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The room was thick with haze, a swirling cloud of smoke and cheap liquor that clung stubbornly to the air. The sharp sting of nicotine burned in his throat, mixing with the bitter tang of spilled beer soaking into the sticky floorboards. A bassline throbbed, rattling the cracked plaster walls and hammering against Scar’s ribs, like a second heartbeat he couldn’t escape.
Bodies pressed close, shifting and swaying in time with the music— it was the latest Fleetwood Mac album, at least there was some good taste in the chaos. Girls and boys moved wild and reckless, their sweat-slick skin shimmering under the flickering bursts of colored lights. They bobbed and weaved, lost in the rush, eyes glazed and faces flushed, oblivious to the rest of the world.
Scar lingered near the back, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his high-wasted, wide-legged jeans— bell bottoms flaring just enough to brush the scuffed tips of his worn leather boots. The loose button-up he wore, striped vertically in burnt orange, mustard yellow, and faded teal, felt foreign and heavy against his skin, the cotton clinging in the heat. He’d rolled the cuffs about halfway up, revealing a flash of forearm, and left the top buttons undone just enough so the warm, humid air pressed against the bare skin of his chest. Green-tinted sunglasses were tucked into his shirt pocket, and a thin gold chain dangled from his hips, catching stray flickers of light overhead.
He wasn’t sure why he’d even come to this random college party. Well, he did know. His little brother, Bdubs, had practically dragged him here with relentless persistence. “You gotta get out more, dude,” Bdubs had whined, still grinning like it was the easiest thing in the world. Scar had tried to believe him, tried to fit in.
But this wasn’t his scene. Not really.
He preferred the quiet chaos of family dinners— his mom and dad locked in their endless bickering like an old, familiar song. Bdubs would crack awkward jokes, then slip away too soon, leaving Scar to clean up his mess, hands raw from dishwater and grease. He preferred the steady rhythm of his room, a small sanctuary transformed into a miniature workshop, cluttered with clocks or whatever old things he could get his hands on. At least then, there was a pattern he could understand.
Here though? This party was a different kind of noise. Unpredictable, messy. One he couldn’t fix, couldn’t control.
Still, he was trying to be a good brother, even if Bdubs had already disappeared into the press of bodies, chasing his own kind of fun. It was fine. Scar could people-watch at least. There was a strange entertainment in observing drunken stumbles and slurred confessions of half-assed love too fragile to survive daylight, all swallowed by the sea of bodies moving against him.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught sight of a boy leaning against the far wall opposite of Scar, just beyond the dense crowd. He looked sharp, with a rough edge that made him stand out in a way Scar couldn’t name. A cigarette dangled lazily between his fingers, smoke curling around it like a ghost in the low light. He wore tight black jeans and a dark red sweater, topped with a worn leather jacket that looked cared for, like it had stories stitched into every crease. His sandy hair was just wild enough to seem deliberate, crowned by a pair of black aviators resting casually on the top of his head. Scar thought he caught the faint gleam of silver hoops hanging off one ear.
Scar didn’t recognize him, but before he could fully process the sight, the boy slipped away— vanishing into the night.
A strange tightness settled in Scar’s chest, unfamiliar and sharp. He told himself it was only because the stranger had looked just as out of place as he felt. Someone else enduring the noise instead of basking in it. Someone like him. Nothing else.
The music pressed harder into his skull, pounding louder now, and Scar needed a break. Fresh air, something quieter. Of course, he wouldn’t just ditch Bdubs. He’d hang out somewhere more bearable until his brother was ready to leave.
He stumbled through the first floor of the crowded house, weaving between bodies, muttering half apologies when strangers’ shoulders knocked against his own. The crowd thinned toward the back of the house, where a chipped white screen door sagged slightly off its hinges, paint peeling in flakes from years of weather and neglect. It had that historical charm of every college house, something barely holding together.
It was perfect.
He pushed the door open, the screen creaking softly on its rusted hinges, and stepped onto the porch. The cool air hit him immediately, sharp with the scent of damp earth and freshly cut grass. The night hummed, crickets chirping in the dark, the low rumble of a car on a distant street. It was a welcome relief from the thick, smoky haze inside. Scar let out a slow breath and glanced back toward the party, taking in the swirl of movement and colored lights flickering over a crowd of people.
