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A body hit the sand, feet stumbling over themselves to try and get away. Laughter and bickering words shooting out like a fleet of arrows. Crack. The laughter was gone. Crack. The lightning sounded as red faded to grey, skull flattening against the rock. Crack
Love died laughing.
The heat, warm on Grian’s back, blistered and swam in the desert’s bloodied field. Just below, an ocean of gold was mutilated from the littered cacti and pits of molten lava bordering it like a wall. Some flimsy idea of protection that only hurt and hurt and hurt. Killed.
Grian stared at the destroyed minefield where laughter faced its king. Where eyes poured salt and the canary was laid to rest, his body sprawled on the ground like discarded litter. It was reduced to ashes before he could be buried by his husband; soon to join him.
Grian glanced once at the gaping mouth below him, beckoning him into its maw with reassuring whispers. It’ll all be over. You’ll see him again. You will never see him again. Jump. Jump. Jump. Jump. Jump. Jump–
Grian blinked, head turning over his shoulder, just outside the ring of the prickly plants they had created on a whim.
They want a fight. They want blood. Echoes of laughter and dimpled grins pulsed behind his eyes like a river shoving against a dam. A flag burning at the ring’s entrance, dyed red fabric of something so respectless– something that bore the weight of war– reduced to ash like the canary’s body.
Death doesn’t discriminate, does it? It’s merciless, it’s greedy, it’s necessary, it’s beautiful.
Grian stared at the gray body with the cracked skull.
It’s Love.
The body only stared at the sky, fingers spread out to catch its fallen stars, blood dusting his face and hands. If he closed his eyes and tried hard enough, he could almost imagine it was paint. Paint from his beautiful– beautiful could never be enough to describe them– paintings, hung up all over the interior of his builds. Grian could almost imagine his partner was waiting to respawn, having fallen over as he always did so clumsily.
But his body was merely that: a body. His fingers had begun to crumble now, soon reducing his entire body to dust blown away in the wind. Grian wanted to feel them one last time, press them against his lips one last time.
One last time.
“Scar– Scar what’re you doing?” The avian breathed, watching the shallow water pool around Scar’s kneeling legs. His pants were soggy now, darker brown and rippling in the water like seaweed. Grian would’ve become annoyed at the new laundry he’d have to do. If it wasn’t their last day.
“I want you to slay me and take the enchanter,” Scar’s head was bowed, brown hair spilling over his face like God’s hands were guiding it down towards Hell.
The grip on his sword faltered. The same one Martyn had given him. It pressed against Scar’s neck like a promise. “No–no I can’t, Scar. I literally can’t.”
“Grian–”
“They want blood, Scar. I can’t–”
“Grian.” Grian’s mouth clamped shut, voices twirling around and around like children screaming on a carousel. “G, light of my life, you deserve this win,” Scar pressed the blade deeper into his neck, drawing blood. “I betrayed you, you deserve this win.”
“No. No, this needs to be a fair fight.” A whisper floated from the audience to his lips. “Fists. No armour, no weapons. Only our fists.”
Why wasn’t it a fair fight? Grian stared at the man filled with joy and laughter, a sunburnt face decorated from life’s experiences in the form of pale scars. Fitting.
“I’m winning, I’m winning!” Scar laughed, backing up into the wall of cacti. He couldn’t see the spectators that crowded around the greenery, cheering and trying to shove Scar’s stone body away.
Grian winced as his back came back scraped and crimson, “No– I- I don’t think you are.”
The body’s face was littered with bruises, nose crooked from Grian’s knuckles. The words Scar threw were plentiful, bright and wheezy from his smile. He smiled whilst Grian threw punch after punch, slowly chipping off hearts while his own stayed full. He wasn’t so sure they felt full now.
