Chapter Text
“Can I help you?”
The apprentice was tall, standing in front of him with her brown hair in a neat ponytail and her face set into a stone cold sneer. She’d approached pretty much the second Grian had set foot in the establishment, piercing blue eyes fixated on him as she’d walked out from behind the little desk at the far end of the room.
She leaned in closer, to the point where she sort of towered over him. Grian wasn’t intimidated. He smiled, gaze travelling over all the different displays and mannequins in the room. He put his hands behind his back and cocked his head to the side. “Oh, yes actually! I’m just so into fashion, and I’d love to have a look at all the exquisite clothing Mr. Napier’s made.”
She scowled, disbelief clear on her face. He continued, expression as pleasant as ever. “I’m quite the fan, you see.”
The room was spacious, burgundy wallpaper paired with dark, wooden accents and an extravagant chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The ceiling wasn’t particularly high, so the chandelier wasn’t large, but it painted the picture well enough. There were paintings decorating the walls, and a fireplace surrounded by soft, sumptuous armchairs where he suspected any potential customers were meant to wait while the tailor prepared to welcome them. Grian knew he would not be taking a seat.
“Are you sure you’re in the right place?” The apprentice asked after a moment of silence, gaze visibly scrutinizing as she gave him a once-over. ”We typically don’t see… your kind, here.”
She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, the other hand resting on the hip of her dress. It was made of fine and smooth fabric, perfectly fitted to her form. The pearly white apron she’d paired it with was of the same high-quality textiles — though he imagined she found it to be more of a nuisance than anything else.
He was mildly offended at her comments, actually. He’d truly done his very best to appear presentable for this visit, thank you very much, even taking a bath and brushing out his hair. Definitely not just because he knew he wouldn’t even be given a chance if he hadn’t. Yet still, like a bloodhound, it seemed she’d instantly picked up on the smell of the slums that must’ve just radiated off of him, despite his best efforts. A shame.
Anyways.
“Yes,” Grian smiled, so wide his teeth were showing. “I’m quite certain.”
The apprentice watched him for another moment, sighing, hardly even bothering to hide the way she rolled her eyes. Then, she turned around, haphazardly gesturing for him to follow her.
She walked over to a corner of the room where elegant mannequins displayed a selection of exquisite dress suits. Nearby, a tall, gold-accented mirror reflected the opulent wooden desk behind it. The desk itself was a controlled chaos of artistry: rolls of fine cloth lay half-unfurled, mingled with gleaming scissors, measuring tapes, and a set of pins and needles.
With the apprentice turned away from him, he let the smile on his face fall slightly.
Truth be told, Grian wasn't interested in fashion in the slightest. He had absolutely zero interest in Mr. Napier and his exquisite designs, or whatever it was he’d described them as.
He did, however, know of its importance to the mission. A masquerade ball for the elite was a place of superficiality, where one's attire would be a high point of discussion and scrutiny. The resistance had agreed that if he was to avoid suspicion, he couldn’t just show up in the first thing they found.
So, since it was he who would be wearing the disguise, it was he who had been burdened with the task of obtaining it.
Unfortunately, a suit fitting a noble was anything but cheap.
The apprentice had stopped, now glaring at him with her arms crossed. Her left foot tapped impatiently at the polished wooden floor, creating a grating loop of click, click, clicks in the otherwise silent room. The facade was back on, and Grian took his time looking at all the different pieces on the shelves, almost making a show out of it.
Despite his disinterest, he wasn’t below recognizing good craftsmanship — and this tailor sure as hell didn’t possess it. Technically, the pieces were well-made — but that didn’tt mean much when there was no passion to them. That even he could tell there was something stale and almost manufactured about the roster really spoke of the hands who had made them. Ouch.
Still, he pointed at one of the suits, smile still wide and carefully composed. “Could I see that one, please?”