He was so focused on the sudden quiet that he didn’t notice the figure leaning against the porch railing until he nearly collided with him.
Scar stumbled back, caught off guard. Heat rushed to his face. “Shoot, I’m so sorry— I wasn’t looking where I was going, you know, parties and all.” His voice was breathless, uneven with nerves.
He blinked, taking in the man before him. It was the man from earlier. Up close, he was slightly shorter than Scar, but his presence managed to fill the space between them. His dark eyes lifted with a quick, amused spark. The scowl etched deep into his face softened just enough to suggest a hint of mischief, something electric that made Scar’s skin prickle.
“You bump into people often?” the stranger teased, voice low and smooth.
Scar blinked again, suddenly flustered. His thoughts tripped over themselves. The man was… pretty, in a way Scar wasn’t used to noticing about anyone. It made him feel uneasy and curious all at once. There was something raw and honest about him, but layered with a toughness Scar wasn’t ready to admit he found captivating. Being this close, he couldn’t help but notice the freckles dusting his cheeks, flushed pink from the heat of the party, or the pitch black eyes that seemed to pull Scar in effortlessly. Three silver hoops climbed up the curve of his left ear, and the faint scent of smoke and worn leather clung to him.
His own cheeks flamed, heat rushing up faster than he expected. “Only into strangers who don’t look like they’re having fun at a party,” he chuckled, voice quieter than he expected it would be.
The stranger let out a low whistle, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Handsome and smooth, I’m impressed.” He shifted against the railing, the worn leather of his jacket creaking faintly with the movement. The cigarette he’d been holding was gone now, his long fingers tapping lightly against the chipped white wood, a rhythm that matched the pounding music inside.
Scar swallowed a nervous chuckle, feeling a warmth blooming quietly in his chest. “I’m charmed. Looks like there’s some good under that tough exterior, ey?”
He didn’t know why he said it— maybe it was the soft coolness of the night air, the strange pull of the moment, or the way the music seemed to slow around them— but something about the way the man looked up at him made it feel right. Scar let his shoulders loosen, a slow breath escaping his lips, relaxing for the first time all night. He leaned back against the worn porch railing, the wood bowing faintly under his weight, nudging his shoulder gently against the man’s in a way that felt casual but carried a quiet intent.
“If that makes you sleep at night,” the man replied with a dry chuckle.
“Of course, of course.” Scar shifted a little, his denim pants rough against the peeling paint on the railing. “Name’s Scar, by the way. Yes, born and raised. My parents are weird, if you were wondering.”
The man snorted softly, the sound low and warm. “Dude, my name’s literally Grian. My brothers both got normal names, Jimmy and Joel, but me? They’ve started calling me Grain and saying I’m some kind of bread boy.”
Scar laughed, a genuine, easy sound that surprised him. “It’s a nice name for a nice guy,” he said, brushing a hand against his loose shirt. “Besides, my brother’s name is Bdubs, so I guess I’m the normal one in my family.”
He huffed softly and continued. “He’s actually the reason I’m here. If you can’t tell, I’m not really one for parties… he told me I needed to get out more, but now he’s off somewhere having fun with his friends. It's the least I can do as his older brother.”
“Same, actually,” Grian admitted, voice quieter now, almost reluctant. “My brothers are way bigger partiers. I enjoy it sometimes, but it gets too much, too fast. We do everything together, though, so I had to come.”
Scar hesitated, feeling the hum of that admission between them. “What would you be doing if you weren’t here tonight?”
Grian’s cheeks flushed faintly, the color soft and warm in the dim porch light. “It’s kinda embarrassing, but probably just reading… I’m really into classic literature, despite how I look.”
“That’s so nifty!” Scar said, genuinely impressed. Grian gave him a doubtful look, like he didn’t quite believe the compliment.
“No, seriously,” Scar continued, leaning forward a little. “I can’t read all that well— dyslexia and all— but it’s a hobby I’ve always wanted to get into more.”
“Well, what about you?” Grian asked after a beat.