Grian stepped nearer the edge, toeing the line between flight and death. His wings ached on his back, clipped and bound to his torso like a punishment. Grian inhaled the burning desert, a wasteland of blood and bodies from the “war” with his companions. Friends. His friends? whispered in his ear, congratulating his victory, cheering for him and shaking his shoulders like an old pal. Throwing punches of air into his bicep, beckoning him closer, adorning him in a crown of death and gold. He swallowed, nausea bubbling in his stomach like acid. “I don’t feel so good…” he mumbled, tears building behind his eyes until he wanted to claw them from his skull.
“I can’t– I literally can’t.”
The audience screamed as he threw himself from the mountain.
“You deserve this”
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Grian cracked open his eyes, cast in shadow from how far his bed lay in the corner. He blinked once, twice, staring up at the domed ceiling built from glass and spruce. It stretched high, almost modern if it weren’t for the rain-stained wood and dusting of snow atop the panes. Grian spread his fingers out in front of his face, flexing the joints and bones hidden underneath stretched-out skin. They felt…off. Not quite alive, but not quite dead either. He wondered why they weren’t grey, why they weren’t crumbling slowly alongside the swirling sand.
Grian sat up suddenly, head protesting the motion by switching channels to dizzying static behind his eyes.
Where was he?
He must’ve been shaking now, red bedsheets clutched firmly in his purgatory fingers. Outside it seemed cold, a forest stretching on until he couldn’t see any further. There was copper oxidizing in the sun, drowned zombies throwing tridents underneath the sea's glassy surface. No sand. No burning sun. No bodies. No whispers. No Scar.
He launched out of the covers, wings reflexively snapping out behind him and catching cold air between the feathers, prepared for flight. They weren’t sandy nor bound to his back achingly, devoid of all preening. They didn’t have blood crusted between the muscle and bone, they weren’t stained with grime and dirt from running through the forest.
No, they were smooth, soft and shiny. Instead of the usual vibrant parrot greens, yellows and reds he bore back home in Hermitcraft, they were darker. He ran a hand through the feathers, feeling each appendage as they went from a smoky gray to a deeper brown. He smiled, flapping them experimentally and watching the muted colors shimmer. Less golden-brown than the Golden Eagle wings he wore for the desert. It was a shame he couldn’t fly there, he loved those wings especially so.
Grian slowly creeped towards the front door, peering out the frame carefully like a small mouse. The environment was the same as he’d seen from his bed; cold, green, and dry. His breath came out in small puffs of white air in the early morning hour. Getting up early had always seemed to plague him since he was a child. As goes the saying: ‘early bird gets the worm.’
“Grian! Welcome back to the land of the living!” Green eyes and a devilish smile came tumbling down the mountainside by his? His house.
“I—what?” Grian squinted, watching Joel catch up to him. “What’dyou mean?” Why are you alive? He wanted to ask instead, though the words were leaden on his tongue.
“Well, you’re not really supposed to respawn in Hardcore… but I won’t tell,” Joel smirked, “for a price obviously.”
Grian’s mind was spinning miles ahead of where he was standing, frantically grasping every detail crashing against his senses. “I’m sorry, Hardcore?”
“Uh huh,” Joel frowned, brow furrowed as he studied Grian. “Er- are you feeling well?”
Grian was not feeling well. Minutes ago, he had murdered his partner and then himself. He should be dead. He should be in Hell. He should be anywhere but standing in front of Joel. Unless…
“Wait,” Grian held up a hand, looking at it to determine whether or not it was real. Hallucinations could be tricky. “Am I in Hell right now?” It would make sense Joel was with him, at the very least.
Joel glanced around nervously as if a savior would appear. Not likely in Hell. “Grian, you’re bloody well freaking me out right now.” Grian opened his mouth, exasperated at the avoidance of his query. It was a reasonable question! He just bloody died for Christ’s sake. “Look, me ‘an Jim are sorry about the whole Mansion thing,” Mansion thing? “But you chose to come back instead of heading to Hermitcraft— and, hey,” Joel held up his hands, “that’s your choice to try and finish, but don’t start with this whole amnesia thing because it’s seriously weirding me out, mate.”
