doesn’t have to be romantic, but it flusters me either way, and I think in a way that’s similar.”
“Aww, you get— ow— flustered when you get forehead kisses?” Scar glances over at him with a slightly breathless grin, even as the phantom mauls his shoulder, blood pooling around a gap in his armour.
Grian flinches at the size of the wound. “Scar, careful, you— you were there, you’ve literally done this.”
“Oh, yeah,” Scar says calmly, dealing the final blow to the phantom, a little short of breath. “Except I was preening your wings at the same time. I don’t think that’s a great test. Too many variables. I think we need to test it in isolation. For science.”
Grian levels him with a completely flat, dead stare. He pulls a lava bucket out of his inventory.
“Okay, okay! You’re no fun.”
“Speaking of fun,” Etho says, clearing his throat, before raising his voice in the most exaggerated manner possible. “Oh, look! Grian and Scar! The Crastle is undefended! We don’t even need the cannon, we could just storm it now and take all of their diamonds!”
“Oh, no you don’t! I will defend this castle to my death!” Bdubs declares from somewhere in the distance, sprinting towards the Crastle’s front door.
“You will,” Etho says ominously.
Grian glances at Scar. “Does the metaphor make sense? If we change it to platonic kisses?”
Scar frowns. “Hm. I think so? But I’m struggling to untangle it from kisses also being romantic, I think, since forehead kisses don’t really fluster me unless— oh, there goes Bdubs.”
There does go Bdubs, up the bubble elevator. Grian grins madly as he sees the death message on his communicator. “Good work, boys.”
Etho smiles. “Time for the cannon?”
“Time for the cannon!” Scar says, enthusiastically. “But Grian, I’m not sure about—“
“Oh for goodness sake, Scar, it’s like—” He snatches up Scar’s right hand, holding it gently in his for a moment, before pressing a soft kiss to the knuckles. He forces himself not to blush, because this isn’t an inherently romantic gesture, that’s the point. “It’s like that.”
Scar is frozen, colour dusting his cheeks, eyes round. “Oh.”
Etho gets a direct hit on the Crastle. The top of the tower explodes.
Grian holds Scar’s gaze for a moment, chest tightening as the other man is silent. Anxiety begins to worm its way into his stomach. “Scar?”
The other man stares back for a moment longer, before pulling his hand back, a little too quickly. “I— um.” He runs his hand through his hair, not meeting Grian’s eye. “I’m— er— I’m actually not sure that clarified a lot— oh look Bdubs has respawned bye Etho!” Scar says suddenly, pulling Grian to the side, out of line of sight as Bdubs and Cleo approach, depositing them both squarely in the middle of a bush.
Grian yelps, laughing breathlessly as they both fall to the ground, something crackling in the air between them, stealing all the air from his lungs. Scar falls halfway on top of him, but he doesn’t care. His stomach swoops at the thought that Scar will have to pick the twigs out of his wings later and— no, they’re not that bad, you can do them yourself Grian, stop getting carried away. He stays low, finding his feet, stifling more bubbling laughter as he meets Scar’s eye. “Wait, wait, what did you say, Scar?” he whispers.
“Don’t worry about it,” he replies, Cheshire grin flashing, his lack of confidence from a moment earlier disappeared like mist at sunrise. His red eyes shine in the gloom, with mischief or bloodlust, Grian can barely tell. “Let’s get out of here?”
Grian nods, heart skipping a beat. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Oh! What about when someone compliments you?”
“What?"
“For the metaphor for getting your wings preened!”
Grian stares across the desert as Scar calls out from the crafting table, making more TNT while Grian deposits it in the holes he’s been digging all morning. He frowns, squinting into the sun. “What?”
“You know, the metaphor! And I think being drunk is a bad comparison? Because being drunk doesn’t always feel nice! But I might have come up with something else!” Scar calls back.
Grian sighs, laughing quietly to himself. It’s a little funny that Scar can’t let this go. He puts the TNT back in his inventory, crossing the sand to sit himself down beside his partner, reaching for some water as he wipes sweat off his brow. “You’re still thinking about it, huh?”