Scar blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
“What would you be doing tonight if you weren’t here?” Grian prodded gently, his voice soft, carrying a quiet weight that made Scar want to be honest
“Oh, right,” Scar smiled faintly, looking down at his hands. “I’d probably just be tinkering… I’m kinda into repairing old clocks.”
They shared a quiet moment, the thudding base inside fading to a distant, muffled hum. Scar felt the heat creep up his neck again, his cheeks flushing warmer this time, a delicate burn curling behind his ears.
He looked down at the exact moment Grian’s fingers began to stretch out slowly— tentatively, almost shy— toward his own hand resting on the railing. The faintest brush of fingertips tested the space between them, and Scar’s breath caught, the sound barely audible to even himself.
He’d never felt anything quite like this before. Part confusion, part comfort, a strange spark that tugged at something buried deep inside. He wasn’t sure if it was frightening or welcoming, maybe a bit of both, but somehow, he knew it was something he wanted to hold onto.
Grian’s dark eyes flicked up, meeting Scar’s, searching, maybe for permission, maybe for something else. There was a vulnerability that surprised Scar, a softness beneath the rough edges that the world rarely saw. Scar swallowed hard. His heart thudded unevenly, somehow louder than the bass pulsing from within the house. The night air suddenly felt heavy, as if time itself had slowed around them.
Slowly, deliberately, Scar shifted his hand, moving just enough to close the tiny gap between them. Their fingertips met, a light, tentative touch that sent a quiet warmth spreading through his chest— small but certain, like something always meant to be.
Neither of them pulled away. Instead, they stayed there, two silhouettes framed by the dark night folding around them. The porch light above flickered gently, casting long, wavering shadows that stretched and danced across the peeling paint of the porch.
“What’s your favorite kind of clock to work on?” Grian’s voice was low, almost hesitant, breaking the stillness but carrying a gentle curiosity that made Scar’s chest tighten in a way he couldn’t quite name.
Scar smiled, genuinely surprised by the question. Most people either ignored his hobby or dismissed it as odd and old-fashioned. “Old mantle clocks, the kind with the little brass gears and faded faces. They’re tricky, but there’s something satisfying about bringing them back to life.”
Grian nodded thoughtfully, the streetlights catching the shine in his dark eyes. “Sounds like you’re fixing things that most people forget about.”
“Yeah,” Scar said quietly, surprised at how easily the truth slid out. “Maybe that’s why I’m here… not just for my brother… but trying to fix something in myself I haven’t figured out yet.”
Grian’s pinky brushed his, curling just enough to link them, a gesture so small yet so certain that it sent a shiver through Scar’s arm. For a moment, nothing else existed except the faint flicker of the overhead light and the slow dance of their shadows intertwined against the weathered wood, like two forgotten puzzle pieces finally clicking together.
Scar’s breath hitched as Grian’s mouth parted, as if about to say something. A burst of laughter and the sharp tang of beer in the air crashed into the quiet. A cluster of boys spilled out into the night, their voices loud and careless, stepping right through the fragile space that had bloomed between them.
The tight thread between Scar and Grian snapped, and reality rushed back in. They both pulled back at once, as if the touch had burned them.
“Woah, boys, getting a little close, are we?” One called out, the words slick with mockery.
Grian’s head whipped toward them, eyes narrowing, voice suddenly sharp enough to cut through the tense air. “His brother has cancer, Jesus Christ!” The words were spat out like a warning. “God forbid I comfort a friend. C’mon, Scar, let’s go before they say anything else… I know it’s been hard for you.”
There was an awkward shuffle among the boys. Someone mumbled after them, sincerity bleeding through his drunken slur. “Oh shit, sorry man! Good luck, hope you don’t catch it.”
It was a quick lie, well played. Scar had to give it to him. But the earlier words still clung to the air— thick, heavy, and sour— pressing into his skin like a slap he couldn’t dodge. He didn’t turn around, he couldn’t. Heat burned sharp in his ears, prickling down his neck, and something knotted tight inside his chest, making him feel smaller, exposed.