Grian didn’t know what to say. His brain had wandered off somewhere, ditching its respective brain-cells, so he just nodded lamely. “Yeap,” the words were sticky and clogged in his throat. “Yeah. Sorry, I’ll— uh— I’ll knock it off?”
Joel nodded, “great. For you. I might’ve started swinging soon.”
Grian chuckled weakly, wings fluttering anxiously behind him. “So… why are you here? It’s my Hardcore, yeah?” Hardcore’s were individual most times, encrypted and solidified by code so no one could get in or out until they died or survived 100 Hours/days/minutes. It all depended on the severity of the Player. Grian wondered what his goal was. Probably days, he liked going above and beyond. When it didn’t matter.
Joel snorted, as if recalling an old prank. “Yeah, me and Scar found your world and joined on a whim. We’re in this together I guess.”
Scar? “Scar? Scar’s here?” Grian’s pulse skittered, skin buzzing with every emotion all at once; grief, love, pain, anxiety, fear, anger.
Joel crossed his arms, “I told you I’d hit you if you kept this bit up.”
Grian mimed slapping himself, forcefully laughing. “Right, sorry. Of course Scar’s here. Duh.” Why was Scar here? Scar should be dead. He made sure of that.
Joel sighed dramatically, sneaking a glance at Grian’s oxidizing copper. “Oh fine, go see your boyfriend,” he fake-gagged at the word, a smile etched into his face. “I’ll just be here… not taking your copper. Your copper is safe with me.”
Grian barely heard him before he was in the sky, wind whipping through his hair and wings, numbing his skin and causing him to smile so harshly his cheeks hurt from the strain.
Seconds later, Grian was landing outside of a treehouse with a shaking impact. The grass was torn up to show dirt from where he skidded to a stop, and he could care less. He was grinning with something painful knotting his intestines together like a boy-scout eager to earn a badge. He laughed, tears burning behind his eyes as he took in Scar’s house: it was the worst possible thing to build in a Hardcore game.
It was the best thing he’d ever seen.
“Scar!” Grian called, rounding a corner and swerving into the house. He was running, running, running and tripping over loose floorboards with gaps leading far below. There wasn’t even water underneath, just a small river bordered by hills. “Scar!” Grian’s voice echoed through the warm home as he slowed to a walk. The house seemed lived in and well loved. It echoed with Scar’s grins and laughter, his cracking voice humming along to a small tune from a record player perched on a coffee-table nearby. “…Scar?” Grian stood in the empty living room, numb and cold. Maybe Scar was truly dead. Maybe Grian was just lucky.
Lucky.
The avian collapsed into the couch cushions, slumping into the plush pillows with pressure building in his heart and eyes. It was like something clawing at his skin, melting and bleeding him dry from the inside out while he sat, numb, on a dead-man’s couch.
Grian put his head in his hands and sobbed. Sobbed for the bruised and bloodied knuckles forever stained by victory. Sobbed for the love for something dead and ash; whispers in the wind. Sobbed for a life broken and shattered before it could be lived. He cried and broke until grief’s hands ran dry on his salty skin.
“G?” A voice whispered, melodic and sweet like sunflowers on a warm summer evening. It was sad and terrified to Grian’s ears— his footsteps were paired with the steady thump of a cane, shaky and uncertain.
Until it closed the gap completely.
“G, G what’s wrong?” Warm and calloused hands took his face in their own, guiding him to look up.
The dry well emptied its last drops upon gazing at the dead man in front of him. Grian shook with sobs as he gazed into the olive green eyes of his partner, the sun kissed and scarred face of the one he loved, the chestnut brown hair that could never not be untangled. Grian would run his hands through it and wince at every knot that caught in his fingers, eventually coming apart as he brushed them from the hair of the sleeping man on his lap.
