Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Skizz was just having Impulse look over his starter base another time, always anxious over one thing over another with it—or anything to do with building, really. He still thought he was no good at it.

He was just absorbing some all the welcome texturing advice from his friend that he'd definitely remember for his mega base when two figures shot by them, almost too quick to see if they hadn't crashed into the ground for a couple seconds before taking off again—one on foot, the other flying low to the ground, seemingly arguing about something all the while.

“Was that…Scar and Grian?” Skizz ventured, slightly confused. Impulse hummed, sounding much less confused. “Yep! You're neighbors with them, now; better get used to stuff like that. They're like two peas in a pod—you can find them apart in many different situations, but they're always connected and like being together.”

“Huh.” He tilted his head, processing that information. “I knew they were friends, but not that close. That's interesting. Good for them.” His best friend snickered a little meanly—a not unfamiliar but definitely uncommon sound. “Oh, they're close alright,” he drawled, hanging on that one word—close. Skizz sensed a story there, and he wanted to hear it.

“Spill it, dipple dop,” he demanded, excitement clear in his tone. “There were some implications there, and I wanna know ‘em!” Impulse giggled, pressing his hand against his mouth to try and stop it. Oh, this must be good.

“They're in love with each other,” he stated, hushed but plain—as if he was just communicating something as simple as the weather. “Hopelessly. Have been since—I don't know, Third Life? Might've been longer though, none of us are in their heads but them. Either way, they're hopelessly in love, and neither of them have done anything about it. It can be so painful to watch sometimes—I just want to yell at them to get a room!”

That wasn't what he had been expecting. He didn't know what he had been expecting, but it wasn't that. It definitely wasn't that. “Huh—wha?” He questioned, blank. He could be persuaded to believe it—actually, now that he thought about it, a lot of things were clicking into place in his head, but also—huh?

“I know you haven't been on the server long enough to see all of it, and it's not the same in the games because of the memories thing, but believe me, Skizz, once you see it you won't unsee it. There's so many people on the server that see it that there's a betting pool going for how and when they finally get together—I’ve had a stack of diamonds in that pool since it was created, and we're allowed to update our guesses each season. I think some of us are beginning to lose hope, to be honest.” Impulse smiled at him, wry and mischievous, and as much as Skizz wanted to laugh—because he was clearly expected to—he unfortunately had a heart of gold down to the core.

“Impulse!” He scolded, smacking him over the back of the head. “Betting on people's love lives ain't cool, man.” The imp huffed, kicking Skizz’s shin in return. “I know, I know! But we all have our vices, and it just so happens that mine and a group of other hermits’ is betting on when those two idiots finally screw their heads on straight and hook up.”

Skizz let out a breath of frustration. He couldn't control his friend, he knew that—Impulse was his own person, could do what he liked, and he was right. But he made sure to make it known how disappointed he was in the stare he leveled at him.

“Nooooo, don't turn that look on me,” Impulse whined, drawing out his first syllable as he often did. “I already said I know it's bad, okay?! And I'll split my winnings with them if I win somehow!”

He sighed, but let his gaze turn back to his base. “Fine. But I'm still disappointed, Impy.” He heard a boot kick a stone off their little cobblestone platform. “Yeah, I know. I'm sorry.”

He side-eyed his best friend once more. “Not me you need to be tellin’ that to,” he reminded. Impulse shrugged, sheepish. “Can't share winnings if I don't have them, Skizzy—and if they find out about this I never will.”

He had a point there, so Skizz finally backed off. “Okay, okay, I get it. Thanks for the building help.” He looked off in the direction the two arguing hermits had launched off in. “I'm gonna go see what those idiots are up to.”

Impulse choked on a laugh, before waving him forward. “Go ahead, go ahead. I gotta go work on my farms—I think someone’s been pressing buttons on them recently and one of them might be broken.”

