Chapter Text
Thursday tastes like the horrible dark brew coffee Scar buys and makes, sliding it to Grian with a twinkle in his eye that the blond should’ve clocked as weird. But he doesn’t, and then sips and recoils in confusion. “This isn’t the normal coffee,” he squints at Scar, and the brunet shrugs.
“Just a new coffee.”
But Grian is smarter than that, so he lunges for the box before Scar can hide it, and cries out in horror. “Decaf?!”
Scar sighs, ducking his head. “Look, the Doc said to limit caffeine-”
Grian glares.
They bin the coffee and don’t talk about it again.
Thursday tastes like dumplings and soy sauce Grian and Jimmy bought to share from the market, and ended up squabbling over with their fingers because neither grabbed cutlery from the stall. It ends in tears, as Jimmy’s mother would have said, because Joel steals the final dumpling while they’re too busy rolling in the grass. Grian’s jeans get grass stains all over the knees, and Jimmy gets dirt all over his nose and left cheek, which Grian teases makes him look cute.
They fight again.
“We should take you clothes shopping,” Jimmy suggests, as they examine the large grass stain on Grian’s jeans that aren’t washing off as they wipe at it with a wet blob of paper towel from the public bathroom.
“We should take you back to school,” Grian snaps in response, but it’s fond and affectionate, so Jimmy just snorts. When he stands up, Grian can see a long green mark along his neck, presumably from when he pushed Jimmy down the hill ten minutes ago. “Hold on, lemme- you’ve got something.” He takes a strip of paper towel from the bathroom and turns the tap on, before squeezing out excess water and returning to Jimmy’s side. “Sit. You’re too tall.”
Jimmy scoffs, and rolls his eyes, but sits on the little brick wall surrounding the park area. The shorter blond gently cups his jaw, tilting his head and dabbing at the grass stain. Jimmy opens his mouth to say something, but exhales through his nose and closes his eyes instead.
It’s peaceful.
“I’m serious though, let’s go buy you some clothes,” Jimmy murmurs, still not opening his eyes. Grian hums thoughtfully, staring for a second at the green mark on the wet paper. He thinks for a moment, before sighing and throwing the scrunched up paper at the bin. It floats to the ground a metre before the bin. He huffs, and moves back to scoop up the paper and drop it into the bin. “Yeah? A bunch of the others would love to come, I bet you.”
Grian exhales slowly through his nose. “Yeah, I guess.” He scrunches up his nose, moving back to where Jimmy’s sat. Leaning forward, he presses his forehead to Jimmy’s shoulder, sinking into the action like melted butter in a cup, and closes his eyes for a moment.
Thursday smells like Jimmy.
Because Jimmy smells of sandalwood and shea butter, creamy and sweet, earthy and warm. It’s soft and lulling, and it’s familiar. It’s a scent that has made Grian turn his head in shops and streets when it hits him, a scent that he’s only ever associated with one person because of it. The scent belongs to Jimmy, from Grian’s perspective, at least. In his heart.
“So? What do you say?” Jimmy murmurs, and Grian yawns. The taller has wrapped one arm around his waist, and the other arm over his shoulders, cradling the back of Grian’s head and weaving his fingers through his hair in a manner that conveys his hidden desperation. The silent need to be as close as possible and then impossibly closer. The kind of ache that isn’t easily satiated and feels like dying. Grian wants to drown in sandalwood and shea butter forever, in big chocolate doe eyes. In curls of vanilla sunshine. He wants to know what it’s like to never let go of Jimmy. “Grian?”
He hums. “Sounds good,” he murmurs, and realises with a heavy reluctance that he’s going to have to pull back. He does, and then Jimmy runs a hand over the top of his hair, ruffling the wisps and waves. He tugs at a loose strand with a smile. “You wanna tell the others?”
Jimmy scoffs. “Yeah, yeah. Ten bucks says Joel’s gotten poffertjes.”
“Gods, I could go for some poffertjes,” Grian mumbles, stomach suddenly feeling empty. “And I’m not taking that bet, because he has, and I’m too broke to lose even a cent.”
The other grins, standing up and running a hand through his hair. “Alright, let’s go wrangle some food out of him and see if anyone wants to go on a shopping trip.”
Grian nods, and they race their way to the others.
As predicted, Joel’s holding a cardboard tray of poffertjes, nutella and ice cream coating them, and iced sugar all over his face. He’s grinning, until he notices the two blonds, and then sighs defeatedly. “Babe, please tell-”
Lizzie shakes her head with a laugh, pulling a cardboard tray of fresh, untouched mini pancakes from behind her back. She smiles knowingly. “Had a feeling you guys would want some.”
Grian’s face splits with a grin that aches in every inch of his jaw and cheeks. “Lizzie, you’re the literal best,” he tells her as he uses the tiny Dutch flag on a toothpick to eat one of the desserts. Jimmy beams ear to ear, and kisses Lizzie’s hairline. Joel flails and whines like a toddler.
“We’re going to take G to get some new clothes,” Jimmy explains to the group, and Grian sees Scar nodding in agreement out of the corner of his eye. He gives him a smile. “Does anyone else want to come?”
A beat passes, before Pearl nods.
“Yeah,” she grins. “I’ll come.”