He must’ve done the wrong thing, Scar only grew more and more concerned. “I heard you died, is that what’s wrong? Are you hurt?” He wiped away the tears that grew with his thumbs, waiting for Grian’s response with a crease in his brow. “G? G, talk to me. What’s wrong?”
Grian swallowed hard, tamping down the tears clogging his mind and throat. “No- no, Scar, I’m fine—“
“No you’re not,” Scar interrupted, moving to sit next to him. “G, just be honest. Are you hurt?”
“No.” Grian swallowed again, unable to breathe as Scar stared at him with those eyes. “No. I’m not hurt.” Anymore. “I-I just missed you,” his words were whispered, hushed underneath his breath.
Scar nodded, not understanding as he rubbed slow circles on Grian’s back, just beneath the base of his wings. “I missed you too, birdie.”
“No,” Grian repeated without hesitation. “Scar- Scar I missed you so much.” The tears were back now, clogged in his throat like it was their job. “Scar, God, Scar you’re so beautiful.”
Scar chuckled weakly, taking Grian’s face in his hands to pull him closer. “Yeah, yeah I get that a lot. Handsome’s in the code.” Grian laughed wetly into Scar’s shoulder, soaking it with his tears as he clutched Scar’s brown jacket with trembling hands.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
Scar stiffened, hands hovering above Grian. “What’s that, G?”
Grian shakily pushed himself off of the man, smiling something fake and weak. “I said that I’m sorry, Scar.”
Why’d I win? Why’d you stop trying? Why’d you let me kill you? Grian felt the questions on his tongue, burning and burning whilst they tried to leave.
Scar squeezed Grian’s hand. “Why?” He whispered, olive eyes glossy. “G, why are you sorry? You have no reason to be.”
Grian chuckled, though there was no humor behind the sound. “You- you don’t remember?” Were you even there?
He must’ve said it aloud because Scar shook his head, still holding onto Grian’s hand like a lifeline. “No, G, where was I? What don’t I remember?”
Grian felt more tears glide down his face like fire. “I…I won.” He said lamely. Scar, I won. He won and Scar didn’t… know? “I don’t know how I got here, but— I won,”
Scar’s eyes widened, “Grian—“
“Why don’t you remember?!” Grian was standing now, shaking like a frail leaf and clutching his face as if it would fall apart. Reduced to ashes. Would this be the moment it happened? Was he just waiting to crumble like his friends’ bodies? He stared at the hands holding him together, piece by piece while the cracks grew.
“Grian—“ Scar tried again, leaning on his cane while he tried to move Grian’s hands away from his face.
“No—“ Grian flinched backwards, wings pressing against his back to hide. Scar looked sad— no, no worst of all he looked scared. He looked sorry. He wasn’t supposed to be sorry. Grian was. Grian killed him. Grian won and Scar died and Scar was sorry. Scar shouldn’t– couldn’t be sorry.
“Grian…I know. I remember.” Grian flinched again from the soft words. “G…G listen to me,” Scar was holding his hand out in surrender.
White flags burning. Red and black flags burning in the ring of cacti. Burning underneath the desert sun while two men laughed.
“G, I know you won. I remember.”
Grian was still shaking, hands on his arms. “Ok…” he whispered.
“Ok?”
He hummed in agreement, words stolen from his lips.
“Good,” Scar took a careful step towards him. “I remember you won— I remember how,” Scar shuddered, “but that was more than a year ago.”
Grian took a shaky breath, willing himself to stay upright. “A year ago.”
Scar nodded, “we’ve had another game since then.”
Grian felt laughter in his skull, eyes watching him with glee and sadistic smiles as his vision split into shards. “Another… game.” Scar nodded again, silent as if his words would scare the avian away. “No. No way—“
“G—“
Grian shook his head as if it would shake him from whatever dream he’d found himself in. Maybe these were his five minutes before death: living with Scar. The memory of Scar with wide dimpled smiles and warm breath in his hair.
