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It happens quickly.
Scar blinks, once, and his vision is blurry with sand and blood and tears, his entire body a sharp but fading ache as he slips out consciousness, out of life.
He blinks again, a ghost in the wind as he watches Grian step up to the ledge with bruised knuckles and a blank face, trailing blood that is not his own in the shifting sands behind him. There are other ghosts around him, those who’d died before him, but everyone is silent as Grian jumps.
He blinks, a third time, a final time, and shoots awake with a strangled gasp, sitting bolt upright in his bed at the Swaggon.
A thin layer of dust covers the bedside table, a wilted dandelion in the pot resting on top of it, and Scar stares at it, barely breathing. His heart is beating fit to burst out of his chest at any moment, his mind racing with too many thoughts to process. His mouth is dry. He’s not quite sure where he is or where he was.
Hermitcraft, he thinks to himself, scanning the room slowly. He hadn’t forgotten, exactly, that this was where he came from, but— It had seemed like a dream, in that other world. Like something he couldn’t come back to.
He starts to move, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, and can’t quite hold back a gasp at the pain that tears through him. It seems to trigger his notice of everything else; his ribs hurt like they’ve been broken, his forearms ache like he’s been blocking blows, his legs feel slow and weak. For a few blissful seconds of ignorance, he doesn’t remember why. Then his eyes catch on the potted cactus sitting innocently in the windowsill across the room. His breath hitches, then speeds up.
He remembers; him and Grian standing across from each other, surrounded by cacti. The loose sand shifting beneath his feet as he tried to move. The sharp sting of cactus spikes driving into his bare skin when he stumbled backwards.
Grian, with his hands curled into fists and his face twisted in desperation. Grian, with that vaguely pitying look in his eyes when Scar finally went down to the ground and couldn’t get back up. Grian, winning the game.
He remembers so vividly that it feels like it’s still happening — like his skin is still bowing under the onslaught of hard knuckles, like his bones are still cracking beneath the force, like he’s still catching blurry glimpses of Grian’s face between the blows.
Grian had tried to make it quick, Scar knows. But with nothing but hands and feet, every second had stretched into its own tortured eternity.
His stomach twists sharply, his heartbeat echoing loudly in every inch of his body, the air feeling like needles against his skin. His vision darkens at the edges, pinpricks of panicked tears clinging to the corners of his eyes, hands shaking violently where they’re tangled in his sheets. For a few minutes, he is absolutely certain that he’s about to die again.
He doesn’t, but all that means is that he has to come back down painstakingly slowly, panicking in his own home that doesn’t feel like home, anymore. And he’s alone, but the one person he thinks might make it better also has equal chances of making it worse. He sits on his bed and stares out the window at the Boatem Pole, and after an indeterminate amount of time, feels a little steadier.
His cane is lying against the wall next to his bed, and Scar grabs it with a still trembling hand, needing the extra support to stand up. The ladder that leads to the ground proves a bit more challenging, and he ends up sliding down most of the way, stumbling at the bottom before steadying himself against the rungs. The gentle breeze that tussles his hair makes everything feel all the more real, and he takes a long, wavering breath. It’s really over.
Scar walks as quickly as he can manage down the path, some vague sense of desperation driving him forward in his search for someone, anyone who could confirm that what he remembers really happened. He feels half-crazed with it, with the lingering panic of fighting for his life, and he only registers Impulse’s presence when they crash into each other full force.
They both yell in shock, Impulse catching himself on a nearby fencepost while Scar hits the ground, knocking the breath out of him. He stares up at Impulse with wide eyes, fear twisting itself into coils around his lungs at his vulnerable — disturbingly familiar — position on the ground. The first thought that crosses his mind, looking up at the other man, is Opponent. Then his surroundings register —the Boatem Pole somewhere off to his right — and he thinks Friend. Neither one seems to win out, and he lays there, frozen.
“Sorry,” Scar croaks, pasting on a reflexive, shaky smile. “I was— I wasn’t paying attention.”
Impulse starts a bit at his voice, still clinging to the fencepost like it’s the only thing holding him up, and he shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it.
“Me neither,” Impulse says faintly, and then he slowly releases his grip on the post, chest heaving, looking a little lost. “Sorry, I— Sorry.”
Impulse remembers. Scar can see it in his eyes, hunted and confused.
“Here, let me…” Impulse reaches down like he’s going to help him up, and Scar is powerless against the harsh pulse of terror that lances through his chest at the motion, so innocent in this context, but—
The last time someone had knocked him to the ground, they’d just kept hitting.
Impulse freezes, uncertainty flitting in and out of his eyes until it gives way to understanding, and Scar abruptly realizes that they’d all been watching. They’d been dead and gone, ghosts in the wind, but they had all been there, an audience to the final act. Witnesses to Scar’s brutal end.
The redstoner looks like he’s about to pull away, but Scar pulls together every ounce of bravery he has left in him to reach up and grasp his hand before it’s gone. Impulse pauses for a moment, startled, but then he leverages himself and tugs Scar onto his feet. He adjusts his cane to brace against level ground, idly brushing off the seat of his pants, and then he glances at the other man, nervous.
“It was real, wasn’t it?” Scar asks, after they’ve adjusted to each other’s presence. He sounds desperate even to his own ears. “It happened, right?”
Impulse inhales, eyes going distant, a hand coming up to rub at his chest, where Bdubs’ arrow had struck him. Scar swallows against the rising ache of guilt in his throat, focusing instead on the gray clouds rolling slowly across the overcast sky, trying to stay in the present.
“It happened,” Impulse says eventually, voice trembling, uncertain eyes meeting his. “I don’t…”
He trails off, gaze snapping to something over Scar’s shoulder, frame tensing in anticipation. Scar whirls around and falls back a few steps until he’s standing next to the other; he wonders, a bit, at how quickly his brain had put Impulse into the category of ally when presented with a threat. It was as easy as breathing. They were all that each other had, at the moment. The only thing that seemed familiar.
Scar’s gaze snaps upwards as a figure descends from the sky, elytra folding down against their back upon landing, and it takes Scar a few long seconds to place them as Pearl. She’s looking at them with a relieved grin and wild eyes, still in her pajamas. Maybe that’s normal, though, because Scar has no clue what time it is.
“You’re back!” Pearl exclaims, no small amount of joy in her voice, and she rushes forwards like she’s going to hug them.
She stops short, though, and Scar realizes that both he and Impulse had tensed up, flinched back. Impulse’s hand is hovering around his hip, where there isn’t a weapon. The wind causes the Boatem Pole to bend and creak, loud in the sudden silence. Pearl blinks at them, her breath hitching.