Begrudgingly, as if the very act was causing her great pain, the apprentice took the piece from the display. She moved toward one of the empty mannequins to begin the process of dressing it, something aggressive in her movements to properly convey her utter discontentment with the situation.
It was a good thing the tailor himself wasn’t here right now. Otherwise, Grian knew he wouldn’t have been given this amount of patience.
Might as well stretch it further.
“Oh, actually,” He said, and she sighed, turning around with the suit still folded neatly in her hands. “Could I see that one instead? Forgive me, I’m just so indecisive.”
He pointed at a different suit, not paying much attention to which one — and she pursed her lips in annoyance, placing the previous set of clothing on the wooden desk nearby.
The story goes like this:
Whilst the cat’s attention is focused elsewhere, the treat is left unattended. The mouse, who had been watching quietly, takes advantage of this, sneaking forward silently to grab it.
And when the cat turns back around, no trace is left behind.
“Ah, sorry!” He calls, one foot already out the door and the satchel at his hip just that much heavier. “Gotta go! Thanks for having me!”
He briefly managed to catch her expression, and had to stifle a laugh. Her face is, for once, not twisted in irritation — instead only bewildered and confused. The mannequin was only half dressed, but the bell rings, the door was shut, and Grian was nowhere to be seen
Oh, to be a fly on the wall.
As he raced down the blocks, giddy and snickering to himself, he paid the glaring looks thrown his way no mind. This wasn’t his side of town, and he relished in it. Shops, signs and faces all turned into a blur as he runs, runs and runs.
This was his favorite part. This was what he lived for.
Once safely tucked away in the safety of a darkened alleyway, he leaned against the brick walls, catching his breath with a wide grin still on his face. This one, however, was genuine. It’s just so hard to feel bad for the classist assholes he tends to target, and this lady was no exception.
Deciding to finally have a proper look at the fruit of his labor, the satchel was opened, and the suit was fished out.
And…
Well.
It’s just a suit. He doesn’t know what he expected, honestly. With its plain, black coloring and silver buttons, it’s rather unimpressive. Certainly not worth the steep price they were selling it for.
Still, he wasn’t particularly worried. Ren (who actually was ’just so into fashion’) had offered to help him put a proper disguise together, not trusting Grian to do so himself. A wise decision, in all honestly, but it also meant that all Grian was doing was providing Ren with a base to work off of.
Even so, he should be allowed to complain.
Grian exhaled, allowing himself another moment to celebrate the successful heist. He didn’t think it could ever get old — the adrenaline rush of using prejudice and the oldest tricks in the book to get what he wanted for free, and the giddy escape that followed. It was like a drug to him. Pearl didn’t get it. Jimmy did, but he couldn’t do it. It didn’t matter. Grian still loved it.
He closed the satchel and looked up, deciding it was time to begin heading home. He’d done his usual round of the city already, and the apprentice would probably have alerted the guards right about now. No reason to risk capture.
As he walked through the alleyways, though, he went over the information he’d gathered that day in his head. It was certainly a delight to be outside again, and the past week, Bluecrest had been bustling. It was enticing, and very much expected a week before the grand masquerade ball.
Yet, it wasn't the vibrant, slightly chaotic energy you’d expect from a city preparing for such an event. Instead, it was quite… bitter. That’s a good word for it.
And Grian supposed that it made sense. Only nobles were invited, and the ball was of course being funded by the state. Money that was supposed to go back into the kingdom wasn’t being used that way again, and it seemed that the people’s patience had finally reached some sort of a breaking point. Grian knew that pretty much only nobles still supported the monarchy, but the level of support for the resistance had still been growing exponentially as of late.
He wasn’t complaining, of course. It was without a doubt a good thing. It’d been decades, and it was about time the people stood up for themselves. The knowledge of that certainly served to fuel his own motivation to drive that dagger straight through the King’s throat as soon as possible.
He’d been leading this resistance for years now, and the ball was only a week away, with their plan finally coming together. Next week, the King would be six feet under, nothing more than a memory of a time long gone.