Dancing in their makeshift kitchen, blistering humidity forgotten as his arms looped around Scar’s neck, humming a slow tune while they spun and laughed like fools. Lovesick fools.
“That’s crazy, Scar. I would’ve remembered!” He was pacing now, wearing an anxious line in the floorboards; only visible to his cursed gaze. “Why am I here if I just finished the- the first one?!” The first one. He couldn’t– he wouldn’t do that again. Grian’s breathing must’ve been ragged because Scar’s face was contorted with worry. He took three shallow breaths, in…out. Grian’s words were small and quiet in the treehouse, a scared child as he whispered, “I can’t do that again.”
Scar sigh was heavy with grief as he walked over to the avian, taking his body in his arms. He hummed a silent word of reassurance and apologies.
Scar, why are you apologizing? Grian wanted to slap the man, you did nothing wrong. He wanted to shout, to shake his shoulders and remind Scar of the crumbling body with bloody knuckles.
“I don’t know why you’re here, but I’m happy you are G.” He squeezed Grian in the hug. “We can figure it out later, yeah?”
“Hm,” Grian leaned into Scar’s collarbone, wrapping his arms around his back and holding as if Scar would turn to ash. Like he was meant to. “Yeah. Sure,” the words felt ugly and out of shape on his lips, unbelieving in their existence. “Later.” Later was good. He was never good with the present, was he?
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“So… maybe you’re— like— from another universe?”
Grian rolled his eyes fondly, heart warming at how much he’d missed this. Missed Scar. He’d been in this world for more than two weeks and their rhythm had settled into place almost instantly. Grian never went back to his old base, anymore, he needed to be by Scar’s side if not for the other’s safety but his own.
“I’m not interested in your Star Wars theories right now, love.”
“It’s not—“ Scar took a deep breath at the misinterpretation. Grian chuckled at the suppressed frustration Scar was practically radiating. “No, I’m serious, G.”
Grian frowned, turning around from where he was filling in the crust of the pumpkin pie, hands covered with the crumbly substance. He wiped them on his shirt. “What d’you mean?”
“What if you're from another universe? How’d your game end?”
“I- I won,” he muttered softly, clearing his throat just as the words shook in the room. “We fought in a ring of cacti and… I won.” Simple.
Scar snapped his fingers, pointing at Grian like a game show host calling on a contestant, “a-ha! No, in mine we were in the river, and I grabbed your sword,” Scar’s face fell slightly, “you- you were holding the hilt and I grabbed it. It was your hands so you got the victory,” Grian’s throat ran dry. “It was a coward's play but I thought you deserved to win. I thought winning was something worth fighting for…”
Scar’s eyes went dim from the years of surviving with the Game on his shoulders, watching his partner die.
Grian nodded as the words spun around his skull, testing how they felt. He didn’t feel so good. “And how did I die?” Selfish, sure, but something morbid inside of him clawed at his skin. He needed to know.
Scar licked his lips, wary. “You— ah—“ he cleared the thickness in his throat, “you ran the sword through your heart.”
Grian snorted though it fell flat in the room. “Original, I was.”
Scar managed a wry chuckle, “yeah. Could never come up with your own idea, could you?”
Grian’s laugh was genuine now, wings fluttering as he turned back to the unfinished dessert. He had yet to get used to the new color-scheme of his wings and surroundings of this world. It all felt oddly familiar and yet so distant, like a vague memory of a childhood not fully lived. A corner puzzle piece slotted into the very middle of the image.
There was dirt beneath the feathers now, though he ignored it. He’d gotten particularly good at ignoring the ache and itch in his appendages ever since the game. Games. No way to preen his wings and no way to fly.
An “unfair advantage” They’d called it.
There was a warm hand at the base of his back, brown hair clouding his peripheral.
“G?”
Grian hummed in response, swaying slightly to the faint tune playing in his mind.