Joel nods too - despite the fact Jimmy is currently eating off his plate despite having some to share with Grian - and Martyn raises a hand.
A ripple of shock runs through the group, but everyone tries to hide it.
Grian’s stomach twists.
His eyes meet Martyn’s, eyes of sky and nordic blue. Grian remembers one night, before everything, when he was tipsy and stumbling and Martyn was with him. He remembers telling Martyn how beautiful his eyes were, like the sight of fresh ocean and the perfect blue sky. The kind of blue eyes poets dream and write about, cornflower and electric blues, caribbean and baby blues. All mixed together in a beautiful dance in his irises. True blue eyes, he’d called them.
They find his eyes and instantly glass over.
Each and every time Grian has made eye contact with Martyn since they’ve been here, the other’s eyes gloss over with unshed tears. Like pouring rains and seawater spray, his eyes blurred by a ring of clear salt. Every time, Grian turns away quickly, for fear that the other may cry if they hold their gaze too long.
This time, he waits.
Martyn bites his lip, and tears through the connection quickly, but not before a single pearly tear rolls down his face. He brushes it away with quick urgency, and Grian’s heart aches at the sight.
The others watch on in curious confusion.
Sky irises meet his again.
Martyn’s head tilts, as though asking a question, but Grian no longer knows how to read his body and mind.
“Anyone else wanna come?” He asks, instead of prying into his and Martyn’s fragile bond. He doesn’t break their connected gaze.
Grian doesn’t blame Martyn for hating him.
It is as simple as that.
“Let’s go,” Jimmy suggests, and it is his gentle and tethering hand on Grian’s shoulder that breaks their locked eyes, and Grian turns to him. The taller smiles, in the way that suggests he is merely a peacekeeper, and glances to Martyn. Grian doesn’t follow the line the chocolate eyes draw, but he watches his face for a reaction instead. His brow softens, and smile drops a little, cheeks loosening.
Grian hates that look on Jimmy’s face.
He wants him to smile again.
“G,” a voice murmurs, and Grian turns to Scar. The brunet smiles at him, and who is he not to return a gift? “Where do you want me?”
Grian smiles wider, and leans forward to bump his head to Scar’s shoulder affectionately. Scar simply asks if Grian needs him, and nothing more. He thinks for a moment.
Scar is anchoring, in a sense, and Grian doesn’t want to steer a storm without an anchor.
But he knows that he must one day, and the storm isn’t too bad today.
“I’m all good,” he tells him, quietly, and wraps his arms around Scar’s middle. He doesn’t need to, there’s no real reason to, but Scar understands whatever Grian is thinking and holds him in return. The blond sighs softly, closing his eyes for a moment, revelling in a world where nothing can touch or reach him, as he is safe in a bubble created and protected by Scar. In a world where he needs only one thing and one thing only, and has that no matter what.
“It’s okay, Grian, you’re secrets safe with me,” the phantom of yesterday, of Lizzie’s voice, teases him and sends a spark of embarrassment through his chest, from his stomach and upwards. His face scrunches up, and he resists the urge to bury the expression in Scar’s shoulder, instead biting the inside of his cheek and hoping the rosy complexion will fade on its own.
Curse Lizzie.
Curse Lizzie and his stupid brain’s horrible timing to remember conversations.
“Are you gonna go home, stick with Mumbo, or-” Grian asks, forcing his mind onto something other than… that. Scar’s nose scrunches up like a folded blanket, and his eyes crinkle like fresh summer leaves, thought etched onto every fibre of his face and features.
“I’ll probably stick with Mumbo,” he nods thoughtfully. “Don’t want to go home yet.”
Grian hates that he hears the undertone and underlying meaning of that phrase.
‘I don’t want to go back to an empty home.’
The blond shakes it off like rain off a tree, dismissing it as wishful thinking.
It’s easy to pretend there is another meaning to things someone says, fueled by hope and desperation. He imagines he interprets what Scar says differently, simply because it is nice to be wanted and the brunet has been a very good friend to him. Simply because it is what he’d be thinking if Scar had asked him the question instead. But Scar isn’t him, and he doesn’t share the same views and hopes as Grian.
Instead, Grian nods.
“Alright then,” he smiles, but it’s too wide and too thin, and he knows Scar sees it from the tiny dip in his brow. “Tim! Let’s go!”
He turns quickly, stepping to Jimmy’s side with a speed that he almost stumbles with, bumping his shoulder to the other’s. The taller gives him a curious, querying look, but nods and waves to the others to follow.
The five of them - Grian, Jimmy, Pearl, Joel and Martyn - make their way from the market area to the shops with an embarrassing amount of wrong turns and Maps app checking. He walks with Jimmy for the first bit, but then talks to Pearl and Joel when Martyn falls back to talk to the taller blond. It’s not really intentional, but Grian realises too late how it looks.
They go through a series of different shops, and Grian slowly starts to build up the clothing in the cheap bag he buys from the first store.
He purchases an old, dark grey Arctic Monkeys t-shirt from a thrift store, that’s clearly been well loved for many years, and a pair of dark grey jeans too. Then he buys yet another red sweater - which Joel mocks - but can’t help it because it is insanely soft. Another couple of plain t-shirts - a beige and a burgundy one - and a red flannel.
He’s looking at a red corduroy jacket with white fluff on the inside when Martyn approaches.