So.
Why was it that Grian kept wondering?
The King had been crowned at seventeen upon his father's death, whose passing had initially been met with celebration. The old King’s rule had been borderline tyrannical, and there were hopes of things finally changing. But things never did. The new King never ended up lifting a finger for his kingdom.
That was common knowledge — his reign defined by inaction, his name and face unknown to most, confined within the castle walls.
Look closer, though, and you’d see clear mismanagement of funds and pervasive corruption had taken root. It was that realization that had pushed Grian to start the resistance in the first place.
But what he hadn’t considered then — and had since learned — was that whether or not these decisions stemmed directly from the King was actually quite vague. Even the wanted posters for the resistance seemed half-hearted when no real efforts were ever made to capture or stop their movement. Only the distant lure of money, hoping someone would eventually fold — which nobody ever did.
And most recently, Grian had realized that the King probably just didn't actually care.
And wasn’t that a strange prospect? Any other ruler in his shoes would be fighting tooth and nail to crush a rebellion like theirs. This odd passivity, coupled with the recent, unexplained changes in guards and patrol teams...
Well. It made Grian think.
And that was dangerous.
He was only a year older than this King. Almost nothing was known about the ruler, and his direct involvement in the corruption was unproven. But he still held the greatest power in the kingdom, and he was actively choosing to do nothing. There was no use fabricating justifications or seeking sympathy for a man he had never even met. A man who clearly didn't care, and probably never would.
The King was, at best, a political pawn, Grian reminded himself. One death to save millions. By his calculations, that was a net positive.
And so, one foot in front of the other, he kept moving. He was in the slums now, which he could tell by the amount of dirt and broken glass bottles littered over the ground, paired with the faint smell of alcohol and urine.
Ah. Home sweet home, or whatever they say.
Although… Things were weirdly quiet, here. The slums weren't usually filled with commotion the way the city centre was — but something about the silence felt… odd.
He turned left, and immediately spotted someone, causing him to jump back behind the wall.
Upon further inspection, he recognized the stranger not as a threat, but as a little boy. He was covered in dirt and grime, seven years old at most. He was sitting on a blanket by the side of the road, with a little cup next to him and a sign asking for donations or food.
His stomach churned, and Grian cursed himself for forgetting to save something in his satchel for moments like these. On top of that, he'd given all their gold to Pearl, who was currently helping Etho and Doc with something related to the mission that she refused to give him details about.
He sighed. He always tended to see himself in the poor kids on the street — but this one was especially analogous. Asking for donations wasn't a common strategy, but he vaguely recalled doing it once or twice with Pearl and Jimmy — before learning the hard way that the reason nobody did it was that people either didn't have any money to give or simply didn’t want to.
This child, though, being as young as he was. Stars, he hated seeing it. Grian had been young too, the first time. Four years old, probably. Far too little to survive even a day out there, and he suspected this kid wouldn't either. Luckily (or unfortunately, depending on how you see it) he didn't have to be out there for long. At least not the first time.
But this kid didn’t have anybody to take him in. Nobody to help him.
And Grian couldn't help him either. Not today.
He begun walking again, fighting the urge to turn back around and ask this kid to come with him to their shack. He couldn’t do it. They didn’t have the space or the resources to care for him properly.
But soon, he’d be able to. Soon, this would all be fixed.
However — that was when he heard footsteps. Not one pair, but a set of them.
Now, footsteps weren't anything rare, but these ones certainly were. These ones were enough to make him freeze. These ones made him duck back in behind the wall again.
These ones were familiar.
Not even a moment later, two silhouettes rounded the corner at the end of the road — and if the footsteps made him freeze, the silhouettes absolutely paralyzed him.
Polished black shoes clinking against cobblestone, long dark cloaks and robes draped around their forms. Their faces were hidden, and as they neared, Grian could make out the faint symbol on their masks.