Skizz wished him luck, and with that, they were both off.

~~~~~~

When they got to Grian's dock, Scar tackled him; they were still chattering in a way that might've looked like squabbling to the outside…but was really just Scar trying to convince Grian to listen to his many, many apologies.

“I really didn't know before you said it, and by then it was too late.” He insisted, stubborn, hovering over Grian where they had landed. “I know, Scar,” was the slightly exasperated response. He didn't even bother to try and get up.

“If I had known I wouldn've even let my hook touch the water. I have such a nasty habit of getting lucky at the most unlucky of times,” he continued, undeterred.

A sigh, equally as exasperated. “Scar. I know. It's okay.”

Scar huffed. “No, it's not, I literally stole your mending book out from under your hook, and I feel terrible, and ever since it happened I've been making up ideas for how to make it up to you. And I'm going to list all of them, no matter how much you don't want me to. Starting with letting you kill me again but staging it as a huge fight for revenge where you steal—”

He was cut off by the avian under him surging up suddenly, pressing their lips together. He let out a surprised squeak that he would never admit to, but adjusted quickly—leaning down to give him better access, opening his mouth slightly to let an ever-exploring tongue in. When they pulled back to breathe, Grian was smiling at him.

“I was frustrated during the moment, Scar, and my reaction was mostly genuine—minus banning you, that was ridiculous and I don't know why I did it. I'm not really mad at you,” he promised, reaching up and resting a hand on the back of Scar's neck, just barely brushing his ponytail. “I can never stay mad at you for too long. And you clearly feel so damn bad, and that makes it even harder.” His eyes darkened slightly, his voice dipping in volume as he spoke next. “Honestly, how much you care about something that the others think is so silly is really hot—so I'd quite prefer if we could go back to our snogging now.”

Scar gulped, a shiver running down his spine, then he huffed out a laugh. “Works for me,” he whispered back, voice husky. Grian surged up once more, and he was just about ready to settle into an incredible and most likely long make out session before—

“Holy SHIT!”

The loud curse cut through the usually family friendly aura of the server like an explosion—yes, he knew how hypocritical that sounded in his position, thank you—and he and his…Grian scrambled away from each other, barely not falling off the dock in their hurry to desperately save some face and see who had caught them in such a compromising moment.

It was Skizz, mouth hanging open, arms by his sides about the same, a glowing bow laying on the ground next to him, an arrow on the other side. He had probably been trying to kill one of them as a joke—likely Grian, with how close his bed was.

Key word had, because he seemed to be completely shocked at the sight he had just witnessed. Scar, as blush coated every single inch of his face, ears, and chest, couldn't find it in him to blame him. He was too embarrassed to really realize what this might mean for them.

Grian, however, seemed far more attentive to the danger in the air. He noticed something he didn't, something that made him narrow his eyes and let out a soft call of; “...Skizzy? Can we…talk about this?”

Skizz bolted. Both he and Grian cursed, scrambling to their feet and taking chase.

They had never wanted anyone to find out about—whatever was between them. They didn't talk about it. Had never talked about it. They had kissed for the first time in the desert, right after Scar fell into that ravine, and since then they could just never bring themselves to stop—not for too long, anyways.

As they ran, he couldn't help but cycle through a million things he could throw out in the now inevitable situation they had to explain. A quick glance at Grian's eyes, however focused they were on making sure he didn't fly too high without an elytra, showed that he was probably thinking much the same. His heavy eye contact was met with a nod, the avian pushing himself to fly just that much faster. Scar, despite how bad his legs hurt—he’d probably have to dig his wheelchair out of his Scarland bag tomorrow, he mused with a grimace—matched his pace. They really needed to find Skizz before too much damage was done.

They both knew that most normal friends didn't do what they did. They didn't sleep in the same bed multiple times a week, didn't cuddle for no reason at all during their free time, definitely didn't make out on a near daily basis.

Friends with benefits, then? But that didn't feel right either. Their relationship was too deep for that, too many of their kisses tender—to the forehead, the jaw, soft pecks not meant to arouse or even excite, just to show affection. Despite it all, they shied away from referring to themselves as ‘partners’ or ‘boyfriends’. Those terms felt too heavy, too expectant—if they gave themselves that permission, he didn't know what would happen. He was almost sure both of them were scared to find out.

They skidded to a halt clearly just a couple moments too late, Skizz's hands gesturing wildly as he talked to Mumbo. They caught the tail end of his most recent sentence, which seemed to be one of the most damning.

“—terally couldn’t believe my eyes, dude! They were splayed out across the dock and full on makin’ out! I didn't know what to do so when G-man asked me to talk I just bolted.” Skizz slumped in on himself as Mumbo seemed to notice their presence, raising a questioning eyebrow. “I feel horrible for not hearing ‘em out, but what was I supposed to do?”

Grian coughed. Skizz jumped over a block in the air. “I don't know what you're walking around and telling people, Skizz,” he pretended to chide, but Scar—and most likely Skizz and maybe even Mumbo—could see the desperation in his eyes. “This is all just a misunderstanding—Scar tackled me while attempting to get me to listen to his Disney talk, and you caught us during a moment of weakness where I was taking a breath between trying to fight him off. That's all.”

He was a smooth liar, Scar would give him that. Good at transcribing a message without really saying it, too. Practically every word he strung together must've screamed to Skizz to please, just play along, we'll tell you when we're alone we promise. He looked conflicted for a moment, before shaking his head. “I know what I saw, G,” he mumbled, looking down at the ground dejectedly. “And I'm a horrible liar.”

Those pretty red-blue-yellow feathers fluffed up not unlike a cat's fur might, indignant, their owner's face much the same as he crossed his arms. “Well, I'm standing my ground. I'm telling the truth.”