“Pearl,” Scar says eventually, and his voice wavers with emotion. She’s a part of home that hasn’t been tainted by the games. She hadn’t been there, and he’s grateful for it.
“Hey,” Pearl says, noticeably gentler, empty hands in front of her. “You’re back, it’s alright.”
“We’re… a little bit on edge,” Impulse says, his voice apologetic. His hands are shaking. “Sorry, it’s— It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, too,” Pearl says, concern creeping into her expression. “What happened?”
Scar breathes, and glances over at Impulse, who looks pained. How do they even begin to explain?
“Hardcore world,” Scar blurts out eventually, suddenly enough that they all jump. “And— Fight to the death. You know how it is.”
Pearl could absolutely not know how it is, and the slowly dawning look of horror on her face confirms it. On Hermitcraft, death was inconvenient, barely painful. Hardcore worlds were tricky things. Death felt real.
“Oh, god,” Pearl says, hushed and cracking. “You mean— All this time?”
“Yeah,” Impulse says simply, awkwardly, and Scar absentmindedly realizes that he doesn’t actually know how long it’s been.
Pearl hesitates before asking her next question, brow furrowed with some odd emotion. “And you… remember it? Both of you?”
Sand, blood, fists. Scar nods, haltingly. Impulse does the same.
“Grian doesn’t,” Pearl says bluntly, and Scar can’t help the way he jolts at hearing his name. Pearl looks at him quizzically, her concern growing stronger. “He doesn’t remember anything, was he there with you?”
Scar can’t answer, too busy trying to control his breathing. It was Grian who had helped him build their home in the desert. It was Grian who had chosen to stay by his side, even after he didn’t have to anymore. It was Grian who had sat on the mountain with him, pointing out the stars and naming them.
It was Grian who had looked at him when they were the only two left, and had said there had to be a winner. It was Grian who had led him back to their mountain, hand in hand, and beat him to death in the shifting sands.
Grian remembered none of it.
There’s a touch, feather-light, on the side of his wrist. Scar jumps, wild gaze cutting over to Impulse, who is looking back at him with a knowing kind of worry, a genuine care in his expression. A lump rises in Scar’s throat, a little bit awed at how easily Impulse has fallen back into being his friend. Scar had bribed Bdubs to kill him; although neither of them had outright killed the other, which probably helped things. They had even been something close to allies, at one point. And neither of them really wanted to be alone.
“He was there,” Scar answers shakily, looking back at Pearl. “He won.”
Pearl swallows, looking between them like she’s waiting for them to announce that they're just kidding, that it's all just a cruel joke. It isn’t, though, no matter how much Scar wishes it was. It's real, it is.
But not to Grian.
“So I was gone for how long?”
Mumbo has his back turned, watching Pearl fly away to find the others, but he turns to look at Grian when he speaks. There is still something mildly awed in his expression, like he’s marveling at the fact that Grian is even there.
Because apparently he’d been missing.
“About two months, I’d say,” Mumbo says, the lingering weight of it clear in his voice. “You really don’t remember where you went?”
Grian tries, standing there in front of his base wracking his brain for anything that seems out of place, but there’s nothing. Well, there’s an odd sort of ache concentrated around his knuckles, but he had been building yesterday. Or not yesterday, if Mumbo was to be believed. Two months ago.
“Not one bit,” Grian says, irritation prickling in his stomach. “I really— Who else was missing?”
“Seven others,” Mumbo answers, and recites the names like he’s been doing it every day for weeks. “Impulse, Scar, Bdubs, Tango, Ren, Etho, and Cleo. And you.”
“And we’re all… back now?” He has to make sure.
Mumbo nods. “All at the same time, basically. Just popped right in.”
The flowers near his feet are blooming. They had still been just buds, last he remembers. He’s lost time. More than he’s comfortable with. Way more.
“This is really weird,” Grian mumbles, mostly to himself, but Mumbo nods anyway.
“It really is,” Mumbo says, giving a little awkward laugh. “But you’re back, that’s the most important thing.”
Grian groans, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “It’s going to drive me absolutely crazy, not knowing.”
“Maybe it’ll come back to you?” Mumbo offers, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.
Grian just frowns, uncertain. Whatever he’s forgetting feels momentous, it feels important. There’s some vague sense of urgency and desperation still lingering in his bones, even if he has no idea why. His body remembers. His hands hurt.
“Maybe,” Grian says eventually, and stares at the flowers blooming brightly beneath his feet. Yellow and blue.
For whatever reason, he can’t help but think that they’re the wrong colors.
Despite it all, life goes on. Scar doesn’t sleep a wink that first night back, laying in bed and staring at the ceiling, jumping at every noise. Jellie helps a bit, curling up at his feet and guarding him. He’s exhausted, but he doesn’t fall asleep.
He can’t stop thinking about it. How could Grian not remember? He toys with the idea that maybe Grian had lied about it, had wanted to pretend it never happened. Except Scar spots Grian from a distance early the next morning, restocking the G-train without a care in the world, and Scar knows he told the truth.
The sight of Grian doing such a mundane, normal task paralyzes him. He stands at the window of the Swaggon long after Grian disappears back into his base, unsure of how to proceed. There’s a part of him that wants to go visit Grian, a part that wants to seek him out, some lingering sense of home pulling him in. The other part of him is terrified at the very thought of being within touching distance.
And what would he even say? ‘Sorry if I seem freaked out, the last time we saw each other you were beating me to death in our backyard’? That probably wouldn’t go over well.
Grian is his best friend. Scar misses him. Scar is scared of him.
His gaze drifts over to the Boatem Pole, Impulse sitting on the grass beside it. Scar takes a deep breath, trying to push his worries about Grian to the back of his mind. He’ll deal with it, he will. Just… another day. First and foremost, he has to wait until his lungs won’t seize up at the very sight of him.
Scar wanders out of his base and joins Impulse on the grass. They don’t say a word, but they understand each other’s silence.
Life goes on.
“Everyone else remembers?!”
Grian’s voice is shrill, and Pearl winces, closing the lid of her chest and turning to face him. Her eyes are pitying, and Grian grinds his teeth.
“Seems like it, yeah,” Pearl says. “Quite the story, I think, but none of them really want to tell it.”
There’s something sad in her voice that gives Grian pause, something that makes him think that whatever happened was incredibly and unequivocally bad. All the others were still recovering from it, apparently. Except for Grian, because he had no clue what he was supposed to be recovering from.