Scar’s voice was quiet, careful. “When was the last time you had someone help preen your wings?”
Grian froze, no longer swaying. The hand on his back felt more threatening than loving, and he moved slightly out of its range. “I- I dunno what you mean.”
“G, you said it’s supposed to be once a week—“
“Recently, Scar,” he snapped, hands harsh as they kneaded the crust into the corners. Grian’s jaw clenched at the abundance of a reply. “For goodness— they’re fine.” I’m fine.
Scar waited, leaning against the kitchen counter while he watched Grian furiously fumble at the desert. He knew to give Grian a minute to catch his breath, how it infuriated him so. Scar knew him too well. Loved him too much.
“Alright,” Scar began, watching Grian take a breath. “I was only offering, G. You know you can always ask me—“
He was cut off yet again by Grian’s curt tone. “Yeah, yeah. I know, Scar. Don’t worry, though,” he offered his partner a strained smile, “I’m doing great.”
<Two weeks later>
No. He was [definitely] not doing great.
Grian let an irritated groan escape his lips, arms strained and aching as he miserably scrambled for the back of his wings. He had gotten too used to the comfortable feeling of preened wings, too content in the simple pleasure that he’d already gone and messed it up.
See, he’d crashed into a tree just the morning before. Grian had been flying around, happily savoring the feeling, when a blasted tree came out of nowhere and he’d dived smack-dab into the foliage.
There were missing feathers in his wings, now. Twigs and leaves in uncomfortable places and the slight pooling of blood where the branches of the bloody tree had snagged his skin and appendages.
It was, to but it gently, fucking awful. It was like having a dozen painful bug bites on your back with no way to itch them or soothe the pain.
It didn’t help when Scar started knocking on the bathroom door.
“Grian? You o-kay in there?” Scar, although his voice carried the bounce it normally did, couldn’t disguise the undertone of concern seeping through the edges.
Grian covered a hiss as he plucked a sharp twig from his left wing. “Yup! All good here, Scar! Be out soon!” The lie was unconvincing to his own ears.
Scar didn’t so much as budge. “Grian I can hear you shuffling around, what’re you doing—“
He was cut off by Grian’s yelp as his wing twisted at a particularly sharp angle. He had been trying— and failing— to maneuver his torso so he’d be able to reach the small of his back. To no avail, he’d only managed to successfully tweak his spine and wings with an angry crack.
Curse his fragile bones.
“That’s it,” he heard the rattle of the doorknob. “I’m coming in, G!”
Grian had about half a second before Scar was busting into the bathroom, forehead creased from anxiety. His face fell upon seeing Grian’s contorted form. “Oh… oh…”
Grian winced at the gentleness of his voice. He looked away shamefully, jaw locked while he twisted his hands in his lap. “Er- sorry—“
Scar was on his knees in front of him now, scanning his wings and body to assess the damage. “No no,” he quickly hushed. “You have nothing to be sorry for, what’s wrong?”
Grian gestured lamely to his bloodied appendages, sighing tiredly at his failed attempts of preening them. “Crashed into a tree… not my finest moment.”
Scar didn’t smile, worrying his bottom lip instead. “Okay, that’s okay. Can I help you?”
Grian hesitated only slightly, eventually nodding pleadingly. Oh how he desperately needed help, however much it shamed him to admit it.
Scar laid a hand around Grian’s waist, hoisting him up as if the avian couldn’t walk. Grian chuckled, not bothering to push his partner away. “Let’s go to the living room, we’ll both be more comfortable there, yeah?”
“Uh hm,” Grian didn’t have the energy to even attempt a coherent sentence. He didn’t need to, Scar understood clearly as he sat them both down beside the couch, Grian in front of him. Scar positioned himself so Grian’s back and wings were spread out evenly in front of him, ugly glory on full display.
His cheeks burned with shame. Nobody, not even Scar, should see his wings like this.
…He’d only let them get this bad once. Once was enough.
