Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Scar was a child, seeing the strings had felt like a blessing.

He’d still been full of wonder, young and not yet burdened by the heartbreak of the world. It’d been marvellous to grow up like that, surrounded by dazzling bursts of colour. He’d been an easily amused baby, and Scar can only assume that he saw the colours even then, entertained by their shifting nature. Shades of purple, orange, yellow, blue, green, black, brown, and red everywhere he looked. The red has always been the most common, but Scar himself has a string tied around his wrist that’s a bright vivid orange, the other end circling Bdubs’ wrist. Brothers ‘til the end.

The only one Scar told about the strings was Bdubs for a very long time. Not out of any pressing need to keep it a secret; Bdubs was simply his best friend, and the only one Scar wanted to tell. Of course, right up until he came home one day to see a new vividly red string around his mother’s ring finger, so unlike the one present around her neck that connected to his and Bdubs’ father.

The positioning should’ve been the first sign that something was wrong.

Scar still gets his guard up when he sees a string around a neck in public today.

But he’d been young, fresh off a field trip, and the question had tumbled from his lips before he could think about it⎯

“Mama? What’s that?”

“What, Scar?”

She’d sounded tired. In the moment, Scar hadn’t noticed, but it’s something that catches his attention every time he replays the memory now. He’d explained himself, stammering and halting because of how afraid his mother looked the longer he spoke. As soon as the last word left his mouth, she’d grabbed him tight, long nails digging into his arms. Scar remembers flinching back, more startled than truly scared.

“Don’t you ever say that again, you hear me, Scar? You don’t see anything, okay? It’s only your imagination. And never, never say any of this to your father. Do you understand me, Scar?”

Scar had nodded, too shaken to speak. The look on his mother’s face had softened, her grip becoming gentler.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Scar had kept his promise, for what it was worth. All the way up until he and Bdubs were out of that house, to the point that he could finally encourage her to leave that vile man. She’s doing well now, set up in a little cottage with a lovely woman named Eva, the other half of the string tied around her finger. Scar likes Eva, he supposes, and he’s glad to see his mother finally happy, no longer afraid, even if it’s happened far too late for his liking.

But Scar will never forget that memory, or making that promise.

Seeing the strings isn’t something taboo, exactly, but it is intimate, far more intimate than most people like to be with a stranger on the street. Scar is lucky to have been born in a time where the laws have gotten a lot more favourable; previously, those who admitted to his kind of ability had to be registered in the government, forced to wear a blindfold or some other vision-obscuring garment in public.

Scar’s at a point where he can profit off of it.

After all, just because someone has a string doesn’t mean they want it.

He knows better than most that they’re never a guarantee.

⎯⎯⎯

Scar knows the type that they are even long before they get out of the car.

He’s not sure what tips him off; the smiles he can see through the windshield, or the annoying pop music blasting so loud that it reached him down the road before the car even made it to his little place. Maybe it’s simply the aura of giddy happiness that surrounds them both. It doesn’t matter, really. They’ll get what they came for. Scar isn’t the type to cheat out paying customers.

He fixes a wide customer-service smile on his face, continuing to lounge back behind the little receptionist desk that he fixed up ages ago. The waiting room of his shop is fairly cosy, done in warm woods and dusty reds and yellows, several chairs with cushions strewn about for optimal comfort. There’s a few magazines that are shockingly in-date, too, but only because Bdubs insists on it. The art decorating the walls is fairly sparse, but beautiful, if Scar does say so himself. Most of them are landscapes that he painted of the bayou outside, with a couple of abstract pieces thrown in here and there.

It’s not really what most people expect, when going to a string-reader.

Scar keeps all of the good stuff behind the curtain; he has to make his money somehow.

“Welcome to Scar’s Stringful Emporium,” He rattles off pleasantly as the bell above the door chimes. Two smiling, rosy-cheeked blond men enter, one significantly shorter than the other. He’s dressed in a dark leather vest over a red t-shirt and a pair of jeans, while his taller counterpart has on a white shirt underneath a blue overshirt along with similar jeans. “And, as you might’ve guessed, I am Scar. What brings you in today?”

“Ah, oh! Er, I’m Jimmy, and this is Tango,” The tall one, Jimmy, introduces, somewhat awkwardly. He pulls Tango up closer to the receptionist desk by the hand, and Scar’s attention can’t help but be drawn there. A multitude of colours greets him, making Scar’s stomach sink even as he turns up the charm.

“Delighted to meet you both!” Scar tilts his head, allowing a bit of mischief to slip into his expression. “Oh, don’t tell me… You’re here for a string reading?”

“Gosh, how’d you know?” Jimmy seems genuinely surprised, brown eyes widening. Tango scoffs lightly, rolling his own.

“Oh, come off it, Jim, I doubt anyone comes in here for anything else. It’s not a lucky guess when it’s 100% of your business.” He glances, derisive, towards Scar. The level of hostility isn’t surprising; Scar imagines it’ll be a cold day in Hell before there’s no prejudice towards string-readers in the world.

“You’d be surprised,” He replies mildly. Tango’s face twists, but Scar doesn’t give either of them time to dwell on it. “I assume I was correct then? You’re both in for a string-reading?”

“Yes!” Jimmy answers eagerly, nodding. “We, er, we just found out we’re soulmates, you know, um, the string appeared to us, and we just wanted to know what colour it is. It feels, er, romantic, but we wanted to be sure, and maybe check for other strings while we’re at it?”

“Of course,” Scar answers warmly. “Are you aware of the price?”

“Yeah,” Tango says, surly. “A rip-off, if you ask me.”

“It’s quite reasonable, actually,” Scar says, trying not to let annoyance bleed into his tone. “If you’ve looked around for proper string-readers, my prices are very similar, not to mention that I’m the closest string-reader around this general area. We aren’t very common, I’m afraid.”

“And how do we know you’re telling the truth, huh?” Tango jerks his chin up stubbornly. Jimmy looks a bit dismayed at the turn that the conversation has taken, all joy seeping from his expression. “Pa says all of you are scammers. Lying and cheating your way to money instead of working hard like the rest of us.”

“If you pay the fee, you’ll have all the proof you need of my capabilities,” Scar answers serenely. He’s not bothered by these kinds of customers; he wouldn’t last a day in this job if he allowed himself to get up in airs about every offensive thing that he’s told. Luckily, Scar knows that people can feel it when their strings are touched, even the ones that haven’t yet been revealed to them.

“Come on, Jim, let’s get out of here,” Tango says, sounding annoyed.

“But Tangs… I want to know.” Jimmy meets Tango’s gaze, looking terribly upset. Scar hopes that he’s not going to cry, but he has strategic tissues on the desk for this very reason. “Don’t you? I’m sick of living in the unknown, of not being able to prove it to your dad or, or to my friends that we’re meant to be together.”

Tango is visibly torn, but eventually he sighs, giving in.

“Yeah, alright.”

“I’m glad you worked that out!” Scar smiles brightly at the both of them. Predictably, Jimmy returns his smile, while Tango only scowls. He’s not going to be happy to find out about the riot of colours surrounding them both, Scar suspects. Then again, no one ever is. “Now, I’ll need my payment before we do anything, as well as you both to sign these waivers to say that I and Scar’s Stringful Emporium are not responsible for any emotional harm that may come to you as a result of your reading.”

“That’s a bit serious, innit?” Jimmy laughs sheepishly, though his face has gone worryingly pale. Scar pulls out two clipboards with the waivers from under the desk, handing them to the other two. “It’s just you havin’ a look at our string.”

“You’d be surprised at how upset people can get,” Scar replies calmly. “Pens are in this neat little holder right here. A string-reading for both of you will be a hundred, thank you.”

“Jeez,” Tango hisses under his breath, although he doesn’t hesitate before rummaging around in his pocket. Soon enough, a crisp fifty dollar bill is being presented to him from each of the men, which Scar takes happily. He was tempted to upcharge due to Tango’s sour attitude, but he knows that this reading won’t end happily for either him or Jimmy, and Scar isn’t heartless.

“Alrighty, waiver’s all signed!” Jimmy says cheerfully, scribbling his signature at the bottom of the paper before handing the clipboard back to Scar. He glances over it, making sure everything has been properly taken care of.

“Looks to be in order. Tango, yours?”

“Yeah, yeah, here you go.” Tango passes over his waiver, which Scar takes another second to look at before deeming it good. He’s learned his lesson about these things; too many people have threatened to sue him for emotional distress, and Scar isn’t exactly rich. He can’t afford that!

“Okay, thank you very much, if you two will just follow me to the back of the shop,” Scar instructs, leaving the clipboards behind on the desk as he goes to unlatch the breaks for his wheelchair. He wheels himself down the little ramp up to the platform the desk is on and then towards the back, moving through the beaded curtain with ease. Another ramp descends into the back of the shop, given that it’s sunken down a level compared to the rest of the building.

This room looks significantly more like one would expect, from a string-reader.

There’s life and light everywhere, with the walls being painted a dark green and huge windows letting in plenty of natural light. The floors are hardwood, of course, because Scar’s wheelchair has bad traction on carpet, and there are plenty of houseplants put into every crevice imaginable. Several baskets of vines, glowberries, and even some pale oak moss that he managed to import a couple of weeks ago hang from the ceiling. In addition to all of the plants, there’s crystals tied with invisible string to the ceiling as well, creating a nice magical atmosphere. Further back against the wall is the door that leads to the rest of his house, but it remains firmly shut to protect his privacy.

A few bookshelves are in the back right corner, knickknacks instead of books decorating the higher shelves that he can’t reach as easily. The table in the middle of the room is covered by a soft black tablecloth, appropriately dark and mysterious. There are cushions on one side for individuals to kneel on while he reads their strings, easily moved away if someone requires different accommodations.

Some string-readers prefer a white background to look at strings, but Scar’s found that black works best for him. Something about the white and the way the strings overlap and interact with each other leaves them fuzzing out, a little too indistinct for his tastes. He’s perfected his craft over the decade that he’s been making money off of it, and even though his set-up is relatively small and cosy, it works. Scar doesn’t need anything else.

“If you could just kneel on those cushions for me, Jimmy, Tango, and then put your hands on the table, palms facing upwards,” Scar tells them, wheeling himself over to the other side of the table. Jimmy and Tango follow his directions without question, quickly adjusting themselves and putting their arms on the table. “Perfect, thank you so much. Now, one last time, you want to know what colour your string is, and if you have any others?”

“Yes, please,” Jimmy answers, sure and fast. Scar directs his gaze towards Tango, who seems surprised to be addressed. He sighs, long-suffering, and Scar can tell that he wants to nervously fidget from the way his fingers flex. It’s plainly evident that this entire excursion wasn’t Tango’s idea, nor his preference.

Still, it’s a marvel what people will do for those they believe to be their soulmates.

“Yeah. What Jimmy wants.”

“Very well. Take care to remember the waivers that you signed, gentleman, and that I am protected legally and have proof of your involvement, should you get violent in the face of results that you don’t like,” Scar warns firmly, frowning at both of them. Jimmy titters.

“Violent? Jeez, Scar, do you really have that stuff happen?”

“Yes. More often than you’d think.”

“We’re not going to take it out on you,” Tango says, disgruntled. “Even if I don’t like you all that much, we’re not those kinds of people. Now are you gonna get on with the readificatin’ or not?”

“Yes, yes, of course, my bad.” Scar laughs lightly. He takes a deep breath, centering himself in the room, and gives one last searching look at both Jimmy and Tango’s faces. Scar is…not looking forward to this one. Finally, he allows his gaze to travel downwards, where a bundle of glowing colours greets him. “Do I have your permission to touch your hands to move them? As well as your strings?”

“Yeah,” Tango answers.

“Er, yeah, of course.” Jimmy sounds hesitant; Scar figures that he caught the strings part of that, and is finally cottoning on to the fact that he might have more than one.

“Thank you.” Scar adjusts Jimmy’s hands, pulling them closer to him and further away from Tango’s. There’s no doubt that they’re connected; the string that binds them together is wrapped around both of their ring fingers, a startlingly bright red shade.

Passion, love, romance…

It’s the only good thing about this, as far as Scar can tell.

“I’m going to tug gently on the string that binds you together now.” He gently twines the red string around his pointer finger, giving it a slight tug. Jimmy and Tango gasp in unison, and Scar barely manages to keep the smug smirk off of his face. He’s not a scammer. At least…not about this. “Your string is wrapped around your ring fingers, as I’m sure you’re aware of already. It is, as you might’ve suspected, a bright, vivid red. This colour typically means your bond is one of passion and romance.”

“I told you!” Jimmy says excitedly. The string pulses against Scar’s finger, and his smile gets softer. He can’t help it. Despite everything, he’ll always love this, his ability granted to him by gods unknown.

“I’m sensing a but,” Tango says, unconvinced. Scar sighs.

“That’s because, unfortunately, there is one.”

“What?” Jimmy’s voice is quiet, concerned already. “What do you mean, Scar?”

“The string tying you and Tango together is not the only one that either of you have. As this is a string-reading, I will be going through the rest of each of yours now, and telling you the colour. Please feel free to ask me for a break if you need it at any time. This can be…a bit rough to process.” Scar doesn’t intend to sound so rueful, but it slips out nonetheless. Carefully, he untangles his finger from their red string.

“I told you,” Tango murmurs, voice low but audible nonetheless. Scar keeps his eyes firmly on the mess of strings; looking up at either of them will only make him feel worse right now. “I told you we shouldn’t bother with this. We were better off not knowing, Jimmy.”

“There are other strings than romantic, Tangs,” Jimmy responds, pleading. “I know everybody says that, but it’s not true, there’s more research comin’ out every day about platonic strings ‘n whatnot. They’re not all red, right, Scar?’

“No,” Scar answers truthfully. “But I’m afraid that you do have another red string, Jimmy. It’s wrapped around your ring finger next to Tango’s string, and while I don’t know where it leads, I suspect that you’ll meet them soon. It’s not very max, mall, mallex⎯ flexible. It’s not very flexible.”

The string is, in fact, rather taunt. Most strings are fairly lax, especially between bonded pairs like Tango and Jimmy. There’s a bit of excess string, pooling loosely against the table, but not with Jimmy’s other red one. That one extends behind them, through the beaded curtain and out the door of Scar’s shop, leading to places unknown. Somewhere nearby, though, if it’s this tension-wound.

“We shouldn’t have come here,” Tango says, sounding stricken.

“No, no, it doesn’t have to mean anything, Tangs, not when I’ve got you. Besides, I’m sure that you have something like that too! And, and we’d pick each other over anyone, wouldn’t we? We’re not just soulmates because of some silly string, right? It’s because we love each other.”

Scar can’t tell who Jimmy is trying to convince more; himself, or his soulmate.

“I just… Let’s find out the rest of the strings, Jimmy. Then we can… We can talk about this later, at home.” Tango is quiet, subdued, and Scar knows that if he looked now, he’d be able to see the heartbreak written all over his face. He’s more strong-willed than that, though, and turns his attention to the next string on Jimmy’s hand.

“Moving along. You have an orange string that branches off into two⎯ I’m assuming you have some very close siblings in your life, Jimmy?” These strings are the easiest to deal with, in Scar’s opinion. He has one of these, after all, and nobody is ever very shocked about a sibling string.

“Um, yeah, I’ve got two. My older sister and brother, Lizzie and Martyn. I have strings for them?”

“You do,” Scar confirms, reaching out to give a gentle tap to both. “Clearly healthy and strong. One of the strings has a bit of green to it, so maybe a bit of jealousy or envy? The other has purple⎯ Respect, admiration.”

“Oh, yeah, that makes sense,” Jimmy says with a soft chuckle. “Lizzie is…she’s amazing, you know? But I’ve always been a bit jealous of Martyn. He doesn’t live in town anymore, I miss him like crazy. Why can’t I see the strings myself, though? I saw the one with Tangs as soon as I started having feelings for him, and he saw it for me the same way.”

“A lot of people who are raised with the notion of soulmates only perceive their romantic strings; it’s the brain’s way of dealing with this kind of magic, unfortunately. Now that I’ve told you and proved that it exists, you should be able to see the string within the next few days, if not by tonight.” 

The explanation comes easy after so many times of saying it.

“Oh, that’s…weird.”

“It really is,” Scar admits freely. “After that, you only have one more string, wrapped around your pinkie finger. It’s a mix of quite a few colours, actually. Most predominantly yellow, which is friendship, but there’s purple, blue, and a little bit of red, too. Purple is more of the same; respect, admiration. You hold this person in high standing. Blue can signify a number of things, but with the pinch of red, I’m assuming that this person’s string once was mostly red and yellow, and thus is someone you no longer hold romantic feelings for.”

“Oh,” Jimmy says quietly.

“Who is it, Jimmy?” Tango asks, sounding pained.

“I think it’s… I think it’s Joel.”

“Joel?”

“I don’t feel anything like that for him anymore, obviously!” Jimmy yelps defensively, his and Tango’s string twitching slightly. “He’s not, he’s just a good friend now, but I⎯ I used to have this massive crush on him, before I realised he was in love with Lizzie, and that they were soulmates. After that, I didn’t… I put it out of my mind as a possibility.”

“Void,” Tango says. “I feel sick.”

“Do we need a breather?” Scar asks mildly, still not lifting his gaze. “I have an area outside, the back porch. I find it quite lovely to sit with my thoughts so close to nature sometimes, not to mention that the bayou is always a riot of entertaining sounds, sights, and colours. You can take as long of a break as you need to collect yourselves, I’m in no hurry.”

“No, no, just⎯” Tango cuts himself off forcefully. He takes an audible deep breath. “No. Tell me what mine look like and then we’ll be out of here, okay? I don’t want to drag this out any longer.”

“If that’s what you want.”

Tango has less strings than Jimmy, and they’re considerably more uniform. Scar releases Jimmy’s hands and strings, moving over slightly to take Tango’s hands in his own. There’s not an additional red string anywhere near him, unfortunately. Scar was really holding out hope for this to be one of those situations where both partners had an additional romantic string, leading to possibly the same person. It’d still be a lot of work to be together and have the hard conversations, but perhaps less than it will be now, with Jimmy having a red string and Tango not.

Tango, instead, has one red string, leading to Jimmy, and three other yellow strings. They’re tied on every other finger aside from his ring finger and thumb, all three streaked through with a couple of other colours. Scar suspects that Tango has a very tightly knit friend group. He doesn’t often see this many platonic strings without a hint of red in any of them.

“You have three other strings, Tango. They’re all predominantly yellow, which is the colour of friendship. A very deep friendship, judging by the shade. You’ve also met all of them, given that your strings are slack. The first one, tied around your pointer finger, is streaked with purple for respect or admiration, blue for knowledge or intellect in this context, and finally, a smidge of green.”

“I have a close group of buddies,” Tango admits quietly. “That sounds like you’re describing Impulse. I mean, I guess, y’know, with the intelligence or knowledge or whatever⎯ We’re coworkers, and he’s so much smarter than me, I swear. Jealousy, too, that makes sense. What do the others look like?”

“Next, on your middle finger. It’s still yellow, of course, with a good amount of orange and purple intermixed. A bit of red, but I suspect that’s to represent passion, not romantic love, with the context of the orange.” Scar taps on each string as he describes them, sending gentle reverberations down the length of them. Tango huffs a laugh. At least, that’s what Scar thinks it is⎯ He can’t tell if Tango is amused or simply making noises.

“No, yeah, I know who that is. Skizz. He’s Impulse’s, well, like, everything, and he’s the most passionate, wild dude I know. I love him to bits, but not like that. He’s definitely more like a brother to me than anything.”

“Oh, was he the one I met at the dinner party?” Jimmy pipes up, clearly hesitant but trying. Scar doesn’t have to look at them to know that Tango’s looking some kind of way, with the way the tension in the room grows exponentially.

“Yeah, that’s him. Whatever. Scar, the last one?”

“Yep, I’m on it. This one is, you guessed it, yellow again! This time, we’ve got a considerable amount of blue, some purple, and then a little bit of green for jealousy. More love of knowledge or intellect here than there was with Impulse, but about the same amount of respect and jealousy.”

“Oh, that’d be Zed. He’s my best friend, we’ve been together practically since the womb, and he’s crazy smart. I mean, Impulse is great at the practical application of the stuff, but Zed is just…he’s something else, you know?” Tango pauses for a moment. “Now that you’ve told me they’re there, will I be able to see the strings connecting us?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Scar answers, lifting his head and ignoring the twinge of pain his neck gives. He closes his eyes, allowing the burning colours to slowly dissipate against the back of his eyelids. Eventually, he blinks himself back to seeing Tango and Jimmy’s faces. “If you tell them about the strings, they’ll likely be able to see them as well, which is handy.”

As he could’ve predicted, neither Jimmy or Tango look anywhere near as happy as they did when they came in for their appointment.

“Thanks, Scar,” Tango says. The hostility that was once present is now gone, but in its place is a little bit of devastation and heartbreak, all wrapped up in one. Scar wishes he could do something to help, but that’s unfortunately far beyond his capabilities. He simply tells the world as it is; he can’t change it, not like this. “We’re good to go?”

“You’re good to go,” Scar confirms.

“Yeah, thank you, Scar.” Jimmy flashes a wobbly smile. “I’d say it’s been nice, but…”

“I know,” Scar says, and he does, truly. “Don’t worry about it. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

Instead of responding, Tango and Jimmy simply pick themselves up from the cushions, rising to their full heights. There’s none of the closeness that was present at the beginning of their appointment; indeed, Tango seems almost to shy away from any contact with his supposed soulmate. Scar watches them go, heart twisting in his chest.

They never really want to know.

Scar’s been through this enough times to be sure of that.

⎯⎯⎯

Chapter Text

“Cub,” Scar calls, almost whining. “Cubby-wubby, rub-a-dub-Cub, Cuuuub⎯”

“I heard you the first time,” Cub says dryly, moving his chair and poking his head out of the beaded curtain. “And I felt it the twenty times you tugged on my string before this. What do you want, Scar?”

“I forgot you could feel that,” He admits sheepishly, still twining his and Cub’s string around his fingers. It ties off on the opposite hand as the hand that holds Bdubs’ string around his ring finger, and shines a bright, brilliant yellow. The colour intermixes freely with blue and purple, and seeing it leaves Scar feeling assured.

“Well, I can. Duh. Did you need something?” Cub responds, bringing Scar’s attention back to the pressing issue at the forefront of his mind. As entertaining as his and Cub’s string is, it’s no replacement for real human interaction. And considering that Scar has only had a handful of established appointments today and no walk-ins, he suspects that he’ll continue to be bored without Cub talking to him.

Scar would vastly prefer to work on one of his paintings for the local gallery, or to do another online design commission to supplement his income, but alas, his everything screams at him anytime he so much as moves an inch. He’s been disabled all his life, but unfortunately bonus muscle weakness comes with the territory of being a string-reader. There are plenty of theories as to why this is, and a few studies done by various doctors and scientists, but no real definitive proof or cure. Scar usually buys into the theory that the magic is too much for any human body to handle, and as a result slowly saps away at it, similar to a parasite. There’s nothing that exists in the world today that can ease that kind of pain, nor any real solution.

And unfortunately, today is definitely a flare-up kind of day.

“Scar?”

“Hm? Oh, sorry, Cub.” Scar laughs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck and sending twinges of pain wracking down his bones. “Got lost in thought, you know how it is. Uh, what’d I need? Oh! Water, yeah, that’s what I wanted. Will you get it for me, Cubby-wubby?”

Cub gives him an unimpressed look.

“Only if you stop calling me that ridiculous nickname.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a huff. Scar giggles, always amused at how easy it is to bother his best friend. He’s sure that Cub makes himself easy to bother, sometimes, but he also knows that Cub is simply like that. He has very specific preferences. Scar likes to poke at those preferences.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. Thanks, Cubby!” He chirps gleefully. Cub sighs, long and exaggerated.

“You’re lucky I love you, man.” Cub gets up from his chair at the secretarial desk, a few shuffling sounds accompanying the movement. He enters the back room without hesitation, immediately going over to where a small minifridge is set up in the corner, artfully hidden from customers’ view by the plants.

“I am,” Scar agrees, soft.

“You alright there, Scar?” Cub asks, giving him a scrutinising look as he walks over to Scar’s little set-up. Due to the nature of his flare-up today, it’s easier for Scar to simply wait in the back instead of also manning the secretarial desk. He’s very lucky to have Cub, someone who works strictly online and rarely has to take calls or meetings, and thus can fill the position without much fuss.

“I’m okay,” Scar says, taking the bottle of water from his friend. He gives Cub a hopefully convincing smile. “Just, you know, in pain. Not much I can do about that, though. And I’m bored, Cuuub, it’s so boring back here without anyone to talk to! My phone hurts my eyes, though, so I just gotta suffer all by myself.”

“Well, you have me to talk to,” Cub says goodnaturedly.

“Yeah, but you’re so far away,” Scar laments with a dramatic sigh.

“I’m really not, Scar.” Cub gives a short chuckle. “I can stay in here for a while, if you’d like. But the whole point of my being here is so I can be a secretary, not so I can simply entertain you, you know, man. Not that I’m complaining, just that I was brought here to do a job, so I’m gonna do it.”