“Didn’t realise that was your style,” he tells him, a smile on his face. But Grian can feel how awkward it is, and see the desperation for forgiveness on Martyn’s face.
He smiles, softly. “Yeah, uh- I needed warm clothes for stuff with… them. So I guess I got used to corduroy and fluffy or thick jackets.” He hums thoughtfully for a moment, examining the tag on the jacket.
“Look, G,” Martyn sighs softly, and the shorter turns to him. For a moment, Martyn simply avoids his gaze. He ducks his head and fiddles with his fingers, before lifting his gaze. “I- I’m sorry. Look- I don’t know what you’ve been told about, uh- after you left. And a lot of it- it’s not my place to say most of it.” Grian feels his stomach twist and plummet, like a boat thrown by the waves and capsized. “But- I guess I needed someone to blame, to be angry at. And I chose you. And that was wrong.”
Grian waits a moment, before smiling softly.
He doesn’t care that Martyn was angry.
Doesn’t care that Martyn probably spent years seething over every mention of him.
He cares that now, when he has Martyn again, that they’re friends.
“It’s okay, Martyn,” he breathes, and to prove it he opens his arms. There’s a second, and then the other folds into his arms, sky irises vanishing beneath eyelids as corn blond hair tucks beneath Grian’s chin. “It’s okay.”
“Why aren’t you angry?” Martyn hiccups. And he isn’t crying, but his soul and voice are. “Why aren’t you mad at me?”
Grian hums, breathing in the scent of Martyn. Cedarwood lingers on the strands of his hair and the skin of his collarbone, a cologne he’s used for as long as Grian can remember. It’s not too strong, but not too subtle, woody and spicy like it should be. At one point, years ago, Martyn used a citrus cologne that made Grian feel nauseous, and he never used it again.
He sees memories dancing behind his eyelids.
Of a bonfire, before he left, when they were eighteen. Martyn by his side, laughing as the wind nipped their skin and the fire seeped through their bones. The push and pull of folktune, settling beneath his skin and melting into his brain, enwrapping them in the festival. The unyielding tender clasp of Martyn’s fingers wrapping around his hands, guiding him into a dance that he would never have partaken in if not for the taste of whiskey remnants still on his tongue. The scent of cedarwood clinging to his clothes as they moved.
Grian had loved and cherished Martyn in festivals and fires, in whiskey and mulled wine. In old folk dances and tunes, in funerals and weddings. In night and light, in day and dawn. They were always cedarwood and vanilla, nutmeg and cinnamon. Always sapphire and onyx. Always the sky at day and the sky at night. Grian and Martyn, two sides of a coin.
Grian was many sides to many coins.
As was Martyn.
But that didn’t mean they still weren’t their own coin conjoined.
So how could he be angry?
“Because I’m not,” Grian reasons, and he realises with a forlorn solemnity, that sandalwood and shea butter linger too on Martyn’s shirt. He’s not upset, nor angry. But it is a reminder that was probably necessary. He is merely prompted to recall and realise how life now is. What has become the new status quo since his departure. “I have no reason to be angry with you, Martyn.”
“You have every reason to be,” the other insists, pulling back as though to gather himself. Martyn rubs at his tears with the back of his hand.
Grian shakes his head. “Are we friends now?”
Martyn nods slowly. “Of course.”
“Then why should I hate you for something that is now gone?” Grian inquires, and the other hesitates. A moment passes, and Martyn sighs.
“Thank you,” Martyn breathes, and the corners of his mouth turn up. He waits, as the grin on his face grows, and then roughly hugs Grian for a moment before lamenting and pulling away. “Now. Are you going to get this jacket?”
He snorts out a laugh.
“Suppose so.”
They continue through shops again, and Grian finds himself talking more with the others again, as though they had been waiting for him and Martyn to converse before continuing. The idea doesn’t bother him at all, and really, it’s rather sweet, in fact.
Pearl buys a red patterned dog bandana that she finds in one store at the counter, and Grian grins when she tells him that Tilly will love it. Jimmy buys a new baby blue jumper that reminds Grian of something the taller used to wear, when they were younger, that got an oil stain on it from a bicycle chain.
“You should try this on,” Jimmy tells him, holding out a camel brown button up shirt. Grian squints at it thoughtfully - it’s a nice shirt, a formal one for sure, and he doesn’t own any formal shirts right now. But- does he really need one?
“Mumbo’s got plenty of formal shirts,” he reminds Jimmy, tilting his head and relaxing his eyes. The taller shakes his head and scoffs.
“Mumbo’s shirts are mostly white, they don’t suit you as well, and they’re too big,” he reasons, and shoves the hanger with the shirt attached into Grian’s chest. “Go try it on.”
He snickers. “Seriously, Tim?”
“Please…?” Jimmy pleads, widening his eyes to a state that he knows Grian can never resist. It’s somewhere between puppy eyes and baby deer eyes, and combined with the natural doe like nature of his eyes and his deep, milky chocolate irises, it’s irresistible. Grian hates it, but loves Jimmy all the same.
“Fine,” he huffs, taking the shirt by the hanger. He slips into the change room, and stares at himself in the mirror for a second, noting the way the bags under his eyes have faded, and the healthy fat growing on his face again. He smiles, once, for a second, and then takes off his sweater and shirt.