“I— Are they sure I was there?”
“They’re sure,” Pearl says, a note of strangeness in her tone, not quite meeting his eyes.
“Did any of them say anything about it?” Grian asks, his concern growing by the minute.
Something horrible has happened to his friends. Something bad enough to keep the details to themselves. Something that had hurt them. They’re still hurting.
Grian feels fine, and somehow hates it.
Pearl looks at him like she’s searching for something, an examining gaze flitting across his face as she seems to weigh the options. Grian stands there, shifting anxiously from one foot to the other. She sighs, shoulders dropping.
“They said it was a hardcore world,” Pearl says, sounding defeated. “And it was— a ‘last one standing’ kind of deal.”
“A death match,” Grian says numbly, mouth dry. A death match in a hardcore world. It sounded like hell. They would have felt every second of it. Every small bit of pain. He can only hope their deaths had been quick.
Pearl is still watching him.
“There’s something else,” Grian says, because he knows her. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“The only other thing I know,” she says, her mouth a grim line. “You won.”
Meeting up with Impulse becomes a routine.
Things are easy, between the two of them. Scar apologizes, and Impulse understands, and — not entirely meaning for it to happen — they become each other’s constant. Scar wakes up every morning, whether he’d actually been sleeping or not, and he meets Impulse by the Boatem Pole. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they don’t. It’s nice, to have someone who knows both versions of him. To have someone who hears what he doesn’t say. Someone who was there, someone who remembers.
(He pretends he’s not avoiding Grian on purpose. He can only lie to himself for so long.)
“I think I want to talk to Bdubs,” Impulse says one day, apropos of nothing, and Scar looks up from where he’d been scribbling build ideas in his notebook.
Impulse isn’t looking at him, instead staring out across the landscape with anxious but determined eyes. He’s right, of course. They’ll need to see the others again eventually, and it will only be harder the longer they put it off.
Scar nods hesitantly, closing his sketchbook. “Can I come?”
Impulse smiles at him, a little less burdened every day. “Of course.”
They gather some food for the trip, and pass by Mumbo on their way out of Boatem, waving up at the man as he works on his base. Mumbo waves back at them, looking a bit surprised that they’re leaving the area. Which is fair, really, because they haven’t, yet.
Nerves writhe in Scar’s stomach as they take the path into the woods, walking towards the Big Eyes area. It’s a nice day, a light breeze gently rustling the leaves above them, pulling a few loose to drift down to the ground below. The sky is bright blue and dotted with puffy white clouds, the sun shining brightly. It’s a beautiful walk through the woods, and Scar spends most of it fiercely battling the part of him that wants to look over his shoulder every two seconds.
Impulse doesn’t seem much better, empty hands flexing by his sides, eyes constantly scanning the tree line. Scar can’t help but huff a sad laugh, and Impulse returns it, bumping his shoulder into Scar’s in a friendly manner. They still have one foot in the death game. But they’re at least moving forward.
They stop when they crest a small hill and Big Eyes comes into view, waves lapping at the shores of it. Tango is moving around in the distance, messing with something at the docks. Bdubs is fiddling with a flower box outside one of the shops, his back turned. A stab of guilt ricochets around his lungs.
“I killed him,” Scar says.
“We all killed someone, or at least tried to,” Impulse replies. “We were just— playing the game. We had to.”
Something bigger than they were had been pulling the strings. In that world, it had felt like necessity. Here, it feels like cruelty.
Bdubs had killed Impulse, and Scar had killed Bdubs, and Grian had killed Scar. Bloodstained dominoes toppling over, one after the other. When the first one was tipped, the rest had been inevitable.
They walk down the path and into Big Eyes territory, the shrieking of seagulls filling their ears as they go. It’s Keralis that spots them first, up on a balcony arranging lanterns on the railing, and his eyes widen almost comically. Scar offers a little wave in greeting, and Keralis returns it, a happy grin spreading across his face. Then he seems to realize something, and glances at Bdubs and Tango before looking back at them. His smile turns a little sad at the edges, and he tilts his head in understanding. Impulse nods back, and they keep walking down the path.
They come upon Tango first. He has his back turned to them, knelt next to the water fiddling with a rope, but he visibly tenses as he senses them getting closer. They’re all on a hair-trigger, these days. Scar swallows against the bundle of nerves in his throat, and Tango turns around.
There’s a few long seconds where nothing happens, just the waves breaking gently on the shore nearby. Then Tango takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his mouth lifts slightly at the edges, something fragile but healing in his eyes. Scar feels a weight lift off his shoulders, and beside him Impulse exhales slowly. The world does not end.
“Been a long week, huh?” Tango says, and Scar huffs a startled laugh, almost on the edge of tears.
“It’s been a long few months,” Impulse responds, relief in his voice. “Everything… It all feels different.”
The people they see in the mirror do not look the same as they once did. It’s hard to reconcile. It’s hard to move on.
“...We’ll get past it,” Tango says eventually, standing up from his crouched position and brushing off his pants. There’s a stubborn set to his jaw — that lingering steely-eyed resolve that they’d all brought back with them. A souvenir from the world’s worst family vacation.
Bdubs walks up behind Tango, apparently having seen them from afar, and Scar hears Impulse’s breath hitch. Scar clenches and unclenches his hands, guilt rising in his stomach as he remembers the way it had felt to kill him. The way it had felt like there was no other choice.
“Can we?” Scar asks quietly in response to Tango’s words. He looks at Bdubs, seeing his own tired heartbreak echoed in the other’s eyes.
Bdubs looks between them, the person he killed and the person who killed him. Tango watches. The four of them stand there by the water, exhausted and broken and sharing the weight of the world between them. None of them are carrying weapons. All of them are carrying memories.
“...I think we can,” Bdubs says finally, sounding almost surprised by it, and then he nods decisively. “We will.”
Scar smiles, salty sea air prickling at his eyes, and Bdubs huffs, but smiles back.
They spend the day there, existing and apologizing and forgiving. It feels like they’re picking through jagged pieces of broken glass, starting to put them back together. It feels like the first clumsy steps of a child learning to walk.
The games had shattered them, but they are stubborn enough to heal from it. One day at a time.
“Have you talked to any of them?”
Grian looks down at Pearl from where he’s sitting perched on the G-train, eating lunch. He shrugs, trying to play it off as casual; failing, if Pearl’s raised eyebrow is any indication. He huffs, taking one last bite of his apple and throwing the core over his shoulder.
“Not yet,” Grian says, a bit defensive. “Apparently they’ve been to hell and back, I thought I might give them some time before crashing in to ask for all the juicy details.”