“I know,” Scar says, huffing. “That’s why I’m trying not to bother you too much! Thanks, again, by the way, Cub, for doing this. I haven’t had a flare-up this bad in so long, I figured I was…well, it’s stupid, but I thought that I might’ve been past this. That my body had finally adjusted to all of the magic, or something.”

“You’d be a scientific and medical marvel if that had happened,” Cub says, deadpan, making Scar giggle.

“I’m amazin’ enough for it, Cub, don’t pretend otherwise!”

“Oh, I’m not, man, woe be upon those who underestimate the great Scar Goodtimes.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Scar says, self-satisfied. “Maybe my last name should’ve been Greattimes.”

“Nah,” Cub replies. “Doesn’t roll off the tongue as easy. Besides, your last name isn’t exactly something that you can choose, Scar.”

“People get married and pick new last names all the time, Cub, surely I could do the same.”

“No, I think you need someone to marry before that.” Cub shrugs. Scar scowls, sticking his tongue out at him just because he can. His best friend grins, seemingly amused, and it makes a smile tug on Scar’s lips in turn. He can’t help it. Cub’s smiles aren’t very common, after all, but they’re very infectious. “You wanna look at my strings again, man?”

“Yes,” Scar says immediately. Cub dips his head in a nod of acknowledgement. He takes a step back so he can kneel on the cushions, arranging himself properly without Scar having to say anything. They’ve been doing this for a very long time, after all, long before Scar even had this business of his. He’s been reading Cub’s strings since he was still making people put their hands on his legs.

“Same as always?” Cub asks, somewhat teasing. Scar snorts, waving his words away with a stray gesture.

He directs his attention down, taking in the pretty sight of Cub’s strings. Unlike most people, Cub has very few strings, and no red ones. They’ve never discussed it outright, whether or not Cub even feels romantic attraction, but they’ve never needed to. They’re best friends, and Cub has told him time and again that Scar is the one who will hold the number one spot in his heart. He’s got a string wrapped around Cub’s ring finger to prove it. Still, that doesn’t mean that Cub’s strings aren’t interesting. They’re multitudes of colours, yellow, purple, green, blue, and most importantly, black.

“Any closer to meeting them?”

“No,” Scar answers, feeling relieved. He plucks at the black string, twining it around his fingers and tugging. Predictably, the line remains still, no responding tug from the other end. People can’t feel a tug on a string that they don’t know they have; Cub feels his, of course, but that’s because he can see them, despite not having met the other half of all. “It’s as lax as ever. Good. I hope you never meet them.”

“I don’t think it will be so bad,” Cub replies nonchalantly.

“I’ve told you a thousand times that black is the worst colour a string can be, and yet your lack of caring still baffles me.”

“All you’ve said is that it typically signifies an enemy, man. I think that I’d be pretty good at having an enemy.”

“That’s not all I’ve said! Cub!” Scar splutters. “Black represents a bond that’s so emotionally devastating that it wrecks you. Usually they’re antagonistic, like an enemy, but not always. Mama’s string was red and black, you know that.”

“See? Mine is just black. I’ll be okay. I can handle an enemy.”

“Cub.”

“Scar,” Cub says, mimicking Scar’s dramatic inflection.

“You’re too full of yourself,” He huffs, shaking his head. “And I’ve told you a thousand times, you should just let me cut this now, and we can save the hassle of you ever meeting this person.”

“No, Scar,” Cub replies patiently, the same way he does every time that Scar gives him a reading. It’d been his answer when they were in that college dorm together, huddled in Scar’s bed, so close that every breath one inhaled, the other exhaled. It’d been his answer after Scar dropped out, when Cub came to visit him in his new apartment and he christened it with a string-reading. It’d been his answer with the opening of Scar’s Stringful Emporium.

It’s his answer now.

Scar scowls.

“But you should. Then you can save yourself the heartbreak.”

He’s seen unimaginable things happen to people with black strings, kept a sharp eye out for them in public and winced every time he saw a pair together. One way or another, someone ends up destroyed due to the bond that they share, while the other is left either dead or standing whole, unaffected. It’s awful. Scar never knows how to deal with it. He can’t bear the idea of that happening to Cub; the chances that his best friend is the one left standing are too low.

“And hurt someone else in the process?” Cub murmurs, reaching for Scar’s hand. Scar lets him, intertwining their fingers automatically even as he glares holes into the black string. It’s tied around the middle finger on the same hand that Scar’s string is, leaving him even more unsettled by the whole issue. He doesn’t want them to touch, ever. “You’ve told me that it’s like being burned alive, or stabbed a dozen times, to have a string cut that someone didn’t consent to.”

“But it would mean that you’d be safe,” Scar says stubbornly, wrenching his gaze up to meet Cub’s. They shine at him from behind thick, black-rimmed glasses, a pretty, hazy dark green. “Your safety is what matters to me, Cub. And if this person is going to hurt you like I think they will⎯”

“You’re paranoid,” Cub interrupts. “This person could also be perfectly innocent. The fact that I don’t have any other colour in the string doesn’t automatically mean that our bond is one of resentment and strife. I could…fall in love, or something, and lose them too soon. You don’t know, Scar.”

“There would be red, then!” Scar exclaims.

“Would there? We both know I don’t love like most people. What if my version of love doesn’t have a colour?” Cub raises an eyebrow.

“But that’s not… That’s not how it works, Cub,” He responds, feeling helpless. Cub’s hand is strong and callused within his own, warm from his friend’s body heat. Scar loves him so much he thinks that his heart will burst from his ribcage, splattering right onto the table for both of them to see.

“Maybe it is,” Cub says gently. “Not everything fits into a neat little box or colour, Scar. The strings have a whole bunch of kinds of love represented in them, but not every love. The human spectrum of emotions is too broad and complex for that. You have no idea what will happen.”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You could never.” Cub squeezes his hand insistently. Scar breathes in shakily, not realising that he’d stopped until he started again. “I promise, Scar, I’m not going to leave you of my own volition.”

“Are you sure?” Scar hates himself for pressing, for being so insecure.

He’d gotten over the fact that he only had two strings, a friend and a brother, ages ago. Any other kind of string isn’t cut out for him, Scar knows. He’s content to drift through life with only two stabilisation points, only two people to call home and rely on. It doesn’t bother Scar. What bothers Scar is the fact that Cub and Bdubs don’t only have his string⎯ they have others, plenty of others. People who are better suited to them than Scar can be. It’s selfish of him, but he’s wished countless times in the past that he was the only one to hold his string partners’ affection.

“I’m sure. Scar, you mean more to me than anyone else does.”

“But what if you’re right?” Scar’s gaze falls back onto that damned black string, rage seething in his bones as surely as pain. “What if it really is connected to someone that you’ll fall in love with? What if my colours can’t capture what it is that you’ll feel for them? What happens to me then?”

“I stay with you anyway,” Cub answers without hesitation. “Obviously, I can’t predict the future, man. But it’s you, Scar. You’re my best friend, dude. It’s you or it’s nothing. Besides, I’m probably wrong, and this is some super fucked up kind of person who we’ll manipulate into agreeing to cutting the string, yeah?”

Scar gives a wet laugh.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, for sure. Trust me, my enemy has got to be a certain kind of stupid, otherwise they wouldn’t be messing with me in the first place,” Cub says with a self-assured nod. Graciously, he pretends not to notice the way Scar quickly wipes away the tears that managed to fall.

“I mean, true, you’re right,” Scar agrees brightly, giving Cub a smile. “Maybe we can get back to our Jingler and Jangler days!”

“Oh, goodness, don’t remind me.” Cub laughs, though, so Scar knows that he doesn’t mean it. Scar’s smile grows wider.

“Come on, Cubby, you don’t want to go back to pranking hapless individuals and watching the chaos with popcorn afterwards?”

“I still don’t know how you managed to get popcorn every time, to be honest.”

“Magic, Cub,” Scar says, winking. “I’ll never tell.”

“Alright then, keep your secrets.” Cub grins, sly.

⎯⎯⎯

Chapter Text

The car peels into the parking lot with enough speed that Scar can hear it, which he doesn’t take kindly to at all. It’s gravel, not cement, besides, so the fact that he can hear the squeal of the car’s tires shouldn’t really be possible. A second car, much quieter than the first, grinds against the gravel and comes to a rumbling stop in front of the shop. He can barely get a glimpse out the front windows; one of them is an eye-searing shade of red, clearly fancy and expensive, while the other is somewhat beat-up and an inconspicuous shade of grey.

Scar huffs to himself, continuing to shuffle a pile of waivers into their designated binder. Bdubs made him some that have the days of the week on them, and dry-erase panels where he can put the date. They’re extremely useful. He slides the rest of them slowly into the binder, careful not to mess up the order⎯ Cub spent all this time organising them alphabetically, and now Scar can’t help but adhere to the same order.

“Excuse me?” An impatient, masculine voice interrupts, clearly irritated and in a hurry. Scar takes his time to situate the binder just-so before he slots it back into the little compartment, finally deigning to look at whoever just entered his shop. It’s a pair of men with a mild height difference; the one in front, drumming his fingers against the counter, has a vivid streak of green going through his hair.

“Hello, welcome to Scar’s Stringful Emporium,” Scar says cheerfully, affixing a customer-service smile onto his lips. He can sense the aggression rolling off of this man in waves, and he’s not looking forward to this appointment. “Who will I be helping today?”

The worst customers are those with broken hearts, but the angry ones can get dangerous.

“Yeah, yeah, blummin’ heck, I don’t need the whole spiel. The name is Joel,” The man snaps, rolling his eyes. Scar carefully refrains from dropping his smile. He’s sure that he already ticked off Joel by taking his sweet time with the waivers and binder. As much as he wants to, it wouldn’t be smart to further antagonise the man. “How much is it for one of them string cuttings?”

“Oh, I’m afraid that price is quite hefty,” Scar says, gaze sliding curiously from Joel to his counterpart. The other man stands a good step behind Joel and has long shock-white hair, a mask, and noticeable scar arcing through his right eye. It’s closed, hiding presumably the rest of the damage, but the scar stands out vividly against his pale skin and eyelid. “It’ll be two hundred for string-cutting.”

“Two hun⎯ Bloody hell,” Joel curses.

“You’ve come here without a referral from a therapist because you want it done quickly and easily,” Scar says serenely, returning his attention to Joel. It’s rude to stare, after all. “My price reflects both what I’ll be doing for you, and what it takes to keep my mouth shut about it. I assure you, you won’t find anyone nearby who would offer the same services at a lower price.”

String-cutting is generally considered a touchy topic by most of the general public. There are still a few minor laws against it; it isn’t illegal to practice as long as you have the proper licensing, which Scar had gotten years ago, but individuals could be fined if they got a string-cutting without seeing a therapist first. Usually it would be a couples’ therapist, someone looking to help two ‘soulmates’ work out their differences, and they only granted referrals as a last resort.

Scar knows that not everything can be solved with therapy.

And sometimes, like now, drastic measures are needed.

It’s not his job to ask questions.

“I can afford it,” The other man speaks up, words soft. His voice is quieter than Scar would’ve expected, more meek. He doesn’t look like the kind of person to be meek, exactly, standing taller than Scar does when he’s not in his wheelchair. Lanky, not much muscle hiding behind the grey vest of his. Scar really shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, though. “Don’t worry, Joel.”

“Shut up, Etho, no, I don’t want you to cover this, it’s my bloody idea, let me do it,” Joel snaps, looking at Etho for all of a split second before his gaze shoots to Scar. His brown eyes are venomous, narrowed with spite. It doesn’t bother Scar. He’s been on the receiving end of too many similar glares to worry about that kind of thing now.

Besides, despite his original assessment that Joel was someone to watch out for, Scar can’t help but think that Joel isn’t as dangerous as he thought. He’s upset, certainly, and his body is wound with enough tension to cause a heart attack, but Joel isn’t making any sudden movements. He’s not trying to intimidate Scar or even protesting the price all that much, aside from the one comment. Safe for now, at least. Scar suspects that his partner, Etho, would intervene before Joel did something that he’d end up regretting.

“Are you sure?” Etho tries, still speaking quietly. Joel huffs.

“Yes, you idiot, I’m sure. Stop questioning me.”

“I just don’t want Lizzie to wonder why you’re missing two hundred dollars out of your bank account, Joel,” Etho shoots back, suddenly venomous. A realisation dawns on Scar, though he stays quiet. He’s had these kinds of couples in his store before. They don’t always ask for a string-cutting, but it’s more common than most people would think. 

“Oh.”

“Didn’t think of that, did you?”

“No,” Joel admits, sounding sheepish. “I can pay you back.”

“Don’t bother, Joel.” Etho’s sigh is bone-deep tired. 

Scar can relate.

 “Well, if that’s settled, I just have some handy-dandy waivers here for you two to sign!” He says cheerfully, pulling out the waivers that are special for string-cuttings. While string-readings can cause someone to try and sue him for emotional damages, there’s a lot more at stake with string-cuttings. If one person doesn’t mean their consent, after all, it can hurt quite a lot, and aside from that, sometimes people end up regretting such a permanent decision later down the line, and try to seek legal retribution because of that.

“Waivers? For what?” Joel asks, abrasive but not overly rude. He’s still glaring but Scar suspects that might simply be how his face looks.

“Essentially, you’re signing a legal document that acknowledges the permanence of this decision and the potential pain that you could end up with. It’s a way to make sure that I’m safe from anything legal, so that I have proof you both consented and agreed to this prior to our appointment. Don’t forget to jot down the time and date as well,” Scar explains as he hands over the clipboards with the waivers attached. He nudges his glass jar of pens towards Etho, while Joel studies the paper intently.

“Pain, you said?”

“I did.”

“Why on Earth would we be in any blummin’ pain?” Joel lifts his gaze, apparently baffled. Scar blinks at him before shrugging.

“String-cuttings can hurt if one party isn’t appropriately prepared. When making a decision like this, it’s very easy for one half to go along with the other’s wishes, and thus not really mean their consent. If you don’t mean your consent, then the nerve endings connecting from your string to your brain don’t dull themselves in preparation for the separation.” Scar, quite honestly, isn’t sure of the exact science behind it. He’s been doing this for most of his adult life, but outside of a few seminars and classes here and there, he’s never gotten a formal education on strings.

“Oh,” says Joel, looking uncomfortable. “That’s, er, that sounds bad.”

“As long as both of you are adequately prepared for this choice, there should be no pain at all. It’s simply a precaution,” Scar responds, making eye contact with Etho as he does so. He hopes the importance of his words are getting through to the other man. Subtly, Etho’s head dips in a nod.

“Do you take card?” He asks, voice flat.

“We do!” Scar answers cheerfully, reaching out a hand palm-up for Etho’s card. He deposits it there with no fanfare, leaving Scar’s fingers to close around cold plastic while Etho goes back to filling out his waiver.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to pay you back?” Joel asks, voice dropped down to a whisper. As if Scar won’t be able to hear them when they’re standing right in front of his desk. He pretends that he isn’t listening in, busying himself with running Etho’s card through the machine. 

“No, Joel. Don’t worry, I’m not going to hunt you down later and insist that you owe me. I’m not going to bother your wife, either.” Etho’s voice sharpens with the title, venom clearly dripping from every letter.

“That’s not what I’m worried about, Etho,” Joel hisses, every bit as rankled as his disgruntled soulmate is. Where Etho’s hurt is sharp, jagged, and cool, Joel’s is hot like a flame, making his voice raise a little bit even without his intention. Scar has to admit; he can see exactly why they’re tied together.

“You sure about that? You were all too eager to drag me here in an attempt to cut me out of your life permanently. I’m just doing what you want. We’re not friends, we don’t even know each other, we only met a couple of times before this. Stop trying to play nice just because your guilt finally got to you.” A click accompanies Etho’s words as he lays his pen down flat against the clipboard.

Scar takes that as his cue to look up.

“All done!” He says cheerfully, handing over Etho’s card. He takes it back calmly, face impassive. Joel, on the other hand, looks angry and a little nauseous. Scar has seen it before; most couples who come in to cut their string feel guilty about it, and far too many shove that emotion way deep down so that they don’t have to face it head-on.

“Thanks,” Etho replies, pushing the clipboard towards Scar. Joel does the same, though he hasn’t looked away from Etho once. Scar glances at the waivers, briefly checking to make sure that all the vital information is in order. “How long does this sort of thing take? I closed my shop, I don’t want to miss the afternoon rush.” 

“Oh not long, not long at all!” Scar waves a hand in the air dismissively before reaching to unlock the brakes on his wheelchair. “The whole cutting can’t take more than five minutes, it’s up to you guys what happens afterwards. I can give you a brief rundown of your other strings if you’d like, or you can just head on out.”

“We could have more?” Joel asks, sounding mildly horrified.

“Of course,” Scar answers, beginning to wheel himself out from behind the reception desk. The beads of the curtain brush against his skin as he goes through the doorway. “Follow me if you would, boys. Now, of course you can have more than one or two strings! Usually the strings would be platonic, but there’s always a chance of them being romantic, too.”

“There’s nothing I can do about ‘em?” 

“No, I’m afraid not,” Scar says politely, turning his wheelchair around once he’s made it far enough into the main room. He rolls up to his string-reading table, looking calmly up at the both of them. The tint of nausea to Joel’s face has grown exponentially, which he’s not surprised by, while Etho looks as unaffected as ever. “If you’d go ahead and sit down on those pillows for me…”

“I can’t get rid of a string here and now?” Joel asks, complying with Scar’s directions. Etho kneels next to him, presumably on the other pillow. Scar’s lips turn down as he frowns, reaching behind himself quickly to click his brakes into place.

“No, you can’t. Most successful string-readers would give you the same answer. It’s incredibly painful to destroy a string that someone else isn’t even aware of, and only marginally less so if they’ve met you but haven’t given their consent. It’s the kind of thing that people can go to jail for, but more than that, it’s cruel and thoughtless.” Scar doesn’t mean to be so sharp in his reprimand, especially when it’s clear that Joel has no idea what he’s talking about, but it slips out anyway.

Most of his vitriol is directed at himself⎯

He’s a hypocrite, after all.

“Oh,” Joel says, paling. “I didn’t realise.”

“Can we get on with this?” Etho mutters, words muffled by his mask. Scar dips his head in a nod.

“Sure thing,” he agrees, fiddling under the black tablecloth for the drawer that holds his string-cutting scissors. Technically, Scar could rip the string with his bare hands and it would achieve the same effect, but it’s much less professional. As long as the scissors are being wielded by him, they have the same kind of magic that his hands do⎯ Otherwise, they’re just a regular pair.

“It’s not going to hurt, right?” Joel asks, apprehensive.

“No,” Scar says, settling his scissors atop the table. They shine brilliantly silver, and are wicked sharp. He’s not sure if how blunt they are would affect how well they cut, but he’s not going to find out the hard way! Scar looks up, catching Joel’s eye. “Not as long as you mean it.”

“Alright then.” Joel blows out a breath, clearly nervous, and it ruffles his bangs.

“If you could please place the hands with the string on the table,” Scar instructs, watching as Etho and Joel do exactly that. His heart twists in his chest as he looks at them; their string is a bold, deep red, swirled through with blue and purple, and tied to each of their ring fingers. If they had chosen to keep it, Scar is sure that their relationship would’ve developed into a love story for the ages.

“Okay, everything looks to be in order here!” Scar says cheerfully, glancing over at Joel’s hand. His ring finger showcases another string, possibly even more vibrant than Etho and Joel’s itself. He assumes that this is the one that ties Joel to the wife that keeps being mentioned; it certainly looks to be in perfect, pristine condition. “So, just to warn you, there will be a feeling of loss as soon as the string is cut. No pain, as promised, but since you’re removing the connection to someone who is supposed to belong with you, it’s not exactly comfortable.”

“It can’t be worse than my rib tattoo,” Etho says, deadpan. It catches Scar off guard, making him give a soft chuckle of laughter.

“Well, I sure hope not,” He responds, winking.

Joel clears his throat.

“Oooh-kay, cuttin’ time it is. I’m going to reach for your connecting string now and cut it.” Carefully, Scar twines their soulmate string between his fingers, ensuring that it’s taunt enough for him to get a clean cut. He grabs his scissors with his free hand and brings them up to the string, snipping through it without fanfare. Instantly, the two halves of the string fall to either side of his scissors, the colour black spreading from the cut ends rapidly towards where they’re tied to the men.

“Oh,” Joel says, sucking in a sharp breath. “It doesn’t feel nice.”

“I warned you,” Scar says carefully, putting his scissors away. The string deteriorates precisely as it’s meant to, crumbling away until less than a quarter remains hanging respectively from each of their hands. In the future, that string end could be tied to someone else’s, forming a new soulbond, if they so choose. “Do you need anything? Water, crackers? I’ve heard some people get a sense of vertigo afterwards.”

“I’m okay,” Etho says, voice gruff. He doesn’t look to be visibly in pain, but Scar isn’t so sure. “I have to get going.”

“Me too,” Joel admits. “Lizzie wants to take lunch together. Er, it was…nice to see you, Etho.”

“Wish I could say the same.”

Scar winces.

Joel doesn’t have a response for that, eyes going wide with shock. He pauses for a second, as if he’s going to say something, but eventually only stands up from his pillow. Joel offers a wave to Scar, which he returns calmly, and then turns around and walks out of the room. Scar watches him leave, keeping a close eye on his strings until the front door to the shop has firmly closed behind Joel with a cheerful jangle. Etho, now that his former counterpart has left the building, slumps over with a sigh.

“Are you okay?” Scar asks immediately, concerned. He has water in his minifridge, but the crackers are in the kitchen at the back of his shop. They’ll take a second to grab, but he doesn’t want to leave Etho alone unless he absolutely has to. He suspected that this wasn’t all hunky-dory, despite Etho’s unflappable attitude.

“No?” Etho gives a humourless laugh. “God, sorry, this is pathetic. Let me get out of your hair⎯”

“It’s fine,” Scar insists. “You’re fine. I don’t have anybody lined up for an appointment anyway, and I haven’t been getting very many walk-ins today. Take a second, Etho. Are you hurting, or do you feel sick?”

“The pain is gone now,” Etho says quietly. “But it hurt like a motherfucker.”

Scar laughs, surprised by the vehement swear in Etho’s cool, flat voice.

“Yeah, I can’t say that I wasn’t expecting it,” he replies, perhaps a bit too upbeat for the situation at hand. Etho doesn’t seem to mind, though. He brings his other hand up to rest on the table, and Scar’s stomach sinks as the sight confirms his suspicions. Aside from the now-blackened string tied to his right hand, Etho doesn’t have anything marking him as belonging with someone else.

“What?”

“Hm?” Scar says, a bit too quickly, as he looks back up. Etho raises an eyebrow, a glint of suspicion in his eyes.

“You looked like someone just kicked your puppy. What’s wrong?”

“I’m not a dog person, for your information,” Scar replies pleasantly. “Although if someone harmed any of my cats, I’m afraid that I might actually have to kill them!”

Etho seems amused. “I’m not a dog person either. Still, what made you look like that?”

“Can’t get anything past you, can I, Etho?” Scar sighs regretfully. Etho shakes his head before giving a small shrug. “I…don’t enjoy the sight of a cut string. Really, I don’t enjoy the sight of any string that’s black, considering what it means. But it’s worse when it’s the only string someone has.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” Scar offers, even though he’s well-aware that it doesn’t help.

“Don’t be,” Etho responds, tilting his head. “I bet you get plenty of people blaming you for how life’s turned out. I’m not going to be one of them.”

“It’s not that bad,” Scar says with a small, somewhat sad smile. “I can handle it. And if it’s going to be someone, I’d rather it be me, you know? At least I can kick them out of my shop if I need to, and I’ve got legal protections and a couple of very, very violent friends to back me up.”

“Hmm. I say don’t shoot the messenger,” Etho says. “Besides, I always sort of knew it’d be like this. I don’t belong with people.”

“You and me both,” Scar replies before he can stop himself. Etho blinks, raising an eyebrow once more.

“You don’t have strings?”

“I do!” Scar says hastily, not wanting Etho to get the wrong impression. As much as he’d prefer to be able to relate to the other man completely, he’s not about to lie to him about this. “I have a string for my best friend and a string for my brother. It’s better than having none, of course, just⎯”

“No love,” Etho finishes, frowning. “Seems messed up.”

“I like to think of it as ironic,” Scar says with a shrug. “The guy who gets to see every kind and colour of love is doomed to a loveless life himself. The story practically writes itself, Etho!”

Etho laughs, soft. “If you say so, Scar.”

“I do.” A beat of silence passes between them, a mutual understanding shared on the basis of being alone. Scar smiles at Etho, hoping that this hasn’t been an entirely awful experience for the other man. “Shouldn’t you get going? You have that afternoon rush of yours that you can’t miss.”

“I only said that so I could make a break for it if I needed to, with Joel,” Etho admits with a roll of his eyes. “A tattoo shop doesn’t exactly get much of an afternoon rush. Most of my appointments aren’t until late in the evening, anyway. But I do need to get lunch. Gem’ll hound me if I don’t.”

“Gem?” Scar repeats, unable to help his fierce curiosity. Etho nods.

“Brightest apprentice I’ve ever had, but she’s a bitch when she wants to be.”

“Such strong language,” Scar teases. “I’m pretty sure it’s rude to call women bitches.”