The button up is nice, that’s true, and the colour does suit him. He’s not quite sure how Jimmy knew it would, but he’s always been sort of like that. And when he walks out of the change room and the taller turns around at the sound of the curtain, Jimmy grins ear to ear.
“I’m buying that for you,” he nods, ducking his head to look at Grian from a variety of angles. “Yep. I’m buying that.”
“It’s not that nice, Tim,” he rolls his eyes, but can’t stop the rose pink that he knows now adorns his face. “You don’t have to. Seriously.”
“Nope, buying it,” Jimmy responds. He wiggles his finger in a circle. “Spin for me.”
Grian scoffs, but does so with a reluctance that is more fake than anything else. He hears a mocking wolf whistle as Joel saunters over - wearing a leather jacket he’s clearly trying on, as the tag hangs off the back - and quirks a brow. “Lookin’ good, G.”
He rolls his eyes, and slips back into the changeroom.
Jimmy buys the shirt for him, only because he managed to swoop in with his card whilst Grian was still counting his cash. They move on from there, store to store, as a group. At one point Grian notices a starling lack of a certain Joel, but when he tells the others, they brush it off as nothing. “Think he was going to check out another store,” Pearl tells him.
Grian’s stomach disagrees.
“What about this one?” Martyn shows him, and it’s a simple brown shirt that looks like Jimmy’s eyes. Grian looks at it thoughtfully, rubbing the material between finger and thumb.
He hums. “It’s nice. I like it. Size, though, is-”
Martyn nods. “Bit odd. Go try it on.”
So Grian does, because he genuinely likes the t-shirt and he’s finally relaxed enough to actually enjoy shopping. Clothes shopping hasn’t felt fun in years, because with them, it was about finding purple stuff or things that looked weird and culty. It was stressful, and limiting, and upsetting.
What’s worse is that it’s clearly been a while, because he instinctively looked at a purple shawl before. Which isn’t weird, but what bothered him was the way he immediately started thinking about if it would be approved. If it was acceptable. If it was long and big enough to hide his physique and ribs. If it was cultish enough that he would fit in, and look like one of them so he wouldn’t get singled out.
He tries on the shirt, and takes a quick look in the mirror before returning to Martyn for his approval.
“Is that-” Pearl breathes, and she lets out a croakish, horrified sound. Grian’s brow furrows, and he turns to her in confusion. Does the shirt look that bad? “Grian- oh my Gods-”
“What?” He replies, looking down at himself. He pulls at the shirt, examining it. Is it the shirt or him? Maybe it’s too tight, and is displaying his ribs. Surely not, though, he thought it fit well! So maybe there’s a stain or mark on the shirt. Or even a hole. But Pearl’s reaction feels like it’s more than that. Like something’s wrong.
Grian realises when her hand rests on his left deltoid muscle.
He bristles.
“Oh-” he manages, and he stumbles back.
He whirls.
The mirror of the change room reflects him, and what Pearl had seen.
It blinks back.
The eye, inked onto his skin and arm. The area around it is red and raw from him scrubbing aggressively at it in every shower. He’s been so careful about it. So careful about the length of the sleeves he wears, so careful that Scar hadn’t seen. To make sure no one saw.
The tattoo stares at him in the reflection.
“So- does like- everyone have one?” Xelqua asked, tilting his head as Rasifu nodded. The Elder pushed up his sleeve to reveal a large tattoo of an eye on his arm, surrounded by crystals and smaller eyes, ivies and vines. “I only need the one eye though, right?”
Rasifu nodded. “Yeah, just the one. You can get more if you like, but you need only one.”
“And-” he exhaled slowly. “What happens if I don’t get it. If I don’t want it?”
The elder turned to him, and his eyes narrowed. Xelqua gulped. “Do it willingly, young one. The alternative is not one you should wait for.”
Grian shudders, staring at the eye as it stares back.
“You’ve-” Pearl breathes, stepping to his side. She shuffles in front of him, forcing him to break eye contact with the staring ink. “Grian?”
He turns to her slowly.
“One of their things?”
He nods.
She hugs him, tight and warm.
Pearl smells of Pearl. Of fresh water and running streams, of soft flowers and floral scents. There’s no single scent for Pearl, and she hasn’t kept the same cologne or shampoo all the time he’s known her. But he knows what she should smell like. Like bubbling brooks and blossoms, sweet, soft, and fresh.
Like the taste of clean, cold water on a hot summer’s day.
“It’s okay, Grian,” she murmurs, and she places her hand over the eye, rubbing her thumb back and forth over his skin. “It’s okay.”
“It blinks,” he breathes, aware he must sound and look crazed. His breathing is rushed and fast, his heart beating faster and faster with every passing second. “It watches me.”
Pearl flinches at that word.
He changes out of the t-shirt.
When Martyn returns and asks how it looked, he smiles and says it was nice, but would definitely look better with a layer underneath. A long sleeve. He nods and agrees without thinking or reading into it.
Pearl kisses the crown of his head.
Joel reappears when they leave the shop, holding something behind his back and definitely not hiding the huge grin on his face. Grian squints at him in confusion, skepticism and befuddlement swirling in his stomach. “Watcha got there, Joel?” He asks him, smirking.