He’s thought about it, of course. He’s horrifically curious, and anxious about what he’s forgotten. There’s a whole chunk of his life missing now. It feels important beyond imagining, and for all that he glares at the ceiling every night wracking his brain, not one bit of it has come back to him. All he has is the profound certainty that it had been horrible, and the lingering sense that time is running out. He wants to know what happened to make him this way, to make them all this way.
More than that, he misses them. He misses Scar. One of Grian’s best friends, and he barely ever sees him, anymore. Only from afar, and almost always with Impulse by his side.
“Maybe they’re waiting for you to make the first move?” Pearl suggests, though even she seems unsure. “Look— You know it’ll only get weirder the longer you wait, right?”
“I know.” Grian sighs, hopping down from the train to land next to Pearl. “I want to, I just— I don’t know what to say.”
He sees them sometimes, Impulse and Scar sitting by the bottom pole talking. They’re closer now than they ever were before; Grian is almost jealous. Bdubs and Tango had visited yesterday, and they had shared lunch together. Just this morning, Grian had watched as Ren led a llama over to Scar’s base and left it tied outside. He had watched Scar come down and hug its neck with shaking shoulders, Impulse hovering nearby with sad eyes and a smile.
Grian is out of the loop. He’s afraid that they won’t tell him, if he asks. He is equally afraid that they will.
“Just say hi,” Pearl says gently, resting a supportive hand on his shoulder. “They’ll let you know if they’re ready to tell you or not, but one of you has to make the first move.”
He supposes it’s not really fair to expect them to make it. They’re probably dealing with a lot already.
“Okay,” Grian says, resigned. “You’re right.”
“I’m always right,” Pearl snarks, but she squeezes his shoulder before pulling away. “Just— Be gentle.”
Grian nods. “I’ll do my best.” He means it.
Pearl flies off to do her own thing, and Grian paces in front of his base for a while, trying to work up the nerve. The sun is sinking lower in the sky by the time he gathers his courage, and he peeks around the G-train, gaze drawn to the Boatem Pole. It’s only Impulse there now, sitting with his legs hanging over the side and his head tipped back, looking at the sky. Grian glances over at Scar’s base and sees the light on in the window. Maybe he’d turned in early.
Talking to Impulse alone doesn’t feel as daunting as talking to Scar, for some reason, so Grian swallows down his vague anxiety and makes his way over.
Impulse knows he’s there without turning around, hypervigilant in a way that makes Grian’s gut twist. They’re like soldiers returned from war, one foot still in the trenches. Grian is afraid to learn what made them this way. Afraid to learn what type of game he’d been crowned victor of. Afraid of what he might have done to win.
“Don’t do that to Scar,” is the first thing Impulse says, turning to face him with a worried but protective glint in his eye. “Make sure he sees you coming.”
Grian blinks, feeling unsteady. None of the returned hermits seemed like they much like being snuck up on, but Impulse has singled out Scar specifically. Had something happened where Scar had been attacked from behind? Or maybe it had something to do with Grian. Either way, something sad and anxious pokes at his chest.
“...I won’t,” Grian says, voice quiet and solemn. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up.”
Impulse studies him like he’s looking for something. Recognition, maybe, but Grian has none. Eventually, Impulse exhales softly, his expression tired and resigned. He meets Grian’s eyes and quirks a small, barely there smile.
“You really don’t remember.”
Grian shakes his head, hunching his shoulders against the chill in the air. “Not a thing,” he says. “It’s like it’s just… missing.”
Impulse nods, looking back down into the hole in front of him. “That sounds disorienting.”
Grian stands there, eyes catching on the tired slump of the other’s shoulders. He looks small.
“I imagine it’s worse for you and the others,” Grian says gently. “Probably more disorienting to remember it.”
Impulse glances up at him, the smile on his face a bit more genuine. “It’s getting a little easier,” he says. “We’re just— We’re still processing it, I think.”
Grian hums, lowering himself to the ground, carefully out of touching distance in an attempt to seem like less of a threat. Just in case Impulse remembers him as one.
“You deserve to know,” Impulse says after a few minutes of silence. His hands are clenching and unclenching in the fabric of his pants. “But I don’t know if I can talk about it, yet.”
“It’s okay,” Grian says, his care for his friends far outweighing any disappointment. “I can wait.”
“You would have to get most of it from Scar, anyway,” Impulse says, glancing at him with an odd look, like he’s measuring his reaction. “You two were teamed.”
Grian inhales, adding that bit of information to the short list of what he knows. It makes sense, somehow. It feels right.
“I’ll ask him, then,” Grian says. “One day.”
“When he’s ready,” Impulse says, making eye contact again, carrying a whole history that Grian knows nothing about.
“When he’s ready,” Grian repeats.
The moon rises.
Scar still wakes up screaming, is the thing. He wakes up with the image of Grian’s bloody and bruised knuckles burned into the insides of his eyelids. He wakes up afraid. He wakes up and he wants Grian to hug him, but he also thinks he might panic if he tried. He wakes up and regrets going to sleep.
There are dark circles beneath his eyes when he catches a glimpse of his reflection, haggard and fragile-looking. He looks like a soft wind would knock him clean across the map, but that look has sort of become a staple of those who had returned. They all have the rigid posture of someone ready to run or fight at a moment’s notice. Some days are better. Some days are not.
Scar still wakes up screaming — screaming someone’s name.
“I talked to Grian last night,” Impulse says when they meet up, fidgeting with his hands and looking at him out of the corner of his eye.
Scar goes still, processing it. “Oh?”
“He’s curious,” Impulse says. “You know him, he’ll want to know eventually. I would want to know.”
Scar swallows, brow furrowed as he thinks. He misses Grian, so much that his chest aches with it. He wants to talk to him, he wants to tell him, because Grian does deserve to know - Scar just doesn’t know how he would even begin to explain it. They had lived a whole other life. Scar could talk and talk and talk and never be able to cover all of it. He has to try, though. He has to start somewhere.
“I’m going to talk to him,” Scar says finally, and a little bit of his anxiety settles as he makes the decision.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Impulse asks.
Scar thinks about it, eyes drifting towards Grian’s base in the distance. He remembers a time where he would have walked over to bother his friend without a care in the world. He remembers a time where he wouldn’t have hesitated. He wants that version of himself back. It’s not fair.
“I think…I’ll try to do it alone,” Scar says, nervous but certain. Impulse nods, cracking an easy smile.