“Eh, she’s heard it from me enough times in person. She doesn’t care,” Etho says nonchalantly, unfolding his long, long limbs so he can stand up off of the pillow. Scar watches him, unlocking the brakes of his wheelchair once Etho is standing. The other man looks at him, something soft in his eyes. “Thanks for everything, Scar.”

Scar’s heart misses a beat.

“You’re welcome,” he replies, grip tight on the handle of his wheelchair. Etho’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he lifts his hand in a wave.

“Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”

⎯⎯⎯

Chapter Text

“Howdy there, Scar!” Joe Hills greets cheerfully, gliding in through the doorway. Scar can’t see his shoes below the desk, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Joe had roller skates on at the moment. Her movements are too fluid for her to be walking normally; maybe she has on those ridiculous heelies, instead.

“Howdy there, Joe,” Scar greets, amused. Joe Hills beams at him, smile stretching wide across their face. They’ve opted to go surprisingly casual in terms of their outfit today, but maybe Scar is only thinking that because of the last time Joe Hills showed up⎯ In full drag, of course. “Did you get your hair done up again? It looks really bright.”

“Why thank you for noticing, sir!” Joe Hills exclaims, tipping an invisible hat towards Scar. He’s missing the usual backwards baseball cap, but his long hair is done up in a casual messy bun, vibrant neon green streaking through the mousy brown. “Yeah, Cleo helped me re-dye it last night. I wanted to look fresh for you, I can’t have you gettin’ bored of me!”

“Bored of you, Joe?” Scar gasps. “I’d never! I don’t think such a thing is possible.”

Joe Hills grins toothily at him. “Well, you never know. Cleo said I should switch up the colour, but I can’t help it⎯ Neon green just calls to me, man. Like, it’s an eyesore for sure, but I like it that way! Practically a walking green flag to people on the outside of it all, you know? Heh, green flag.”

Scar snorts.

“Speaking of, where is your partner in crime?” He wonders, tilting his head as he looks past Joe and out the windows of his shop. There’s a car trundling down the road in the far distance, too indistinct to make out properly, but he knows that it’s not Cleo’s. They have some beautiful, sleek bright red car that probably guzzles gas to the extreme. Still, Scar can’t deny that it’s pretty, and it’s one of Cleo’s only guilty pleasure purchases, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“She’s gonna be a bit late today!” Joe Hills informs him cheerfully, coming closer and leaning on the secretarial desk. They drum their fingers absently on the surface, likely not even realising that they’re doing it. “She’s testing out a new schedule for Saturdays, so she’s keeping the shop open an hour earlier in the mornings and a half hour later in the afternoons, but we completely forgot to switch our appointment time. You don’t mind waiting, do you, Scar?”

“Not at all,” Scar agrees warmly. “If someone comes in for a string-reading, I’ll probably take them, just because I can get that done in a relatively short time frame. It won’t eat into your appointment, and I won’t have to turn any business away.”

“Yeah, sounds good to me!” Joe Hills agrees enthusiastically. “So, tell, what have you been up to lately? I don’t see any new artworks gracing these walls, but you must’ve been doing something. Haven’t seen you around town, but that’s not exactly new. You should come by Bar Blossoms sometime! Oli hired this new guy, Ren, and he’s super chill.”

“Joe, you know I don’t drink,” Scar replies, grinning. Joe Hills shakes her head, jostling a few strands of hair loose to frame her face. A few fall in front of their glasses, making them blow out a breath in annoyance.

“Excuse you, Mr. Goodtimes! I happen to make an amazin’ mocktail. Besides, you don’t have to drink to come hang out. You could bother me while I’m working! Or, hey, who knows, you could even meet someone. I know you and Grian didn’t work out, but that’s no reason why you can’t have somebody else.” Joe Hills is eager in his suggestions, almost too enthusiastic, but Scar knows he’s always been like that. He’ll steamroll over someone out of sheer excitement once he gets on a tangent.

“Grian and I didn’t work out because we didn’t have a string,” Scar says carefully, ignoring the pulse of pain inside him from a years-old bruise. Grian was his last serious relationship, and while Scar fully considers himself moved on, he’s forever remorseful that things got messy enough to where they don’t talk so much anymore. “You saw what happened, Joe. I don’t want to put myself through that again.”

“Grian wasn’t the right one for you,” Joe Hills says easily. “But don’t pretend that it was because of the strings, Scar. You of all people should know how easy it is for people to form meaningful, lifelong commitments outside of their strings.”

“It was because of the strings, though. I wasn’t good enough for Grian without one. He’s much happier with, um, with BigB and Mumbo than he ever was with me. I wish as much as you do that it wasn’t because of the strings, but the reality of it is that it was,” Scar says regretfully. He doesn’t intentionally keep tabs on his ex; Mumbo is simply one of his closest friends, so Scar ends up hearing a lot about Grian through proxy.

“Okay, maybe with Grian it was about the strings,” Joe Hills acquiesces. “But that doesn’t mean it’s true for everyone. You just need to find your person.”

“Eh,” Scar waves a hand in the air dismissively. “I think I’m doing just fine with Cub and Bdubs.”

Joe Hills frowns. 

“You should still visit the bar,” They wheedle, looking at Scar with pleading eyes. “Even if you’re not on the lookout for someone to get down and dirty with, which is fine, you should still visit! I miss you, man. You live out here all alone, and you hardly ever come into town except for necessities. Friends are important, Scar.”

“Fine, fine!” Scar rolls his eyes goodnaturedly. “You, sir, drive one hard bargain.”

“Thank you,” Joe Hills says smugly. “I look forward to seeing you within the next week.”

“Within the next week?” Scar splutters. “Excuse me, I made no such commitments!”

“Yeah, well, I’m putting a date on it because otherwise you’ll chicken out and we’ll do this same song and dance in a month,” Joe Hill says pointedly, giving Scar a stern look. His cheeks warm under the stare and he huffs, refusing to admit that Joe Hills is right.

“Alright, within the next week,” Scar says, lifting his hand. “Want to shake on it?”

“Of course!” Joe Hills exclaims, reaching over the table and grasping Scar’s hand firmly within his own. “You know, a contract isn’t really legal until it’s been sealed with something like this. A handshake, a signature⎯ Did you know the earliest recording of a handshake was between an Assyrian king and a Babylonian ruler? It was to signify their peaceful alliance, which is basically like a legal contract, if you think about it.”

“I didn’t,” Scar says, curious. “Wh⎯”

The jingle of the bells above the shop’s front door interrupts him, the door swinging inward to reveal someone who’s definitely not Cleo. Scar was too distracted by Joe Hills to pay attention to the car pulling into his parking lot, but he’s certainly paying attention now. Etho has shuffled into the shop awkwardly, wearing the same mask from last time but a different shirt⎯ A sleeveless, black turtleneck top, revealing the intricate sleeves of tattoos that he has on both arms. Scar blinks rapidly, as if to make sure what he’s seeing is correct.

“Howdy!” Joe Hills welcomes, either unbothered or simply not noticing the awkward atmosphere.

“Uh, hi,” Etho says, lifting a hand in greeting. His gaze dips down noticeably towards Joe Hills’ shoes, which makes Scar think that they definitely have roller skates on, before travelling over to Scar.

“Hello, Etho,” Scar says automatically, more than a little confused. Although he’s trained himself not to look at anyone’s strings unless they’ve asked him, Scar can’t help but glance at Etho’s hands, just in case. They’re covered in a multitude of pretty silver rings, but no string aside from the one Scar cut himself, dark against Etho’s pale skin. “What can I help you with today?”

Scar doesn’t want to come right out and say, what the fuck are you doing here, but it’s certainly what he’s thinking.

“I can wait,” Etho responds, eyes darting from Scar to Joe Hills. His awkwardness seems to intensify the longer that he stands there, which Scar has to admit is a bit ironic for a guy who owns a tattoo shop and is covered in them himself. Etho stands taller than Joe Hills, too, though he seems to have shrunk back a little, like he’s contemplating making a break for it. 

“Oh, no worries, man! I’m waitin’ on my partner, Scar can go right ahead and take ya. You here for a string-reading, I presume? Unless you’ve also got a buddy on the way, which, oops, my bad,” Joe Hills says easily, their words running together from how quickly they’re speaking. Her fingers tap against the desk a little faster as well, betraying her anxiety. Joe Hills is one of the most social people Scar has ever met, but she’s also afflicted with social anxiety.

“Yeah, yes, I mean, that’s exactly what I’m here for,” Etho says, nodding, something relieved to his voice. “A string-reading. Yep. That’s it. How much for one of those, again?”

“Fifty,” Scar answers, confused. “But⎯”

“No problem.” Etho comes up to the desk, fumbling for his wallet and eventually managing to fish it out of his pocket. Scar stares at him, brow creased. He doesn’t know what’s happening; normally he’d be happy to take this money and carry on, but Etho knows he doesn’t have any strings. That hasn’t changed in the week they’ve not seen each other.

“Etho, you don’t have to pay, I can⎯”

“No, it’s fine, Scar, don’t worry about it,” Etho mutters with a glance at Joe Hills, who can very clearly hear every word out of their mouths despite trying to appear as if he’s not listening at all. “Do you have one of those waivers for me to sign again?”

“Yeah, I do,” Scar says, grabbing one of the string-reading waivers and a clipboard. He’s still absolutely clueless as to what’s happening, but if all else fails he can give Etho a refund after the other man tells him whatever he came here to talk about. “If you could just sign your name and the date, you’ll be good to go for your… string-reading.”

“Great,” Etho replies, grabbing a pen and quickly scribbling his signature against the waiver. Scar takes the money in the meantime, putting it into the cash register. Once Etho is done, he hands the clipboard over to Scar, who simply places it down against the desk out of the way.

“Well, right this way, Etho!” Scar says pleasantly, reaching for his cane. He stands up with some effort, joints aching in protest of the movement. He misses the look of surprise on Etho’s face, too busy looking down as he makes his way out from behind the secretarial desk. “Aha! I knew you were in your roller skates!”

“The outfit is really way too boring without them,” Joe Hills affirms cheerfully, wearing bright pink roller skates with glittery wheels. Scar is both surprised and amazed at the fact that he can hold his balance and stand still without rolling off somewhere or falling.

Scar laughs. “If you say so, Joe.”

Joe Hills wiggles her fingers at him in a wave before Scar turns around, walking into the back room through the pretty beaded curtain that covers the doorway. He assumes that Etho will follow him without being told; they’ve already been through this process once. Instead of the normal blank space behind his table, there’s a plush antique chair that Scar thrifted years ago. It’s comfortable; even when Scar feels good enough to walk without his wheelchair, he can’t spend too much time on his knees or sitting directly on the ground.

“I didn’t, um,” Etho says quietly. “I didn’t know you could walk.”

“Most people don’t!” Scar says airily, taking his seat. He gestures to the pillows in front of the table and Etho takes his cue to kneel down. “I’m in my chair most of the time, but some days are better than others, and I feel up to walking around the house instead of rolling. It’s not common, though. And usually people don’t see me in both, because usually I don’t have repeat customers.”

“Sorry about that,” Etho says sheepishly, a slight twang of an accent that Scar can’t place slipping into his voice. He blinks at the other man, waiting somewhat impatiently on some kind of explanation. Etho glances away, reaching a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. “I… I like it here.”

“Well, thank you,” Scar says, smiling. “I’ve done my best to make it pretty darn likeable.”

The barest glimpse of a red blush rises above Etho’s mask.

“It’s nice. You, er, you did a good job.” The words are stilted, like Etho’s forgotten how to properly string a sentence together. “It has a good atmosphere. I mean, I should hate the place, because I lost⎯ I lost Joel here, you know? But I don’t. I can’t find it in myself. I was wonderin’ if you needed someone to fix up the porch? Some of the wood planks are rotting.”

Scar stares.

“You paid me fifty dollars to ask if I had someone to fix my porch?”

“Yeah?” Etho shrugs. “I have a lot of free time on my hands. And I like being here, and I noticed your gutter is fucked, too, and the next time it rains you’re at risk for water damage and stuff, so…”

“You know you can spend time in the bayou without my permission, don’t you? I don’t own the whole place, just this little area out here,” Scar says, half amused and half genuinely asking. Etho’s gaze drops down to the table, his shoulders slumped slightly. He looks like a kicked puppy dog; Scar can almost imagine the ears and tail now. “Hey, that’s not a no! Who am I to object if someone wants to be my big strong handyman for free, eh?”

“Really?” Etho looks far too eager as he meets Scar’s gaze once more.

“Why do I feel like this is an elaborate ploy to steal from me?” Scar wonders rhetorically, raising an eyebrow at Etho. The other man blinks slowly, as if it hadn’t even occurred to him how suspicious this all is. “You’re offering your limited time to come out here to the bayou and fix up my stuff for free, Etho. It sounds too good to be true.”

“Well, like I said, I like the place,” Etho says, a bit defensive. Scar hums.

“I’m sure that’s true, but there’s got to be something deeper.”

“Well…” Etho swallows. “I’m kind of looking for a distraction? The town is only so big, and lately, I feel like everywhere I turn, I’m running into Joel and his wife. This is motivated by selfish wants, but not, not the kind where I try to steal from you. It’s just far out, and I know Joel wouldn’t come back here in a million years, and…you’re good company, Scar.”

“Why, thank you,” Scar says, feeling exceptionally pleased. The corners of Etho’s eyes crinkle.

“You’re welcome. So…it’s a deal? I can come out here to fix up the place a little?”

“Yeah,” Scar agrees easily. “And I’ll feed you lunch and we can exist in the bayou together! There’s also some trails out back that are really nice for walking, or so I’ve heard. My stamina isn’t good enough to walk them⎯ I’ve gone down the shortest one in my off-road wheelchair, though!”

“Oh, you don’t have to give me lunch,” Etho protests. Scar narrows his eyes.

“You’re coming out to fix up my shop for free. The least I could do is give you some food. Now, we should probably exchange numbers, huh? So you can let me know when you’re headed out here!”

“Yeah, um, that sounds like a plan.” Etho reaches for his phone, grabbing it out of his pocket. Scar’s gaze catches on the tattoos running up and down his arms, particularly the pretty arching lily of the valley taking up space on the inside of his right. It’s a bit out of place next to the rest, delicate amongst the rest of the bold, dark lines and shading. “Scar?”

“Hm? Oh, sorry. I was distracted by your tattoos! They’re so pretty, who did them?” Scar asks curiously, glancing back at Etho. “Does the lily mean anything, or are they all for fun?”

“Gem did some of them⎯ she was the one to do the lily. I got it for someone I loved who passed.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Scar says sympathetically. Etho shrugs, passing over his phone.

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago, I’m just fine now. Lilies were their favourite flower, so I decided to commemorate them with one. The rest of my tattoos are usually for fun, though⎯ Gem also did the skull on my shoulder. She was having this pirate phase and was obsessed with natural places looking like skulls, so that’s what resulted in this,” Etho explains, turning to the side a bit so Scar can see the full skull on the side of his shoulder. It’s craggy and rocky, looking more like a cave than an outright skull.

“Ooh, very nice,” Scar comments appreciatively. Etho dips his head in a nod. Quickly, he inputs his number into Etho’s phone, saving his contact as Scar!! :D. It’s silly, and he doesn’t expect Etho to keep it, but it’s enough to have him grinning as he passes the other’s phone back. “Well, you’re all taken care of then, Etho!”

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll text you sometime later this week, okay?” Etho pauses, flush returning. Scar assumes that he must be embarrassed; he suspects Etho also suffers from some form of anxiety, whether that be social or otherwise. “It was nice to see you, Scar.”

“Aww, it was nice to see you, too, Etho!” Scar reaches for his cane, having laid it against the desk. “Let me walk you out, hm? Unless you’re in a hurry.”

“No, no hurry,” Etho says quickly. Scar beams.

“Great!” He’s slow to stand up, but Etho doesn’t offer him help, which Scar appreciates. He knows that people are good-natured when they do so, but it always makes Scar feel like they think he’s incompetent, as if he can’t do anything for himself. His lower back twinges once he’s standing upright, but Scar pays it no mind.

“All good?”

“All good,” Scar confirms, coming over to Etho’s side of the table. The other man rises fluidly to his feet, clearly ready to follow Scar’s lead. He begins walking back towards the front of the shop, hearing the unmistakable sound of another car pulling into the parking lot. “What got you into your handymandy-ing, Etho?”

“Oh, my pops was always pretty good at fixing stuff around the house. I learned from him, but my skills fell somewhat to the wayside after I opened my shop and started living in the loft above it. It’ll be nice to finally work on a house again.” Etho’s tone sounds completely genuine, making Scar’s smile soften. He’s still a little suspicious of this whole business, but Etho isn’t pinging any alarm bells. “I usually do work in town for the folks nearby for free, but most of them live in apartment buildings, so it’s a little different.”

“That’s neat! Well, I hope this place doesn’t give you too much of a challenge,” Scar says playfully, coming to a stop by his secretarial desk. Joe Hills has made himself busy in one of the chairs, flipping through a magazine curiously. Etho stops, too, just shy of passing the desk.

“I’m sure it won’t,” Etho says. “Besides, the company makes it worth it.”

Scar laughs. “Careful, Etho, you keep talkin’ like that and a guy might get ideas!”

“Maybe I want you to get ideas,” Etho replies, not shying away from meeting Scar’s gaze. He blinks, unable to control his surprise. “I’ll see you later, Scar.”

“See you,” Scar echoes, too stunned to manage more than that before Etho’s already out the door. Another pleasant jingle signals his departure and Scar blinks to himself again a couple of times. “Damn it. I forgot to give him his refund.”

“Ooh, refund? Why? What’d he do?” Joe Hills pipes up, snapping Scar out of his daze. He sits down heavily, leaning his cane against the desk so it doesn’t fall. Joe Hills gets up from his own chair, casually skating over to Scar. “I heard something about handy-manning, but I was trying not to eavesdrop, so.”

“I think he was flirting with me?” Scar says, confused.

“Ooh,” Joe Hills repeats, voice jumping up a pitch. “I wondered why he was acting so weird! He was nervous!”

“No, I think he has anxiety,” Scar replies thoughtfully, shaking his head. “I probably misunderstood him, anyway! All he wants to do is come out here and work on the shop, since he noticed a couple parts fell into disrepair. He’s being nice, but he’s also doing it to avoid his ex-soulmate in town.”

“Scar,” Joe Hills says, amused. “I think he only offered that because he was trying to spend time with you. He probably has a crush.”

“Pssh,” Scar waves away the words. “No way, Joe!”

“What’s up, bitches?” Cleo crows as they come in through the door, voice nearly loud enough to cover the cheerful jingle. Scar beams, delighted, as she walks right up to the desk. Their pretty, fiery curls are pulled back into a low ponytail, and they’re wearing some appropriately ripped fingerless gloves that go up to their elbows along with an off-the-shoulder dark green t-shirt. “Hello, hello, I know you both missed me, even though you saw me last night, Joe.”

“Well, I would say something about assumptions, but you know, you’re right, so is an assumption really an assumption if you’re correct in making it? Probably a question for the ages, although it’s not something I ever read Socrates or Sarte debating, so maybe not,” Joe Hills rambles, eager as always. They practically blossom under Cleo’s attention, like how a sunflower only blooms once it’s facing the sun. 

“Yeah, missed you, too, Cleo,” Scar says before they can both get lost in the sea of words that makes up Joe Hills. Cleo grins when she catches his eye, pretty lips painted a beautiful, bold red. They’ve always been gorgeous, but it never hurts to admire it a little more. “Although you’re twenty minutes late to your own appointment!”

“Did Joe forget to tell you why that is?” Cleo asks, exasperated. Joe Hills makes an affronted noise.

“No! I told him!”

“Oh, so you’re just being a dick?” Cleo raises an eyebrow.

“I prefer the term menace,” Scar says, grinning innocently. Cleo rolls her eyes, but the look on her face is too fond for her to be properly annoyed. Much like with Cub, Scar feels best when he’s bothering Cleo⎯ What can he say, it’s a love language. “Nah, Joe told me but I couldn’t resist a dig. So unlike you to forget to adjust your appointment time, Cleo!”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been a bit busy, Scar,” Cleo replies, huffing. “I told you about my soul-friend, Lizzie, do you remember? She and her husband have been trying for a baby for ages, and she finally told me the other day that she’s pregnant. I’m happy for her, obviously, but her siblings are trying to strong-arm me out of baby shower planning and that is not happening. Fuckin’ assholes.”

“You’re so vulgar,” Scar says with a playful sigh, the name idly catching his focus. It sounds familiar, but he can’t place it exactly. It’s likely he’s just heard Cleo mention this Lizzie far too many times, and that’s where the remembrance is coming from.

“And you love it, don’t you lie,” Cleo retorts, grinning. “Having to keep yourself PG all day because it’s more professional. My welcome mat has the word ‘fuck’ on it, I get to say whatever I damn well please in the shop. Most of them who come in are expecting it, anyway.”

“It’s true,” Joe Hills chimes in. “Cleo doesn’t attract normies.”

“Duh,” Scar says. “I can’t imagine a craft slash costume slash second hand store would attract ‘normies’.”

“You’d be surprised, really,” Cleo says thoughtfully. “These kinds of spaces are becoming more mainstream. I have to make it more clear every day that I’m queer and that my shop is not a place for homophobes, or racist dickheads. It’s honestly pretty annoying.”

“Hear me out,” Joe Hills says, smirking. “We can just make out in front of the display window and everybody will have sufficiently gotten the message.”

“Ew,” Scar says, wrinkling his nose. Joe Hills flips him off, making Scar grin.

“Nice try, Joe, but you present masculine most of the time and I present feminine, which means most people would take it as straight anyway.” Cleo squints at her partner. “If you want to make out that badly, just ask me when we get home, yeah? No need to scar poor Scar for life.”

“Heh, scar the Scar,” Joe Hills repeats, making Scar giggle.

“I think I have enough scars, thank you!”

“Well, maybe if you weren’t so clumsy, you’d have a bit less,” Cleo snarks, giving him a pointed look. Scar blinks back at her innocently, as if to say that he has no idea what she’s talking about. “Acting like I haven’t heard every childhood story from Bdubs about the shit you got up to, or every story from Cub about how reckless you were in college. Take better care of yourself, Scar.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Scar exclaims, holding his hands up. “I didn’t sign up for a lecture! I’ve been doing really good at the whole self-care thing, Cleo, come on. I haven’t missed a shower in like, a week, and I’ve even been remembering to eat. Mostly. Okay, sometimes food is really hard to choke down, but usually I can manage it. And I’ve been taking my meds. Haven’t missed a day once!”

“Good job,” Cleo says, eyes softening with sincerity. Scar beams.

“If you need it, Cleo and I can always message you about eating or your meds. We already kind of do it for each other, at least Cleo makes sure that I take my meds because otherwise I’m the worst, and we always message each other when we take lunch so that way the other remembers to eat too. It wouldn’t be any hardship to add you to the rota, you know?” Joe Hills suggests brightly, casually using his roller skates to glide back and forth a little in front of the desk.

“That would be nice, actually,” Scar muses. “No pressure, though. If you don’t remember, it’s not a big deal!”

“Yeah, yeah, shut it, Scar, we’ll remember,” Cleo says, waving away his words. They glance at their partner and then at Scar, raising an eyebrow. “Now, has Joseph paid you, or has she left that responsibility up to me as well?”

“All up to you, Cleo,” Scar volunteers readily, ignoring the responding groan he gets from Joe Hills.

“And to think, I thought I could trust you, Scar, to have my back!”

“The man needs to get paid, Joe, he’s not gonna lie for your sake,” Cleo huffs, rolling her eyes. “Card okay? Your card machine better not be broken again, Scar, I don’t have enough cash on me for this.”

“I might, today was a pretty good day for tips,” Joe Hills remarks, already slipping a hand into the pockets of his ripped and artistically decorated jeans.

“No, no, it’s fine, the card machine works!” Scar says, reaching out for Cleo’s card. He hums under his breath as he grabs it and runs it through the machine, well-used to this process by now. Cleo and Joe Hills have standing appointments with him; they have ever since their second string-tying, and thus no longer need to sign waivers every time they come to see Scar.

Besides, he’s not entirely sure what one could sue him for over a string-tying, anyway.

“Alright, all good?” Cleo checks as they take their card back. Scar nods, reaching for his cane. Technically, after so long of doing this, Scar could just have Joe Hills and Cleo lift their hands right now and tie them together just like that, but he prefers the ambiance. Besides, they don’t deserve second-rate service simply because they’ve been coming to him for a long time!

“Have we met any new soulmates?” Scar asks, although the question is mostly perfunctory by now. He’s pretty sure that Joe Hills would’ve eagerly told him if she or Cleo had met anybody new lately. Unlike most people who come to his shop, they’re both incredibly open to having new soulmates, regardless of what kind.

“No, I don’t think so⎯ Have you met anyone today, Cleo?” Joe Hills asks brightly. The sounds of their roller skate wheels against the hardwood floor are loud, but not grating. Scar shuffles down the ramp into his string-reading room, continuing to walk over to the table. He probably should’ve stayed in here after his ‘appointment’ with Etho; it would’ve saved him some time, that’s for certain.