He’s expecting a joke in return, but he doesn’t get one.
“Look, Grian,” Joel begins, and somehow still grins through the conversation, despite talking. It’s honestly a talent. “We all agreed on something last night. And so we all chipped in a bit of money - us, Scar, Mumbo of course, some of your weird friends from the Crab or whatever-”
“The Hermit,” Grian corrects.
“Yeah, whatever,” Joel continues, shrugging. “Anyway, we got you a gift.”
He reveals the item.
Grian’s jaw quite literally, drops.
A white box is held carefully in Joel’s hands, a phone on the cover. Grian gapes, unable to comprehend his emotions as he gently takes the box in hand. “You’re joking, right?”
Joel snickers, and shakes his head. “Open it.”
And he does.
A gleaming phone screen stares back.
Grian blinks.
Then nearly drops the phone, in favour for lunging and wrapping his entire body, legs and arms, around Joel. He clutches him like a lifeline, and presses a kiss to his forehead, then his cheekbone, then his nose. Joel squirms and makes a bunch of ‘ew’ sounds, but relaxes under the other’s hold after a moment. He becomes victim to Grian’s assault of peppering his face with lips and affection.
“Oi, we all chipped in-” Jimmy scoffs, and Grian spins.
“You want me to kiss you, Timmy?” He grins, somewhere between a smirk and a smile but bigger and better. The taller’s eyes widen comically, and he raises his hands, stumbling back.
“Nuh- I’m oka-” but he doesn’t get to finish.
Grian kisses his nose quickly, then bumps their foreheads and returns to hugging Joel. He cradles the other’s face, thumbs pushing into his cheeks and pushing the skin up. He beams, squashing Joel’s face between his palms more. “I love you.”
“I’m married,” the other deadpans. But he grins after a beat. “I take it you like the phone?”
Grian responds by pushing an unnecessarily sloppy and wet kiss to his hairline that makes Joel giggle and squirm.
Thursday sounds like laughter and love. Rich and ongoing, ever-flowing and unebbing. It’s ceaseless and careless, warm and wriggly beneath touch. It sounds like Joel’s giggling and Lizzie’s laugh, like Jimmy’s loving complaints and BigB’s mysterious jokes. It sounds like loud love. Like cherishing every moment and every heartbeat, like breathing every breath as though they are limited.
As though they will never feel this way again.
And maybe they never will.
ᯓ ✈︎
Friday tastes like BigB’s cookies, which Grian eats until he feels sick. The recipe has definitely changed quite a bit over the years, but it’s amazing. These ones are a simple chocolate chip, with salt on top too. They look better than half the stuff that’s ever been on the Great British Bake Off, and Grian tells BigB so. They collectively spend a few minutes talking to him about entering more competitions.
Friday smells like freshly cut grass and dewy mornings. They sit in the park for hours and hours, eating BigB’s desserts and all the food others brought. Grian and Scar have the brilliant idea to bring the little camping stove that’s otherwise been buried in the basement, and a kettle, and provide the tea that fuels them for hours. Their idea receives a lot of thankful sighs.
Friday sounds like laughter and good, deep conversations. It sounds like Ren playing guitar when he shows up for an hour before his shift, and Grian grins ear to ear when he manages to successfully introduce him to Martyn. As predicted, they hit it off instantly.
“I knew camping would teach you something,” Mumbo tells Grian, nudging him playfully. He winks at the camping stove and the blond snorts.
“Trust me,” he grins. “You taught me a lot then how to use the camping stove for tea.”
The sentence is heavily layered, coated in memories of his Evolutions. Grian knows all too well how to survive in the wild now, and most of what had kept him alive out there for the first time, was what Mumbo had taught him. From the actual camping trips themselves, to what Mumbo advised, to when he ranted about books he was reading. Everything Mumbo told him and did with him about camping, kept him alive.
Mumbo’s smile falters a little, and his brow relaxes in a saddening manner. His eyes gleam with thoughts that Grian tries not to interpret. He bumps their shoulders again. “You kept me alive, Mumbo. That’s a good thing.” This seems to assuage Mumbo, as his face softens, and he leans into Grian. And then sinks to lay on the picnic rug, and lays his head on the other’s thigh.
Scar returns to his side, collapsing onto the rug in a dramatic nature that makes his two companions turn and snicker. He smirks, and pushes Grian until he lies back down, and the three of them stare up at the sky.
“What are we doing?” Mumbo asks, squinting up at the blue above.
“Cloud watching,” Scar responds.
Grian sits up, narrowing his eyes. “There are no clouds, Scar.”
The brunet scoffs. “That’s because you’re not believing there are, G. Lie back down and wait. They don’t like impatience.”
The blond doesn't even get to lie back down, because his face is then attacked by a violent spray of water as Joel cackles. He squirms. “WHAT THE F- JOEL!” Grian throws this nearest thing - which happens to be Mumbo’s shoe - at Joel’s head, and the other ducks and squeals. “WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GET A WATER GUN?!”
He points at Scar.
Grian turns.
The brunet blinks slowly.
“Look, I-” he begins, sitting up and raising his hands. The grin on his face grows with barely contained laughter and amusement.
Grian tackles him.