He inhaled. Held it. Gloved hands over his mouth to stifle the sound.
They didn't look too different from when he'd last seen them — which would be an odd thing if he wasn't so terrified. Some part of him expected them to break out of their eerily graceful stride and straight up lunge at him.
But they couldn't see him there. So they wouldn't try to take him again.
And they didn't. In fact, they walked right past him.
But no breath of relief ever left his lips, because they'd stopped walking.
And the little boy was still there.
Right.
There.
And they were talking to him.
⋆ ─── ⋆ ༺ 𓆩 ⚔ 𓆪 ༻ ⋆ ─── ⋆
He’s hungry. So hungry. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’d last eaten, but surely it’s been long enough. He can’t imagine he can last much longer.
He’s a little bit scared, too. But only a little bit. He’s a big boy, now. Just… he doesn’t really know where his mother went. He hasn’t seen her in a while. He hopes she’s okay.
It’s going to rain soon. He knows that smell — the sharp, damp kind. There’s an empty market stall by the road, its wooden frame slightly crooked, canvas flapping in the wind. He’s been standing under it for a while now. It’ll keep him dry, but only for a little while. When she comes back, they’ll go home. She’ll give him food if he asks nicely. She always does.
He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t remember ever seeing this place before. The buildings are tall, dark stone with pointy roofs, and the streets are made of cobblestone that hurt his feet to walk on. It reminds him a little of the books she reads to him before bed. Like Nottingham from Robin Hood.
Robin Hood. He’s a real hero. He would take from the rich and give to the poor.
He hopes Robin Hood gives his mother some gold next time. He hates seeing her cry.
He’d asked a man earlier if he’d seen her. The man just frowned, muttered something, and kept walking. Maybe he didn’t hear the question.
Oh. The rain is falling. She is still not back.
Maybe she’s testing him. Seeing if he can wait patiently. He’s patient.
He’s getting tired. He wants to sleep.
There’s a group of strange, cloaked figures walking down the street. They have umbrellas. Maybe they’ve seen his mother.
It’s thundering now. His clothes are wet. He doesn’t like the rain. It makes him feel cold and sticky.
They want to know where his mother is. He thought they would know. Has she gone home without him?
They’re saying it’s okay. He can stay with them until she comes back, in their mansion. They have food there. And a warm bed.
He’s so hungry. And sleepy. He doesn’t want to be patient anymore.
They want to know his name. That’s easy.
”I’m Grian.”
⋆ ─── ⋆ ༺ 𓆩 ⚔ 𓆪 ༻ ⋆ ─── ⋆
Grian wished he wasn’t such a coward, sometimes.
He was locked in place. Cold and still. Frozen.
He couldn’t see the little boy anymore — not really. They were surrounding him, their dark forms shifting like shadows, forming an impenetrable wall. Blocking Grian’s view. Blocking any onlookers path, hiding the child. He knew it was strategic. It always was.
His feet wouldn’t move. He could feel the phantom threads of mycelium coiled around his ankles, tight as garrote wire, cinching down with every passing second. Too tight. They threatened to cut off circulation entirely.
Was it raining? It must’ve been. A damp chill clung to his skin, a thousand icy pinpricks. He hated the rain. Hated it.
He…
He should do something.
It wasn’t the same anymore. Not like it used to be. If he just reached out — if he touched them — they wouldn’t even see it coming. They wouldn’t be able to fight back. He could end it before it started. He could save this boy.
It didn’t have to happen again.
Not anymore.
But the threads held, unyielding, and he stayed where he was.
He was shaking. Just slightly.
Why were they here? Why now? Why were they still doing this?
The questions clanged around inside his skull, loud and relentless, leaving no room for answers — no room for anything.
They hadn’t seen him, right?
Oh. They were already walking back the way they came from. Three silhouettes, one much shorter than the others. A sick wave of nausea rose in Grian's gut.
That didn't just happen, did it?