“Pssh, no, Joe. You would’ve been the first to know if I had. Besides, I’ve only got, er…” Cleo pauses, presumably as she looks down to check her strings. Since they’ve been coming to Scar for so long, her and Joe Hills are both well-equipped with the sight of their soulmate strings. “Just the one left now. It’s the yellow-red one, I think⎯ I dunno. You’ll remind me, won’t you, Scar?”

“Of course, dear Cleo!” Scar exclaims, turning around with a flourish. Cleo snorts, clearly amused. He lowers himself back into his antique chair, ignoring the groan of protest that his muscles give in response. “Now sit, sit, let me get ready to braid this precious soulmate string back together. Don’t fall, Joe. I can’t afford someone else’s health bills.”

“Well, it would be my fault if I fell anyways, since I’m the one who’s wearing roller skates inside,” Joe Hills replies without hesitation, wobbling a little bit as he comes close to the string reading table. Cleo reaches out a hand, stabilising him with a firm grasp on his elbow. Scar grins goodnaturedly.

“Hang on, I know you didn’t drive with those on here,” Cleo says suddenly, cutting Joe Hills a sharp glance. “Right, Joe?”

“Of course not!” Joe Hills splutters. “I don’t, I don’t even know how that would work! I think I’m incapable of driving a car with my roller skates on. Well, maybe if I really had to, but no, I didn’t drive out here with these on! That would probably be violating a traffic law. Maybe. Did you know that despite it being common belief, it’s not actually illegal to drive barefoot? It’s just dangerous, and most people don’t do it. I actually think less people drive without their shoes, despite it not being a law, than people not wearing their seatbelts, which is a law. Well, don’t quote me on that, I don’t exactly have any statistics pulled up, hmm⎯ I should do research on that, it’d be an interesting topic to learn about.”

“Joe,” Cleo says, somewhat gently. “Shut up, please.”

“Oops.” Joe Hills flashes a sheepish grin at Scar.

“Hey, I don’t mind the impromptu traffic lesson!” He says quickly, lest they get the other idea. Cleo shakes their head, attempting to carefully lower Joe Hills onto his knees. She’s not doing much more than standing there and bending when Cleo tells her too, a look of concentration on her face.

“No, I don’t either,” Cleo clarifies. “I like hearing Joe talk, but maybe not when we’re trying to make sure he doesn’t twist an ankle in these blummin’ roller skates. I can’t believe you put these on outside of the shop, walked over gravel with them on, just so you could wear them inside.”

“It sounded like a good idea!” Joe Hills exclaims, finally safely lowered onto his pillow. Cleo follows suit on their own with much less fanfare, shaking her head fondly at her partner. Both of them don’t hesitate to position their hands atop the table, still in the middle of their conversation. “Look, it did. This place is handicap-accessible, which means that you can get everywhere on wheels! Most places in town aren’t like that, so I take my joy where I can get it. I did eat gravel outside, though. Busted up my knees a bit!”

“Jeez, Joe,” Scar says. “Do you need a bandaid? I have a first aid kit somewhere in the back, I’m sure I could find it⎯”

“Nah, don’t get up on my account,” Joe Hills says, waving his hand in the air. “It’s nothing! Just a couple of scrapes. Hey, maybe they’re like battle wounds. I’m totally telling the kids that when I see them at the end of the week.”

“Oh, how’s that going? You haven’t mentioned it in a while.” Scar asks, realising belatedly that it’s been far too long since he heard Joe Hills gush about the kids at the library that he reads to. They volunteer on most weekends to hold ‘story corner’; Scar has been a few times, though not often. He doesn’t go into town often period, after all, so it’s rare that he makes it to the story corners.

“It’s going great, dude!” Joe Hills exclaims enthusiastically, head bobbing as he speaks. He’s such an animatic person; constantly in motion, always talking with every part of himself, not just his hands or his mouth. “I love those brats, they’re super sweet. Did I tell you they gave me some cards the last time I went? I guess most of them got together before I came and spent their craft hour making handmade cards for me, just because. Not even my birthday or anything!”

“Aww, that is sweet,” Scar says politely. He’s not awful with kids or anything, but he certainly doesn’t want any of his own⎯ and he doesn’t plan on spending his time volunteering with them, either. Joe Hills is a bit of an oddity to Scar, but he suspects that the other man likes it that way.

“I know, right? I have them all in a plastic baggie right now so I don’t lose ‘em, but I hope I can frame them or at least display them somewhere eventually. Maybe on the fridge, but that’s got a lot of important stuff on it right now, like bills and the calendar, and of course the usual pictures,” Joe Hills chatters happily, eyes lit up from within. Scar smiles. He likes to see his friend so happy.

“We can move some stuff, probably clear up one side of the fridge for you to put them there,” Cleo chimes in, wearing a thoughtful expression. “It’s not like it’s overloaded with papers. They’ll just have to be on the side instead of on the front, right in main view. Sound good?”

“Hell yeah,” Joe Hills says. “We can do it later today!”

“We can,” Cleo agrees, turning their head to look at Scar. “But now we should probably get to what we actually came here for.”

“Oh, you mean this isn’t just a social catch-up?” Scar teases.

Cleo rolls her eyes. “Trust me, as much as I love you, Scar, I wouldn’t pay you that much just for the pleasure of your company. Besides, you said you’d remind me of the colour of the string for the soulmate that I haven’t met yet, and it’s bugging me like crazy. I should probably have it memorised.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want your expectations to colour your first meeting with that person,” Joe Hills interjects. “That would be unfair to both you and them. Like, if there’s red in it, I wouldn’t want you to think that everything is immediately going to be charged with romance, because maybe that’s not what they’re looking for. I’m perfectly happy myself with not knowing the colours of mine! No reminders for me, thank you.”

“Most of your strings aren’t coloured, Joe,” Cleo returns dryly.

“Rude.”

“But true.”

“Okay, alright, let me look at your hands,” Scar says before the conversation can derail further. Joe Hills puts his hands back on the table from where he had them raised while he was talking, and Cleo moves hers so they’re a bit closer, making it easier for Scar to work. He looks down, taking in the brilliance of all the colours tangling amongst Joe Hills and Cleo’s fingers.

Scar has seen their soulmate strings almost as much as he’s seen Cub’s, and that’s saying something. Still, it always awes him just how many of them there are. Maybe it’s because he’s used to himself and Cub, who have so few strings, and his customers, who typically have three to five strings. Both Cleo and Joe Hills are on the higher end of the amount of strings he’s seen any one person have. Joe Hills has at least eight, if not more, and Cleo has nine. Unfortunately, the riot of colours is strongly threaded through with black⎯ Scar has never met someone else with so many black strings.

No one else in the world like Joe Hills.

Aside from four strings, shining like glowing beacons, all of Joe Hills’ strings are cut off, short, and frayed at the ends. He’s had a lot of people in his lifetime who left him; one of the strings was black before he was even born. It hurts Scar’s heart to see such visceral, visual representations of grief, permanently tangling up in Joe Hills’ fingers. They don’t see it that way, though⎯ They see it as a pleasant reminder, a life that they’ve lived and love that they’ve lost. Scar admires it, honestly. He knows he’s not capable of the same.”

“Stop lookin’ at them if they make you so sad,” Joe Hills admonishes, voice soft. Scar glances up at her with a pout. “Oh, come on, Scar! You know it doesn’t bother me, shift your focus over to Cleo’s! At least she’s only got the one that’s black, the one that belongs to me.”

“I do think it’s strange how both of us had a soulmate who died before we got the chance to know they existed,” Cleo remarks thoughtfully, shifting her hands slightly and all her strings along with it. Joe Hills hums in response. Scar does as he’s told, turning his attention over to Cleo’s soulmate strings instead. They’ve met all their soul-people, with the exception of a string that’s a pretty shade of pale yellow and faintly pinkish-red. An indecisive bond, but Scar would expect no less from them.

“I don’t,” Joe Hills says lightly. “I think it makes sense. We were meant for each other. The universe might’ve fucked up a little bit in getting us there, but it made sure there was a way for it to happen in the end.”

“You and your universe,” Cleo sighs, but the sound is fond. “I think the universe owes me one, since it saddled me with you.”

“I’ll be sure to tell it the next time we chat!”

“Okay, I’m going to take your hands into mine now,” Scar says, interrupting the conversation before it can get too far. Joe Hills and Cleo both give him noises of assent, and carefully, Scar reaches for their hands. They’re soft underneath his touch; Cleo has the calluses of someone lifting boxes, while Joe Hills has the calluses of an artist, a painter.

It’s second nature to pluck through their strings, feeling the bonds warm against his skin as he pushes them out of the way. He’s not sure if it’s just a Joe Hills and Cleo thing, or if it’s like this with everybody who has so many strings, but theirs always seem to have this quality of being alive. Warm, thrumming against his fingertips, like they’re as happy to see him as their owners are. It makes something pleasant curl up in his chest, right against his heart. Once Scar has their strings in a somewhat orderly shape, he reaches for each half on their individual pinkies.

The strings are both black, of course, fraying at the edges. It’s been a couple days since they’ve untied themselves, such is the nature with all cut or broken strings. Once a bond is damaged like that, there’s no fixing it. Scar twirls the strings around his fingers, grinning at the responding giggle that Joe Hills lets out. They can, of course, see the strings that he’s playing with, but they can’t see the colour⎯ They’re not string-readers. Scar stops messing around and brings the two strings together, watching with some measure of fondness as the frayed edges start reaching out to each other.

They’re not sentient, not quite, but after so many times retying this string together, the halves recognise each other. Scar is just there to help the process along; his braiding also ensures that the bond lasts longer before falling apart, meaning that Joe Hills and Cleo only have to have this appointment once a month as opposed to every two weeks. Scar begins to split the ends of the strings apart, creating three individual strands on each end of the string. He prefers to braid his bonds together; other string-readers have different methods, such as knotting and more intricate ties, but he’s always found that a braid works best for his purposes.

“Steady hands, Scar,” Cleo teases, nearly making him lose focus and his grip on the end of her string.

“Oh, you shut it, Cleo! I’m doin’ hard work here, hard work, I say!”

“Oh, really, only the most difficult of work,” Joe Hills agrees, clearly playful.

Scar rolls his eyes, resolving to ignore the both of them. They’ve watched him do this so many times that he’s pretty sure they could do it in their sleep. Unfortunately, only string-readers can tie strings back together, much the same way they’re the only ones who can see the colours of everybody’s string. Scar hums under his breath as he furrows his brow, beginning to weave the two strings together. It’s fairly simple; only the repetitive motions of flipping one strand over another, and then under, and then over again. It took him a second to learn how to do it properly with six strands instead of three, but now it’s nothing that bothers him.

Scar smiles, pleased, to himself, as colour begins to leach back into the bond.

“Oh, look at that, there’s the colours,” Cleo coos. “I can always tell from the look on his face.”

“Aww, I know, he does look pretty sweet!”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not right here,” Scar complains lightheartedly.

“What? You don’t like to be told about how sweet you look?” Cleo snorts. “If it bothers you so much, you should learn how to do a proper poker face. You light up like a star the second our colours start coming back. I’m assuming they’re the same as always?”

“Unless something has fundamentally changed about our relationship that I wasn’t privy to, they better still be the same!” Joe Hills exclaims, sounding dramatically aghast. “Tell me, fairest Cleo, hath thee finally developed romantic feelings for thy jester?”

“You’re not my jester,” Cleo sniffs. “And no, idiot, my feelings haven’t changed. I was only asking!”

“No, Cleo,” Scar interjects, amused. He’s almost done with the braiding, just a few more seconds and the bond will have fully coalesced back into itself. Slowly, over the course of the next month, it will begin to fade back into his braid, and then fall apart and turn black. “The colours are the same. Bits of red sprinkled in and about like stars, so much purple you’d be surprised, and plenty of yellow. Some brown where the edges of your red and yellow intermix, but that’s to be expected, when you’re so outside of the bounds of regular romance.”

“Forever upset that green only signifies envy and jealousy,” Joe Hills sighs wistfully. “It’s the best colour, I don’t understand how it can represent something so negative! Shouldn’t it be like rebirth and growth and stuff like that?”

“It’s hard to develop a relationship with another person that feels like rebirth, Joe,” Cleo says dryly.

“Well, yeah, okay, maybe so, but you can’t tell me that our relationship isn’t fundamentally built on growth and change. Acceptance too, of course, but those are key components. Of anyone, we should definitely have some green in our bond!” Joe Hills says insistently. Scar should’ve expected this; Joe Hills hates how boxed in the colour definitions are, and will take any chance she gets to rant about it.

“Sure, but we make those choices as people. If we have souls, and if someone could see the colour of them, then I believe that your theory would hold up better. But nobody is a soul-reader. Our bond itself does not contain our feelings of growth and change, because we don’t really have those feelings. Those are actions we perform, not something we feel for others,” Cleo refutes patiently, tone even.

“I suppose you’re right,” Joe Hills sighs. “I still miss my green.”

“Joe, you wear plenty of green. Nobody needs to see it on your strings, too.”

“Rude,” Joe Hills says. “But true.”

“I know! I’ve seen your closet, remember?”

“Alrighty,” Scar says, finally lifting his head. His neck has a bit of a crick in it, but that’s nothing new. He’s surprised he’s not permanently hunched over from his profession of choice. Cleo and Joe Hills look at him at the same time, wearing similar expectant expressions. He offers a grin. “Your string is fully complete! Congrats on your brand-new soulbond, guys.”

“I missed you,” Joe Hills admits earnestly, looking at Cleo.

Something twinges in Scar’s chest.

“Shut up, idiot,” Cleo responds, utterly fond. Joe Hills beams, smile spread from ear to ear. “I’m glad to have you back too. It felt weird, not being able to be, like, connected. Even if it was just for a few days.”

“I know, right? Want to seal it off with a kiss?”

“Always.”

Without hesitation, both Cleo and Joe Hills lift their hands, hooking their pinkies around each other. Their bond shines, brilliantly golden, and it almost hurts Scar’s eyes in its intensity. Cleo and Joe Hills lean forward, kissing their thumbs, and squeeze each other’s pinkies before breaking the connection. It’s their ritual; Scar has seen it countless times after they get their strings tied back together.

“Thank you, Scar!” Cleo says brightly, turning to look at him.

“Aww, pssh, it was nothin’,” Scar says in response, shrugging. “Besides, you paid me for a service, and I provided it.”

“Showing our gratitude is still polite, though,” Joe Hills responds, blinking at him. “Even if it’s not necessary, you’re our friend and we care about you, and telling you these things is likely to strengthen our relationship and leave little room for resentment to fester. We’d like to keep you as a friend, Scar. Let us say thank you.”

Scar laughs. “Alright, alright, I surrender!”

“Good,” Cleo says, satisfied.

“A glowing review wouldn’t hurt, either,” he says slyly. “I need to drum up business somehow.”

“I can advertise it at the bar, if you want,” Joe Hills offers, looking completely sincere.

“I mean, if you get a spare chance, sure! You’re not obligated to, though, Joe, and don’t do it at the risk of your job.”

“I wouldn’t,” Joe Hills says simply. “I can’t risk financial stability like that.”

“Good man,” Scar agrees with a nod. Cleo snorts.

“You two are so strange.”

“But you love us?”

“Yeah, but I love you,” they say, rolling their eyes. “Now come on, Joe, we’ve got to get back home. Not because we have plans, but because my back is killing me, and I’m starving for dinner. Let’s go. See you later, Scar!”

“Aye aye,” Joe Hills says quickly, making no move to get up off of the pillows. They wait until Cleo is standing to look at her with beseeching eyes, making Scar giggle once he realises what the problem is. Joe Hills is still wearing their roller skates, of course. Cleo sighs, long and dramatic, before offering their hands and hoisting the other to his feet.

“See you guys,” Scar says fondly.

“Bye, Scar!” Joe Hills says cheerfully, waving at Scar. She and Cleo turn around, arm in arm, and begin to make their way out of the establishment. Scar doesn’t waste any time in the back, grabbing his cane and following them.

He’s made it back to his secretarial desk by the time that the door swings shut behind them, chimes jingling pleasantly. Scar turns his attention to his paperwork, beginning to shuffle it around, and ignores the way something inside his chest has begun to ache.

⎯⎯⎯

Chapter Text

The morning is damp with fog. Scar can see it, stretching for miles within the bayou, and every breath he breathes in has a certain level of moisture to it before it ever enters his nose. It’s quite pleasant, actually, with the sun not having burned off enough of it to make it too humid yet. The cypress trees loom above it all, drooping leaves practically low enough to touch the ground. Plenty of bugs buzz about already, avoiding Scar’s porch due to the citronella candles he has lit. He curls his hands around his mug of warm tea, sighing softly to himself.

His poor, sore body is already hurting; the weather changes have done him no favours in that regard, unfortunately. Every joint feels like it’s going to start creaking at any moment, and the pulses of pain radiating from his back up his whole skeleton are awful. Scar also acquired a headache sometime between getting up out of bed and making his tea, but his painkillers are inside, and he doesn’t want to go back just to retrieve them. At least, not right now.

He simply wants to enjoy the morning, like any other person.

…and maybe wait for Etho’s car to come trundling down the driveway.

They’d been talking on and off for the previous week, mostly through sporadic text messages. Scar has found himself feeling dangerously fond these past few days every time he looks at their back-and-forth. He reminds himself, over and over, that it’s unlikely Etho could ever go for someone like him. He might be able to see soulmate strings, but his body is broken and damaged⎯

Who wants someone so defective?

Scar’s pros don’t make up for even a fraction of his cons.

Still, he’s eager to see Etho today. They’d finally settled on today for him to come over and start the repairs that he’d noticed before, given that it’s a Monday and it’s unlikely for Scar to be terribly busy. Etho’s tattoo shop already had a schedule of being closed during Mondays, too, which meant that he was available for the entire day. Scar tried to insist that Etho not come in until lunch time, giving him plenty of time to sleep and enjoy his day off, but Etho would hear none of it. He’s stubborn, that’s for certain.

Scar can’t say that he minds.

He enjoys a challenge.

The sound of gravel crunching catches his attention, and Scar looks up abruptly from where he’d been staring off into the middle distance. Etho’s car is coming down the driveway, as sure as can be. Scar can’t stop a smile from splitting his face, no matter just how revealing it might be of his feelings. Not that there are feelings, of course. He’s being smart about this whole thing, after all, and not risking a broken heart from another failed crush.

Still, he likes⎯

Being visited, he supposes.

Scar’s not lacking in friends, despite what his strings may suggest, but it gets lonely living out in the bayou. Most of his friends own cars, due to the nature of their town being too spread out and sprawling and most others being at least a half hour away, but their lives are busy. They’re capable of visiting, but everybody’s schedules don’t allow for it to happen nearly as often as he’d like. Scar doesn’t mind his town, but this place⎯ his nice little house out in the bayou… Well, it’s home. He can’t make the sacrifice of moving in town, and none of his friends can make the sacrifice of moving out of it.

It’s a constant push and pull.

Scar would be the first to admit that he doesn’t always keep up with everybody. He’s a social creature, but he’s learned to enjoy the silence, to relish in his loneliness. It might not be healthy, but it’s certainly a habit by now. He’s lucky enough that Cub and Bdubs are willing to make the trip out to see him more than most.

“Well, hello there!” Scar calls out cheerfully as Etho’s car parks neatly in the lot. The gravel crunches underfoot as Etho opens his door and steps out, lifting his hand in a wave to greet Scar. He really needs to get the lot redone, but putting that much money into turning it into concrete is an expense he can’t afford at the moment. It’s difficult, though, for his wheelchair to get over the gravel.

“Hi, Scar,” Etho says once he’s closer, walking up the ramp onto the porch. The vest is back on this time, over a plain dark green shirt, and he’s wearing one of those very official-looking handyman belts. Scar grins, holding his mug of tea to his chest. “Er, good morning, that is.”

“Good morning,” Scar repeats. “Are you a tea man, Etho? You don’t seem like a tea man.”

“I don’t?” Etho sounds vaguely amused. “What kind of man seems like a tea man?”

“Not you!”

“Oh, well, terribly sorry to disappoint,” Etho says, eyes crinkling at the corners. Scar gasps, faux surprised, and puts a hand on his chest.

“Are you telling me that you, the Etho Slab, are a tea man?”

“That is exactly what I’m telling you, yes.” Etho tilts his head. “Why?”

“Well, because I have tea to offer, of course! Why else would I ask a man if he enjoys tea or not? There’s some in the kitchen, we can go and get it together, if you would like. It’s black tea, I usually add my own sugar and a little bit of milk after making it,” Scar informs Etho cheerfully, gesturing towards his own mug. He didn’t used to be a fan of black tea, not until Grian waltzed into his life and demanded that he buy it, because it was the only respectable tea worth drinking.

They don’t talk anymore, of course, but⎯

Well, Scar can’t help it.

He’s made up of the pieces given to him from everyone he’s loved before.

“I’m good, thanks,” Etho says, all casual and laidback. His ears are pink, though, easily seen from where he has his hair pulled back in a low ponytail. He’s…very attractive, if Scar is being honest with himself. Etho’s a pretty, pretty man, and he can’t help but notice that even while telling himself that it’s never going to happen.

“Are you sure?” Scar wheedles playfully, grinning at him.

“I’m sure. I told you that you didn’t need to feed me, and yet you’re already trying to ply me with drinks.”

“Can you blame a man for being courteous?!”

“Of course not,” Etho says, amused. “It’s just funny, is all. Most people take advantage of it when someone says they’ll do something for free⎯ At least, most of the ones I’ve helped before have. I don’t mind it, you know? Down on your luck or just not trusting the shady tatted guy offering to fix stuff up for you, I get that it looks strange. But you’re like the little old lady who lives across the street, trying to feed me and give me drinks. Next thing I know, you’ll be handing me butterscotches.”

“Butterscotches are a good candy and should not be reserved just for little old ladies!” Scar exclaims, mock-offended. Being compared to someone’s grandmother is a bit of a new low for him, at least from someone he thinks is pretty, but Scar takes it in stride. Maybe it’s a compliment, in some obscure way.

“Never enjoyed them, myself.”

“Strange.”

“Well, now there’s something I’ve heard before.” Etho’s eyes crease at the corners, like he’s smiling.

“You and me both,” Scar hums dryly, giving Etho a considering look. “At least there’s a reason for me to be called strange. Between being able to see people’s strings and the wheelchair, I’m not exactly surprised that normal people get weirded out. The kids are nice for the most part, though. Guess judgement’s only something you learn when you’re older. But you, well, I can’t imagine why they’d call you strange.”

“Are you being sarcastic?” Etho asks, tilting his head. Scar blinks.

“No?”

“Oh,” Etho rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m not very good at noticing it. But the hair, the scar, the tattoos⎯ It all kind of adds up to spell dangerous, and at the very least, unconformative. I don’t know if I’ve been called strange to my face, per se, but definitely a few other choice words. Not having a soulmate makes that whole business…worse. Sometimes Gem and I pretend to be soulmates just to get everyone else off our backs.”

“How’s that going for you?” Scar asks curiously. He’s always interested in hearing about how people circumvent their strings; it’s the entire reason he got so close to Cleo and Joe Hills in the first place.

“Gem doesn’t mind if I use her as a scapegoat, but she’s not⎯ She doesn’t care about romance or love. Aromantic, and all. I think she has met her soulmate, one of them, anyway. She’s been shifty lately, trying to spare my feelings because of what happened with Joel. I just hope she’s happy with whoever they are.” Etho shrugs. “And that they’re not upset with her for being different.”

“Nothing wrong with not conforming.”

“Tell that to everybody else,” Etho says wryly.

“Fair,” Scar says, grinning. “I guess we can be strange together, then. Buddies on the fringe of society.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad.” Etho glances away and then back at Scar again, like he’s shy. “Not if you’re there, anyway.”

“Pssh, what a charmer,” Scar comments slyly, heart racing inside his chest. It’s hard to tell himself that Etho doesn’t mean it, not when the man is looking at him like that. The look in his pretty steel-blue eye is soft, genuine. For a man whose face is covered halfway by a mask, Etho has some shockingly honest expressions.

“Yeah, well, maybe, er, maybe you deserve to be charmed.”

Scar blinks.

Etho waits, the silence settling between them gently. It should feel awkward, and maybe it does, on Etho’s side, but Scar doesn’t notice. It’s comfortable to him, gentle in the way it doesn’t ask for more. The sounds of cicadas buzz in the background, the soft whispering of the wind between the low-hanging branches of the cypress trees accompanying them. The sun slowly burns off the rest of the morning fog and dew. And Etho stands there, looking perfectly at ease, bordered with Scar’s porch and the bayou in the distance, as if⎯

As if he belongs there.

Scar’s smile softens.

“I sure could get used to it,” He admits, quiet. “It’d be a nice change from all the judgement.”

“Yeah?” Etho fidgets, his hands in his pockets as if Scar is less likely to notice it that way.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Etho glances away, gaze turning studying as he looks down at the porch. Scar feels warm all over, and not in the way that means he’s getting sick. “I should probably get started on the repairs, I can do the gutters easily, but the porch might take a while longer. Is it okay if I keep coming here on Mondays?”

“Of course, Etho!” Scar exclaims, flabbergasted. “Why would I ever say no to free labour?”

Etho laughs.

It’s⎯

It’s prettier than it has any right to be.