ᯓ ✈︎
On Saturday they have a day in, mostly because Grian’s exhausted and doesn’t come out of his room until 1pm. In his defence- it had been a very long few previous days. Scar brings him coffee in the morning - real coffee, not stupid decaf - and a bowl of cereal for brunch, but he doesn’t leave the room until hours afterwards. He takes a cold shower, letting the ice cold temperature soothe the sleep from his bones.
The apartment smells faintly of toasted bread and a subtly floral scented cleaning product Scar uses. There’s a low hum from the kettle, and through the half-open blinds the morning sunlight hits the wall in thin gold stripes. Scar moves quietly, like he’s afraid to break something fragile, but then again, he always dances around his kitchen.
“Afternoon, sleeping beauty,” Scar teases when he slips out of the bathroom, yawning. The brunet’s eyes scan his figure thoughtfully. “From your shopping trip?”
Grian squints for a second, before muttering an ‘oh’ as he realises. He’s wearing the thrifted Arctic Monkeys shirt and the thrifted dark grey jeans. He tilts his head, and raises his gaze, searching the emerald irises before him. “Do you like them?”
Scar scoffs, and for a moment Grian’s heart plummets, but then Scar grins widely. “Course I do, G. You look…” he trails off for a moment, before his face changes. The smile is less wide, less intense, but it’s different. It’s… beautiful. Warm and unique, one Grian hasn’t seen yet. Overwhelmingly fond. He feels it, a warm flush creeping up his neck. It’s ridiculous, he thinks. It’s just a compliment. But it lands in a place that’s been empty too long. “Really good, G. Like yourself.”
Grian flushes, red dusting over his skin and decorating his face, in a way that he isn’t quite used to again. He smiles, and ducks his head a little, before shuffling into the kitchen. Scar’s hand glides over his shoulder on the way past, affectionate and familiar, but it makes Grian’s stomach churn like it’s never before. It swims in his stomach, airy and churning, but it’s not entirely unpleasant. Just… unfamiliar, and unusual.
They have tea and spend a quiet hour just relaxing. They barely talk, but they dance around and with each other, lingering touches and gazes. It’s not at all unusual for them, but today, it feels different to Grian. As though he’s been missing something.
Scar hums when he does the dishes, and Grian watches from the couch, tucked under a blanket with a strange contentedness to simply exist in the same space as Scar for a while. Every now and then, Scar will say something small, a joke or a comment, and every time Grian’s chest loosens just a little more.
He doesn’t notice when the hours slip by. The house smells of coffee and rain through the window, and Scar’s laugh keeps drifting over from the kitchen. Every so often Grian catches himself smiling, for no reason at all. By the time Mumbo’s knocking on their door to ask them to join him and the others out for an early dinner, Grian hasn’t noticed the day has gone by.
The smile doesn’t leave his face still.
ᯓ ✈︎
The peak daylight hours of Sunday, the group spend outside. They wander the streets aimlessly, talking to each other on and off, the sun warming their backs and napes. They stop for coffee when Scar has to go into the Hermit for a shift, and then continue to walk through the streets. Laughter comes at the small things, at pigeons and Jimmy stumbling over pavements. It’s easy, in that way.
Lunch is at a little cafe with chipped mugs, mismatched chairs, and good coffee. They talk about everything and nothing all at once. Random tangents, childhood stories, jokes too dumb and ‘you had to be there’ to repeat, but destined to laugh over in the future. Jimmy bumps Grian’s arm whilst explaining something with wide gestures, and Grian nearly spills his tea. They bicker like little kids.
They spend the afternoon at Scar’s house. Board games and cards from a variety of mismatched decks litter the coffee table, dice all tumbled over the floor. A line of knocked over dominoes trails from the kitchen to the living room, and Scott spends five minutes on his knees on the carpet when he spills a bag of crisps accidentally.
They make playlists and the living room hums with half-sung songs, lyrics forgotten and made up or remembered like the lines on their palms.
When the sun sinks, they start a movie marathon - the topic chosen by Scar, as they all deem fair as they’re invading his house for their chaos. The scent of microwaved, buttery popcorn hangs warm and nostalgic in the air, and the ice cream melts too fast.
Jimmy ends up sprawled over Joel and Scott like a living blanket, which is hilarious to witness. Scar sinks into Grian’s frame for the first few hours, the weight grounding. They switch after a bit, so Grian lays against Scar, cheek pressed to his hoodie. Fingertips run down his arm softly, and his shoulders relax, the actions a soothing lull, and for half of Return of the Jedi, Grian sleeps like a baby.
ᯓ ✈︎
The week passes before Grian even realises.
Monday they spend at a national park, in amongst the trees. They walk until their feet hurt, and the air is crisp and beautiful. It tastes and reminds him of hiking with Mumbo, who lingers by his side like he’s thinking the very same thing. He lets the memories of the Evolutions fade into the background.
Tuesday they visit the museum, and get reprimanded by staff for giggling like children. That night, Grian walks to the hotel, and watches Night at the Museum with Jimmy and Lizzie in their room, until Gem and Joel come in halfway through. They don’t disrupt, however, and Gem curls up and falls asleep with her limbs entangled with Grian’s and her head on his chest, Joel doing practically the same but with much less grace over Lizzie. Jimmy runs his fingers through Grian’s hair until he falls asleep too.