That— That wasn't—
They were gone, now. He was still there. Alone in the sudden, echoing silence of the alley.
The threads loosened slightly, a slow, agonizing unraveling, and he could feel his heart slowing down, thudding against his ribs like a trapped bird. The fuzzy feeling in his skull dissipated, and the edges of his vision sharpened.
He could think properly again.
He could…
Stars, what was he doing?
Throwing all caution to the wind, he sprinted out of his hiding spot, his desperate momentum toppling one of the bins by the alley's edge with a clatter that rang deafeningly in the quiet street. Buildings and faces turned into a blur. He didn't have time to catalogue it, and he didn't care either. He had to find them. He couldn't let them just get away like that.
The narrow streets gave way to an opening, and he suddenly found himself in the city center again. There were a lot more people here. Men and women in all sorts of dresses and suits — but none in dark, purple robes.
Like someone poured cold water over his head, he blinked, disoriented.
They were gone.
And he...
He’d just let that happen, hadn’t he?
"Fucking hell..." he rasped, the words barely above a whisper. Maybe he hadn’t even uttered them at all.
Grian didn't cry. He didn't. Still, some part of him felt like a child again, small and utterly helpless. Like he’d never even left in the first place. It was unfair how much power they still held over him. He was a grown man. He was the leader of a resistance. He was going to assassinate a King.
Why was just seeing them enough to completely paralyze him? Why couldn't he just get it together for once?
He sighed. The lack of nightmares over the past few weeks had clearly been enough to make him forget. Lulling him into this false sense of security, rendering him utterly useless when it truly mattered.
There was no security. He wasn't safe. Nobody was, and they never would be. Not until that cult had been properly dealt with.
Grian sighed again.
He should go home.
⋆ ─── ⋆ ༺ 𓆩 ⚔ 𓆪 ༻ ⋆ ─── ⋆
He didn’t get a break at home, either.
The minute Grian stepped into the little shack, Pearl and Jimmy fell quiet mid-conversation. They didn’t say anything, but their eyes flicked to him in perfect sync — just for a second — before they both looked away again.
He never wanted them to worry. He hated when they worried. But of course they did. Of course they always would. It was inevitable, given everything they'd been through together.
Still, they were merciful, returning to their conversation and giving him a pass.
At first.
You see, tension has a way of lingering — and Grian felt it wrap around him the moment he sat down in their usual little circle on the floor.
It was during dinner that he finally let himself acknowledge it. The stiffness in the air. The way Pearl's fingers tapped rhythmically against her bowl — a steady, unconscious beat. The way Jimmy kept glancing at him, sharp and fluttery, like a bird unsure whether to bolt or stay perched.
He chose to ignore it. Instead, he focused on forcing down mouthfuls of soup, bland and thick, each swallow dragging against the bile that still clung to the back of his throat. Every sip tasted like metal.
He’d never been so acutely aware of his gloves. The constant pressure on his hands, the cling of fabric against his skin. He was immensely grateful for them, and he wanted to rip them off and throw them into the fire.
The low hum of a conversation he hadn’t been listening to petered out entirely.
Silence.
Great.
And so, Grian gave up on the now-cold soup, pushing the bowl aside. When he looked up, both Pearl and Jimmy were watching him.
He’s never liked being watched.
"Grian? Are you... alright, dude?" Jimmy's voice was hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask. He rarely sounded like that. Usually he’d crack a joke, redirect attention, lighten the mood — because that was what worked best for him.
Unfortunately, not this time.
"Yes," Grian replied easily, shrugging. "Just a bit tired."
"No, you're not," Pearl said flatly, waving her spoon for emphasis. "Tell us what's up, Griba. Don’t lie to us."
"Wrong," Grian smirked, crossing his arms. "Prove I’m lying. You can’t, ’cause I’m not."
"You’re deflecting," Pearl deadpanned.
She didn’t even sound annoyed — just certain. It just made it all worse.
"Maybe you can fool Jimmy with that whole shebang, but you can't fool me."