Scar’s cheeks heat.

“Alright, then. I’ll keep coming out until it’s all taken care of.”

“Sounds like a plan!”

⎯⎯⎯

Chapter Text

Cub’s eyes are narrowed, sweat dripping down his temple. Scar feels as hot as Cub looks, and for once he doesn’t mean that in a playful, flirtatious way. It’s sweltering outside, so hot that he could fry an egg on the sidewalk if he tried, and of course his A/C decided to abruptly go on the fritz. His shop is now just as hot as the outside, if not worse due to the way the old building traps heat. He reaches for his bottle of water, gulping down greedy mouthfuls of the cool liquid.

It doesn’t do anything to combat how hot Scar feels, but a man can dream.

“Stop glaring.”

“I’m not glaring,” Cub responds, sulky, as he looks back down at his laptop. He’s filing out some sort of report that looks far too complicated for Scar’s never-finished-college brain. Scar laughs, shaking his head as he knocks his side against Cub’s shoulder.

For once, their height dynamics are switched. Cub’s sitting down at the secretary desk, and Scar’s legs haven’t decided to be a nuisance, so he’s only using his cane. Unfortunately, the front of the building is the coolest compared to the rest of it, so Scar’s mostly hanging out in the waiting area in case any straggling customers decide to come out to the bayou today. He doubts it, but the universe has proved him wrong more than once. Cub, despite very much not needing to be here, decided to show up anyway, out of the blue. Scar can’t say he minds the company, though he’s sure his best friend regrets his decision now.

“You are,” Scar hums, sing-song. “You were thinking about Etho.”

“He’s not trustworthy, Scar,” Cub hisses, just like Scar knew he would. He only gets that specific pinched expression on his face when he’s thinking about Scar’s newfound friend. He’s not exactly sure what Etho did to offend Cub, but whatever the issue may be, Cub remains relatively mum on the subject.

“He’s plenty trustworthy,” Scar responds patiently.

“Hmph,” is all that Cub offers. Scar rolls his eyes.

“You know, I can’t help you get past your issues if you won’t tell me what the issues are. Etho’s a good guy! This can’t be about him supposedly being untrustworthy, I mean, come on, Cub. He’s literally fixing my A/C right now, free of charge, because I complained about it once over text. The guy’s practically a saint!” Scar plucks at his shirt, fanning it against himself rapidly to create some semblance of a breeze.

“You’ve only known him for a couple weeks, dude,” Cub mutters, disgruntled.

“I’d say that the heat’s getting to you, except you’ve disliked him from the second I told you about him.”

“Yeah, because he’s…”

“He’s?” Scar prompts, hoping that Cub will finally elaborate. Instead, his best friend simply shakes his head, lips pursed with a disapproving look in his eyes. It’s the years of knowing him that enables Scar to read Cub’s body language as fluidly as he does, but even he’s lost right now. He really doesn’t know why Cub hates Etho so much.

“I hope he’ll fix the stupid air conditioning soon.”

“Demanding,” Scar sighs. “You don’t have to be here. You could be at home, in your perfectly air-conditioned office, which is already set up for you to work at. I don’t know why you’re here, anyway, I’m perfectly capable of managing this on my own.”

“I’ve been saying for a while that you need a secretary. It’s unprofessional for customers to be greeted with nobody when they arrive at the shop.”

“And I’ve told you that I can’t afford to hire anybody right now. I mean, why do you think the place was in disrepair enough for Etho to offer his services in the first place? I’m not struggling, Cub, but I’m not made of money, either. My next big purchase is getting the concrete guys to do the parking lot out front, so that way it’s so much less of a hassle to get my wheelchair out there.” Scar tightens his grip on his cane, transferring most of his weight to it instead of his foot.

“I know.” Cub sighs. “I know. Maybe I just wanted to come over and see you. I feel like every conversation we have these days leads back to that new boytoy of yours.”

“He’s not a boytoy.”

“If you say so.”

Scar splutters. “Cub! He’s not!”

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” Cub huffs, glancing sharply up at Scar. “It doesn’t really matter, man. Honestly, it’s kind of worse if he’s not your boytoy. At least then there’s a reason for you to be⎯ ignoring me so much. I know how you get when you have a crush. Obsessive. If he’s just a friend, then I don’t know why…”

“Oh, Cub.” Scar’s heart wrenches. “No, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come off like that⎯ I mean, he’s, he is a friend, but… I do like him, you’re right. I shouldn’t have been ignoring you, though. Is that why you have such a grudge?”

“Jealousy, am I right?” Cub’s lips twist wryly. “I know I should’ve told you, but I didn’t want to take away your happiness, Scar. Besides, I still think he’s at least moderately untrustworthy, because of all this stuff he’s doing for you for free. If he starts trying to guilt you into something, you better tell me right away.”

“I will,” Scar says without hesitation. “Even though I don’t think he’s that kind of guy. But⎯ Gosh, Cub, I’m so sorry, I had no idea you felt that way. I should’ve! I knew something was off about the bond, it’d felt so shallow lately. Were you closing me off?”

“Not intentionally.” Cub’s eyes are unreadable. Within seconds, though, Scar can feel the bond between them deepen. He doesn’t know how else to describe it, this level of warmth developing that wasn’t there before. Cub averts his gaze in the way that means he feels bad. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

“You’re my best friend.”

“I love you too, Cubby.”

“Ew,” Cub says, grinning. Scar laughs, leaning forward and wrapping his arm around Cub as best he can without losing his balance. Cub groans, pushing him off after less than a second, skin sticky where it touched Scar’s. “It’s too hot for that, man. No touching.”

“Alright, alright!” Scar exclaims, holding up his hand in surrender. “No touching for the Cub. It is way too hot, anyway, you’re right. Ugh, I should really invest in some fans.”

The front door of the shop is propped open already, creating at least some semblance of a breeze from the wind outside. Unfortunately, though, the only box fan in the entire place is in Scar’s bedroom, and he doesn’t feel like grabbing it. He would if Etho weren’t fixing the A/C right now, but hopefully this entire issue will be resolved soon. Etho’s a capable handyman, as Scar’s porch and gutters can attest, but he’s not sure if the air conditioning will be above his skill level or not. Either way, Scar plans to compensate Etho for his time somehow. He’s not sure how, yet, but he’ll come up with a way!

“You should,” Cub agrees, sounding distracted. His fingers fly across his keyboard as he types, going far faster than Scar ever could. He doesn’t get much practice typing on computers these days, to be fair. A lot of his business is kept analog, despite Cub’s insistence that transferring everything online would make it all so much more efficient. It’s not Scar’s preference, and he’s not all too technology-proficient in the first place.

“I’ll put it on the shopping list, along with paint. I think I’m going to paint the outside of the place a pretty sort of terracotta-y brown this summer. It’ll look nice with the waiting room and the woods inside the rest of the house,” Scar says cheerfully, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He’s sticky with sweat all over, and he’s just glad that his deodorant is pretty strong.

“You should invite Bdubs and that weird friend of his and his husband,” Cub says, offhand. Scar laughs.

“Keralis?”

“Yeah, him.”

“Keralis isn’t weird⎯” Scar pauses and considers. “Okay, Keralis is weird.”

“Told you.”

“I guess I could invite them, even though Bdubs is always busy during the summer. Will you come out and paint the place with me, Cub?” Scar makes sure to infuse his voice with as much pleading as he can muster, batting his lashes pointedly at his best friend. Cub doesn’t even look up.

“Maybe,” He replies, dry. Scar gasps, mock-offended. “Depends if you’re going to make that spiked tropical punch again. The last time I drank it, I ended up in your tub. Naked. With just my socks on. And I’m pretty sure someone drew a dick on my face in permanent marker.”

“It was Joe Hills,” Scar volunteers gleefully. Cub cuts him a look.

“Exactly.”

“Oh, come on, Cub! You had the time of your life.”

“And an awful, raging hangover. I don’t know what you put in that stuff and quite frankly, I don’t want to know. My liver is screaming at me just for remembering it.”

“Fine, our painting party will be non-alcoholic only.” Scar hums. “On second thought, I’ll just make two bowls of punch, and everybody can pick their poison. I’m pretty sure that Keralis would spike it if I didn’t, anyway, so you’ll just have to steer clear of the alcoholic stuff.”

“Fine,” Cub says, long-suffering. “I’ll come to your painting party.”

“Yay! I knew we were friends for a reason.”

“The string tying us together for eternity has nothing to do with it, huh?”

“Not even a little bit,” Scar quips. “You’d be my Cub no matter if we had the strings or not, believe me.”

“Yeah,” Cub says, sounding fond. “I believe it.”

Scar grins at the back of Cub’s head, considering that the man still hasn’t looked away from his laptop once. He’s glad that they’re friends, glad that he has Cub in his life. The universe might’ve agreed, might’ve tied them together due to that bond, but Scar knows Cub would still be his person even if they didn’t have a string to prove it. He’s known that since they first met, when Scar was running from the cops after being caught spray-painting the side of the bank and a total stranger hissed at him to get in the shed when he was hopping fences.

Cub’s always down for a little rule-breaking.

The sound of footsteps distracts Scar from his reminiscing. He glances away from Cub and out the front door, unable to help his smile from growing wider at the sight of Etho walking up. Shockingly, the man actually dressed for the weather, wearing a baggy black shirt with the sleeves cut off and dark green cargo shorts. Mask in place still, of course, with his long hair put up in a messy bun, darkened with sweat near the roots. Etho’s more decked out with accessories than Scar is used to, but he normally wears those when he’s working, having taken off the long necklaces and bracelets and rings on Mondays in preparation for handyman work.

“Need water?” Scar asks, shifting his stance so his body is directed towards Etho instead of Cub. Etho ducks his head in a nod, face flushed and glistening a little with perspiration. 

Scar hums in acknowledgement, moving to go grab one of the bottles of water from the minifridge in the string-reading room. Before he can do much more than turn a little, his attention catches on the way Etho reaches for the hem of his tank top. He drags it up, revealing what seems to be miles and miles of pale, lean skin, and wipes it across his forehead. The curling edges of a tattoo come barely into view, pretty swirling lines of black, and Scar thinks that he might die of heatstroke for reasons entirely unrelated to the temperature.

“Scar?” Etho prompts, voice deep and raspy. He drops his tank top, allowing the fabric to fall back down, and Scar mourns the loss immediately. “Hey, you okay? You’re pretty red, I don’t want you to get heatstroke.”

“What? No, pssh, no, I’m, I’m fine, don’t you worry about your good ol’ buddy pal Scar, now, um,” Scar stammers, nearly tripping over his own feet as he backs into the string-reading room. His voice is considerably higher-pitched than normal, making Etho raise an eyebrow. “Let me grab that water for you!”

He turns around, hurrying into the room through the beaded curtain, and ignores Etho’s responding ‘okay?’. The poor guy sounds confused, if not a little concerned, but Scar is too busy trying not to hyperventilate to worry about that right now. He makes his way to the minifridge on autopilot, the image of Etho’s bare skin replaying in his mind’s eye. Scar’s normally very good about not ogling his friends, something that he reminds himself of now, but he can’t help it. Etho is far, far too handsome for his own good, especially when he has the audacity to go around lifting his shirt up!

And that tattoo.

Scar didn’t quite get a full look of it, but the linework was so pretty and detailed that it makes his mouth water at the remembrance. In fact, if Scar is being honest with himself, it’s not just the tattoo that made his mouth water. He fumbles around in the minifridge, grabbing the first bottle of water that his fingers close around. He tries to put all thoughts of Etho’s skin and biting and Etho out of his head as he walks back towards the waiting room. Scar should really know better than this by now.

“I got your water!” He exclaims as he walks back into the room, holding up said bottle of water as if to prove the words. Etho’s face shifts, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that means he’s smiling. Scar has yet to see below that mask, but he’s not worried. He can read Etho just as well with it on.

“Thanks, Scar,” Etho says quietly, fingers brushing Scar’s own as he takes the water. Scar pretends that the brief touch doesn’t send a zing up his spine. “The A/C should be fixed by now, um, it might still need a professional look-over, but I did what I could. It’ll get you through the heatwave, at least.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Scar says fervently. Cub snorts. “Don’t laugh at me, Cub!”

“I wasn’t, I wasn’t. I was laughing at the idea of you melting into a puddle because your air conditioning stopped working.”

“That’s not better.” Scar rolls his eyes. Cub grins, sharp.

“I never claimed it was.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scar waves away the words with his hand. He looks back at Etho, who’s pressed the cold water bottle to his neck, seemingly relieved by the cool temperature. “Oh, we can look away, if you don’t want to take your mask off in front of strangers.”

“Nah, it’s okay,” Etho says, though his eyes dart to Cub before settling back on Scar’s face again. Cub has gone back to his laptop and looks to be paying exactly zero attention to them, which is of no surprise to Scar. He frowns.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Etho answers easily. “I trust you. I don’t mind.”

Scar’s heart skips a beat.

He should look away, probably, and pretend that he has some semblance of courtesy. He can’t stop himself from all but staring, though, gaze intent as Etho reaches up and unhooks one side of his mask. It falls to the side, left hanging from his other ear, and Scar swallows dryly. He wasn’t expecting much⎯ prepared to have no reaction, if Etho had scars or some other facial disfigurement. But Etho is just pretty. There’s no other word to describe him.

The scar that leaves his eye closed is longer than Scar expected, cutting jaggedly across Etho’s face and narrowly missing his nose. It creates a divot in the flesh of Etho’s top lip, ending there abruptly, and Scar is curious as to what it came from. That kind of wound is usually only created through intent, but Scar’s seen his fair share of unusual accidents. Etho’s lips are pink, bitten raw in places, and Scar can’t stop himself from imagining what it’d be like to kiss him.

“Scar?”

“Hm?” Scar blinks, snapping himself out of his thoughts. Etho’s lips curl up at the corners, a smile that’s ten times more dazzling when he can see it in its entirety. Scar’s heart thumps unevenly again.

“You’re staring.” Etho’s tone is wry, not offended, but there’s a bit of hesitance to his expression that’s unmistakable.

“You’re pretty,” Scar blurts out before he can stop himself.

“What?”

“You’re pretty,” Scar repeats, intently this time. He means it, and he can’t have Etho doubting that he does just because he said it accidentally. He swallows, gaze flicking from Etho’s lips to his eye. “I think that you’re really handsome, Etho. Real ladykiller with those looks, I bet.”

“Not really,” Etho answers, noncommittal. “Not my type.”

“No?” Scar’s voice wavers, a little. Etho’s lips tilt into a smirk.

“No.” He shrugs, taking a drink of his water. “I prefer someone a little more masculine.”

This time, Scar does manage to stop himself before responding with, ‘I could be your type of masculine.’

“Me too,” Scar admits instead, feeling his face heat. Etho tilts his head, reaching up and hooking the mask back over his ear. His smile is hidden from view, but Scar doesn’t mind. He likes Etho in every form he gets to see, including when he’s masked or not.

“Good to know,” Etho hums. “I should get going. I’ve already left Gem and Doc in the lurch for an hour now.”

“Yeah, of course,” Scar says hastily. “Before you go, let me just⎯”

“No, Scar.” Etho rolls his eyes. “I’ve told you a thousand times, I don’t want you to pay me.”

“Come on,” Scar whines. “I gotta compensate you somehow.”

A curious look crosses Etho’s face.

“You can make it up to me by taking me out for dinner.”

Scar blinks.

“Or not,” Etho adds, shrugging again. “I told you, I’m happy to do it for free. I don’t expect anything from you, Scar.”

“How about I cook for you? I’ve been told I’m pretty good at it. You could come over this weekend, maybe?” Scar suggests, adjusting his grip on his cane. He hopes another flare-up doesn’t occur this weekend, but he can probably push through it even if it does. He’s done it before, after all, and he wants to impress Etho.

“Sure,” Etho agrees, the look on his face soft. “I’d like that.”

Scar beams. “Me too! We can text about a time later, of course, I know you have to get to the shop. And you can tell me your favourite meal, and I’ll see if I can make it. It’ll be fun!”

“Yeah,” Etho nods, beginning to turn. “I’ll see you later, Scar.”

“See you!” Scar waves, grin only widening when Etho takes the time to return the gesture before leaving the shop. Scar watches him go, of course, practically buzzing with excitement even as Etho gets into his car and pulls out of the parking lot.

“Sounds like someone got himself a date,” Cub says dryly, thoroughly startling Scar. He gives a small shriek, arms flailing as he turns to look at his best friend. Cub blinks up at him, looking unimpressed. “Hi, Scar.”

“Hi, Cub. I forgot you were here.”

“I, shockingly, could tell.” Cub rolls his eyes. “You were too busy mooning at your boytoy.”

“He is not⎯”

“He is. You invited him for dinner this weekend at your house, Scar, he’s your boytoy. Don’t try to deny reality.”

“I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

He doesn’t.

Scar sighs longsufferingly.

“You’re such a menace.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Cub grins. “You better tell me all about how it goes. And if you get laid.”

“Cub,” Scar hisses, face flaming. Cub gives him an innocent look. “Shut up. It’s not like that! It’s not, it might not even be a date, we didn’t confirm anything. And if it is, I’m not sleeping with him. No need to scare him off with my broken body before I can even get a third date out of it.”

“You’re not broken,” Cub says with a huff. “Either way, I expect details.”

“Of course,” Scar responds. “Who else would I tell? My brother? Absolutely not.”

“Good,” Cub says, sounding fond. “I hope it goes well.”

“Me too,” Scar says. “Me too.”

⎯⎯⎯

Chapter Text

Rain patters against the windows and the ceiling, creating an ambient sort of sound in the background. Despite the gloomy skies and relatively cool weather, the heat hasn’t dissipated. If anything, it’s only gotten worse, the humidity making everything feel both damp and hot. Scar’s never been more glad to be cocooned inside his shop, sitting comfortably at the receptionist desk with the A/C working perfectly. It’s only been a couple of days since Etho fixed it, of course, but it hasn’t been on the fritz since.

Etho is good at what he does, apparently.

Scar’s spent enough Mondays in a row now watching him work, and while Etho looks completely at ease and comfortable while handy-manning, something inside Scar itches to see him in his true element. He can’t justify making the trip into town just to visit Etho’s tattoo shop, though, especially not when he doesn’t even want to get a tattoo. He can’t imagine how that conversation would go. Scar expects that Gem, Etho’s apprentice, would eviscerate him verbally on the spot for being so pathetic as to show up just to ogle his…friend.

From the way Etho talks about her, that’s all Gem seems to do.

Verbally murder people and create amazing tattoos.

A car pulls into the parking lot, drawing Scar’s attention. He’s spent a frankly embarrassing amount of time daydreaming about Etho lately⎯ Scar knows that Cub would make fun of him relentlessly if he found out. The car parks smoothly, and two middle-aged men get out, both without an umbrella. They laugh, hurrying to get out of the rain and yet taking the time to grab each other’s hands and hold on tight before they do.

The chime above his front door jangles pleasantly as they enter.

Scar smiles.

“Well, hello there! Welcome to Scar’s Stringful Emporium. As you might’ve guessed, I am Scar. What can I do for you today?” For once, Scar doesn’t have to muster up his enthusiasm. The giddy happiness rolling off of these two men is infectious.

“I’m Skizz!” The dark-haired, scruffy one introduces himself cheerfully. He’s wearing quite the odd outfit, though Scar knows better than to let his attention linger. He’s not seen a tuxedo with the sleeves ripped off before chosen by someone as casual wear. “This is Dippledop, er, I mean, Impulse, and he’s my husband. We’re here for a good old-fashioned string reading.”

“Oh?” Scar responds, carefully surprised. Impulse nods, looking sheepish.

“It’s going to be our wedding anniversary soon, eleven years, and we thought we should finally get this thing done. Obviously we know about our string, and another that we became aware of recently, but this seemed like a fun idea. And it’s not out of any sort of budget,” He volunteers readily, more restrained than his husband but still full of unmistakable joy. Scar’s smile softens. “Actually, I was looking at rates in the area, and your prices are lower than most others’.”

“Yes, well, we do strive for affordability here at Scar’s Stringful Emporium,” Scar says with no hesitation. “There’s no reason to raise prices as long as I can keep making a living, in my opinion. Besides, I know most folks around these parts tend to work average-paying jobs, and I don’t want this service to be too gatekept.”

“That’s a kind business practice,” Skizz says cheerfully. “Not very convenient for you, though.”

“I assure you I’m doing just fine!” Scar smiles at the both of them. “Thanks in no small part to fine gentlemen such as yourselves, of course.”

“We appreciate it! The prices were available on your website, so we brought enough and then some to get ourselves a simple string-reading. It’s fifty for us each, isn’t it?” Impulse asks, already reaching for his wallet and pulling it out. Scar nods, grabbing two of the corresponding clipboards for a string-reading.

“It is, indeed! Now, I’ll need my payment before we do anything, as well as you both to sign these waivers to say that I and Scar’s Stringful Emporium are not responsible for any emotional or mental harm that may come to you as a result of your reading.” As Scar talks, he pulls up the clipboards and passes them over the counter. Impulse and Skizz both nod, not looking bothered in the slightest. “Pens are right here in this cupholder if you need ‘em.”

“Do folks really try to sue you over this kind of thing?” Skizz wonders curiously, glancing up at Scar as he fills out the paperwork absentmindedly. “I mean, it just seems plain stupid to me⎯ suing somebody over a practice you asked and paid for already.”

“I have had enough threats of it that it’s a concern, but I haven’t been legally sued yet,” Scar answers politely. “I have a business partner of sorts, he’s my best friend, and he’s got a real analytical mind on him. He said it would be better to have these than not, so I incorporated them into my business without hesitation. Anything that saves me from losing my money because someone’s gotten a bit hurt by the truth.”

Skizz nods, looking thoughtful.

“Do you take card?” Impulse asks, having retrieved his card from his wallet in the time that he and Skizz filled out the paperwork.

“We do,” Scar answers, taking it from the other man and quickly running it through the card machine. It goes through with minimal fuss, confirming the transaction, and Scar hands the card back to Impulse. He slides it back into his wallet, which he then pockets, and shoots Scar a small smile.

“You get many hopeful folks in here, lookin’ to see about their string being the only one?” Skizz wonders curiously, drawing Scar’s attention away from his husband.

“Some. I’ve had my fair share of couples, if that’s what you’re asking. Obviously there’s ones like yourselves, who do it for the sake of it, or because it makes for a nice outing. But there’s a lot more who come in here hoping to prove something to themselves or someone else, and it doesn’t always end up happily for them.” Scar shrugs, taking the clipboards from the pair of them as they hand them over.

“I bet,” Skizz hums, sounding sympathetic. “I had a buddy⎯ Well, we have a buddy we came in here recently, at the request of his soulmate, and… Things sure have been stilted since.”

“Oh?” Scar prompts, tilting his head curiously.

“They’re working past it,” Impulse tacks on hastily, nudging Skizz’s side with his elbow. “No idea if you even remember them, but they are working past it. Tango’s made his peace with the idea of Jimmy havin’ more than one soulmate. I mean, we told him years ago that it’s unlikely he would only have just the one. After you did their reading, Tango came home and told us about the strings we have connecting us to him, so we know about those.”

“Oh! I do remember them,” Scar says thoughtfully. “I can’t share anything about their appointment, of course, given the need for confidentiality, but I’m glad things seem to be working out. You didn’t realise you had a string with Tango prior to his appointment?”

“Nah,” Skizz answers, shaking his head. “It never really occurred to us that we could have other strings. We met each other when we were kids, you know, and so it’s never been anybody else. The idea of there being platonic strings was known to us, we convinced ourselves for ages that’s what ours was, but even so… Having someone else just didn’t seem to click for us? And especially not with Tango, who was so stubborn about only meetin’ his destined romantic partner.”

“After he came back from the appointment he went to with Jimmy, it planted the idea in my head to do it for our anniversary,” Impulse explains. “I figured that if there’s anyone else we’ve missed, we should probably find out sooner rather than later. Besides, we’re getting on in the years, so it’s unlikely that there’s anybody on our strings that we have yet to meet.”

“Soulmates do tend to meet young,” Scar says conversationally. “Younger and younger these days, of course, which I like to think is nature’s way of fighting back against the stereotype that there’s only one perfect pairing for everyone else. Still, you can meet a soulmate at any age. We should probably get on finding out what kinds of strings you two have been hiding, shouldn’t we?”

“Hell yeah!” Skizz agrees brightly, bouncing slightly on his heels.

“Alright, if y’all would just follow me to the back here, this will be the room that we do your string-reading in,” Scar says as he unlocks the brakes on his wheelchair, rolling down the slope and into the back room. The beads rattle against each other as Impulse and Skizz follow him.

“Ooh, it looks awesome in here, dude!” Skizz exclaims, looking around the room in wonder as Scar turns his wheelchair around and parks himself at the string-reading table. Scar grins, feeling a sense of pride glow warmly in his chest.

“Thank you, I decorated most of it myself. My business partner hung the crystals, but the rest of it was all due to my personal handiwork. I think it came out quite nicely if I do say so myself,” Scar explains, smiling at the pair of them. “Oh, and have a seat on the pillows in front of you if you would. Kneeling is preferable, but I understand completely if you’d rather sit and not put pressure on your knees.”