“Okay,” Impulse says, and seems almost anxious on his behalf. “But just say the word and I’m there. I’ll knock Grian out with a rock or something and you can make your escape.”
Scar barks a startled laugh, some of the tension bleeding out of him. “My hero,” he teases, but the accompanying smile is genuine.
“Alright, alright.” Impulse rolls his eyes and gives him a gentle push in the direction of Grian’s base, expression fond. “Get out of here before you change your mind.”
Scar chuckles, giving the other a short wave before starting towards his destination. The gravel path crunches beneath his feet and his cane, loose pebbles shifting as he walks. It’s easier to walk here than it had been there; sand really didn’t lend itself to quick, graceful movements. More than once he’d face-planted directly into a dune, Grian’s howling laughter ringing out behind him. Grian had done his fair share of stumbling as well, but by the end of the games they'd been used to it. The homefield advantage that knowing how to walk in sand had given them was slight but important. It made quick retreats difficult.
(Scar remembers stumbling his way out from the cactus ring, trying to get away. He remembers Grian, chasing after him. He remembers falling, choking on grains of sand and blood from his lungs. Grian hadn’t been laughing, that time. And Scar hadn’t gotten back up.)
He shakes himself out of his thoughts, coming up quickly on the G-train and turning to go around it. Now is probably the worst possible time to be thinking about the way it had ended. He’s here trying to start again.
The entrance to Grian’s Alley looms in front of him, the cooler air chilling his skin, and he crosses his arms over his stomach, nerves poking at him persistently. He scans the area, looking up at Grian’s manufactured night sky and then back down the street. He is still trying to work up the courage to walk farther in when a door opens a few yards away.
Scar’s breathing stutters as Grian walks out, carrying a shulker box in his hands and kicking the door shut with his foot. Scar can’t help his slight flinch at the sound and sudden motion, but he manages to stay where he is. This is Grian. Grian won’t hurt him without a reason, and Scar won’t give him one.
He doesn’t call out. He should, but he doesn’t. The words are lodged in his throat, his feet frozen to the ground, and he’s sure he looks like he’s seen a ghost when Grian finally spots him. Scar twitches at the sudden eye contact, his heart skipping a beat, memories banging at the door of the cellar he’s locked them in. Scar is wary, half expecting to see the remnants of anger and grief in Grian’s eyes, but there’s none.
Grian looks happy to see him; he jolts, his face lighting up in an easy grin, fumbling with the shulker before dropping it haphazardly on the ground. Scar feels a bit out of place next to this version of Grian. They don’t fit quite the same.
“Scar!” Grian calls out, jogging towards him with a wave. Anxious excitement plays on his face, hands pulling at the fabric of his signature red sweater. Blood had blended into it nicely, when—
It’s only because he is too shocked to move that he doesn’t jolt backwards when Grian gets close. He stops short of touching him at least, perhaps sensing Scar’s nerves and also harboring his own. Grian stands in front of him, and Scar just stares for a moment, breathing unsteadily, unbalanced. Despite his survival instincts screaming at him, disaster doesn’t immediately strike, and he relaxes enough that the small smile that graces his face is genuine and easy. He really did miss Grian. He still does.
“It’s been a while,” Scar says, soft and heavy with a burden that Grian doesn’t carry. His voice strains, and he clears his throat, glancing away from the spark of concerned confusion in Grian’s eyes. “I’m— I should’ve come to visit sooner, but…”
“It’s a weird situation,” Grian says, quirking an understanding smile and letting out a slightly pained sigh. “I know it’s been— It’s been tough on you guys. It’s okay if you needed time — If you still need it.”
“I missed you,” Scar says, because honesty still comes easily with Grian, even after everything. “Besides, this probably isn’t easy for you, either.”
“…It’s like I blinked and everything changed,” Grian says, eyes going momentarily distant. “Everything except me.”
Scar has to ask. “You really don’t remember?”
The question is hesitant and fragile, and Grian’s eyes are apologetic.
“I’ve tried,” Grian says, sounding pained. “There’s just— Nothing.”
It’s a lot to carry, being the sole bearer of their memories. Scar has to shoulder enough grief for the both of them.
“Well, you know what they say,” Scar says, forcing his tone into something lighter. “Ignorance is bliss.”
“Except I’m not ignorant,” Grian says miserably. “Not really. I know enough to be worried about it.”
Scar isn’t sure that knowing more would really help; Scar remembers all of it, and all he does is worry about it. He understands why Grian would want to know, but Scar is terrified to tell him.
Maybe if he started with little things, it would be easier. Maybe if he started with the happier bits, it will soften the blow of the ending. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to talk about the ending. Not without reliving it.
“I can tell you a few things, if you want,” Scar offers, hands shoved nervously in his pockets. He bites at his lip, not quite looking Grian in the eye. “Me and you— We were a team.”
“That’s what Impulse said,” Grian says, and shuffles a half step closer, brow furrowed with concern. “It’s alright if you’re not ready to tell me, Scar. My curiosity isn’t more important than you.”
The tension in Scar’s chest eases a bit, even as a dull ache lances through his heart. None of it is fair. They are home and free and healing, but Scar still can’t help but watch Grian’s hands, carefully following their movements. He remembers them as fists, the knuckles bruised and bloody. He remembers them as instruments of pain.
Scar hates those games more and more every day, for making him so afraid of someone he loves.
“I’ll do a little at a time,” Scar says eventually, tearing his gaze away from Grian’s hands. He cracks a mischievous smile, a tentative lightness in his chest. “Some of it was fun, you know. We had a pet llama.”
“Now that,” Grian says, fondness sparking in his eyes, “I can’t wait to hear.”
Scar is different than Grian remembers. He stands at a careful distance, wary and nervous, keeping Grian in his line of sight at all times. He tries to be subtle about it, always pasting on a smile and making grand movements, and he may be different but Grian still knows him. He notices. He can’t stop noticing.
It makes him uneasy, the way Scar looks at him sometimes, when his mask slips. His eyes are haunted, grieving. He looks at Grian like he’s seeing a ghost — like he’s wrestling with some unnamable emotion in his head. He’s still fighting. Part of him is still playing the game.
After Scar breaks the ice and visits him at his base, they start taking walks together — sometimes with Impulse tagging along — and Scar makes good on his offer to tell him some stories.
(They had lived in a desert. They had built their home on a mountain. They had built a wall of cacti around the whole thing, to protect it.)
Scar tries to keep it light, Grian can tell, leaving out some things and completely avoiding others. He hesitates, sometimes, like he’s realized that the particular story he’s telling will lead to something he doesn’t want to talk about, and he swiftly and smoothly changes course.