Grian’s hand brushed against his arm, a light, steady touch meant to anchor him. Scar caught the faint smell of smoke still clinging to Grian’s jacket, threaded with something warmer, sweeter, something that cut through the bitterness just enough to breathe again. It reminded him of the comforting scent of a bakery on a quiet morning, or bread fresh from the oven.
Without a word, they moved towards the door, slipping back into the party and letting the chaos swallow them whole.
“Ugh, guys can be so stupid,” Grian groaned, his voice low under the music. “Sorry you had to see that… just one of the many benefits of being like us.” His tone dripped with sarcasm, but there was a flicker of something real beneath it.
Scar frowned, following as Grian marched down the hallway with quick, deliberate steps, weaving between bodies as if he was dodging more than just strangers. “What do you mean, like us…?” Scar called after him, his words lost to the bass pounding from the next room over.
The crowd pressed in, forcing them closer together. A drunk stranger lurched sideways, crashing into them. Grian’s back hit the wall with a dull thud, and Scar stumbled forward, catching himself with a hand braced just above Grian’s shoulder.
His breath hitched. The music and voices blurred into something distant. He was close enough to feel the heat radiating from Grian, the faint ghost of his breath brushing against Scar’s cheek.
Grian’s eyes darted everywhere except Scar’s— quick, restless glances at the floor, the ceiling, the crowd. Anywhere else.
“You okay?” Scar whispered, unaware of just how close they were, the wall pinning Grian in place.
Grian nodded, a short, tight movement. His gaze jerked up, locking on Scar’s lips, focus sharp and unblinking, as if caught on something he couldn’t quite hide.
Scar blinked, his own eyes slipping between Grian’s and his lips. Something unspoken pulled at him, a quiet ache in his chest. Without knowing why, he wanted to cup Grian’s face, to close the gap, to feel the brush of his lips against his. It was a thought that felt both foreign and deeply familiar, something he’d been keeping at the edges of himself for years.
He leaned in—
— until a firm weight pressed against his shoulder. A stumbling guest barreled past, gripping Scar for balance. The air between felt too warm, too charged.
“Uh, sorry about that,” Scar said, swallowing.
“It’s fine.” Grian’s cheeks were flushed, and his voice tight. “I can barely hear you anyway. Let’s… find somewhere quieter.”
Scar didn’t know if he was imagining it, but there was a new edge in Grian’s voice, something warm, restless, almost daring.
Before he could react, Grian’s hand closed around his wrist, warm and firm, and impossible to ignore. He tugged them through the crowd, past the heat and the sour reek of spilled beer, cutting toward a narrow side hallway. The noise dulled with every step, replaced by the hum of the building’s old pipes and the muffled thump of distant music.
Grian stopped at a plain door near the end of the hall, glanced over his shoulder, and yanked it open. The faint smell of dust, musty wood, and cleaning supplies met them. Before Scar could even think to ask why, Grian pulled him inside. The door shut behind them with a gentle click, the metal latch locking, separating them from the noisy world outside.
The space was tight, too tight. The light was dim— just a single bare bulb overhead. Mops and brooms stood forgotten in the corners. The air was still, almost stifling.
They stood close, the walls pressing in, leaving barely enough space for them to lean against opposite sides. Scar’s knees jutted forward awkwardly, almost brushing against Grian’s legs. He could feel the rapid thud of his pulse echoing in his ears, loud in the hush between them.
Grian bent his knees slightly, settling against the wall as he fished a cigarette and match from his pocket. The sudden flare of the match briefly illuminated his face— warm gold cutting through the shadows— highlighting his sharp cheekbones, the soft curl of his lips, the dark flicker in his eyes.
Scar couldn’t stop replaying the look Grian had given him just moments ago, the way his eyes had flicked to Scar’s lips, quick and searching, wondering if he had imagined it. The way Grian’s voice had dipped, the way the words curled at the edges. The thought burned in his chest, sharp and impossible to ignore.
Scar’s fingers fidgeted with the seam of his sleeve, the fabric rough beneath his fingertips. The words sat heavy in his mouth, unspoken. He could just… not ask, ignore everything that had happened, pretending the pull in Grian’s voice, the way his eyes lingered, didn’t mean anything. But that denial would eat him alive from the inside out.