“Hey,” Skizz says, playfully offended. “You callin’ us old, man? Now I’m startin’ to get why all those people threatened to sue, if this is the treatment that they’re getting.”

Scar laughs. “Well, only if the shoe fits!”

“Oh, I see how it is, bringing us down before the appointment’s even truly begun,” Impulse teases, a twinkle in his eyes. He and Skizz don’t hesitate to get on their knees, which makes Scar grin in amusement. “I hope this means that you’ll only have good news to share with us.”

“I rarely have bad news, certainly,” Scar responds, shrugging. “If you’d put your hands on the table here, and let me get a proper look at your strings. Thank you. Do you have a preference on who I start with?”

Impulse and Skizz look at each other in unison.

“No, I don’t think so,” Impulse says eventually, glancing back at Scar. “Neither of us care all that much. We’re going to know in the end regardless. Though, you might want to start with Skizz, because he can get awfully impatient.”

“Can you believe I married such a jerk?” Skizz asks in a stage-whisper, wide-eyed as he looks at Scar. “Has the audacity to call me impatient, when we both know that he’s the one who’s always naggin’ me to hurry up.”

“Being eager to be on time for appointments is different than being impatient,” Impulse says placidly, rolling his eyes. Skizz shakes his head, though it’s obvious he’s joking from the grin playing on his lips and the sheer, naked adoration in his eyes every time he glances at Impulse.

“Pfft, well, alrighty then! I think we will start with Skizz, just because he’s closer to me on this side. I’m going to pick up your hand now, if you don’t mind, Skizz?” Scar confirms, the words all but automatic at this point. Skizz nods, and he allows his attention to drift downwards. There’s a bundle of colours shining brightly against his black tablecloth, pretty in swirling shades of the rainbow.

Scar has to blink a couple of times in rapid succession to be able to see everything properly. Once he’s recovered his vision, he reaches for Skizz’s right hand, gently picking it up and laying out his fingers flat so he can get a better look at all the strings. A multitude of colours greets him, which isn’t much of a surprise to Scar. Skizz seems like the type of guy to have a bunch of soulmates. Scar goes from pinkie to thumb, allowing his vision to scan over all of them before he says anything. He takes a moment of silence inside his own mind for the crumbling black end of the string tied around Skizz’s pinkie. A death like that deserves respect, even if he has no idea who was on the other end of it.

“Hm, okay, there’s one thing I can tell you already,” Scar murmurs, catching the tail end of it with his own fingers. “You have a black, broken string on your pinkie finger. There’s only one meaning for that, I’m afraid. Whoever was on the other end of it died. Maybe before you met them, but it could’ve been after as well, if neither of you realised that you were soulmates.”

“Oh,” Skizz says softly. “No, I don’t… Can the strings belong to someone you’re related to?”

“They can,” Scar confirms. “I have my own that ties me to my younger brother around my wrist.”

“Oh.”

“Do you need a break?” Scar asks, lifting his head briefly to look at Skizz. The poor man has an expression on his face like he’s seen a ghost. Scar isn’t sure what memories he brought up by mentioning the broken string, but they don’t look to be necessarily pleasant ones.

“No, no, I’m okay,” Skizz answers, swallowing roughly and shaking his head. Impulse moves one of his hands, rubbing Skizz’s shoulder sympathetically. The way he looks at him, it’s like nobody else is in the room. Scar wonders, faintly, what it would be like to be loved that much. “My brother⎯ God, it’s been years now. He passed, though, and there’s no one in my life who I could imagine being connected to who’s dead, otherwise.”

Scar, very carefully, doesn’t repeat that it could’ve happened before Skizz was even alive or met them. If his clients choose to take comfort in their broken strings by believing it’s from a specific person, even when there’s a chance otherwise, well, who is Scar to tell them that it’s not? It brings them solace, in a way. He usually allows his clients to give him their suspicions without adding any more input than the colours, because ultimately it’s their strings. They’re the only ones who can prove themselves right or wrong, or in this case, only the dead can.

“It’s okay, Skizz,” Impulse murmurs, comforting.

“I just…so much time was wasted without us knowing about this.”

“It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“You don’t know that, Dippledop.”

“He was your brother anyway, Skizz. You didn’t need a string to prove that to anybody, and you know he stayed as long as he could for you. The sickness was just… Well. It was too much for his body to handle.” Out of the corner of his eye, Scar sees Impulse lean in, pressing a soft kiss to Skizz’s cheek. Without appearing to happen consciously, the tension slumps out of Skizz’s body with a soft sigh.

“You’re right.” Skizz coughs. “I think we’re good to go, buddy. You can tell me about the others, if I’ve got ‘em.”

“You have quite a few, actually, Skizz!” Scar says pleasantly, taking the cue for what it is. He tries to remain upbeat, despite the slightly somber atmosphere that’s descended on them after that reveal. “The next one is one that I’m sure you’re familiar with⎯ Your ring finger has the string that you and Impulse share. As you might’ve guessed, it’s a very vivid red colour, though there’s a good amount of yellow, which means friendship, and purple, which is respect, as well.”

The string is predominantly a deep, strong, vivid red, and Scar isn’t surprised in the slightest⎯ these two clearly have such a meaningful and deep bond that no other colour would suit them. The yellow is another heavy colour, but Scar expected that after Impulse and Skizz admitted that they’d stayed friends long before they confessed to their feelings. Purple speckles across the string in small dots, clearly an important factor to their relationship without being overbearing.

“Aww, we respect each other,” Skizz says playfully, making Impulse snort.

“I think we’d have to in order to be married, idiot.”

“So mean, Dippledop!”

“You love me.”

“I do,” Skizz sighs overdramatically.

“You have three other strings,” Scar says conversationally, peering down at Skizz’s hands. The broken one and their shared bond are all that’s on his right hand, leaving three others on his left in an array of colours. They all feature yellow as a base, which doesn’t surprise Scar very much. Considering that the colour is present in his bond with Impulse, too, Scar suspects that Skizz is the type of guy who makes friends with all of his soulmates, as well as anybody he thinks is nice enough to chat to for long.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah! They’re all on your left hand, though, so I’ll be taking that now. The first one is on your index finger, and it’s a pretty shade of orange⎯ Some kind of familial bond, I’d warrant, though there’s yellow in here too, so I’m assuming you two are friends instead of actually related. It could be both, though!” Scar hums, tugging on the string just a bit and feeling how taut it is. “Looks like you’ll meet them soon, whoever it may be.”

“Really?” Skizz’s voice is eager, and Scar can only assume his expression matches. It makes Scar smile to himself, unable to help it when faced with such infectious energy. “That’s awesome! I can’t wait to meet them! I’m gonna meet a soulmate soon, Dippledop, isn’t that so cool?”

“It is,” Impulse says, sounding both fond and amused.

“Next is the one on your middle finger, which is predominantly yellow with less orange streaked through it⎯ The other had orange as a base, with yellow streaks, and this one is the opposite. It also has some red, which most likely means passion instead of romance in this context, and a good deal of purple for respect, too. The strings typically have more colours after you meet your soulmate, because your relationship grows and changes after that.” Scar twirls the string around his finger curiously, feeling the way it’s not quite lax and not quite taut. “You’ve likely met this person.”

“I have!” Skizz confirms eagerly. “That’s the one my buddy, uh, Tango, told us about after he came back from his string-readin’! Ever since then, we’ve both been able to see it and tug on it. It’s pretty nice, having it right there.”

“Makes sense,” Scar agrees with a slight nod, moving on to the last string on Skizz’s hand. “This next one, tied around your pinkie, has a surprising amount of red in it. The other colour is yellow, of course, which fits in with the rest of your strings⎯ I suspect you’ll meet this soulmate fairly soon as well, if you haven’t already. It looks like they’ll be a potential prospect for romance.”

Compared to Skizz’s other strings, this one is fairly straightforward. There isn’t a lot of complexity to it, which makes Scar think that the relationship between them isn’t very deep yet⎯ Provided that Skizz has actually met them, of course. It could be either way, though Skizz is likely to find out soon now that he’ll be able to see his own strings.

“Really?” Skizz doesn’t sound upset at the idea, only vaguely baffled. “I’ve never really gotten the urge to fall for someone who wasn’t Dippledop, honestly.”

“This person might change your mind,” Impulse replies, thankfully not sounding upset either. Scar supposes that eleven years of marriage makes them more secure in their relationship; most people get rather jealous when they hear their soulmate might love someone else romantically who isn’t them. “It’s not a big deal if they do. We can handle it better than Tango and Jimmy, at least.”

Skizz snorts. “Damn straight.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Scar admits with a grin, looking up away from Skizz’s hands. He’s always prepared to deal with the emotional fallout from his clients; there’s been plenty of times in the past where he was used as a sounding board or as someone to shut down jealousy when it appeared. Scar wouldn’t consider himself bad at doing that, but it’s certainly not something he’s trained for, and he’s always worried about messing up when it happens.

“We’ve talked about opening the marriage before⎯ Nothing serious or in-depth, but we’re just fine with the possibility of meeting other people and becoming interested in them. Is that all of Skizz’s strings?” Impulse wonders curiously, hands folded together on the table.

“It is!” Scar answers cheerfully, glancing between the both of them. “In total, you have five strings⎯ The platonic one you share with Tango, your familial one, a broken one, the one tying you to Impulse, and the one that we just went over. Now that you’ve been made aware of them, don’t be surprised if you start noticing them more! It’s just your brain adjusting to what it previously convinced itself wasn’t there.”

“Right,” Skizz says, nodding with a determined expression on his face. “And I’m going to meet one of them soon?”

“Yep,” Scar confirms easily. “The one that’s a familial bond is the soulmate that you’ll meet soon.”

“Sweet! Do Impulse now, I wanna know about my Dippledop’s soulmates,” Skizz says eagerly, the look in his blue eyes nothing but happy and excited. Scar has to admit, he thinks that Skizz and Impulse might be one of the most well-adjusted couples he’s ever done a string-reading for.

“Alright,” Scar says with a light laugh, looking at Impulse. “I’m going to touch your hands now, if that’s okay with you?”

“Of course,” Impulse agrees easily, moving his hands so they lay flat on the table.

Scar directs his attention down once more, already expecting the mess of pretty colours that greets him. At a quick glance, he manages to count five strings on Impulse’s hands, the exact same number that Skizz has. A smile tugs, unbidden, at his lips. There’s something poetic about these two sharing the same number of soulmates, even if Skizz sports a broken string and Impulse doesn’t. Scar picks up Impulse’s right hand, bringing it closer to him and studying the strings there.

“Well, we can get this one out of the way,” He murmurs, playful, as he tugs gently on the string connecting Skizz and Impulse together. It garners a laugh from the couple, making Scar smirk. “This is your bond to Skizz, of course. Like I told him, it’s a very pretty, vivid shade of red, with a considerable amount of yellow and purple. Love, friendship, respect. The hallmarks of a healthy relationship, in my opinion.”

“True,” Impulse agrees. “It took us a couple of years to get there, though, that’s for sure.”

“Oh boy, don’t get me started,” Skizz exclaims, nudging Impulse’s shoulder with his own.

“Yeah, yeah,” Impulse says, and Scar can hear the eye roll. “Don’t act like you weren’t just as bad as me. Terrible at communicating and too impulsive.”

“Oi! And you were too uptight. And bad at communicating, but I think that’s just because we grew up that way,” Skizz teases, sounding playful as he slides his arm across Impulse’s shoulders. The other man huffs, but notably doesn’t respond. Scar can’t help but find their banter somewhat endearing, the way they argue with each other but don’t mean it at all. It reminds him of himself and Cub, just a bit.

“Other than the string tying you to Skizz, you also have a very similar string to him that’s orange and yellow⎯ Another familial-type bond. It looks like you’ll meet whoever it is around the same time that Skizz meets his soulmate, if they’re not the same person. It’s tied around your index finger, just like it was for Skizz,” Scar hums, looking at the string intently. It’s not just similar to Skizz’s string, he’d swear that they’re the exact same.

“They can be the same person?” Impulse asks curiously.

“They could! It’s definitely on the rarer side of things, considering that it’s a familial bond, but it could be a soulmate that you two share. Normally you see that sort of thing happen with romantic strings; the universe’s way of promoting polyamory, I think,” Scar jokes, lifting his head briefly to wink at them. Skizz snorts, but Impulse only looks fascinated.

“Huh. That’s interesting.”

“I think so, too,” Scar agrees. “Strings in general are a very fascinating concept to me.”

“Well, I’d hope so, considering you made your living off of it,” Skizz says playfully.

“True, true!” Scar responds, not taking it to heart in the slightest. He’s pretty sure that Skizz doesn’t have an ill-intentioned bone in his whole body. “Despite that, I’ve never actually managed to get a proper education on strings⎯ I’m a bit reticent to trust scientists about matters of the heart, anyway. I hear the classes can be very interesting! I’ve only taken a few here and there, myself.”

“Did you enjoy them?” Impulse asks, curious.

“They were very enlightening, but college proved to me that all that academia isn’t really my style,” Scar answers with a light laugh.

“You and me both, buddy,” Skizz hums, not sounding ashamed in the slightest. It’s nice to hear. Scar is used to being looked down upon for not finishing college; he knows that Cub would never, of course, but other than that⎯ Well, Scar knows his mom worries, and that Bdubs has always wondered why he never finished, even though Bdubs doesn’t say that out loud.

It’s not exactly difficult to read his brother.

“Okay, moving on to your next string,” Scar says, taking it carefully between his fingers. This string is a pretty shade of red, not quite the level of vibrancy that Impulse and Skizz’s string has, but beautiful nonetheless. It has speckles of yellow, but otherwise seems to be pretty solidly set in romantic love. “This one is red, curiously enough. There’s not very much yellow to be seen in it, and I’m not sure when you’ll meet them, but it definitely looks to be romantic from what I can tell.”

“You mean it?” Impulse asks, sounding more surprised than his counterpart had when he learned he also had another romantic string. Scar hums his assent, twirling the string around his finger to see if there’s any colours he missed. “Oh. Wow. I never thought I’d… ever want anyone but Skizz.”

“Hey, looks like we’re both in the market for younger, hotter husbands!” Skizz teases, jostling Impulse slightly. The other man laughs, but it’s clearly not as enthusiastic as it’s been before. “Oh, Dippledop. Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s all gonna turn out fine. We’re not leavin’ each other for anything, you hear me? The devil himself is gonna have to pry us apart at the end of it all.”

Impulse snorts, this time considerably more genuine.

“So which of us is going to hell and which of us to heaven, in that scenario?”

“Well, you’re definitely my angel,” Skizz says, voice laden with flirtatious intent. There’s a kissing sound, and Scar can only assume that Skizz just smacked a kiss to Impulse’s face, given that he’s not looked up from the man’s strings. Impulse groans, loud and overdramatic.

“Oh, shut up. We’re probably traumatising Scar right now, you know that? You’re insufferable,” He complains with a huff. Scar snickers as Skizz makes an affronted sound.

“I can’t believe you’re saying that to the guy you married, Dippledop. You’re stuck with me, dude. For, like, eternity.” Skizz sounds gleeful, as if he’s just won one over on his husband.

“Regret it more each day, I promise.”

“Aww, I love you, too, Impy.”

“Yeah, yeah. Scar, feel free to look at my other strings, because my husband doesn’t know how to stop running his mouth,” Impulse says conversationally, ignoring the offended ‘oi!’ Skizz gives in response.

“Alrighty then! Let’s see, we’re going to move hands now, and you’ve got two on this one. I assume one of them you already know about, since it ties you to Tango?” Scar asks, nodding when Impulse voices his assent. “Is it the one tied around your index finger?”

“It is! According to Tango, it should be mostly yellow with blue and purple, I think?” Impulse says questioningly, clearly unsure. Scar hums in acknowledgement, examining the string.

“It definitely is mostly yellow, I agree with that. There’s blue, too, which means a shared love for some sort of subject, usually to do with intelligence or smarts, and then purple, which means respect, of course. However, there’s also a smidgen of green, which tends to signify jealousy. Since it’s in the bond, I can only assume that it’s an emotion you share about each other,” Scar explains, tugging on the string gently. Within a second, there’s a responding tug, presumably from Tango.

“Oh, I never realised…” Impulse says thoughtfully. “I mean, I’m definitely jealous of him, but I had no idea the sentiment was returned.”

“You’re jealous of Top?” Skizz asks, sounding baffled.

“Well, yeah,” Impulse answers, embarrassed. “He’s good at what he does, and he’s so much more open than I am, I’m jealous of the way he can just⎯ you know, go out and feel his emotions so fully, regardless of what they might be. Anger, passion, love, joy, sadness… I dunno, Skizz, you know I struggle with bottling it all up sometimes. Of course I’m jealous of the most emotional guy we know.”

“I guess I wasn’t thinkin’ of it that way,” Skizz admits sheepishly. “I think both of you are great in your own ways, I’m not focused on what either of you lacks, you know? You’re amazing! I mean, you’re my husband, of course, but it’s Top. I love y’all too much to care.”

“Yeah, I know,” Impulse says, fond. “You’re such a sap, big guy.”

“Aww, shuddup.”

Impulse snorts. “Alright, go on, Scar. We’ve taken up plenty of your time already, we should probably finish this appointment up. We’re gonna catch a late brunch in town, too, so we don’t need to take too long.”

“Gotcha, gotcha. The last string you have is tied around your pinkie! It’s yellow, again, which I’m sure doesn’t come as a surprise. It seems to me like you’ve already met this person, based on how the string feels and the colours⎯ there’s a bit of red, yellow, blue again, purple, and brown where the colours start to get muddied. All brown means is that it’s complicated, not necessarily anything negative,” Scar explains, looking up at Impulse.

He’s heard of different interpretations before, of course, but this is the one that makes the most sense to him. Sometimes, a string can’t fully encompass everything that a bond means to two people, and as a result, the colours start to mix into each other and create a warm brown. Some people prefer to think that brown means stability or comfort, while others believe that it signifies dullness or loneliness. The categories are varied and different depending on who one asks, but Scar’s always stuck with his definition.

“Who do you think it could be, Dippledop?” Skizz prompts, looking at Impulse curiously.

“Zed, maybe? He’s the only one aside from you and Tango that I’m super close to right now,” Impulse responds, shrugging. “I guess we’ll know once we get home and see him again. I mean, it wouldn’t be surprising, and he’d be happy to have another string to study. And hey, mine has red! I’m pretty sure he was disappointed when it turned out that Tango didn’t see him that way even a little.”

Skizz nods with a thoughtful expression.

“I hope it’s him, then.” He turns to Scar, grinning from ear to ear. “Well, is that all, dude? We all ready to go?”

“You’re all ready to go,” Scar agrees, smiling in return. “You can get up and head back out right now, if you want. I hope this was as fun of an anniversary activity as you thought it was going to be.”

“Honestly, it was pretty nice,” Impulse says, sounding sincere. “I like learning new things about us. And this way, we won’t be blindsided when we meet these future supposedly romantic soulmates of ours.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Scar says, genuine.

“Yeah, thanks, buddy!” Skizz says enthusiastically, already beginning to clamber to his feet.

A sense of satisfaction curls in his chest as he watches Impulse and Skizz get up, carefully helping each other with their hands interlocked. It’s very rare indeed that he comes out on the other side of a string-reading appointment with no negative feelings. A real miracle, in his opinion.

⎯⎯⎯

Chapter Text

Scar is actually quite vexed, if he’s being honest.

After that godawful heatwave, he remained in his wheelchair all week, just in case. His body had been doing surprisingly well, not protesting at every single movement like it normally does. Of course, Scar should’ve known that something was up. The universe refuses to let him have a good thing that stays a good thing. He grits his teeth, rubbing at his thighs roughly.

Today, of all days.

It had to be today that his body decided to flare up.

Scar could honestly cry. He’s already taken the recommended pain meds and they haven’t kicked in yet, so he’s doing as best he can with his heating pad pressed against his lower back and massaging his thighs. Jellie is curled up next to him, asleep, and her warmth seeps through his skin. A part of him desperately wants to call Cub, while the other part wants to hide away forever in a hole and never let anyone see him again. Scar isn’t supposed to self-isolate when this happens, but he’s so frustrated. He was looking forward to walking around and making dinner for Etho like a normal person.

Now, he’ll have to cancel or muster through it with his wheelchair⎯

Ugh.

Sometimes, Scar really resents the universe for doing this to him.

He reaches for his phone over on the nightstand, pulling up the contacts list blindly and hitting the number at the top. It starts to ring as Cub’s contact photo, a blurry shot of him and Scar with their faces smushed against each other’s, and Scar wedges it between his shoulder and his ear. He goes back to rubbing at his thighs, hissing between his teeth at the ache that seems to pull from his bones themselves. Scar isn’t sure if the pain is easing from the pain pills or a type of placebo effect, but either way, the relief is minimal.

“What’s up?” Cub sounds unsurprisingly groggy as he answers the phone, picking up shortly after the first ring. A smile tugs, automatic, at Scar’s lips before falling flat once more. “...Dude? Scar?”

“Sorry,” Scar says. “Pain ‘s bad. Don’t wanna talk a lot.”

The pain doesn’t impede his ability to talk⎯ At least, not normally in a way that’s so severe that he can’t push past it, anyway. Scar very much enjoys talking. He’s just a little worried that he’ll start sobbing if he speaks too much right now, especially considering that it’s Cub on the other end of the line. His best friend is far too observant for his own good. Jellie mrrps from next to him, and Scar goes to pet her automatically, running a soothing hand down the soft fur of her back.

“Ah, gotcha, gotcha,” Cub responds easily. “No need, then, no need. You can grunt for answers, two for no, one for yes, that should work. Right back to the caveman days, eh, Scar? You’re Neanderthal enough for it.”

Scar laughs.

“Shut up, Cub.”

“Hey, hey, I thought you didn’t want to talk! I’m just giving you a workaround to that,” Cub claims, sounding perfectly innocent. Scar rolls his eyes, adjusting his phone from where it’d begun to slip down. The ache in his back pulses insistently and he sighs, reaching for the heating pad. Moving it up slightly should help, but Scar won’t be surprised if it doesn’t.

“You comin’ over?” He asks, quiet, not wanting to push. Cub hums.

“Of course, dude. Of course. When have I ever not come over during a time like this?” Scar’s face warms. It’s true; his best friend has always come to Scar at the drop of a hat, if he needed it. “And don’t dare think that you’re a burden or something silly like that, okay, Scar? ‘Cause you’re not. Can you give me a number?”

“It’s like…maybe a six?”

“Scar.” The disapproval in Cub’s voice reads as clear as day.

Scar sighs.

“Fine, a seven. And a half.”

“Scar. Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“Only woke up a lil while ago.”

“Good. No signs of pain the previous night? I hope it’s nothing serious. No other symptoms, just the pain? Have you spiked a fever?” The plethora of questions is routine at this point, even if Scar resents the fact that his best friend has to sound like a walking clipboard of hospital paperwork.

“Muscle ache and fatigue. My bones feel like they’re on fire. I had a headache last night, but nothin’ else. Took pain meds…” Scar shimmies his phone out from between his ear and shoulder and glances at the time. “About thirty minutes ago. I left my thermometer in the kitchen, but I don’t feel hot. Not too much, anyways.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

Scar laughs. “It’s fifteen minutes from my house to yours. Pushing it.”

“I’ll be there in ten, Scar.”

“Alright, alright,” He hums, still amused. His left thigh pulses with pain and Scar hisses between his teeth, moving to rub at it again. “I’m really annoyed this happened today, you know that? Kind of the worst timing.”

“I know,” Cub says sympathetically. Scar swallows past the lump in his throat. “Are you going to cancel?”

“Don’t wanna,” He admits, quiet. 

“You don’t have to. But I know you don’t like people to see you when you’re having a bad flare.”

Scar takes a second to consider.

He doesn’t like it when people see him during a bad flare-up. There’s a reason that he calls Cub instead of one of his other friends, and it’s not because they’re soulmates. Scar doesn’t even enjoy it when Bdubs sees him on particularly bad days, because he’s the older brother. He’s supposed to be the strong one, the one who has it all together, even though he’s still⎯ Well, alone, living out on the bayou with only Jellie and the kittens for company. 

But Etho⎯

Would Etho care?

Scar struggles to imagine a world where Etho judges him for his disabilities. The man is selfless in a way that’s hard to fake, and he’s never once treated Scar as incapable or helpless. Hell, Scar hasn’t even gotten any sort of look from Etho before, the sort that other people give him when they think he’s not watching. Acceptance doesn’t mean that Scar wants Etho to see it get this bad, though. He knows Etho wouldn’t care, but Scar cares. It matters to him that Etho gets to see the good sides, the polished and professional ones, at least for now.

He hates being this way, hates the fact that his body isn’t strong enough to contain him.

“Scar?” Cub says lightly, making Scar realise that he’s still on call.

“Zoned out,” He says sheepishly, reaching a hand over to scratch Jellie’s head. She doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to wake up, and Scar doesn’t mind. He’s never going to say no to more cat snuggles. “Um, I don’t⎯ I don’t want to cancel, not yet. It could ease off during the day.”

“Alright, man, whatever you say,” Cub agrees, nonchalant. “And if it doesn’t?”