“I just don’t think I’ve got it yet.”
Grian’s chest swells with affection as he regards the other. Oh, Scar. “Alright, alright. I actually went for drunkenness because even if preening generally feels good, sometimes the lack of control doesn’t feel nice, depending on the circumstances. But continue.”
“I don’t know, I was thinking,” Scar says, putting down the cube of gunpowder he was holding. “Being complimented feels really nice, right? And also overwhelming? But it’s more of a good overwhelm. Is that close to what getting your wings preened feels like?”
Grian blinks. It’s probably a better comparison than anything he’s come up with so far. Different, but closer. Although being complimented doesn’t feel half as overwhelming or intense as being preened, as far as Grian is concerned. He looks at Scar, quizzical. “…You get really affected by compliments?”
“‘Doesn’t everyone?”
Grian stashes away that piece of knowledge for later. He’s not sure when, or what for, but any new way to mess with Scar, he’ll take. “I think on some level yeah, but there’s different degrees,” he says carefully.
“I think you get pretty flustered by compliments, G,” Scar smirks, leaning in closer, resting his elbow on the crafting table. “If when I was fixing your wings was anything to go by.”
Grian scoffs, whacking him gently over the back of the head with one of his wings. “Scar, that does not count. I was already so out of it you could’ve, I don’t know, licked my feathers and it would’ve done weird things to my head.”
Scar blinks, staring at Grian. Slowly turns to face the wing outstretched behind him. Slowly, slowly pokes out his tongue.
Grian all but squeaks the moment he catches on to what’s happening, snatching his wing out of Scar’s reach, scandalised. “Scar, no! Why would you—”
Scar laughs, rocking back in his chair, tipping his head back. “Oh, you’re so easy, G—“
“Scar, I will kill you—“
“Has anyone ever—“
“No one has ever licked my feathers and we are absolutely not testing this,” Grian snaps, feathers bristling. “I promise you, it won’t do anything for me, and my feathers will taste awful—“
“But there’s only one way to really know,” Scar counters, waggling his eyebrows in a way that makes Grian want to punch him until he dies.
Instead, he sucks in a deep breath. Tries to remain calm. How did he end up with a partner so— with Scar. “Scar. You wouldn’t lick Jellie, would you?”
“I would for science.”
“Scar, I think you keep on forgetting how your last attempt at a science experiment went.”
“Hey, hey, that was— that was because of an uncontrolled variable!” he insists, the pitch of his voice rising with indignance. “It doesn’t count! I am absolutely licking your wing.”
“You are absolutely not licking my wing!”
“If I lick your wing you can lick my arm?”
“I— Scar, I don’t want to lick your arm!”
“But then you can get payback!”
“I don’t need payback when absolutely no licking has to happen today,” Grian huffs, pulling his wings close to his back. “That’s final, Scar.” Grian doesn’t look at him, steadfastly glaring at the holes they’ve dug.
“So you’re telling me—” Scar says, his voice smooth and buttery and oh no that’s the salesman pitch voice that’s the conman voice. Oh no. Grian’s doomed. “—you won’t be thinking about this later? Wondering what it might feel like? Regretting taking me up on this unique, once in a lifetime opportunity? Thinking, ‘oh, no, if only I’d just let Scar—‘“
“No! No, I won’t!”
Scar leans closer, his breath ghosting against Grian’s ear. “Are you sure, Grian?”
There’s a long silence. A long silence.
Grian puts his head in his hands.
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“I hate you with all of my being. You get one lick—“
“Yes!"
“In the direction of the feathers, please,” Grian says, all but shoving his wing in Scar’s face. “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.”
“You’re gonna be so glad you agreed to this, G. This is going to be amazing, this is going to be life-changing, just you wait.”
“Just do it, Scar. Please.”
Scar laughs, and Grian scrunches up his eyes, refusing to look as he feels something moist and foreign and wrong drag along his one of his secondaries.
There’s a short pause.
“Grian, your wings taste bad.”
“Told you so.”