Wednesday they watch the sunrise and then spend most of the day yawning because they didn’t go to sleep any earlier than usual, leaving them all exhausted. They have lunch as a group, and then return to their hotel. Grian spends the rest of the day moving between rooms. He takes a nap in BigB and Pearl’s, plays a series of card games that he wins most of against Joel - Joel pouts like he’s six years old - makes bracelets with Scott - Scott makes them, he watches - and ends up sleeping for four hours in Jimmy’s bed unintentionally.
Thursday they go for a nice breakfast and then explore some more shops again. They linger in a huge bookstore for well over an hour, which Joel deems ‘concerning’, but quickly changes his mind when Pearl glares at him. The visitors buy souvenirs and things to remember, then buy afternoon tea from a bakery and eat it by the river.
Friday they talk.
They spend Friday chilling for the earlier parts, roaming and lazily exploring. The rest they spend cramped in one hotel room, talking about what happened and grief. It’s a painful conversation to have, but Grian knows it had to happen sooner or later, so he’s at least grateful it’s in person and not over a phone call.
And then it’s Saturday again, and he wakes up at 5am to Mumbo’s phone alarm on his bedside table. It’s loud, and the ringing sounds like tinnitus in his ears. He sits up sluggishly, glaring at the faint light from the phone like it might shut up and turn off if he just keeps glaring daggers at it.
He rolls over in bed - throwing his arm over Mumbo’s face with zero care - and pulls himself to sprawl over the other, reaching for the phone. He grunts. “Why are we up at a time like this?” He asks the other, groaning as he rubs at his eye.
“You’re impossible,” Mumbo mutters, tugging gently at Grian’s arm. But his lips brush Grian’s shoulder in a lazy kiss before he lets go, and Grian can’t help but melt against him a little more. “Because the others are flying out today.” Mumbo yawns, slowly sitting up in bed. He ruffles Grian’s hair fondly.
“Oh,” the blond breathes. Yeah. They’re going home today.
His chest aches like he’s been punched.
They shuffle out of the bed slowly, with tangling limbs and affectionate kisses on foreheads and shoulders. Grian sinks into the bed more and more every time Mumbo tries to get him up, and it’s so hard to come to the knowledge they have to wake up and get up.
He has a hot shower, which is a nice luxury he allows himself. Usually he has his morning shoulders cold, brittle and quick, but this time he takes time to shampoo and conditioner his hair. He leans into the other as Mumbo presses a large band-aid softly over the skin of his deltoid muscle, hiding the eye from sight. Warmth seeps from his fingertips, and Grian relaxes into the touch, his shoulders easing from a tension he hadn’t realised that had been there until now. Mumbo helps him cover the eye tattoo so he can wear the brown shirt Martyn suggested.
They make coffee and Grian takes a cup to Scar, but tells him he doesn’t have to get up if he doesn’t want to. He goes back to sleep immediately.
They get a taxi to the airport, where they meet the others for their last goodbyes. It hums along empty streets, headlights catching the dew on parked cars and dancing in his eyes. Grian rests his head against the window, as though he’s in a coming of age movie, and stares outside. The sun was just rising, spilling golden light over concrete and street signs.
The airport smells of coffee, paper, and polished floors. Lizzie’s hand lingers in Grian’s, thumbs brushing lightly, while Scott’s cheeks are wet and shiny from unspilled tears. The sun warms their faces as though trying to soothe the ache in their chests. It’s teary, and painful, and the sun kisses their skin with early dawn.
He lingers in the warmth of each hug, the soft squeeze of hands, the unspoken words in lingering touches. The airport hums around them: rolling trolleys, quiet announcements, the faint conversations of others around them. Every small movement is a heartbeat, every glance a tether he doesn’t want to let go.
Martyn turns to him with beautiful sky eyes, and Grian finds himself pulled into a hug that feels like rebirth.
Like renaissance, one might say.
Their foreheads knock and scents mingle. Martyn looks exhausted from the early hour, but hugs him as though he’s had a perfect amount of sleep, with a strength that is more desperation than anything else. They stand for a minute, simply leaning on each other and burying their faces in the other’s neck. Feeling what it feels like to say goodbye.
Grian hates goodbyes.
They taste like battery acid and chloramphenicol, strong and horrible. Tangy, acidic, and ultimately disgusting. It’s rich and strong in a horrible way, that trickles down the back of his throat and floods his senses, rendering him panicked and yet numb to everything.
He remembers the last goodbye like this.
Conveyed in sticky notes.
He grips Martyn tighter.
Lizzie grips his hands with a surprising firmness, thumbs brushing over his knuckles like fingers over porcelain. Her hair falls in his face when she leans forward, whispering something half-joking, half-serious, and he swallows the lump in his throat, pressing his cheek against hers as he tries to store and keep every detail.
She presses a kiss to his forehead that feels surprisingly maternal, despite everything, and silently slips a fresh tube of her lip balm to him. Vanilla. Like he used to smell of, in soap, body scrub and shampoo. He smiles at her with ridiculously watery eyes, and she laughs but doesn’t say anything.
Next is Scott, who’s face is shiny with tears that roll down his skin like pearls, lips pressed together. Grian presses a hand to his shoulder, feeling the slight tremor in his friend’s body, before they fold into an embrace that reminds him of something before. Scott hugging him in the airport before he heads back to Japan, cradling his face and telling him that it’s okay to like boys.