His mouth opened, closed, opened again. He took a breath, letting it out slowly. “When you, uh… said ‘like us’…” His voice wavered, tilting upward at the end, soft and uncertain, almost a question to himself. “Did you mean what I think you did…?
Grian’s eyes flickered sharply to the closed door, as if checking for unwanted listeners, before settling back on Scar. His fingers tapped a slow, steady rhythm against the wall. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I mean, if you want it to.”
Scar’s breath caught, his pulse pounding loud and fast in his ears, drowning out everything else. Words rose in his throat, desperate and raw, but tangled there, too thick, too heavy to push out. Instead, he nodded, slow and sure.
Their gazes locked, holding fiercely, the room shrinking until there was nothing but the heat between them— Grian’s intense, searching eyes and the small, startled smile curling at Scar’s lips. Slowly, Grian’s grin grew wider, answering without a word, like they were mirroring each other’s unspoken feelings without even meaning to.
“Listen,” Grian said at last, voice pitched low enough that Scar had to lean in to catch it. “I don’t usually do this.”
Scar blinked, caught off guard. “Do what?”
Grian didn’t answer, and Scar didn’t push. The words had weight, and pressing would only make them roll away.
Instead, Grian shifted, the cramped space pulling them even closer. His sleeve brushed lightly against Scar’s arm, a whisper of touch that sent a shiver down his spine. Instinctively, Scar’s hands found the wall behind Grian, bracing himself like before in the hallway.
Grian took a slow drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling upward in lazy spirals as he exhaled toward the ceiling. He looked back at Scar, something unreadable in his eyes.
“You want some?” he asked, holding the cigarette out between two fingers, the ember’s glow painting his knuckles a faint red.
Scar shook his head automatically. “Not really my thing.”
Grian’s mouth curved, mischievous, but softened by something else, something warmer. “Mind if I try something?”
Scar chuckled nervously. “I trust you.”
Something in the air tightened, not uncomfortable but sharper, the sudden electricity of something unspoken yet undeniable. Grian’s eyes stayed fixed on Scar’s as he wet his lips, slow and deliberate.
“Alright. How about like this?”
He leaned in, gently boxing Scar in with his body. Their eyes stayed locked. Grian drew in a deep lungful of smoke, slow and deliberate. His palms rose to cradle Scar’s jaw, thumbs brushing faintly over cheekbones, the cigarette angled safely away with care. Scar’s mouth parted to say something when Grian exhaled, a warm, thin stream of smoke flowing deliberately between Scar’s lips.
The sensation startled him— not the smoke itself, but the strange intimacy of the shared breath. The heat that bypassed touch altogether and settled somewhere deeper. Without thinking, Scar drew the smoke in, tasting the faint bitterness of nicotine mingled with something uniquely Grian, something intimate and wild, impossible to name. He blinked, a soft laugh escaping his lips, and Grian’s grin widened in response.
Grian pulled back slightly, eyes half lidded, cheeks flushing softly as his ears twitched with a shy sort of pride. His lips curved into a small, waiting smile, as if silently asking for Scar’s verdict.
Scar swallowed hard, heart hammering in his chest. “You always greet people like that?”
“Only the interesting ones,” Grian murmured, voice low and teasing.
Scar’s reply caught in his throat, and the space between them felt so fragile that a breath could shatter it. For a fleeting moment, it seemed like Grian might lean in again, this time without the smoke. The room held its breath, suspended on the edge of something new, something unspoken, and entirely electric.
A sudden shout ripped through the air. Glass shattered, sharp and sudden, somewhere down the hall. The sounds of cheering erupted, mixing with the sound of something hitting against the walls. Both of them turned towards the growing chaos.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.” Scar blurted out, surprising himself.
Grian hesitated, eyes flickering back to Scar’s face, as if measuring the risk of following. Then, with a small, resolute nod, he stepped forward, the faint heat of his body brushing against Scar’s side as he opened the closet door.
Their brothers could wait.
They slipped through the growing crowd, unnoticed in the thick haze of noise and movement. Scar felt a jolt of adrenaline pulse through him as Grian’s hand found his fingers curling around him easily, fitting perfectly. Together, they burst through the doorway and into the cool night air.