“Did it— did it feel—“
“It felt like you licked me, Scar.”
“…I don’t know what I expected.”
“Me neither, Scar.”
“Scar. You’ve been staring out that window for a good ten minutes.”
Scar starts as he hears Grian’s voice next to him, pulled from his thoughts. The sun is low in the sky, almost disappeared behind the distant mountains beyond the world border, washing the desert with soft, orange light. Grian had suggested they wait until morning before luring the others over towards the bunker, not wanting their plan to be ruined by a surprise creeper explosion. He’s sitting by the lever, sharpening his sword, having reluctantly conceded that the bunker is safe enough for them to take their armour off for the evening. (“You could at least put a shirt on though, Scar.” “I, um…I think I lost it?” “You’re serious?” “It was in a chest. In the base. When Monopoly Mountain exploded.” “Scar.”)
Leaving Scar to sit with his thoughts. Thoughts of Grian, mostly.
“Your name is red, your life is too valuable, and I owe you my green life, so here’s the plan: I’m gonna try and lure them into the danger zone, keep them here, and you pull the apocalypse lever.”
“…”
Tomorrow, Grian is going to die. He’s actively planning on it. And when he turns yellow, Scar is going to lose him.
“Scar?” Grian puts the sharpening stone down, returning the netherite sword to his inventory. “Are you okay?”
Scar sighs, leaning into the touch. “Yeah. No.”
“No?”
“No.”
Grian gets to his feet, pulling up a chair to sit beside Scar, hand dropping to hold Scar’s own, squeezing once. “Hey. What’s up?”
It takes a moment for Scar to respond. He cautiously glances at Grian, meeting his eye. The other looks concerned, tense. He rubs his thumb across Scar’s knuckles. Scar offers him a weak smile. “You’re sweet.”
“Psh, absolutely not.”
Scar doesn’t reply. His eyes wander to Grian’s wings, loosely held behind him. “Have you fixed your wings up since I got sand in them last week?”
“Nah. Haven’t really had a chance. Can’t use them, anyway.”
He nods, reaching out with one hand, cautiously. Grian stiffens, but makes no move to pull his wings away. Scar swallows, carefully brushing dirt out from under one of the uppermost feathers, before pulling his hand back. “Do they need it?”
Grian’s face is a little red. “I— not really— Scar, why are you—“
“I don’t know, maybe it would be good for you. You seem, er, really stressed.”
The avian raises an eyebrow. “I seem stressed?”
Scar nods again, smiling softly. “Mm-hm.”
Grian doesn’t question him any further. He turns himself around, pulling his jumper over his head and resting his arms on the back of his chair, looking over his shoulder and unfolding his wings, presenting them to Scar. “Sure, have at it dude. I’m going to sleep so well after this. Wouldn’t hurt to have some extra energy for tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Scar echoes, faintly, feeling a strain of heartache. He gently cards his fingers through the small feathers at the base of Grian’s wings, laughing quietly as Grian buries his face in his arms, wings rustling and twitching. They’re not nearly as sandy as the first time Scar did this, but a week’s worth of buildup still seems fairly significant. He teases a pair of larger feathers apart, carefully nudging them into alignment. “Thanks.”
Grian keens, tucking the wrist of his wing under Scar’s chin, akin to a finger, leaving it there for a moment. It’s a strange gesture, but there’s affection in it. “You wanna tell me what’s on your mind?”
“Nah. You just sit there and look pretty.”
“Scar! I—“ Grian turns around, his face bright red. “Don’t tease me like that while you’re doing my wings!”
Scar laughs, gently easing his fingers through Grian’s soft down. “But it’s so funny.” And absolutely, definitely something Scar intended to say out loud and not an internal thought that slipped out by accident. Definitely.
“It’s— ugh,” Grian manages. He rests his chin on his arms again, relaxing. “You’re a menace.”
“That’s high praise from Mister Menace Man himself!”
“Yeah, yeah, well. Don’t get used to it,” Grian says, a smile in his voice.