His sister had always been more direct. Her and Jimmy made a good team in these instances, as they knew exactly when to give him space and when to corner him. Most days, it worked in his favor.
Today, of course, just had to be the outlier.
"Hey!" Jimmy squawked, reaching over to swat at her — but his hand froze mid-air, and his expression dropped when he realized Grian wasn’t laughing. Pearl realized as well, raising an eyebrow.
Grian looked away.
Shit.
Mentally kicking himself, he sighed. "Look, can we just… come back to this later? I wasn’t lying when I said I was tired."
Pearl looked like she'd just been told the sky was fake. She stared at him, arms crossed tightly, mouth set in a skeptical line. It was as if the very idea of not confronting the issue immediately offended her on a molecular level. Maybe it did. In all honesty, Grian couldn’t bring himself to care right now. He just wanted to go to bed.
Jimmy made a face. "I mean, we could, but... I don’t know if we should. You’ve been acting weird, man."
Pearl nodded, and Grian’s scowl deepened. "In what way have I been acting weird?"
"Well, for starters…” Pearl started, raising a finger. "You’ve been distant. Like you’re not even here.”
"Unfocused," Jimmy chimed in, mimicking her gesture with his own finger.
"Right. And you’ve been taking more risks lately, too."
Grian frowned. "That was because I was drunk. We’ve been over this."
"Yeah. Drunk. That’s another thing." She raised a third finger. "You never used to let yourself go that far."
"Well—"
"I’m not done yet," Pearl cut in, holding up a fourth finger. "You came home tonight looking like you’d seen a ghost. You say you’re tired, but you look like you’ve experienced the horrors. That expression isn’t a sign of fatigue. Trust me — I would know."
"You would?" Jimmy asked, side-eyeing her.
Pearl punched him lightly. "I’m tired all the time. Don’t act like that’s news."
"That’s because you stay up all night—"
"Not important!" she declared, then returned her gaze to Grian, expression steely. "Point is, something’s wrong. Don’t try to tell us otherwise. If you don’t talk, I will pry it out of you."
"Oddly threatening," Grian muttered. Then he exhaled, shoulders slumping. ”Stars— Fine, maybe I’ve been a little… worried. Lately."
"Yeah?" Jimmy asked, straightening.
Grian's gaze drifted to the window. It was dark, now. He could make out clusters of stars in the moonlit sky. Space was vast — millions of burning embers floating endlessly, and the Earth just one small rock among them.
He felt impossibly small.
In this tiny alleyway, the shack, the life he and his siblings had painstakingly carved out for themselves — he felt microscopic. What was he, in a world of so many others? What is a smudge on your shoe, when there’s a hundred more on someone else’s?
Nothing.
"I don't like the idea of… you know. Using the spores on a person."
Silence.
Pearl's eyes widened. Jimmy’s mouth formed an ‘O.’ Realization hit like a slap.
Grian offered a sheepish glance between the two. "I know I should’ve said something, but… I didn’t want to worry you. The mission comes first and all that.”
Pearl shuffled closer, pulling him in for a hug. She cautiously avoided direct contact with his hands. It was a familiar dance, one everyone around him performed without a second thought. He didn’t use to think much of it, either.
"You need to stop thinking like that," she said softly. Her arms tightened around him. "You’re allowed to be a person too, you know."
Grian remained still, unable to bring himself to reciprocate.
Somewhere in the room, Tilly whined, and his vision was suddenly filled with fluffy grey hair and a wet lick at his face.
Jimmy snickered, and Grian grimaced, wiping his cheek. "Ew."
"Don't say 'ew' to her! She's trying to comfort you!" Pearl exclaimed, pulling back.
"Well, tell her to find a different way. I don't know where else she's had that snout, and I certainly do not want it on my face. Gonna make me catch something," Grian grumbled, still wiping the dog’s saliva off of his face.