“Alright, I’m going to start on your left wing, is that ok?”
Grian managed a weak nod, eyelids beginning to droop. He didn’t care what wing Scar started on, he just needed some relief as soon as possible.
A hand softly maneuvering between the feathers startled him awake, stomach twisting abruptly.
Then almost immediately, a bright voice shot through the air in its wake. “Sorry!”
He relaxed (slightly), still somewhat on edge. It was only Scar, the man had even warned him first and yet Grian jumped like a spooked cat. It was a marvel Scar had stayed with him this long.
“‘S fine,” Grian murmured, relaxing his shoulders, allowing Scar to continue. “You’re fine.”
Scar ran his hands through the feathers again, carefully pulling out leaves and broken feathers, muttering a kind warning whenever he was about to pull out a particularly nasty twig or snapped feather. They’d made it through both his left and right wing with no problems, Grian was half asleep now, hand absently petting a purring Jellie who’d nestled atop his lap somewhere around when Scar started preening his right wing.
“G?”
Grian let out a small hum, sighing as the weight of sleep tugged him down.
Scar chuckled, bringing a hand around Grian to give Jellie her own head scratch. “G, I need to clean the base now. Are you okay with that?”
Grian let out a muttered chirp, smiling as a low rumble sounded from the gray and white cat on his lap. It was sweet how Scar, despite being together for so long, still asked when preening his wings. Grian’s heart swelled and he wanted nothing more to wrap his arms around the kind man behind him.
That was until Scar softly ran a hand through the feathers on Grian’s back, just below his shoulder blades and where his wings slowly grew from. The spot he could never reach, and—
Oh.
Oh, how grateful Grian was to be alive just at that moment as his brain turned into mush. It was inconceivable— A white-screen overlaying his senses. The epitome of pure bliss, in his mind.
Scar let out a low laugh as Grian sighed contently, leaning into the touch. “G- G you have to stay awake. I’m almost done, birdie.”
Grian muttered something nearer to a soft trill than words but, alas, cracked open his eyes until thin slits of light poked through.
The next moments were a blur of sleep as Grian leaned further and further back into Scar’s touch, finally laying his head in the crook of Scar’s neck to feel the soft rise and fall of his partner’s chest. His heart withered and shrank away from the embrace, a stinging grief from his sunburnt past still plaguing him even as the one he lost breathed and lived.
Lived. Grian’s breath was hot against Scar’s neck. Lived. Living. You’re alive.
Scar sighed as if trying to sound disgruntled, though the breath was full of his love and affection. Scar pulled his arms out from where they were squished underneath Grian’s wings, snaking them around Grian’s waist instead. The avian swiveled his head so his lips were lightly pressed against Scar’s neck, head now resting upon the other’s shoulder.
Scar’s smile was soft against his temple as he pulled him closer to place gentle kisses in the avaian’s hair and forehead, mapping out a trail of love on his skin.
As the pair dozed off, a still-crackling fireplace and their own body heat their only warmth, Grian brought up Scar’s hand to place a soft kiss into his palm; gaining his own reminder of the warmth radiating from the fingers, instead of cold, ashy ones crumbling into the boiling sand.
A soft meow sounded from nearby, coming from a plump and fuzzy grey and white cat who nuzzled her head into Grian’s knee.
If he was sore from sleeping on the ground, he figured it would be entirely worth it as Jellie settled down into Grian’s lap; deeming it her new bed. Grian chuckled softly as exhaustion washed over him in a lulling wave, sending him to sleep with a lingering kiss in his hair.
Yes, it would be entirely worth it.
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“I can’t believe you only have diamond armour, Scar.” Joel taunted, flaunting his dark netherite armour and tools underneath Scar’s nose. Joking and mocking like an 80s bully.
Grian snickered at his partner’s pout, taking off his own expensive helmet to join in. “Yup, c'mon man, get with the times!”