“I’ll call him,” Scar responds, steeling his nerves. It’s rare that his flare-ups get better over the span of one day, often dipping down to get worse and worse until they hit a breaking point, and then things start looking up. “He deserves that much, at least. I can’t blow him off with a text.”

“Good,” Cub says approvingly. “I may not care about the guy, but it’s common decency.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scar mumbles, rolling his eyes. A purr begins to rumble through Jellie’s tiny body, vibrating up to his hand. 

Scar has had a lot of practice with ignoring his pain throughout the years. It plays second fiddle to his life, so of course he developed some kind of immunity. Although, Scar’s not sure how much it can qualify as immunity, when the pain still actively hinders him on the regular. Either way, Scar knows his body. He knows that this pain is nothing to be concerned about. On the worse end of the spectrum, certainly, but nothing that warrants a hospital visit.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t pissed about it.

He wanted things to be romantic!

Scar’s stomach turns as he tries to imagine what their date could be like now. It won’t be Etho coming over and finally seeing the rest of Scar’s house, sitting down outside on the porch while the sun sets with food that Scar made himself, anymore. Instead, it’d be more like Etho coming over and seeing the rest of Scar’s house, still a mess, and being given half-assed food, if Scar could even muster up the energy to do that. The thought of moving wants to make him cry, so Scar isn’t sure how he’s supposed to prepare the gnocchi dish Etho requested.

He sniffles.

“I hate this.”

“I do, too,” Cub says, soft. Scar angrily wipes away the tears that escaped his eyelids.

“I should just call him now. It’s not going to work out. I’m not even in my chair, Cub, that’s how much I don’t want to move. I thought putting the heating pad behind my back was going to make me sob this morning because of how much every muscle burned.” Scar’s tone is full of vicious, hateful spite and disappointment. Cub, well-used to weathering his storms, takes it in stride.

“If you think that will help. Etho is incredibly down bad for you, so I’m pretty sure he’d be happy to reschedule, man.”

Scar knows that Cub is talking sense, but he really doesn’t want to listen.

“I’ll be there soon,” Cub continues when he doesn’t reply. “Only about seven more minutes. It’s enough time to call Etho and reschedule, if you want. You don’t have to, but I’m gonna hang up, so you don’t have to make that choice too. See you soon, Scar.”

“See you,” Scar whispers. The dial tone echoes in his ear, and he puts his phone in his lap, resenting how well his best friend knows him. He never would’ve called Etho if Cub had remained on the other end of the line; he hates making choices like that when he’s having a flare-up.

Scar huffs.

Jellie is soft under his fingertips, surprisingly not objecting to the weight of her owner’s palm against her back. She’s getting less inclined to fuss the older she gets, which endears Scar to no end. She’s still a prissy queen about what kind of food she gets, though. Scar can buy whatever generic kibble for the kittens, but his darling Jellie must have her special brand of food.

“It’s a bad day, Jellie,” Scar murmurs, blinking back tears. Before he can chicken out of it, he grabs his phone and swipes it open again, going for the contact list. Etho hasn’t made his way to the favourites yet, so Scar has to scroll to get to his number.

He hesitates for a moment, thumb hovering over Etho’s contact⎯

Scar takes a breath.

He puts the phone to his ear as it begins to ring, ignoring the way his upper arm aches. He’s not sure that Etho will be awake yet; it is the weekend. Scar can’t quite remember Etho’s schedule, mind fuzzy from the pain. Is the tattoo shop open on Saturdays? He knows they’re closed on Mondays, but he can’t remember if that’s it, or if they have a day of the weekend, too.

 Scar doesn’t have to wonder for long as the phone clicks.

“Hello?” A surprisingly peppy feminine voice answers, distinctly not Etho.

“Um, hello?” Scar tries, thoroughly confused. The person on the other end of the line giggles. On autopilot, he laughs too, though considerably more nervous than the other person. “This is Etho’s phone, right? Did I call the wrong number?”

“Oh! No, you’re good. This is Gem! We’re coworkers, he’s busy. Can I take a message?”

“Gem? Someone call?”

Scar can barely make out the indistinct murmur of Etho’s low voice.

“Oops! Well, speak of the devil. It’s your boyfriend, Etho,” Gem’s voice lilts teasingly as she passes over the phone, sounding more distant as she does so. Scar flushes, momentarily concerned that he’s developed a spontaneous fever from how hot his face feels.

“Sorry about that,” Etho says, voice considerably closer now. It sends shivers down Scar’s spine, and he finds himself relaxing a little, soothed by Etho’s familiar cadence. “I was in the bathroom, and sometimes we get clients calling personal numbers⎯ shut up, Gem. Okay, fine, I get clients calling personal numbers. It’s just awkward telling them no.”

Scar laughs. “You need to grow a backbone, Etho.”

“I have one,” Etho protests, albeit weakly. “It’s just…not built for social situations.”

“Uh-huh,” Scar hums, fond.

“Was there a reason you called? Aside from bullying me?” Etho says, dry as can be. Scar snorts, then sobers as he remembers his original purpose. Hearing Etho’s voice makes him want to go through with it even less.

“I… It’s, um, it’s a bad day, body-wise.” Scar winces. “I’m having a bad flare-up, I don’t know if I can do dinner tonight.”

“Are you okay?” Etho sounds concerned, and Scar can hear the hubbub of the tattoo shop fade somewhat, as if he’s changed locations. His heart skips a beat in his chest at the thought of Etho granting them as much privacy as he can.

“I’m okay,” Scar says. “Well, I’m not, but I’ll be okay. It’s normal for me⎯ Nothing dangerous.”

“Can I bring you something? Soup? I don’t,” Etho laughs, and the sound is nervous, so unlike the deep, rich chuckles that Etho usually gives when he’s truly amused. Scar’s heart stutters again; he likes this man so painfully much. “I don’t know if it works the same as when you’re sick, but I want⎯ I want to help. And I want to see you.”

“You do?” Scar can’t help but whisper it, like it’s a secret.

“I do,” Etho confirms, matching Scar’s volume. “It’s…frankly, it’s embarrassing how much I want to see you. Gem’s told me to shut up about it like five times already today. But, I mean, if you’re having too much trouble, I won’t come over. The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t,” Scar says immediately, unable to help it. “You… You don’t.”

“That’s good.” Etho snorts. “It’d be, um, it’d be awkward if I did, I think, considering⎯ everything.”

“Considering that you like me?” Scar teases.

“Yeah,” Etho responds, genuine. Shameless, almost. “Considering that I like you.”

God.

How on Earth is Scar supposed to refuse that?

“You can come over,” He says quickly, before the pain can sweep back in and make him change his mind. “For…for lunch? I don’t know how long you’re keeping the shop open today, but⎯ if you want. I can’t do dinner, but as soon as this eases, I’m gonna make the best damn gnocchi you’ve ever tasted.”

“Oh?” Etho responds, playful. “You’re really raising the standards here, Scar.”

“And I’ll meet ‘em!”

Etho laughs. “I believe it. And, yeah, I can come over for lunch. The shop closes in the afternoon today, so it might be a little while? But only around two at the latest. I⎯ I can’t wait to see you.”

“I can’t wait to see you,” Scar admits, meaning every word. He’s still scared, but Etho has a way of disarming him entirely. The fact that it’s lunch, too, makes it easier, even if they still won’t be on a time limit. There’s less pressure. “I think I have soup, if you don’t want to worry about it.”

“I’ll bring you soup,” Etho says, determined. “Will it help?”

“I think you’ll help, more than anything.”

Etho makes a faint noise, caught off-guard.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, yes, I’m fine!” Etho says quickly, making Scar giggle. “I’ll see you for lunch, okay?”

“Yeah,” Scar murmurs, fond as can be. “See you for lunch. Bye, Etho. Have a good day at work.”

“Bye, Scar.”

Etho ends the call, which is probably a good thing. Scar isn’t too confident about moving his arms very much, or having the strength to actually hang up. It would’ve been awkward, the two of them just breathing into the phones. Scar feels his face heat up. He can’t believe he agreed to that.

Dinner has more pressure, but lunch is sooner.

…but it’s Etho.

Scar would really like to see Etho.

His phone slides down into his lap and he yawns, thoroughly tired out from just two conversations. He feels less inclined to cry now; who knew communicating could actually resolve issues? Scar huffs a laugh to himself, forcing himself through the motions of picking up his phone and returning it to the nightstand. The pain meds have kicked in by now, but they’ve done little to relieve his muscle stiffness. The fierce ache radiating through him has lessened somewhat, at least.

He pets Jellie’s head absently, wondering what soup Etho plans to bring. Scar genuinely can’t remember if they’ve covered favourite soups in the vast expanse of topics that they’ve talked about over text or not. He knows that food in general was covered after Scar insisted on trying to make one of Etho’s favourite meals from scratch, but soups is a subsection of that. Well, Scar supposes that it doesn’t matter in the long run. He’s pretty sure that he’s going to scarf down whatever Etho brings because it’s Etho bringing it.

The floor creaks in the distance and Scar pauses, turning his head to look at his bedroom door, which is cracked slightly.

“Cub?” He calls, squinting. “That you?”

“Not like you’d be able to do anything if it was an axe murderer!” Cub calls out, coming further down the hallway. He reaches Scar’s door soon enough, pushing it open fully and coming inside. Scar grins at the sight of him; Cub is wearing a matching set of fuzzy pajamas, plaid in dark and light blue.

“Well, hello to you too, Cubby.”

“Ugh, not already,” Cub huffs, rolling his eyes. He walks over to the bed, nudging Scar’s legs aside so he can sit on the edge of it. The most that Scar can manage is letting himself be moved, too stiff to think about adjusting his position personally. “Are you up for a massage?”

“I’m gonna be whiny about it,” Scar warns. Cub smirks.

“As if you’re not always whiny.”

“Cub! Shut up!”

“Just sayin’, dude.”

“You hate me.” Scar sniffles pathetically, looking at Cub with a betrayed expression.

“I most certainly do not,” Cub responds, clearly unimpressed. Scar can’t maintain his pathetic demeanour for very long before breaking out into a smile again. Cub settles a hand on Scar’s calf over the blanket, the warmth of his skin seeping through to reach Scar’s. “Seriously, man. Massage?”

“Yes, please. I can’t move my legs right now because everything feels so stiff. My arms hurt, but I’ve been moving them since I called you and Etho. And my back is burning, too, but that might be a combination of pain and the heating pad, since I have it turned onto the highest setting I can bear.”

“How’d your call with Etho go? He take the cancellation well?” Cub asks conversationally, lifting briefly to tug the duvet out from underneath himself. He tosses it to the side, exposing Scar’s aching, scarred legs.

“Actually, um, I didn’t cancel,” Scar admits sheepishly. Cub raises an eyebrow over the top of his thick black-rimmed glasses. “He’s coming over for lunch.”

“He’s coming over for lunch?” Cub asks, flabbergasted. He takes Scar’s leg in his hands, beginning to work his fingers into the muscle of Scar’s calf. “Remind me again of how that’s supposed to give your flare-up enough time to cool down?”

“It’s not, really. Etho wanted to come over anyway.” Scar melts back into his pillows, crushing his heating pad between him and them. “He’s gonna bring me soup. And he’s not coming over until after two, so we have a little bit of time. I… I’m excited to see him, Cub.”

Cub softens. “I’m excited for you, then.”

“Thanks.”

“You should probably nap, if you want to be coherent during your date.”

“Ugh,” Scar complains, making a noise as Cub presses too deep into a spot in his leg. The pressure lightens, though not by much. The only way it feels better is if it hurts  a little first. “You’re right. I’ll nap before he gets here.”

“Good,” Cub says with a nod. “Sounds like a plan. Sounds like a plan, man. I’ll finish up your massage and then you can sleep, and I’ll wake you when it’s time for you to take more painkillers. And I’ll tidy up, since your kitchen is still a mess from whatever you made last night.”

“I was tired,” Scar explains, though he knows Cub doesn’t need it. “Which should’ve been a sign that a flare-up was on its way. But I was tired, and I didn’t want to clean up after myself, so I left the dishes alone. I made tacos.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Cub responds easily. “Lay back, close your eyes. I’ve got you, Scar.”

“I love you,” Scar says, smiling.

“And I love you.”

With the assurance, Scar does as he’s told, leaning back fully and closing his eyes. It’s not hard to feel sleepy, even though he only woke up less than an hour ago. It’s fairly early for him to rise on a weekend as it is, but his sleepiness is mostly exacerbated by Cub’s presence. Scar has always found it easier to fall asleep in the presence of someone that he loves and trusts.

Scar isn’t sure how much time passes, like that.

He drifts in between consciousness and being asleep; Cub’s voice is a constant murmur in the back of his mind, though the words he says are far too fuzzy to make out completely. The pain comes and goes, but Scar is used to getting restless sleep, and this is far from the worst it’s been. Jellie meows in the distance, but she’s shushed before Scar can drag his sleeping mind to the surface. He tosses and turns, feeling hot, and twists the covers around himself.

Cub’s voice comes by again, and Scar vaguely remembers being sat up, taking…something. The cool feeling of water slides down his throat, but the relief is short-lived before Scar is laying down once more. A hand brushes the hair off of his forehead, lingering there for a moment before leaving.

He drifts, aimless.

“Scar,” Cub’s voice pierces through the haze of sleep, making Scar stir slightly. He blinks a couple of times slowly, his bedroom coming into focus. Cub stands to the side of his bed, having changed at some point into one of his usual button-ups and some athleisure-wear yoga pants. “Scar, hey, there you are. You feel up to a shower? Figured you’d want to before your boytoy gets here.”

“What time is it?” Scar asks, groggy.

“Almost one in the afternoon. You’ve been pretty out of it, man. I got you to take your meds and water, but you’ve mostly just been sleepin’. I tidied the kitchen, and ran back home to change, since you were sleeping hard. You up for a shower?” Cub repeats, raising an eyebrow at Scar.

He yawns, taking stock of his body.

The pain hasn’t gone away, which is no surprise for obvious reasons. It doesn’t feel as bad as it did, though, and Scar is thankful for that. His legs are weak, but not as stiff as they were. He might be able to manage a shower, as long as Cub is watching and waiting in case Scar slips and falls. Although, his arms do ache, and his hair takes a lot of effort even on days where Scar has the energy to spare…

Scar looks back up at Cub, pouting and batting his eyelashes.

Cub groans. “Not fair, man. Not fair. Makin’ me do all the work for your date with someone else.”

“Would you rather it be with you, Cubby?” Scar teases, winking at his best friend. Predictably, Cub wrinkles his nose, looking affronted at the very thought. Scar gasps, placing a hand on his chest. “I saw that expression of disgust! I can’t believe you’d think so lowly of your soulmate, Cub.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Cub says, rolling his eyes. “Like you’d wanna date me, either.”

Scar shrugs. “I’ll try anything once.”

“Wow, I feel so flattered,” Cub deadpans with a snort. “Do you want me to help you shower?”

“Well, if you’re offering, I’m not gonna say no,” Scar blusters, giving Cub the biggest, cheesiest grin that he can muster. Cub glares at him, but the corners of his lips twitch, giving away his amusement. He definitely finds Scar very funny⎯ They wouldn’t be friends otherwise. 

“Do you need help getting into your chair?”

“I should be okay with that much,” Scar answers, sitting up straight in bed. He tosses the covers aside, moving his legs over the edge and wincing at the pulse of pain in his back. Cub moves his chair close to the bed, and Scar transfers his body over steadily, grateful that his friend holds it steady without needing to be asked.

“Good?” Cub checks, once Scar’s gotten settled.

“All good,” Scar confirms. “Wanna roll me to the bathroom? I’m not kidding when I say that my arms hurt, I don’t know how I strained them so badly. I mean, I took it easy this week! I spent most of it in my chair! Which…okay, maybe that explains the arm strain.”

Cub huffs a laugh. “Maybe if you were using your chair excessively. This place isn’t that big.”

“Well, Bdubs took me into town to see Joe and Cleo, so that could explain it,” Scar responds sheepishly. Cub makes a disapproving noise as they roll out of his bedroom and across the hallway into the bathroom.

“Yeah, maybe that could,” Cub says sarcastically. Scar pouts at him.

Thankfully, his bathroom is pretty big, despite the fact that his house is rather average-sized. The space means that it’s easy for Cub to get his chair right up against the tub, and Scar leans over to turn the water on without hesitation. He’s had a shower chair since he bought the place, since his legs aren’t exactly on a strict schedule of whether or not they’ll bear his weight. It’s useful, don’t get him wrong, but transferring his body from his wheelchair to it is a pain.

“Need help?” Cub asks, careful, unobtrusive.

“No, just psyching myself up,” Scar replies, sighing. He shimmies onto the edge of his seat, forcing one leg over the lip of the tub and then the other. Scar takes a breath, bracing himself against the wall of the shower before briefly standing. His legs tremble, aching fiercely, and Scar quickly sits back down. “God, I really hate having to do that. So annoying.”

“Plannin’ on saving your modesty with your boxers?” Cub questions, sounding faintly amused. Scar huffs, shooting him a playful glare.

“Well, a girl’s gotta have something in this world, doesn’t she?” He rolls his eyes as Cub chuckles. Carefully, Scar lifts himself up slightly, bracing more of his weight on his feet so he can shimmy his boxers off. He drops them outside of the tub once he can untangle them from his legs, ignoring how wet they got from the bathwater. “You can turn on the shower, if you want. Light water pressure, ‘cause that feels better. Um, can you wash my hair?”

“Of course,” Cub says easily. He moves the wheelchair out of the way, reaching for the knobs above the bathtub and switching the setting to the shower. Warm water sprays against Scar’s skin and he relaxes minutely, cold plastic digging into his skin from the chair. “You want the full routine today, or just a shampoo and condition?”

“Just that, I think,” Scar says, shuffling slightly so that his back faces Cub. He likes having long hair, but it sure can be annoying to take care of sometimes. Especially being disabled. “The lilac soap, please. It smells the best, I think, and it’s my favourite right now anyway.”

“Gotcha,” Cub responds, his hand coming into view as he reaches for the lilac shampoo. He grabs it and must put it somewhere else, maybe on the sink, because Scar can hear him shuffling. Cub reaches up, grabbing the shower head and detaching it to properly wet Scar’s hair. “Does the temperature feel okay, man?”

“Mhmm,” Scar responds, briefly closing his eyes as Cub returns the shower head to where it belongs. The cap of the shampoo snaps open and Cub’s fingers begin to card through the strands of Scar’s hair, soaping it up. “Thanks for doing all of this for me, Cubby.”

“Of course, idiot.” Cub’s touch is gentle, despite the harsh words. “Haven’t we been friends long enough for you not to have to thank me by now?’

“On the contrary!” Scar exclaims, shaking his head. Cub clicks his tongue and he stills immediately, wary of Cub tugging on his hair in retribution for making his job harder than it needs to be. “It’s because we’ve been friends for so long that I should thank you. Honestly, I should do it more. We’ve been friends for…gosh, so many years now. You deserve it, for putting up with me.”

“It’s not putting up with. You’re my friend, of course I want to help you in whatever way I can. Don’t act like you don’t do the same for me, dude.” Cub scolds, releasing Scar’s hair to grab the shower once more. “Close your eyes.”

Scar does so automatically once more, the shampoo rinsing from his hair easily as Cub makes sure to get every strand. The water is warm, soothing, and Cub’s patience even more so. Scar truly is lucky to call Cub his best friend; he can’t think of anyone else who would do this for him except for maybe Bdubs. And Bdubs would complain the whole time, because that’s just how brothers are, but he would do it. Still, there’s something different about Cub.

“I’m shocked that your hair isn’t tangly as hell,” Cub remarks, playful. Scar makes a noise of offence.

“Excuse you, Cub! I’ve been doing really well lately, even braiding my hair before I sleep so it doesn’t get really bad. I do still skip brushing if the braid looks presentable enough, though, to be honest,” Scar responds with a shrug, unbothered. Cub hums.

“Good job.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ve been doing better with this whole self-care thing lately, huh? Why’s that? Because of your boytoy?” Cub’s tone is easy, not bitter. Scar’s glad that they had a proper conversation about their relationship and what it means to both of them, as well as Cub’s jealousy. “Wanting to impress him?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Scar admits, honest. “I mean, maybe that’s part of it? If it is, I didn’t realise. But mostly it’s because I feel⎯ good. Things are still hard, obviously, my body keeps failing on me and I still feel weird about not having very many soulbonds, but I’m adjusting. I mean, come on, Cub, anybody would take better care of themselves when they had less financial struggles to worry about.”

“True,” Cub agrees with a snort. “The shop is doing well for itself. You’re finally staying afloat instead of struggling. I can see how that would have a positive affect on your mental health, dude. But you know that I don’t think any less of you for your body or your soulbonds, right?”

“Of course not.” Scar rolls his eyes. The very idea is preposterous. “And I know that most people don’t care all that much, or at least that less are caring every day now. But… I don’t know, it’s hard to unlearn that those things don’t make me less worthy of love, or care.”

“Yeah, I imagine it is,” Cub murmurs, sympathetic. Scar sighs, thighs aching.

“One day, I hope I’ll never worry about it again.”

“So do I,” Cub agrees, simple as that. Scar relaxes back into his touch, feeling comfortably… seen.

The rest of the shower passes in easy, familiar silence as Cub finishes washing Scar’s hair. He’s glad that he hasn’t put this off too much; normally he smells a lot worse by the time he drags himself to a shower. It’s not like Scar has that much trouble with it, but it never seems worth it, especially when he thinks about everything that has to be done after a shower. Drying off, getting into his chair or managing to walk to his room, getting dressed, braiding his hair so it doesn’t knot and tangle for the next day… It’s a lot of effort, especially for days when Scar can barely muster the energy to eat.

It’s a good thing that he has Cub here to help out!

“Can you manage washing your body by yourself or do you want my help?” Cub asks, interrupting the flow of Scar’s thoughts. He hums, considering for a moment. His body doesn’t feel that bad, although there’s some minor stiffness from sitting in the same position for so long.

“Nah, I think I can manage that much,” Scar says cheerfully, turning his head to flash Cub a smile over his shoulder. Cub hums, nudging Scar to face forward again to give his hair one last rinse. Cub is more vigilant about getting the conditioner out than Scar ever has, that’s for certain.

“Okay, you should be done then,” Cub says conversationally, putting the showerhead back up. Scar hums, reaching for his loofah and grabbing the body wash. It’s scented like vanilla and something else, spicy and warm. A gift from Cleo and Joe Hills, he’s pretty sure, that he ended up liking enough to buy on his own. “Do you want me to set something out in your room for you to wear?”

“Ooh, yes please,” Scar says, drizzling soap over the loofah. “Do one of my button-ups, if I have clean ones left that aren’t too small. And I don’t care about what kind of pants. Thanks, Cubby!”

“Of course,” Cub replies without hesitation. “You think you’ll need help getting out of the tub?”

“Probably, at least with drying off before I get in my chair.”

“I’ll come back in a few, then.”

“Sounds like a plan!” Scar agrees cheerfully. A rush of cold air enters the bathroom as Cub opens the door and leaves, making him shiver reflexively. Scar hums to himself as he scrubs at his skin, the scent of vanilla filling the air.

He never enjoys the effort of a shower, but he can admit⎯

It is nice to feel clean.

After a few minutes, Scar is appropriately washed and rinsed off, feeling marginally better for being so. Cub comes back into the bathroom, just as planned, and helps him dry off and get into his chair. Scar’s glad that he splurged for the nice, fancy, soft bath towels instead of the regular cheap ones that he’d been using prior to owning his shop. Cub pushes Scar’s wheelchair from the bathroom to the bedroom without having to be asked as Scar dries off his hair.

He likes having long hair, but it holds way more water than it should. Scar knows that he could theoretically chop it all off and then have the amount of effort needed for showering and the like cut in half, but he doesn’t want to. Scar likes being pretty. His long hair frames his face and is fun to style, when he has the energy, and he’s gotten too many compliments to think about cutting it now.

“Ooh, you found my favourite button-up! I thought it’d been lost to the piles of dirty clothes in the corner,” Scar says, delighted, as he sees what Cub laid out on his neatly-made bed. The man must’ve done that while Scar was in the shower, too, because Scar certainly didn’t. “Did you make sure it’s clean? I know you hate the sniff test, but I gotta be impressing my man here, Cubby.”

Cub snorts. “Yeah, don’t worry, dude, I got you covered.”

Scar grins, transferring himself from his chair to bed, He’s careful not to sit on his clothes, having no desire to wrinkle them before Etho comes over. His favourite button-up is, of course, one that Cub tends to vastly dislike. Scar’s told him a million times that not everybody fears patterns and colours like he does, but Cub remains adamant that it’s an eyesore. Scar doesn’t mind. He can admit that it is a bit aggressive; soft, sunset orange and bright teal in vertical stripes. Luckily, when paired with a more solid colour pant, it becomes less aggressive.

“Are those sweatpants?” Scar asks, shimmying his boxers on.

“Yeah,” Cub replies, nonchalant. Scar blinks at him. “What? You said you didn’t care what kind of pants they were.”

“I mean, I don’t, but I just wasn’t expecting you to choose sweatpants, Cub. I do want to impress him a little, you know,” Scar says with a laugh, not truly that bothered. Cub frowns, a serious glint entering his pretty dark green eyes. Scar’s always liked his best friend’s eyes; Cub is insistent that they’re boring, but Scar prefers them to his own, which are muddy brown.