Grian lets him. The things he doesn’t say tell a story, too.
They’d had three lives, each with a corresponding color. Red meant you had to kill.
These aren’t facts that Scar says outright, but Grian reads between the carefully crafted lines and puts together the scattered pieces of the puzzle. There is still so much he doesn’t know, can’t fathom, but slowly he paints a vague picture of what it must have been like. Tidbits of misplaced information, out of order and lacking context and important, still.
There had been factions, teams, and they had fought each other. Through context, and with what Scar tells him about the llama’s — Pizza’s — death, Grian gathers that Ren must’ve been on the other side of things. Scar doesn’t say much about it. He doesn’t say much about anything that might be upsetting. He keeps it close.
It weighs on him, Grian can tell — the world is less beneath his feet and more so on his shoulders. Scar carries a burden enough for the both of them, simply because Grian doesn’t know near enough to share the weight. Scar keeps the burden to himself, the sharp end of it pointed inward, and the next few days are much the same.
They walk around their home, a ghost haunting a ghost, and Scar tells him sad things framed within happy anecdotes. He spins him a story, and talks and talks and talks, and never tells him anything, and won’t meet his eyes, and doesn’t ever get close enough to touch. They orbit each other, gravity keeping them at a set distance, never any closer, never any farther. (It doesn’t bode well. Objects in orbit never touch each other gently.)
Impulse is different, too; he has an understanding of Scar that Grian is trying not to be jealous of. They communicate without words, they reference things that don’t make sense, and Scar relaxes around him in a way he just doesn’t with Grian. They lean on each other. Scar looks at Impulse like he trusts him to watch his back.
Scar looks at Grian like he’s bracing himself for something. Scar looks at Grian like he’s afraid, and trying desperately to continue on despite it. Because Scar has changed, sure, but at his core he’s still stubborn, and silly, and the brightest thing in every room. He is still Grian’s best friend, even if it feels like a distinction they have to fight for, now. Even if it feels like they’re both expecting someone else, when they look at each other.
They have a history now that Grian doesn’t know. They have a history that Scar is afraid to tell him.
They meet every day to go on a walk, and Scar only tells him the good parts, and the things he doesn’t say creep along behind them — waiting in the shadows, for a chance to pounce.
It’s so stupid in the end, the straw that finally breaks the camel's back. It all falls apart so quickly, but then none of it had been all that stable to begin with. Just a wobbly structure cobbled together with cracked stone. Just a castle in the sand, washed away with the changing of the tide.
Slowly but surely, he’d been getting used to Grian’s presence again. He still fights nerves, and is still hyper-aware of Grian’s every move, but it’s getting easier, almost. He still has to cut himself off from making inside jokes that Grian won’t understand, and he has to be careful not to let his mind wander to the less pleasant memories, but he’s getting better. Or at least better at pretending.
It’s the morning after a long, hard night that it happens. He’d been tossing and turning, thrown between nightmares, and there are bags beneath his eyes when he emerges from the Swaggon into the sunlight. Impulse had decided yesterday that he would start working on his base again, and so the spot by the Boatem Pole is empty.
Scar stops by the enclosure he’s building for his new llama — Pasta , he’s been calling her — and he throws a few hay bales over the fence, watching with a faint smile as she trots over excitedly. She’s not the same color as Pizza was, a dark brown instead of dusty white, but she’s not really meant to be an exact replacement, anyway. Ren had meant for her to be an apology.
He hears Grian coming long before he gets there, footsteps crunching on the gravel and dirt before transitioning to grass. The back of his neck prickles, and he glances over his shoulder, unable to stop from tensing up, his nerves already frayed and worn bare by his rough night. The memories are fresh in his mind — so much so that the first thing he looks at is Grian’s hands, instead of his face.
“Breakfast time?” Grian asks, stepping up next to him at the fence, watching Pasta eat hay by the mouthful. “Someone’s hungry.”
“You should hear her scream every morning, you would think she’s being actively murdered,” Scar says, chuckling at the sight of the llama, staring straight at him as she chews. “But no, she just wants food. It’s not a pleasant noise to wake up to, I can tell you that.”
It’s mostly true, what he’s just said. He leaves out the part where he’s usually already awake when the llama noises start. He is more awake than asleep, these days. Memories disguised as nightmares make sure of it.
“Was Pizza like that, too?” Grian asks, tentative like he always is when he’s afraid of broaching the topic of the other world.
His curiosity eats at him, Scar can tell. It sends guilt and apprehension lancing through his chest; he deserves to know more. Selfishly, Scar doesn’t want him to. It will only hurt them both, he tells himself. How could it do anything else?
“Pizza was quieter, actually,” Scar says, after a pause a bit too long to be natural. He shoots a grin of fond reminiscence at the other. “She was classy like that. Barely complained about you sitting on her while I dragged you around.”
The most memorable sound she’d made had been the cry of pain before she’d died. They’d been aiming for her.
“Scar?”
Scar jolts, shaking himself out of his thoughts and looking at Grian, staring at him with a sad sort of worry in his eyes. It reminds him a bit too much of the way he’d looked at him in that cactus ring, while the ghosts counted down; his expression drowning in sorrow and regret, even as his hands curled into fists. Only one could win, and they both knew who it was going to be.
“I— Sorry,” Scar says eventually, forcing a shaky smile on his face, glancing away. “I just miss her, sometimes. She would have liked Hermitcraft, you know. I don’t think she was that happy about the sand in the desert.”
“I don’t blame her,” Grian says, sympathy in the edges of his smile. “Sand gets everywhere.”
“You did complain about it a lot,” Scar teases, watching the clouds roll by as he recalls. “You said our food was grainy because sand would get in it.”
Grian pulls a face of disgust, eyebrows pinched like he’s imagining it, and Scar laughs. It’s a very familiar look, and Scar’s grin is equal parts fond and sad. Grian doesn’t even know the version of himself that he’s copying. He’s an unwitting echo of someone only Scar remembers.
“Scar,” Grian says gently, bringing him back to the present once again. His face is soft and concerned. “You keep drifting.”
Today is one of those days that just won’t cooperate with him. Today is one of those days where the past follows him closely, close enough that he can’t seem to shake it.
“…I didn’t get much sleep last night,” Scar admits finally, voice a bit quieter now; subdued. His heart is racing, and he doesn’t know why. “I should just— I think I might go lay down. Recharge my batteries.”
“Get some rest, Scar.” Grian nods, giving him a gentle look and an easy smile. “I can keep Pasta company while you’re gone.”