They lapse into a comfortable silence as Scar picks through Grian’s feathers. He takes a moment to admire their colours in the evening light. The warm yellows and red almost seem to glow. The greens are stunning, vibrant against the pale sandstone floor. He’s never noticed before how the colours in Grian’s feathers are blurred from one section to the next, yellow feathers tipped with green one layer before making a complete transition into the cooler colour, the lowermost red feathers turning orange in the centre, although still with deep red edges. He gently pulls a small green feather that’s coming loose, bent at the shaft. Grian barely reacts, making a small, satisfied noise. Scar stares at the feather for a long moment, holding it up to the light as the last bit of sun shines through the bunker window, lighting the feather from behind, before vanishing, the bunker growing dark. Scar stares at the feather, unmoving.
Grian stirs, looking over his shoulder. “Scar? Why’d you stop?”
Scar swallows, jumping. “Oh, I— nothing.”
“It doesn’t seem like nothing.”
“It’s…do you think you’ll keep your green feathers when you turn yellow?”
“Oh.” Grian blinks, glancing back at his own wings, stretching them out fully. “I mean, your change to red was pretty drastic. I suppose these could change too.”
Scar nods, placing the green feather down beside him. “I like them how they are.”
Grian smiles contentedly, turning back around. “They’re not bad, are they? I think I like ‘em best when they’re brown, though. They get really detailed patterns on them when they’re like that.”
“I like the colours.”
“You would. The detail in the brown feathers reminds me of the texturing on your builds.”
“The red reminds me of your jumper,” Scar returns, his voice light, almost teasing. He runs his hand through the red feathers towards the top of Grian’s wings, dislodging some sand, leaving the feathers smooth and neat.
Grian hums quietly in response, closing his eyes. “Red would suit you. Really brings out your eyes,” he jokes.
Scar says nothing, focusing on the feathers in front of him again. He brushes some leaf litter out from between some feathers towards the middle of one of his wings, smiling softly as Grian melts into the touch.
Before long, the sun has set completely, the desert rapidly turning colder. What little heat the sandstone throughout the bunker has soaked up throughout the day dissipates quickly, a sudden chill settling over the pair of them. Grian shudders, reaching for his jumper, pulling it over his arms before they get covered in goosebumps, but he hardly looks warm. Scar taps his shoulder, leaning in close. “Cold?”
“Mm-hm.”
“We could move. Maybe—“ Scar hesitates, unsure if the suggestion is too much. “Maybe we could move to the bed. Get a furnace going right next to it. Get you under some blankets.”
Grian turns his head, slowly looking over his shoulder, blinking at Scar. “That’s really thoughtful. You— you don’t have to do all this for me.”
“I want to.”
“Alright, then,” Grian says, standing up and stretching, catlike. He pulls the jumper over his shoulders, making Scar stand up in surprise, protesting.
“G, you’ll disturb the feathers!”
Grian snorts. “Your work can’t be that precise, Scar. Unless you’re looking for an excuse to redo them.”
“Well— well maybe I’ll have to!”
“Ha, ha. I’ve got a date with a TNT trap tomorrow, so don’t get too perfectionistic about it.”
Scar swallows, heart sinking. “Right. Yeah.”
Grian leads Scar to the bed, sitting down on it as Scar gets some cobblestone smelting away in the nearest furnace, warning the room. After checking the furnace has enough fuel to keep them going for a while, he pulls a series of blankets rescued from Monopoly Mountain out from one of their chests. He passes them to Grian, who arranges them in a circular pattern, leaving plenty of extra blanket for them to cover their legs and keep themselves warm, before gesturing for Scar to sit. Scar does, and Grian pulls their largest blanket over the pair of them, torchlight barely shining through. “Can you see well enough?”
“Um. This is wonderfully cozy, but uh, no. Definitely not.”
“Right, okay, let me just—“ Grian pulls a lantern out of his inventory, lighting it and placing it on the bed next to them. “Does that work?”
Scar nods.
“Were you done with the back?”
“Not quite.”
Grian turns his back to Scar, calm. Trusting. Vulnerable.