“Listen, I didn’t really think this through, gotta be honest.” Scar laughed, breathless, the sound light but nervous.
“Oh, so this isn’t some elaborate scheme to take me home?” Grian’s eyebrows twitched with a teasing smirk, his voice low and playful, edged with a challenge.
“Oh god no,” Scar grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck, his laugh short and nervous. “My parents are home. I can’t handle that right now.”
Grian chuckled softly, the sound warm and easy in the dark. “I can’t imagine what Jimmy and Joel would say either… They probably always suspected I was a little different, but they don’t need to know just yet.”
They passed beneath a streetlamp, its pale, flickering glow tracing the sharp line of Grian’s jaw, softening the harder planes of his face into something almost fragile. Scar caught himself wanting to freeze that moment, to bottle up the fleeting joy melting away the usual harsh edges in Grian’s expression.
The night was alive with the rasping chorus of cicadas, their buzz weaved through the warm air. Far behind them, the muffled pulse of the party thudded, distant and fading. But here, on the shadowed stretch of cracked sidewalk, the world seemed to step back, granting them a private moment suspended in time.
Their shoulders brushed again— light, electric, grounding. Fingers still intertwined, they moved in an unspoken rhythm, easy and instinctive.
“This is gonna sound so bad,” Grian said, voice light. “But there’s a park nearby if you want to keep hanging out. Nobody’s gonna be there this time of night.”
Scar smirked, trying to mask the flutter of nerves in his chest. “And you said I was the smooth one.”
“Oh my god, you’re terrible,” Grian laughed, the sound warm and genuine.
“But yes, yes, I would,” Scar said, matching his grin. “Lead the way, mister?”
They slipped through a tangle of backyard and alleyways, shadows wrapping around them. Scar almost wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness and thrill of sneaking around, hand in hand with another boy. He felt simple, wild, and young.
Grian guided them to a small, empty field. It was an old baseball diamond, one Scar recognized as a spot where young kids would gather when school was out. Its bases were long faded under overgrown hedges and ivy-tangled fences. The shadows pooled just right, neither hidden nor exposed. It wasn’t vast, it wasn’t hidden, but it was perfect— somewhere private enough to feel safe, yet still part of the world.
The scent of dry grass mixed with the lingering warmth of summer evening air. They stumbled to the edge by a worn wooden fence and sat cross-legged, side by side, hands still intertwined. Grian finally let go, lighting another cigarette that flickered to life in the darkness.
“So…” Scar trailed off, trying to search for words.
“Soooo…” Grian echoed with a grin, eyebrows wagging as he drew a slow plume of smoke, hands propping him up behind on the soft grass.
“Come here often?” Scar’s laugh bubbled up, a mix of anxiety and anticipation twisting in his stomach. Something about Grian unraveled him, made him careless.
“I take it all back, you’re not smooth at all.” Grian teased, nudging Scar’s shoulder with a fingertip.
“Aw, but you love it, admit it.” Scar’s eyes widened, the words slipping out too fast. “Uh, I mean… It’s all part of the Scar charm, don’t worry about it.”
Grian’s eyebrows lifted in mock indignation, maybe a bit of surprise, and a slow smile spread across his face. For a heartbeat, Scar thought Grian might say something sharp, something teasing in response to the sudden seriousness, but instead, he simply shifted closer, pulling Scar gently to face him. The faint snap of the cigarette ember crushed between Grian’s fingers echoed in the quiet field, a subtle punctuation to the suspended moment.
Grian’s hands hovered for just a second before resting lightly on Scar’s knees, not claiming, just grounding— an unspoken question passing between them. Scar’s fingers tightened instinctively around the grass beneath him, a small anchor in the sudden swirl of adrenaline and warmth.
“You’re impossible,” Grian murmured, voice low and teasing, with something softer at the edges, almost vulnerable. Scar caught it immediately, the fleeting hesitation making his heart leap.
“I might be,” he admitted, voice shaking slightly, though he couldn’t stop the small smile from tugging at his lips. “But you don’t seem to mind.”