Jimmy was laughing properly now. Pearl sighed, muttering something about Tilly being 'the most clean dog she's ever had' and how he was speaking nonsense – but ultimately, she didn’t argue.
Eventually, Jimmy calmed down, and Pearl leaned back on her hands, meeting his eyes again. ”Look. If you don't want to do it, I'm sure someone else can. They'd understand."
Grian shook his head. "No. I'm doing it. You guys would be at a bigger disadvantage, and there’s no reason to risk that."
"Right," Pearl nodded slowly, something somber in her eyes.
Jimmy hummed. "You'd only have to do it if something went wrong anyway, and it won’t, ’cause we’re experts.”
Experts.
"Yeah," Grian nodded numbly. "You're right."
He already knew that.
⋆ ─── ⋆ ༺ 𓆩 ⚔ 𓆪 ༻ ⋆ ─── ⋆
I t wasn’t relief that hit him this time.
A desert. Seriously? Of all dreamscapes, this time just had to be a desert. An infinite expanse of dull sand.
Where he would’ve usually found comfort in the idea of once again finding himself in one of these shared dreams, there was none. He would’ve preferred a night without them, for once. Even with the nightmares. They were, at the very least, straightforward.
There was a mountain in the distance, with a building that vaguely resembled a sandcastle perched at its peak. That must be where they were meant to talk, then.
It wasn’t a small mountain by any means — in fact, it was remarkably tall. The thought of climbing it felt terribly daunting, and for a moment, he considered just staying at the base. That is, until he spotted a long staircase carved into the hillside, winding steadily toward the summit. So much for that idea.
He was still tired. A dull headache throbbed behind his eyes — strange, since the dreams usually wiped out any lingering pain. But he couldn’t bring himself to dwell on it.
Grian took a deep breath, collected himself, and began the climb.
The stairs were steep, and sand was everywhere. A dry gust of wind passed by, flinging grains into his hair and clothes. It itched.
Thankfully, dream logic meant the climb didn’t leave him winded. Before long, he reached the top.
The so-called sandcastle wasn’t much of a castle at all. It was more a cluster of sandstone towers fused together, each one rising to a different height. Lanterns hung from the edges of its many roofs, swaying gently in the breeze.
He walked up to the door and pushed it open.
A short corridor stretched out before him, leading to a larger room. Off to the right, a smaller room branched off to what looked like a kitchen, judging by the wooden cabinets and the sandstone furnace tucked in the corner. He didn’t linger.
Instead, he continued down the corridor toward the larger room, which turned out to be a sort of living area. A makeshift couch sat facing a fireplace, and a small carpet — likely made from llama wool — was spread across the floor. Against one of the walls leaned a wooden ladder, leading to the second floor.
Most of the rooms on the following floors were empty. There was one that had a single bed in it, but not much else. Eventually though, he found himself standing on the roof of the tallest tower, high above the desert floor.
Up here, the wind was harsher, and sandy winds whipped his face insistently. The sun was setting by the horizon, and Grian could already start to make out tiny speckles of stars in the sky. He stood by the edge of the roof, peering down — and that was when he spotted Scar.
He had clearly just made the ascent up the staircase as well, hand by his forehead to shield his gaze from the sun. He moved around, turning and spinning as if looking for something. Someone.
Scar looked up, finally, and as they made eye contact, his face brightened in that way that never failed to make Grian’s heart skip a beat. Somehow, Grian was surprised to see him. It didn’t make sense. They’d done this dance more times than he could count, at this point. Scar being there whenever Grian closed his eyes was an inevitability more than it was a coincidence.
Scar entered the house, and it didn’t take long before brown hair and bright green eyes joined him on the roof. Arms snaked around him from behind, and Grian went limp in the embrace.
And…
”You’ve been acting distant. Like you’re not even here.”
”Unfocused.”
He stiffened.
What… what is he doing?
When did he become this… soft? Vulnerable? What happened to him?