Scar nods again, fingers sliding through a line of large feathers as the avian twitches beneath him. He takes in the stillness. The quiet sense of peace. Two of them, hidden under a blanket in a bunker, lit by lanternlight. He doesn’t want to move on from this moment. He doesn’t want to lose this moment. He wants to keep Grian here, the two of them against the world. He lovingly adjusts one of the long feathers at the base of Grian’s right wing, and the other hums contentedly, putty in Scar’s hands. Scar’s heart grows warm at the thought that he’s affecting Grian in a way that neither of them have been quite able to name, even if he doesn’t quite understand it. That— what was it that Grian said? That Grian might want to keep him as part of his flock. That maybe Grian would choose to stay.
Wait. No.
Scar freezes.
No, that’s not what he was trying to do.
He already knew that on some level Grian was allowing this as a favour to calm his racing thoughts, even if the benefit was mutual. But realisation that the Machiavellian part of him, the part of him who knows how to con and manipulate his friends for his own gain, might be at the wheel here, slams into him like a truck. He’s exploiting a very real weakness that Grian revealed to him, trusted him with. He knows that doing this with Grian deepens their bond in some way, for the avian.
Because of the oxytocin.
And maybe Scar is subconsciously trying to keep him close, trying to make him want to stay with Scar. Even when he’s said he’s going to leave. Scar can’t do that to him.
His hands grow still. He swallows. He carefully pulls his hands back. “I— I’m sorry, Grian. Sorry.”
Grian turns to look at him, frowning. “Scar?”
“I— you didn’t really want me to do this, I shouldn’t—” he says, rambling.
“No, Scar, that’s not— no. I agreed to this. You’re doing a great job,” Grian insists, turning around fully, taking Scar’s hands. “Hey. Scar.”
Scar looks up at him, sheepishly. “Hey, Grian.”
“What’s wrong?” Grian looks at him, his eyes dark. Soft.
Scar takes a deep breath. Then: “I’m going to lose you tomorrow, aren’t I?”
Silence hangs in the air between them, something about it delicate, fragile. Like a spider’s web adorned with raindrops. A piece of string over a lava trap.
“Scar,” Grian breathes. He looks torn. “I only owe you my first life.”
Scar nods. His heart breaks, just a little. He swallows thickly, fingers retracting further. “Right. Sorry, I just—”
“Scar—“
“Sorry.” Scar cuts off Grian’s protest with a small kiss to the top of his head. “You don’t have to do anything. I don’t want to make you stay if you don’t want to.”
Grian makes an adorably small sound, sitting back, taking his hand. He looks at him, looks into him, dark eyes like the void. “You— do you want me to stay?”
Scar nods. More than anything. Something about the quiet, the proximity, Grian here with him. This moment. Now that he’s got it he’s not sure how he could possibly go without it. “I do. I— you’re— um— this is—“
Grian’s laughing softly, shaking a little in Scar’s lap. “Oh, Scar. I think this whole preening business might be doing things to your head,” he says, a smile on his lips.
Scar finds himself staring, just for a moment.
Oh, void.
His eyes flick upwards again, meeting Grian’s eye. “Maybe.” There’s a slight roughness to his voice that he isn’t expecting.
Grian considers him for a moment.
Shuffles forwards a little.
And gently presses his lips against the other’s cheek.
Scar’s brain just about turns off. That’s— that’s the feeling. Maybe. That’s what it’s like to have your brain flooded with oxytocin. It’s closeness, it’s fondness, it’s loving. He inhales sharply in surprise, barely daring to move. Grian retracts, pink-dusted cheeks barely visible in the dim light. Scar can’t take his eyes off him, memorising every detail of his face as if at any given moment he could disappear forever. “Oh.”
“Is— is that fine?”
Scar swallows. Yes, that’s fine, that’s amazing, that couldn’t be more fine. He’s. Wow. “More than fine.”
Grian’s eyes seem to grow a little rounder, curious. “Do you think you’ve got it, now? I think we’ve— maybe found a metaphor? Because you seem pretty affected by that, Scar.”