“Sweatpants are the easiest for you to remain comfortable in even after he leaves. I could’ve picked jeans or something, but you would’ve been more uncomfortable and you would’ve been thinking about them the whole time. At least, this way, after Etho leaves, you can just unbutton your shirt and go to sleep or chill around the house like that. No need to fuss with changing pants,” Cub explains. Scar pauses from where he’d begun to pull the sweatpants on, blinking a couple of times in rapid succession.

“And you just⎯ Thought about that?”

“Scar, you ask me this like we haven’t been friends for over a decade. Yes, I just thought about that.”

“Well, okay, sue me for being touched, Cub,” Scar complains, pouting at his friend.

“Quit that.” Cub wrinkles his nose. “You shouldn’t be touched by the bare minimum.”

“You know,” Scar says conversationally, deciding to switch tracks. “I think that was the first time that you’ve said Etho’s name instead of just calling him boytoy. Could it be, Cub, that you’ve finally grown to see him as a person?”

He accompanies the words with a dramatic gasp, widening his eyes for extra exaggeration. Cub, in return, looks more than unimpressed. He shifts his weight to the other foot, crossing his arms over his chest, and Scar can’t help but giggle. He’s always so amused by how flat-faced his friend can be in response to his jokes.

“You’re not funny,” Cub says, though the corner of his mouth twitches, betraying him. Scar’s giggles only increase as he shrugs on his button-up. “And for your information, no, I haven’t realised that he’s a person. For now, he’s just a particularly emotional extension of you.”

“I mean, come on, Cub, you’ve met the guy by now. I think that warrants some kind of opinion change. At least you can recognise that he exists outside of the context in which I talk about him, you know?”

“Correction,” Cub replies automatically. “I didn’t meet him, I watched you and him badly flirt in between him fixing your shitty air conditioning.”

“Okay, maybe,” Scar allows with a grin, buttoning up his shirt. “But he did introduce himself, and you even shook his hand!”

“Because it’s polite.”

“You’re impossible,” Scar says, fond as can be.

“And you’ve got too many buttons undone on that shirt,” Cub says, smirking. Scar gasps in mock-offence, looking down at his chest. Okay, maybe four buttons being left undone is pushing it. “I’m just saying, Scar. Do you want to look sensual, or do you want to look like a whore?”

“Oh, Cubby,” Scar sighs dramatically. “You should know the answer to that is that I always want to look like a whore.”

“Menace,” Cub remarks, rolling his eyes. Scar giggles. “At least do one more button. He doesn’t need to be getting that much of an eyeful on the first date.”

“Prude,” Scar huffs, rolling his eyes. Still, he reaches for his shirt, thumbing through one more button. He does normally enjoy looking like a whore, but he can admit that maybe it’s a bit much for a first date. Hopefully Etho will be flustered regardless. Scar’s well-aware of the effect that his chest can have on people. “Listen, you can’t blame a guy for wanting to show off the goods, can you?”

“No,” Cub responds. He comes closer, climbing onto the bed to sit behind Scar. He must’ve grabbed a brush from the bathroom when Scar wasn’t paying attention, because it runs through Scar’s hair a few seconds later. “But I’m sure that your precious boytoy cares about more than just your goods by now. I mean, you guys don’t stop texting, do you? And he’s coming over today instead of bailing, and you didn’t try to actually give him a raincheck that you never go through with.”

“Ouch,” Scar says, clutching his chest over his heart. Cub hums, sounding completely unapologetic, the bastard. He continues brushing out Scar’s hair, working at the tangles with more gentleness than Scar ever does. “Right to the heart, Cubby. You make it sound like I have commitment issues!”

“You do,” Cub says dryly. “But Etho is…good for you in that regard. He’s the first person you haven’t repeatedly tried to cancel on leading up to your date. And, like I said, you’re both following through. That has to count for something.”

“Hmm, maybe,” Scar agrees lightly. The brush is put down, discarded in favour of Cub’s fingers as he begins to easily braid Scar’s hair back. A comfortable, easy plait, the perfect kind for flare days.“Etho’s… good. He’s good and nice and⎯ I mean, he’s super pretty too, of course, but that’s not all there is to it. He also doesn’t have strings. It’s not something that I want to put a lot of stock in, I swear, but I see all these people with all these kinds of strings, and after Grian⎯”

Cub’s voice darkens. “I understand. He did a number on you.”

“Oh, come on, Cub,” Scar says with a weak smile, glancing over his shoulder at the other man. “I wasn’t giving him all I could, either. But…yeah, him leaving me for his soulmates⎯ I’m not gonna deny that it messed me up, you know? I don’t like not having a romantic string. I love you and Bdubs, but it bothers me that I don’t have a person like all the stories say.”

“You’re my person,” Cub says, the look in his eyes unreadable.

“I know,” Scar replies, soft. Cub diligently continues to braid his hair. “You’re mine, too. But I want more. I’m greedy. And Etho is safe. He doesn’t have any strings, so that means that…there’s no one else out there who could be better for him than me, or at least no one ordained by the universe. We can explore what we are without obligation.”

“Good,” Cub says with a nod. “If you want more, you deserve to have it. It’s not being greedy, Scar. Just because I don’t want something doesn’t mean that you can’t want it. We’re different people. This is enough for me. It’s not enough for mostly everyone else, and that’s alright.”

“Yeah,” Scar agrees, flashing a smile at his best friend. Cub really is his person, even if that isn’t romantic. He can’t imagine life without him; moreover, he doesn’t want to. Where Cub goes, Scar follows, and where he puts roots down, Cub is right there, already looking into any possible way he can begin to put his own down, too. “I really, really like him, Cub.”

“I can tell,” Cub says, voice lilting teasingly, and just like that, the emotional atmosphere dissipates into thin air. His hands leave Scar’s hair a few seconds later, a comfortable silence having descended on the room. “There you go, your braid is all done. Feel okay?”

“Yeah, thanks, Cubby! It feels great!” Scar exclaims happily, turning around halfway to give his friend a bright beam. Before either of them can continue speaking, there’s the distinct sound of someone knocking from further down the hallway. Scar blinks, eyes widening, and Cub grins. 

“Well, speak of the devil. S’pose we should greet your boytoy now, huh?”

“We?” Scar parrots, raising an eyebrow.

“What, don’t want me to crash your date?” Cub is far too good at pretending to be hurt. Luckily, Scar has a lot of experience with figuring out whether or not he’s being serious. He’s definitely not being serious this time around. Scar rolls his eyes

“You’re such a menace,” He mutters, adjusting his position on the bed to transfer himself over to his chair easier. Cub snorts, not taking offence. “And no, just to be clear, I do not want you to crash my date. Stay far, far away from the kitchen, in fact!”

“Your house isn’t that big, but alright,” Cub says, amused. “I’ll stay right here. I brought a book. Well, I brought my phone, which has a couple of e-books downloaded on it. I’ll be thoroughly occupied, don’t worry. As long as you don’t plan on bringing him back here.”

“Cub,” Scar gasps, scandalised. “And you’re the one who told me not to dress like a whore!”

Cub only winks, clearly far too proud of himself. Scar huffs, wheeling himself out of his bedroom. The back area of the house is fairly easy to navigate; the bathroom is directly across his room, and further down the hall is the kitchen and the door to the back porch. At the front of the hallway, though, is the door that leads to his string-reading room. Before he converted things, the kitchen used to be a sunroom, and his string-reading room was outfitted to be the kitchen and living room, but Scar had fixed up the place years ago. He rolls over to the door at the end of the hallway, taking a deep breath to settle his sudden nerves.

Scar can’t help it, okay?

He really wants to impress Etho.

The fact that his body is aching, protesting with every movement, doesn’t really make the nerves ease. Scar lets out his breath slowly, reaching for the doorknob and twisting it. The door pulls inward, and Scar rolls back slightly on autopilot, using his other arm to push himself back. There, in all his glory, stands Etho, bearing two thermoses of soup.

He’s pretty, but that’s no surprise. That familiar mask is in place, of course, dark as ever. It goes well with the rest of Etho’s outfit, which is unsurprisingly monochromatic. He’s wearing a black tank top, tight across his chest, and gloves that go to his elbows, also in black. His upper arms are bare, revealing those gorgeous tattoos that Scar likes so much. He swears that he could spend half an hour simply staring at all the artwork that Etho has on his body. Honestly, Scar could probably spend half an hour simply staring at Etho. He flushes at the thought, cheeks feeling hot.

Quickly, before he can get too distracted, Scar looks away from Etho’s pretty tattoos. His hair is tied up in a high, slightly messy ponytail, strands pulled loose to frame his face. Silver chains layer around Etho’s neck, a few with little charms but mostly without, and shining diamond studs grace his ears. His pants are high-waisted, cinched with a chunky black belt, and another chain loops from his belt buckle to his pocket. Lastly, a pair of combat boots grace Etho’s feet, giving him at least another inch of height on Scar.

Intimidating, if Scar is honest, especially from where he’s sitting.

Intimidating and hot.

“Etho!” Scar says cheerfully. “Hi!”

“Um, hi,” Etho responds, a bit awkward. “I didn’t know if I was supposed to call or text you before I just, like, walked in, but the front door wasn’t locked, and I’ve been in that area before, so⎯ But then I figured that I should knock, at the very least, once I got to this door.”

“Pssh,” Scar waves a hand in the air, flashing an easy smile. “You’re fine, Etho. Maybe for future reference, you can call or text when you arrive? But I don’t mind if you just come straight back here. It’s not like I really want to make the journey all the way to the front, not when you can just meet me here. Don’t worry, you did good.”

“Yeah?” Etho says, uncertain. Scar nods, entirely confident. The other man’s expression smooths out into something relieved. It’s honestly endearing, how much Etho cares about making a good impression on him.

“What soup did you end up bringing me?” Scar asks, playful.

“I brought two kinds, since I wasn’t sure what you liked. Tomato and chicken noodle. Both aren’t homemade or anything, Gem wouldn’t let me get off any earlier than I already was, even though I’m technically her boss, but⎯” Etho shrugs. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”

“Wait a minute, you tried to take off work even earlier to go home and make me some soup?” Scar asks, both baffled and incredibly fond. Etho blinks slowly at him.

“Yeah?” He responds, as if he doesn’t understand why Scar’s questioning him. “I told you already, I⎯ I like you. I want to make you happy, and I think that homemade soup is better than the stuff from the can.”

“It is,” Scar agrees without hesitation. Etho’s eyes crinkle at the corners in the way that means he’s smiling. “But I like any kind of soup when it’s being brought by such a handsome man. Besides, there will be plenty of opportunities for you to bring me homemade soup in the future, Etho! My immune system is… not good at its job, let’s say that.”

Etho snorts, though the look on his face has softened. “You think there will be opportunities in the future?”

“Of course,” Scar replies, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve got you trapped now, pretty boy. You aren’t escaping my clutches.”

That startles a laugh out of Etho, a proper one. Rich and full, muffled by his mask but no less gorgeous for that fact. Scar feels butterflies erupt in his stomach, and he’s sure that his face must be getting redder by the minute. He can’t help it! It should be a crime for someone to be that pretty. Scar knows that he can sometimes put on ‘rose-coloured glasses’ when he gets a crush on someone, but he’s almost certain that’s not the case with Etho. The man is practically a model! Pretty in a way that seems effortless, made all the more appealing by how supposedly mysterious he acts. The mask definitely adds to it all, though Scar likes Etho’s smile ten times more.

“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad,” Etho says finally, an amused twinkle in his eye. Scar beams, his face almost hurting from how wide his smile has gotten. “Uh, do you want to lead the way to the kitchen? I know you were hurting pretty badly this morning, so I don’t want to take more time up than necessary.”

“Huh? Oh! No, you’re okay, Etho, you don’t have to rush,” Scar assures. “I want your company, and part of that means that you aren’t in a hurry to leave. I can show you where the kitchen is, though⎯ I’m sure you’re just as hungry as I am, after being on your feet all day! Was it terribly busy?”

“Not really,” Etho answers as Scar maneuvers himself around, rolling in the direction of the kitchen. “I mean, I had clients, but there wasn’t any sort of rush. My day was full of already scheduled appointments, since Gem was handling walk-ins. I did a couple of tattoos I think you’d like, though. Have you thought of getting one, Scar?”

Scar’s honestly surprised that the question hasn’t come up before.

Etho is a tattoo artist, after all, and it’s a pretty big part of his life. Still, Scar likes the idea that there’s still questions to be had between the two of them. He rolls over the divider that separates the hallway from the kitchen, going past the kitchen itself to come to a stop near the door that leads to the back porch.

“You can put those over there,” Scar directs, pointing Etho towards the countertop between the sink and fridge. “There should be bowls in that cabinet in the corner. And to answer your question, Etho, no! I haven’t really thought about getting a tattoo before, it never interested me enough. I think they’re super amazin’, of course, but there’s never been anything I liked enough to put on my body permanently.”

“Fair,” Etho says in response, wandering over to where Scar said to grab the bowls from. “Not all tattoos have to have meaning, but I understand why people want them to. Most of mine are just for fun, honestly, with no larger meaning behind them than I felt like it.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmhm,” Etho hums, pulling out the bowls. “Like my pirate one that I showed you that Gem did. Casual, fun. I didn’t have any attachment to caves or pirates before I got it, and now all it does is remind me of Gem herself. Anyway, I’m not saying that you need to get one, but if you ever find anything important that you do want on your body forever⎯ Well, I’m your guy, obviously.”

“Does dating the tattoo artist get me a discount?” Scar wonders, winking when Etho looks over at him. A flush spreads across Etho’s skin, crawling from his ears to his neck. It’s the cutest thing in the world. “And, hey, wait a minute, what tattoos made you think of me?”

“Er, have you heard of blue porcelain tattoos? Oh, do you want tomato or chicken noodle soup?” Etho asks, glancing away from Scar to look at the thermoses.

“Chicken! And no, I haven’t. What are they?”

“Well, do you know, like, fine china? The kind of dishware fancy people tend to have? Or, for Gem, she got some passed down from her grandma. It usually makes its way through a family, but I don’t know, my folks certainly never had it around. I can show you a picture in a sec,” Etho offers, forehead creasing with concentration as he pours soup out into the bowls. Tomato for himself, Scar assumes, and then chicken noodle for him.

“I think I do know what you’re talking about, actually!” Scar vaguely remembers there being a large display cabinet in their dining room growing up, showing off lots of porcelain dishware. The patterns were typically blue, pretty cobalt against pure white. “I didn’t get any of it passed down, but I do remember my family having some before my mom and father split.”

“Yeah, so some people get tattoos that look like that. It’s a specific style, I learned it…a while ago? I don’t actually remember. I don’t really have one type of tattoos that I stick to doing, which helps draw in business from outside of town. But, anyway, they reminded me of you,” Etho says easily, turning to Scar with a bowl of soup in each hand. His eyebrows furrow. “Where are your spoons?”

“Over there in that drawer,” Scar answers, pointing Etho in the right direction. A realisation dawns on him. “Etho, you were thinking of me during your work day? Just, like, unprompted?”

“Yes…?” Etho answers hesitantly, turning around once he’s acquired two spoons for their soup. Scar beams at him, utterly delighted. “I think about you a lot, Scar. I mean, Gem gets after me all the time for how much I talk about you, and that’s just what I end up saying. I’m not really that talkative, not even to her.”

“You like me so much,” Scar says, playful. It’s a comfort, a reassurance, and a wonder to say it all at once. He likes it so much. Etho must be able to tell because despite the repetition, he doesn’t make any move to stop Scar.

“I do,” Etho hums, easy in his confirmation. Scar’s heart skips a beat from inside his chest and habitually, he wraps a finger around his and Cub’s string. Not tugging, simply twisting, a subconscious habit he’s always done. Etho blinks, looking around the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh, shoot. You don’t have a dining table. Where are we eating?”

Scar laughs. “It took you that long to notice?”

“I’m unobservant!” Etho exclaims, flush deepening.

“I can tell,” Scar teases, grinning wildly. “We’re eating outside. I like it, for one, but mostly because it’s just where I happen to have the room to put a table. My back porch isn’t super big, but it does the job. Plus, the bayou looks gorgeous, so I like to appreciate it whenever possible.”

“I get that,” Etho says with a nod, waiting for Scar to open the door and lead the way out onto the porch. He follows once Scar has done so, footsteps gently thumping against the floor. “It’s gorgeous out here. I’d never want to be inside if I could help it. What made you settle out here?”

“Honestly?” Scar replies, parking his wheelchair on the further side of the table. Etho nods, though it was a rhetorical question, as he sits down in the chair next to the cute white table Scar got cheap secondhand. “It was one of the cheapest options. Everything in town was out of my price range. Closer to the hospital, yeah, and if I ever get seriously hurt or face a medical emergency, ambulance bills are gonna kill me, but I bought this house and the property it’s on, so.”

“That’s impressive,” Etho says, sounding genuine despite the creases on his forehead. He passes over Scar’s bowl of chicken noodle soup, steam rising in the warm afternoon air. “I’m still renting in town, both for the shop and the flat above it. I get a pretty good deal, though. My landlord is good about repairs, too, thank God.”

“That’s good!” Scar agrees in exclamation, having heard enough horror stories from Cleo and Joe Hills about landlords who aren’t quick or efficient about repairing things. “Aside from the price, though, I do really like the bayou. My Mom was worried about me moving out here originally, ‘cause of my disability, but she agreed easily enough after learning that Cub would be nearby.”

“You said you guys met in college?” Etho checks, casually unhooking his mask and placing it on the table next to his bowl of soup. Scar’s heart feels like it stutters as he looks at the other man, perpetually awed by just how pretty Etho is. He must be staring for too long, because Etho meets his gaze after a few seconds, raising one eyebrow with a faintly amused expression. “Scar?”

“Sorry, what?” Scar replies, a little embarrassed at being sidetracked. “You’re just⎯ I mean, jeez, Etho, leave some good looks for the rest of us!”

Etho laughs. “I asked if you and Cub had met in college.”

“Sort of,” Scar answers easily. “We met before that, technically, when he harboured me after I was jumping fences, running from the cops after tagging the side of the bank in our hometown. I hid in his shed for an hour or two and we talked, but we didn’t exchange numbers, and basically forgot about each other until we met in our freshman year of college. Roommates and all that.”

“Ohhh,” Etho says, blinking. “Damn. I didn’t think you were punk like that, Scar.”

“Pssh, not really⎯ I just dabbled in casual vandalism.” Scar flashes him a knowing smile, making Etho chuckle again. It might be a record for how many times he’s managed to get the other man to laugh in such quick succession. “What about you, Etho? Get up to any casual vandalism as a youngster?”

“God, you talk like we’re already ancient and withering.”

“We are, we are,” Scar says sagely, nodding. “I hear thirty is the new fifty, these days.”

“Sure,” Etho snorts. “Whatever you say, Scar. Don’t forget to eat your soup.”

“Right, right!” Scar exclaims, reaching for his spoon to take a bite. The soup is as good as he expected; warm, filling, nostalgic in a way that’s inescapable. It’s clearly canned, there’s no doubt about that, but it’s not bad. “Oooh, that’s good. Hey, thanks for bringing it over, even though you didn’t have to. Your company would’ve been enough, trust me. I don’t need to be bribed to spend time with you, Etho.”

“I wanted to,” Etho responds, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear absently. He meets Scar’s gaze head-on, not shying away for once. “I care about you. I wanted you to have something warm to eat, and… I don’t know, we said we would do lunch, so soup seemed the obvious answer. What do you normally eat on days like this?”

“I don’t,” Scar answers truthfully, wincing when Etho frowns. “Look, not like that! It’s not intentional. And Cub usually comes over and mother-hens me into eating something. But for the most part, I don’t make myself food⎯ Too much energy, especially when I struggle dragging myself out of bed.”

“Are you okay now?” Etho asks, brows drawn together. “I meant it when I said that I don’t need to take up too much of your time, Scar. If you need rest, you need rest. I mean, you already cancelled our dinner, so if you need to cut lunch short, it’s okay. I mean it.”

“No, no,” Scar responds hastily. “I’m okay! I mean, aching as always, but otherwise okay. Cub came over this morning and helped me get ready for our date, plus he let me sleep in most of the day after I called you. The rest helped. Besides, I want to spend time with you.”

“Yeah?” Etho hums, questioning. Scar smiles, unable to help it.

“Yeah,” he answers, soft. “I want to spend time with you. And, honestly, right now? I kinda wanna kiss you.”

Etho blinks, eyes widening, and then Scar gets to see that delicious blush spread across his face in real time. It dapples the pale skin of Etho’s cheeks, making his ears go hot and his neck flush slightly, too, peachy-pink instead of the outright redness on his face. Scar’s smile widens automatically. God, he’s so enamoured with this man that it hurts, pulsing inside his ribcage like a sore tooth.

“You want to kiss me?” Etho repeats, as if he’s never heard of such a thing before.

“Only if you want to,” Scar amends, slightly sheepish.

“Of course I want to,” Etho says in a rush, putting his soup on the table. “I didn’t want to pressure you or anything, but, yeah, I’d love to kiss you. You talk about how pretty I am, but I swear you haven’t looked in the mirror lately. You’re just⎯ You’re hot, Scar, I don’t know any other word for it.”

Scar laughs. “Thank you! Did you like the buttons?”

“I’ve been struggling to keep my eyes on your face this whole time,” Etho confesses, humour edged with just enough honesty that Scar believes it. He can’t help but giggle again, setting aside his own bowl of soup. He feels like a teenager, butterflies cartwheeling in his stomach over the thought of kissing Etho.

“Get over here, then,” Scar suggests, playful.

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Etho gets up from his chair, walking the few short steps over to stand in front of Scar’s wheelchair. He bends over slightly, blocking out the sun with his shadow, and Scar looks up at him in fond amusement. “Um, do⎯ do you want me to just go for it, or?”

“So smooth,” Scar teases. Etho flushes crimson.

“I know, it’s embarrassing, Gem tells me all the time how awkward I am⎯”

“I find it cute,” Scar interrupts, quick. “Don’t worry. You can crouch down, or you can sit on my lap. I mean, that’s definitely my preferred option, but it’s up to you. I don’t care as long as I get my Etho kiss.”

“It won’t hurt you?”

“Maybe a little,” Scar admits. “It won’t feel good. But I know my limits. And you won’t stay there indefinitely, anyway.”

“Are you sure?” Etho checks, cautious, concern glimmering in his pretty eye. Scar rolls his eyes, lifting his hands up to squeeze Etho’s face. He bends down appropriately, allowing Scar to do so even though he’s clearly bemused.

“Etho. I am sure. Stop questioning me.”

“Okay,” Etho says, not hesitating, as his gaze flicks over Scar’s face. “I’d like to sit on your lap.”

“Amazin’,” Scar whispers, beaming bright. Etho giggles, the sound slightly nervous, but adorable nonetheless. Scar releases him so he can stand up properly, lifting his leg to awkwardly position himself over Scar’s lap. It takes some work and a few minutes before Etho is in a comfortable position, sitting sideways across Scar’s legs, but they make it work. “You’re even prettier up close.”

It’s true.

Etho’s eyelashes are long, his skin littered with faint, faint freckles that are only visible in the direct sunlight, and his eye is such a mesmerising shade of steel-blue. His lips are bitten raw in some places, red, and covered in something that shines, like chapstick or lipgloss. Cheeks still flushed and pink as he loops his arms around Scar’s neck and leans in.

“So are you,” Etho admits, hushed.

“Aww, thank you.” Scar’s voice lilts, smug, and Etho rolls his eye. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes, please.”

Scar lifts his hands to cradle Etho’s face again, considerably gentler this time. He takes a moment to just observe as Etho’s eye flutters shut. He’s so gorgeous like this, patiently waiting. Scar wants to sit here in this moment for an eternity, to freeze time so he can come back every so often and look his fill again. But his legs are already hurting beneath Etho’s weight despite how warm he is, and Scar wants this to be the most enjoyable experience it can be for both of them.

He leans in, eyes sliding shut as he presses his lips against Etho’s. The kiss is chaste at first, nothing more than pressure and warmth and the stickiness of Etho’s chapstick. Scar pulls him closer and Etho’s grip tightens around his neck and somewhere along the line, his lips part and he can taste artificial cherry. Etho doesn’t hesitate to reciprocate, deepening the kiss, and something in Scar delights at the fact that Etho’s chapstick will surely be smeared across both their mouths after this.

Etho makes this tiny sigh, soft, into Scar’s mouth.

Scar feels⎯

Happy.

“Good?” He hums after they break apart, mostly joking. The look that Etho gives him in response, comfortable and almost hungry, feeds into Scar’s ego immediately. He can’t believe that he was the one who got Etho to look like that. “You’re beautiful.”

“You’re a good kisser,” Etho responds, lips curving into a grin. “What do you say we abandon the soup and make out instead?”

“Hmm… You know, I could get on board with that plan,” Scar says. “But I know you didn’t eat anything today, so we can go back to the soup.”

Etho pouts. “Spoilsport.”

“You love it,” Scar replies, dropping another kiss onto those pursed lips, just because he can.

“Unfortunately, I do.”

⎯end.