Scar crossed his arms, eyes darting between the other men and Grian’s dangling helmet. “Yeah yeah, whatever…” he huffed, turning fully to Grian with a pleading pout. “Can I see yours?”
Grian raised an eyebrow, earning himself scarily tempting puppy-dog eyes in return. On one hand, what harm could it do? On the other hand, just how much harm could it do?
Scar, noticing the hesitation, stayed as persistent as ever. “Aw, please? Can I just put on the Thanos helmet? Just please?”
Grian, helmet still dangling tauntingly on his index finger, sighed and handed the netherite piece over. “If you really want to,” his question came off more confused rather than cautious. He hadn’t expected such fuss over a helmet. Better than any other tools, let alone his chestplate.
“I’ll trade you for some reputation points!”
Cleo hesitated, glancing at a flustered Grian. Whatever she’d seen on his face seemed to be enough for she handed the enchanted chestplate over with a smirk. “Sure, do I get yours?”
Grian’s face flamed. “No,” he said at the same time Scar said “yes.”
“Ignore my par’ner, here! But of course you can have my chestplate. What type of ally would I be if I left my buyers defenseless?”
Grian scowled, ignoring the embarrassing flutter in his stomach as he looked anywhere but Scar’s bare chest. “Scar,” he scolded, “put some clothes on!”
“Grian?” Both Joel and Scar were staring at him, postures unsteady with awkwardness.
“Hm?”
“You alright there?” Joel asked. “Kind of zoned out, man.” “Yeah, yup,” Grian waved them both off with a sheepish chuckle. “Fine. Tot-all-y fine.” He laughed a real laugh upon seeing Scar; face semi-obscured by the designated ‘Thanos helmet’ and brown hair plastered to his cheeks and forehead as a result.
Scar brightened, adjusting the dumb helmet with a shit-eating grin. “How do I look? I bet I look just amaying!”
Joel snorted, “yeah. I dunno if ‘amayzing’ is the right word, Scar.”
Scar paid him no mind, caught up in the giddy enjoyment he was getting out of wearing the purple helmet. Grian’s face hurt wonderfully from his smile at the garbled sounds of excitement spilling from Scar’s mouth.
Grian didn’t forgive Joel for his next words; the cruel spark of an idea. “He’s gonna fly off now, isn’t he?” The avian snickered alongside the instigator, laughing at a small skit forming between the three men.
Scar grinned, then launched himself off of the cliff’s edge with newly acquired rockets in hand and a cheerful “goodbye!”
Grian, still smiling, launched after the man who stood no chance next to an avian. Scar had an elytra, zooming off into the air though not-quite over the river just yet. “Scar– Scar! Get back here!” He hollered, a laugh nestled into his tone albeit fear started spreading like mold inside his chest. Something uneasy and scared that whispered ‘what-ifs’ in the back of his mind.
Scar ignored him, laughing harder when Joel joined in on the chase. He flew above Grian, looping a bit around the pair like a dance built to avoid your partner.
Grian grinned, almost upon Scar when he suddenly dropped down, laughter carrying like a breeze as he fell straight past Grian. He laughed along, diving down himself to follow, close to the ground. Very close… too close. “Scar?” Grian’s voice found itself, joking but breathy with fear. “Scar–” he watched as Scar continued to fall, the small twist of his body trying to move from torn wings. “SCAR!”
Scar hit the sand grass, body too far away as Grian with his useless outstretched hand (when had he reached for him?) continued to fall after him. He saw brown hair, tan skin, and crimson blood for only a moment before a body collided with his.
He and Joel crashed into the water, landing moreover on the bank and getting sand everywhere. That was fine, Grian was used to it.
He was used to it.
Joel was shouting obscenities at him for being so stupid, shaking Grian and trying to get a response. Any response at all. His attempts were proved futile as Grian merely stared at the lightning crack puff of smoke appearing over the hill, in the grass where a man had broken his body on.
<GoodTimesWithScar fell from a high place>