Scar nods, unable to take his eyes off his friend. Whatever they’re doing at the moment sure is making his heart feel full and his head feel empty. “Um. I think I get it, mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“I don’t think I’m, uh…” He doesn’t quite finish his sentence, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. Oh, he hopes he hasn’t misread this. Everything’s adding up. That kiss didn’t feel particularly platonic. The way Grian is staring at him in the half-light doesn’t feel particularly platonic either. He summons his courage, feeling his cheeks grow even warmer as he looks Grian in the eye. “I don’t think I’m quite getting the, um, non-romantic part.”
Grian freezes, making a high-pitched noise, face turning scarlet. “Scar!”
“I— you kissed me!” he says immediately, indignant. “It’s not my fault I—“
“Scar,” Grian cuts him off before he can ramble on, fixing him with a look. “Preening’s not— er— it’s not inherently romantic. But that doesn’t mean it, um. Never is. So I think maybe you have got it. The feeling. Maybe.”
Scar swallows thickly. “Oh. Um. That’s good?”
“Well, actually—“ Grian leans in, and after a moment’s hesitation, presses another kiss to Scar’s cheek, and another, closer to his jaw. Scar feels something in his stomach stir like a paper bag being crumpled, ears burning. Grian sits back, staring up at Scar, his eyes round, vulnerable. “It’s probably more like doing it over and over.”
Scar nods, barely daring to speak, his brain now catching up to the fact that he’s admitted to all of this feeling quite non-platonic and Grian is kissing him again. His brain short-circuits as Grian places a hand on his knee, tilting his head to press a kiss to Scar’s other cheek, so gently. It’s as if he’s afraid Scar will break. The avian threads his fingers through Scar’s hair, pulling gently on the strands as he presses a few more kisses to Scar’s cheek and forehead, and oh that’s— that’s amazing. The room around them grows slightly fuzzy and unfocused as his world narrows to nothing but Grian. Everything is softness and warmth and love and Scar is doomed.
“Scar?”
Scar refocuses as if snapped out of a trance. Grian has retreated back slightly, sitting on his heels, his face hard to read. Holding his breath. He gently squeezes Scar’s forearm. “This is fine, right?”
Scar nods. Bites his tongue, taking a deep breath. He’s pretty sure he’s not misreading this. And as nice as it is having Grian pepper his face with kisses, overwhelming him with affection, it feels a little one sided. Scar lifts a hand to brush Grian’s hair out of his face. Gently cups his cheek. Holds him there. “Is— is this fine?”
Grian makes a noise in the back of his throat, breath knocked out of him for a moment. “Oh— uh— yeah. That’s, uh— that’s pretty cool.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“And, um. What about this?”
Scar leans down and in, face hovering inches from Grian’s own. His heart racing as he stills, meeting Grian’s eye. He can feel Grian’s breath on his cheek.
Grian swallows. “That— oh. That’s alright.”
Scar hums quietly. It seems to fill the entire space between them. His heart feels like it’s going to explode. (And it wouldn’t be the first time Grian’s caused that.) He tries his absolute hardest to keep his voice level, upping the ante. “Just alright?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I think it could maybe be better, though,” Grian says, a little nervous, but his eyes glow with mischief.
“Oh? Better how?”
“I dunno, I was thinking maybe this,” Grian says in a rush, threading his fingers through Scar’s hair and finally, finally kissing him.
Scar closes his eyes as Grian’s lips press against his, as gentle and soft and warm as all their previous touches. There’s the quiet rustle of blankets as Grian’s wings twitch and flutter happily, the avian pulling him impossibly closer, tightening his grip on Scar’s hair, pressing small kisses to the corner of his mouth. Scar can’t help but smile, his own hands coming to rest on Grian’s waist, happily receiving all the attention that Grian offers. He cracks one eye open, wanting to see everything, take in everything, remember and cling to every part of this moment and him and Grian. The warm light of the lantern gives the other’s skin a soft, golden glow. There’s a cute, focused little crease between his brows as he swipes his tongue across Scar’s upper lip, and oh, what’s wonderful. Scar’s eyes flutter closed again as a fire licks at the insides of his stomach, but it’s not a violent, all-consuming thing. It’s warm and comfortable, like a hearth being lit, radiant heat spreading from his gut to his chest. His lips part with no resistance, and when Grian begins to suck gently Scar whines, wanting more but pulling back, afraid of losing himself.