A silence fell, but it wasn’t empty; it was thick with possibility and anticipation. Scar noticed the faint twitch of Grian’s ears, the tilt of his head, the way his breath hitched just slightly as if testing the air between them. Slowly, deliberately, Grian leaned closer, until their foreheads brushed, the space between their eyes shrinking to nothing.
Scar’s pulse rose. This was no longer teasing or simple banter; this was an unspoken truce, a quiet, intimate understanding that neither of them had named. The warmth of it settled warmly in Scar’s chest, steadying and chaotic all at once.
One hand rose slowly, cupping Scar’s cheeks, fingers gently tracing the faint scars dotting his face. The touch was feather-light, barely stirring the skin, yet heavy with unspoken meaning. The other hand settled on Scar’s thigh, grounding him.
Scar barely noticed the smoke curling around their faces from the dying cigarette— his attention was caught entirely by how impossibly close Grian was.
Grian’s breath slowed in a soft, uneven rhythm that fluttered against Scar’s skin, followed by a slow, deliberate exhale that sent a thin wisp of smoke drifting over his cheek. The night air smelled of tobacco and something else, something warm and sharp, something unspoken, like anticipation.
His eyes locked on Scar’s, vulnerable and searching, and for a moment, the world beyond the empty field disappeared.
“Is this okay?” he whispered, voice barely more than a breath.
Scar’s heart hammered violently, the world narrowing down to that quiet question, echoing beneath his ribs. Before doubt could take hold, he nodded, voice thick but steady. “Please.”
Their lips met in a gentle brush, soft and warm, a tentative touch that deepened quickly, naturally. The faint taste of smoke clung to Grian’s mouth, a strange but intimate mark of this fragile moment. The kiss was a tender exploration— slow and deliberate, lips sliding lightly against one another, as if they were balancing on the edge of a cliff, afraid to fall but unable to look away.
Scar’s senses sharpened, feeling the soft roughness of Grian’s lips, the subtle tremor in his hands, the steady mingling of their breaths in the cool summer night. Time stretched, taut and slow, every touch amplified— the slight press of lips, the feeling of skin against skin, the gentle heat spreading from where they touched, unraveling something deep inside Scar’s chest.
Their hands moved with hesitant urgency. Scar’s fingers curled around the back of Grian’s neck, thumb brushing against his hair, the other hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Tentatively, he let his fingers drift along Grian’s jaw, tracing a slow line to the curve of his collarbone before returning to rest in the curve of his hip, savoring the warmth there. Grian mirrored the movement, his thumb gliding across Scar’s jaw with deliberate care, while the other hand pressed against Scar’s thigh with quiet strength, an intimate gesture shaped by trust and desire.
Scar shifted slightly closer, letting the soft curve of his thigh press against Grian’s, a grounding, reassuring touch. His free hand drifted over Grian’s shoulder, feeling the faint tremor of muscle beneath his fingers, the small shiver that ran along him with each brush of skin. He tilted his head to deepen the kiss ever so slightly, still careful and unhurried, as if time itself had slowed its pace just for them. The heat of their lips pressed together spread warmth through Scar’s chest, a quiet reassurance that this was real, something worth risking everything for.
The night held its breath around them— crickets quieting, the hum of distant cars fading away— leaving nothing but the sound of their breathing, shallow and mingling in the cool summer air.
When they finally pulled back, just enough to catch their breath, their foreheads rested together, eyes closed, sharing the silence of a moment suspended between heartbeats. Scar’s hand lingered against Grian’s chest, fingertips brushing along the warmth of his shirt, memorizing the fragile weight of trust that had just been given.
“You’re amazing,” he said breathlessly, trying to catch his own breath after sharing it between them for so long.
“You too.” Grian’s eyes were half-lidded, his lips tinged red and slightly swollen from the kiss, and a small, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. For a heartbeat, they simply stayed like that, foreheads pressed together, letting the quiet hum of the night seal the unspoken promise between them.
Scar pressed another gentle, chaste kiss against his lips. It was a soft imprint, a quiet affirmation. A soft laugh escaped Grian’s lips, a fragile sound, and Scar smiled back— feeling, for the first time in a while, that he was finally exactly where he was supposed to be.