It’s just so stupid. Grian raises his hand — probably to gesture towards the llama — and Scar flinches hard enough that his back slams into the fence behind him. The wood rattles, the shock traveling outward, and Grian freezes. Scar’s mouth is dry. His lungs are frozen. Grian’s hand is still in the air.
Grian’s eyes are wide and shocked, almost scared. Scar’s skin goes cold and numb, his heart beating fast enough that he can’t feel it, can hardly feel anything. His fingers tremble, his eyes locked firmly on Grian’s hand, waiting.
They are not in the desert. Scar swears he can still feel the sun beating down on his neck. He blinks, confusion clouding his senses, struggling to stay rooted in the present long enough to calm down.
It might’ve worked. Except Grian talks.
“I’m sorry, Scar,” Grian says, innocently apologizing for startling him, unaware that he’s just kicked Scar off the crumbling ledge he’s been balanced on. “I’m sorry.”
His weak grasp on reality slips away from him; his vision blurs and his knees give out. His knees hit the ground. Nothing makes sense. His head hurts. Nothing makes sense. His throat is tight his hands are shaking his heart is stuttering—
(“I’m so sorry, Scar. I’m so sorry.”)
Blood in the sand. His ribs shifting beneath his skin. Blood pooling in his lungs and mouth. Falling to the ground, pain burned into the very concept of his existence. Blood on Grian’s knuckles. Blood on Grian’s shirt. Tears dripping down on him from above.
(“I’m so sorry, Scar. I’m so sorry.”)
Grian is standing above him, the sun behind him making his face impossible to see.
“I’m sorry,” Scar says, desperate to get it out before he dies. Grian needs to know. “I’m sorry, too.”
Grian reaches for him, and Scar jerks backwards in spite of himself, a choked gasp erupting from his throat. He hadn’t meant to.
“Sorry,” Scar repeats, lungs heaving, black dots dancing in his vision. He tries to laugh, but it’s mangled and wrong. “I didn’t mean to— I’ll be still. Pinky promise.”
He waits for the final blow, tears rolling languidly down his face every time he blinks. He doesn’t understand why Grian is drawing this out. His chest hurts. Dying is the only thing left that he can do.
Scar lays there, resigned, and waits.
It had all happened so quickly.
Scar is on the ground. Scar is apologizing. Scar is acting like Grian is going to hurt him.
Scar is promising to let him.
The wind is barely blowing, the sun heavy and hot in his back as Grian frantically tries to think of what to do. Scar can’t seem to hear him. Nothing he says has any effect. Scar is sprawled across the grass, shaking from head to toe, his eyes distant and devoid of recognition. Grian is standing there above him like a fool.
He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what caused this. Grian should remember, but he doesn’t. He needs someone who does.
Grian digs frantically into his pocket for his communicator, pulling it out with enough force that he almost drops it. He keeps hold of it, though, and starts a message to Impulse with trembling fingers, stabbing at the letters on the keyboard with urgency.
‘Scar needs help.’ he sends.
“Just hang in there, Scar,” Grian says quietly, his hand white-knuckled around his comm, overwhelmed tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. It had all happened so quickly.
Impulse arrives less than a minute later, landing clumsily with his elytra and shoving past him to kneel next to Scar, expression wild and worried.
“What happened?” Impulse asks, voice tight with his own panicked concern.
“I don’t— I don’t know,” Grian says, breathless. “I was— I think I moved too fast, he—“
Impulse turns back around like that’s all the explanation he needs, mouth pressed in a thin line and brow pinched as he looks back down at their friend on the ground, still mumbling things under his breath.
“Grian,” Impulse begins, glancing back at him with something almost pitying. “It’s...It’s really important that you’re quiet for a while, okay? If he keeps hearing you, it’ll set him off.”
Grian swallows hard, and nods. Something cold and numb beats softly against his chest. I’m the trigger, he realizes, and feels abruptly dizzy, leaning against the fence, face going pale. It's me.
“Scar,” Impulse begins, gentle but firm. “I’m going to touch you, okay? Just for a second.”
Despite his words, Impulse still hesitates for a moment. Then he reaches out and grabs Scar’s hand softly. Scar jolts, but true to his word, stays still. A small line of confusion forms on his forehead, clouded terror still in his eyes.
Impulse guides Scar’s hand to the earth beneath them, pushing it down against the ground. The line of confusion grows more visible.
“It’s grass,” Impulse says, taking his hand away. His eyes are anxious. “You’re not— there, Scar. It’s not sand.”
The world is frozen around them as they wait there, everything still and silent, like even the earth is holding its breath. Scar moves his hand slightly, blades of grass popping up from between his fingers. Slowly, his breathing gets less erratic. His eyes get a little clearer. Impulse adjusts himself to where he’s blocking Scar’s view of Grian, sending an apologetic glance in his direction. Grian just swallows, and feels sick. What had he done to win? What could make Scar so afraid?
“You with me, buddy?” Impulse asks, relief clear in his voice.
Grian can’t see much, but he can tell that Scar nods.
“I’m okay,” Scar says, voice hoarse and small. It’s the biggest lie Grian has ever heard.
“You’re not,” Impulse says simply, though not without care. He cracks a sad smile, seeming a little shaky himself. “I’m not, either.” He squeezes Scar’s shoulder, grounding him. “How about we go back to your base? We can see if we can find Jellie.”
“Okay,” Scar says, exhaustion coloring his tone. “Let’s…Okay.”
Impulse glances back at Grian, face unreadable, then looks back to Scar.
“Okay,” Impulse echoes softly, and he helps Scar to his feet, bracing him against himself, facing them both deliberately away from Grian. Probably to avoid scaring Scar. “Let’s go find Jellie.”
They walk away, and Grian stands there, mind reeling, watching them go.
Later, Scar remembers what had actually happened. He remembers that Grian was there. He realizes that Grian had seen.
He lays in his bed, Jellie curled up at his feet, and he blinks hazily at where Impulse is on the floor fiddling with some… redstone-y thing. Exhaustion is pressing against his eyelids and his lungs and his bones.
“He’s going to figure it out,” Impulse says eventually, running a wire between two metal bits. He gives Scar a look of sympathy. “He probably already is.”
“I know,” Scar replies, turning his gaze to the ceiling. There’s a spiderweb in the corner. “I don’t— I don’t think I can tell him. I don’t know how.”
Impulse is quiet for a few seconds, fiddling with his contraption with a furrowed brow. Scar waits.