He stares at Grian, glowing. “Woah.”
“Was that better?”
“I think— I—“ Scar catches his breath, unable to take his eyes off the other, searching for words. Words are hard. “I think maybe we should double check.”
Grian’s nodding before Scar can even finish his sentence as he dives in for another kiss, climbing all but into Scar’s lap, one hand resting on Scar’s bare stomach (read: abs) as he reclaims his lips. Scar falls back onto one elbow, stretching upwards to press a kiss to Grian’s nose, laughing as the other lets out a surprised squeak. Grian settles above him, wings unfurling to hold the blanket over them, a canopy of wool and feathers hiding them from the rest of the world. He kisses Scar as though loving him is as easy as breathing, proffering his affection in small licks and brushes of teeth against flesh. Scar feels like his chest might burst as he responds in kind, daring to explore with his tongue, trailing feather-light touches through Grian’s wings, heart soaring at the little noises he pulls from the other.
Eventually, Grian pulls back, desperate for air. Face flushed, eyes round. “Scar, what are we doing?” he whispers.
“Er.” Scar swallows, looking up at him. Filled with awe. “Fixing your wings?”
“My wings aren’t in my mouth, Scar.”
“…Fixing your wings, with some extra steps?”
Grian stares at him, considering. Evaluating. Then he shrugs, moving his hand to the bed so that he’s leaning even closer, the two of them almost chest to chest. “Yeah, okay.” And he goes back in for more.
Time seems to stop. Or slow. Or not matter at all. Every silly trope and cliché and song lyric about love being a chemical reaction is proved correct as the metaphor clicks. Scar threads his fingers through Grian’s feathers and the avian sighs in response — Grian presses a kiss to his clavicle and throws Scar a mischievous grin and Scar can’t quite stifle the low noise in his throat. The avian lifts himself higher to rest his forehead against Scar’s, noses brushing. “Hey,” he whispers, eyes shining.
“Hey.” Scar’s throat feels dry.
“You’re really something, y’know.”
“You’re not too bad yourself.”
Grian beams. “You get it now?”
“I think— I think we should triple check—“
Grian laughs with his whole chest, body curling to bury his head in Scar’s neck. Scar idly tangles his fingers through his hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “You’re amazing, Grian,” he whispers.
“Shut up.” There’s a smile in his voice.
“I thought you said you didn’t get overwhelmed by compliments—“
“Shut up, Scar.”
“You’re beautiful.”
Scar hears Grian’s breath catch. He looks up at Scar, eyes adoring. “You’re too much.”
Scar smiles. “You’re perfect.”
“Shut up,” Grian grins, face red. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re amazing,” Scar returns, pressing a kiss to Grian’s ear.
“You already— Scar, that tickles!”
“Aha! The great and fearsome Grian reveals his weak point!”
“Scar, noooo!” Grian laughs as Scar blows softly on his neck. Scar tortures him for a brief moment before relenting, pressing a soft kiss to his throat. Grian lets a quiet whine escape him, quickly capturing Scar’s lips before the other man can exploit his weakness any further. Scar arches up into it, filled with a deep sense of contentment.
Grian is here. He’s with Scar. And he’s going to stay.
There’s just one last thing to be sure of. Scar pulls back, looking Grian in the eye. “Hey, um— G?”
“Mm-hm?”
“You’re not gonna— when we’re done with your feathers and the bird brain goes away you won’t, um. You won’t freak out and regret this, will you?”
Grian looks at him, dark eyes serious, something adjacent to devastated. “That would be cruel,” he says slowly.
“Y—yeah. But like— just checking. You’re not kissing me just because of the wing thing—”
“Shut up, Scar,” Grian says fondly, kissing him again so that he doesn’t have a choice.
And Scar wouldn’t have it any other way.