His heart pounded in his ears. He shook the arms off, breaking the contact, stepping forward to lean over the edge again. Watching the dunes shift in the wind — a landscape constantly in motion, yet never changing. It wasn’t interesting in the slightest.
Scar made a quiet sound of confusion behind him, but didn’t protest. He stepped up beside him instead, standing quietly.
It didn’t break Grian’s heart. He didn’t wish Scar would pull him back into the warmth of that embrace, because then he could pretend none of this was his choice. That this connection wasn’t something he’d invited in.
And yet…
It terrified him, suddenly, how hard he’d let himself fall. He’d fallen for people before. Of course he had. But not like this. Never this fast, never this consuming. Never to the point that he knew — without a doubt — that Scar could kill him right now, and he’d thank him for it.
That wasn’t normal. That couldn’t be normal.
How do you love someone who isn’t real?
Because that’s what this was. A dream. A mirage conjured by longing. A fictive reality born from his own desire for… comfort and companionship.
As if he didn’t already have that. As if his siblings, the resistance, the shack, and even Tilly weren’t enough. As if the real world didn’t already offer him something to hold onto. But no. Here he was. Losing himself to this fake version of life, where he isn’t who he is and has the ability to love and touch and feel without restrictions.
It’s stupid. It’s everything. It’s…
Not real.
It’s not.
Scar still hadn’t said anything. Grian hated it. Hated how he backed off, how he gave him space, how he didn’t push. Because he knew him, now. Knew him far too well.
Jeez. Take the spores away for one second and he’ll lose every ounce of self control. Scar didn’t even know what he was getting himself into. What he’d already gotten into.
A moment passed. Then another.
Grian could feel Scar watching him. Not impatient. Not angry. Just waiting. It made him feel like a live wire, buzzing but empty. He should say something. But he couldn’t.
He was shaking again. Fuck.
Finally, Scar broke the silence. “So… how are you?”
Deep breaths. In. Out. Repeat.
“Good. You?”
A pause.
“You…” another breath, softer this time. “You don’t seem good.”
Ungloved hands tightened around the wooden railing. Teeth grinding, a fragile thread stretching further and further. ”I’m fine.”
“I don’t— Are you sure? You know you can tell me anything…”
“But I can’t!” he snapped. “And I am sure! I’m fine, Scar. Why won’t you just believe that?”
Something broke. A thread pulled too tight. He didn’t look, but he could feel Scar flinch.
“I can tell you’re not okay. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.” A beat. “I’m just worried about you.”
Maybe this was a nightmare. It sure felt like one. Why couldn’t Scar just be angry? Yell at him. Walk away. That would’ve made this so much easier.
“I think you should worry about yourself instead of wasting your energy on me,” he muttered. “I don’t need your pity.”
Each word fell like a stone, heavy and final, cracking something inside him beyond repair. It wasn’t his heart, because his heart wasn’t involved with this man.
A hand landed softly on his shoulder.
He recoiled instantly, as if the touch burned — and made the mistake of looking.
Scar’s expression had crumpled — the light from earlier completely gone. He looked like a kicked puppy. His hand hovered awkwardly in the air, suspended where it had just been.
The last sliver of sunlight caught the edge of his face. He looked golden. Desert-born. He was beautiful. He was everything.
It made him feel ill.
His eyes burned, and his chest hurt in that deep, aching way it wasn’t supposed to.
“It’s not pity,” Scar said quietly. “…I love you, Grian. Please, just let me help you.”
Oh.
Scratch that. This wasn’t a dream. This was hell. His own personal hell. What had he done to deserve this?
Grian didn’t want to kiss the sadness off his face. He didn’t want to fix this, undo what he’d just done.
Because this wasn’t real.
“Just go, Scar. I can’t do this right now.”
He turned away, closing his eyes.
The silence that followed stretched long and thick, pressing down on him like a weight.
Eventually, he heard footsteps — and when he opened his eyes again, Scar was gone.