“I could do it,” Impulse offers, eyes genuine. “I was there, too. Kind of.”
A weight lifts off Scar’s shoulders, a solution that he didn’t know was possible presented to him easily. Still—
“Are you sure?” Scar asks anxiously.
Impulse smiles gently, and nods. Then he goes back to messing with his redstone.
The Boatem pole is still standing. Grian stares at it vacantly, sitting by the edge of the pit, because it feels like it is the only thing still in one piece. Everything else has fallen apart.
Scar is terrified. Of him. Grian makes him afraid.
You won, Pearl had told him. Grian had often wondered who exactly he’d had to go through to get there. He knows one name for sure, now.
The sun is nearing the horizon when footsteps approach from behind, and Grian glances up blankly to find Impulse looking down at him, looking like a man on a mission. He sits down without preamble, his expression serious and tired and defeated. Grian swallows hard, uncertain what’s happening. The silence is comfortable, though, so Grian doesn’t break it, instead turning back to the pole.
“We had to kill each other,” Impulse says finally, staring straight ahead. “That’s the first thing to remember. That none of us had any choice.”
Grian’s mouth is dry. “You don’t have to tell—“
“I do,” Impulse cuts him off, glancing at him quickly. “I do, because someone does. And Scar can’t.”
It’s said without judgment, and without regret. Impulse will shoulder this burden so that Scar doesn’t have to.
“You know some of it,” Impulse starts again. “You know that you and Scar were teamed, and Pearl already told you that you won."
He pauses, then continues.
“What you don’t know,” Impulse says, voice straining a bit, “is that you and Scar were the only two people left at the end of it.”
The final two in a game where you had to be the last one standing. And Grian had won, which means that Grian had killed him.
“What are you saying?” Grian asks weakly, because he just needs to make sure.
“The two of you went up on your mountain and fought without weapons,” Impulse says simply, only the tension in his jaw and shoulders betraying his emotions. “And you won. He died.”
Grian’s stomach twists harshly, and for a moment he is sure he’s going to be sick. His hands tremble, his throat gets tight, his fingertips go numb. He blinks rapidly, dizziness overtaking his senses.
That first day, he’d respawned with pain in his hands. He hadn’t though much of it, then. Now he knows what caused it. He knows that his hands had hurt because just minutes ago he’d been beating his best friend to a bloody pulp in the name of a game.
In every interaction they’ve had since then, Scar has been watching his hands.
Scar spends a few days around the Swaggon, recovering and tidying and adding little details. His passion for building and creating is returning, slowly but surely, and it settles something in him, to know that he hasn’t lost that part of himself. Despite everything, he is still himself.
Almost.
He has to talk to Grian. There is a part of him that can’t heal until their friendship does. He misses how they used to be, and even if they can’t go back, he wants to go forward. He misses messing around with Grian, he misses the jokes, he misses the laughter, he misses how close they were. He wants it back.
He refuses to let that stupid game take it from them.
Scar finds Grian at the platform by the G-train, going through his chests and making notes with a blank look on his face. Scar’s heart still leaps in his chest, but it is equal parts fear and happiness. They can fix this. They can at least make it better.
Grian turns around, and Scar allows an awkward smile to cross his face. The flowers in the grass behind them wave softly in the breeze. The sun peeks brightly from behind a fluffy white cloud. Grian freezes like a deer in headlights, several emotions crossing his face, too quickly to read.
Impulse had told him, Scar knows. The weight of keeping a huge secret no longer weighs on Scar’s shoudlers, and as a result he feels calmer. Steadier.
“Hi, Grian,” Scar says, still smiling slightly; an anxious little thing, but genuine.
“Scar?” Grian replies faintly, like he can’t believe it. Scar’s heart twists, just a bit.
“That’s me,” Scar says, huffing a laugh, biting at the inside of his cheek. “I’m— I’m sorry about the other day, I really hadn’t gotten that much sleep. I got… confused, I guess.”
Grian is already shaking his head before he finishes talking, shoving his notepad into his pocket roughly.
“It was my fault,” Grian says, almost desperately.
“Well, sure,” Scar says, shrugging and awkward little shrug. “But it wasn’t on purpose. I know that.”
“You’re scared of me,” Grian says, matter-of-factly. “You have a good reason to be.”
“I don’t want to be scared of you, G,” Scar admits, voice breaking. “I really don’t.”
Grian’s face crumples. “I’m sorry, Scar,” he says. “You never deserved it. To die like that—“ He cuts himself off, looking queasy, and Scar winces.
“We didn’t have a choice,” Scar says, and the remnants of that helpless feeling rattle at the bars of his rib cage. He will never forget what it felt like, to have no other option but to kill or die.
“I don’t blame you,” Scar says, because he needs to say it and Grian needs to hear it. He swallows, hands trembling, and closes his eyes briefly. “But I’m going to be scared for a while. I need— I need to know if you can handle that.”
They are bracketed by a train on either side, standing several feet away from each other on the raised wooden platform. Somewhere in the distance, a llama calls for food. Far away in another world, there is a grave atop a mountain, and two bodies covered in the shifting sands. Enough has been taken from them.
“Whatever you need,” Grian says, like a solemn oath, like a promise, and this promise is not because he owes a debt. This is a promise to a friend. “Wherever you want me to be, I’m there.”
Scar grins, shaky but real. “The last time you said something like that, we ended up in a desert.”
Grian huffs a sad laugh, and smiles back. “Wherever you want me to be,” he repeats.
Scar hums, pretending to think about it, and takes a few careful steps forward until he’s next to Grian. Then he turns around so they’re side by side. Grian watches him quizzically, and Scar grins a cheesy grin.
“Right next to me will be just fine,” Scar says, smiling widely. “If that works for you?”
Grian rolls his eyes, long suffering and fond beyond words.
“Yes, Scar,” Grian says, eyes glittering with relief and hope. “That’s fine by me.”
Time passes, like it always does.
Grian is patient, waiting for Scar to make every move first. He gets the whole story, eventually, from Scar and from the others. They lean on each other in a way they weren’t allowed to do, in the death game. It should have ruined them, or torn them apart; they’re stubborn, though. They band together and become closer than ever, defying what tried to break them. Grian couldn’t be prouder.
Scar hovers outside of touching distance for a long while, but each day he gravitates a little closer. He has bad days, but they become fewer. His constant vigilance wanes to something only slightly above the normal amount. He heals. They all do.
Time passes, like it always does.
It happens slowly.
Grian blinks, once, twice, three times, and Scar reaches out his hand.
Grian takes it.