Grian sniffles and coughs at the memory, and weaves his fingers tightly through cyan wisps, tugging at baby blue strands and curling into his frame as though he is fourteen again and scared of himself.
BigB hugs him with a ferocity that speaks volumes, hands gripping his shoulders as though he can transfer all his love through his touch. He smiles like sunshine and Grian returns it the best he can. “I’ll send you the recipe,” he tells him quietly.
“You can’t,” Grian laughs. “It’s a secret. You’re supposed to hold it here-” he taps the other’s heart fondly, “-until your deathbed.”
BigB shrugs. “Guess you’ll just have to hold it too,” he grins. BigB’s goodbye is grounding in the way it is less solemn than most.
Pearl fusses over him like a mother, or a big sister, and kisses his face enough to leave lipstick stains if she was wearing it. She shakes him by the shoulders, and leans down a little to meet his gaze, her sapphire and gunmetal eyes boring into his. He’s always thought her eyes look like puppy’s baby blue eyes.
“You don’t dare do anything dumb,” she tells him, giving him a little shake. He nods slowly. “If you do anything, and I mean anything I wouldn’t do, I will swim across the sea if I have to, and throttle you. Okay? You got it?”
He nods, smiling widely. “I’ll miss you too,” he breathes, and she scoffs. But she hugs him so tight the air is sucked from his lungs.
Gem cradles his face in his hands like she does with baby deer. Well, at first. But then she squishes his cheeks with her palms and weaves the tips of her fingers into the tiny strands of hair on his hairline, and kisses his nose roughly. “You call. For anything. Okay?”
“Okay,” he tells her, grinning ear to ear. Pearl and her treat him the same, in moments like these, with intense tough love and soft lectures.
“I want you to visit soon, okay?” She tells him, forcing his head to turn back and forth as she pulls at his cheeks. “Okay?!”
“I know,” he grins, and kisses the palm of her hand.
When Grian turns to say goodbye to Jimmy - which he knows is going to hurt worse than hell - he finds soft eyes instead of teary ones. “Joel and I are staying,” he murmurs to Grian, running a hand through his hair. “Just a few more days. Neither of us are quite ready to go.”
A moment passes, and then Grian’s face breaks with a grin.
He lets out a soft laugh, a trembling, relieved laugh, and squeezes Jimmy’s hand. “I’m not ready either,” he murmurs, pressing a forehead to his shoulder, soaking in the warmth and the moment. He sniffles into the fabric of his shirt, rubbing his nose into the material.
Joel pats his shoulder, rough and casual, but the gesture carries a quiet affection that makes Grian’s chest swell and ache at once. It’s grounding. It’s a tether in a storm he doesn’t want to leave. He grips Jimmy’s hand tighter, as if he can somehow he can keep himself from losing it all and ugly sobbing in the airport.
Saying goodbye to the others feels like choking. Sobs arise from somewhere deep, swallowing him whole. They bubble up and out of his chest, and he coughs and chokes on them. It’s like a rock in his throat, no longer just a lump but something much more. His shoulders shake as he curls into Mumbo’s side, and Mumbo wraps an arm around him, pulling him in closer, cradling him with deliberate care.
Mumbo’s hands are gentle, cherishing, pressing into his back, running slowly over tense muscles, letting Grian melt against him, absorbing some fraction of the warmth and comfort he desperately needs.
Mumbo grounds him in the way no one else can, shares an affection with him that no one else does. People have even asked if they’re dating, before, because of the casual fondness and actions they share. But nothing about him and Mumbo is romantic. It seeps and sings with a platonic energy so strong, it’s the kind of bond Grian had always dreamed of.
Grian watches through blurry eyes as the others move through security. Each step they take is a hammer to his chest. He catches fleeting glimpses of Lizzie and Scott’s hair, the fairy floss-like colours easy to follow even in a sea of others. Then they’re swallowed by the gate, slipping out of sight. A sharp pang blooms in his chest.
He inhales shakily, and tries to force himself to let Mumbo ground him.
The quiet hum of the airport - rolling trolleys, distant announcements, soft murmurs of strangers - feels like a cruel soundtrack, underscoring every empty space they’ve left behind. He closes his eyes, letting the grief wash over him, letting the sobs come in waves.
Grian clings to Mumbo, his face buried in the crook of his neck, feeling every heartbeat as if it were a lifeline. Mumbo’s steady inhale and exhale syncs with his trembling breaths. “It’s okay,” Mumbo whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
The terminal hums around them, a world moving forward while Grian feels suspended, caught in the sudden, devastating weight of absence. Even as his body shakes and tears stream freely, Mumbo’s hands are there, warm and unyielding, a soft anchor against the storm of grief. And in that quiet, he knows that while it hurts, he isn’t truly alone. Never.
He takes one last, shaky look toward the gate, catching a split-second flash of Lizzie’s pink hair before it disappears, and then it’s gone. The absence stretches out before him, long and hollow. His chest hurts so much, so impossibly, that it feels like it might break.
Jimmy’s hand slips into his. Forever grounding, forever there. Joel steps in front of his view, breaking the gaze he has fixed on the gate where his friends are no longer visible.
He lets himself collapse into Joel’s arms.