“You two looked like you were trying to eat each other's faces off.” Skizz deadpanned, and no matter how embarrassing this situation was Scar couldn't help but snicker at that comment. It earned him an elbow to the rib, but he didn't mind.

Mumbo looked conflicted—torn between Grian's admittedly characteristic fabrication and Skizz's earnest belief in what he was saying. That conflicted gaze eventually came to rest on him, and oh fuck, he was doomed. A quick glance to his side made Mumbo’s gaze feel even heavier. Correction, they were doomed.

“Scar,” he drew the single syllable out slowly, carefully, “What do you say, then? Were you two being—er—friendly with each other on that dock?”

Scar immediately felt his face heat up as his brain started to fog at the edges—he wasn't good at lying directly, but he could work with that question. “Well, dear Mumbo, that would depend on what you mean by 'friendly'! I'm always friendly with G here, just as I am with everyone!” He threw an arm around him for good measure, giving Mumbo a winning smile. “So the answer to your question would probably be yes, but I feel like there's some implications there I don't agree with.”

Those dark, beady eyes narrowed. “I'll rephrase it, then,” he amended, “Were you two—as Skizz so kindly put it—'trying to eat each other's faces off' on that dock?”

“I mean, no, I don't think Grian’s face would taste very good, I'm not a cannibal,” Scar responded, flippant. Deflect, deflect, deflect.

“You're deflecting.” Well, fuck him on that one, he supposed. “Really, with how hard you're trying to, I think I know the answer already, but I'll ask in the clearest way possible: were you two kissing each other senseless on that damn dock?”

That one, he couldn't deny. Couldn't squirm around. Because goddamnit, they had been, and he had loved every second of it. He tried to form a response, stuttered over a few words, before eventually pulling out his diamond shovel and digging down into the ground just enough to place a block over his head.

They were so close to getting out of it, but Scar could never give a flat out lie to someone's face. Could never answer no when he really meant yes. He could wiggle around the truth, dance with it like an old friend until he could blend in with it into the crowd, but he could never leave it entirely. And now that has gotten them found out.

They were laughing above him, all three of them—even Grian, though there was definitely no way they could deny their…whatever it was to Mumbo. At least he was useful for something.

After more than ten minutes of being down there, the block above his head was dug out and he was forcefully dragged up and out by a combination of Grian, Skizz, and a fishing rod.

Grian was the one who caught him as he fell the short distance from being rodded, pulling him in close for just a moment. “I'm not mad at you,” he whispered, soft, just for Scar's ears. “Not for this, either. It was bound to happen eventually.” He nodded, even though he didn't know if he quite believed it.

He was released long before he was ready, and he already knew that their little sleeping schedule—already broken regularly—was getting another disruption tonight. Neither of them were going to want to sleep alone in their bases. He let out a long sigh as he ran a hand over his face, leaning heavily on Grian even if they were no longer hugging. His legs were really feeling the effects of running around so much today. “Gonna need my chair tomorrow,” he murmured, earning a soft hum and a whisper of “I'll wheel you around for a bit so you can rest your arms.”

“So…” Mumbo's voice startled them both, he could tell, but only a little. Neither of them had forgotten he was there—no one who had been in a life series could truly forget when other players were around—but the silence had made them get close. “How long has this been going on?”

Before either of them had to muster up some sort of response for that, Skizz gasped. “You're in on it!” He accused, pointing a finger. Mumbo balked.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” he argued, weak. Scar had no idea what he was talking about either.

“Yes, you do! You have some big money at risk behind that question, don't you?” Skizz interrogated, accusatory finger now poking Mumbo squarely in the chest. If Scar didn't know any better, he'd thought it might've hurt. The tall man deflated, just a bit, and he sighed. “No, no—my half stack of diamonds is long gone now. I said that it would take until Season Eleven.”

Grian seemed, for once, just as lost as he was. He started replaying the conversation in his head, trying to put together what each individual sentence meant and then what they meant together, until he realized—

“You guys have been betting on G and I?!” He damn near screeched, pulling away from Grian in the process. It was well warranted in his opinion. “When we'd get together, or something like that?!” As soon as the words left his mouth, red feathers fluffed beside him once more as his avian companion realized what was going on.

“They have been,” Skizz corrected, sounding almost offended. “I refused to participate when I found out. I don't think it's cool at all. Your guys’ love lives is your business.” Mumbo deflated even further into himself, and Scar almost felt bad.

Almost.

“I know,” he mumbled, dejected. “It was just—god, you two are so frustrating sometimes! You're so clearly infatuated with each other and us in the betting pool just wish one of you would man up and do something about it!” The statement hung in the air for a moment, and even though he couldn't really see his face he could almost feel Grian cocking an eyebrow at the same time he did. Mumbo flushed slightly as he seemed to remember what had led them to this conversation in the first place. “...which you've clearly done, and just didn't want to advertise to the entire server yet.”

“Yep.” Grian commented, sharp. “I thought you were better than that, Mumbo.” He said it in much the same way Skizz would say 'I’m not mad, just disappointed', and Scar flinched despite it not even being directed at him. That was left to settle for a couple seconds before he sighed and opened his arms to his best friend with a tired smile. “But, I also know that you're an awkward guy who cracks under pressure, and I understand why you did it. So c'mere, we’re gonna hug it out.”

Mumbo did as told almost immediately, collapsing into the offered hug—Scar stepped back with a grunt to give them some space—with many, many apologies on his lips, most of them said through near-comical sobs. Scar had to hold back a chuckle at how pathetic he looked, and Skizz definitely noticed. “He probably just fell to the peer pressure of the other betters. Like dipple dop.” It was said in a conspiracitorial whisper, probably so that the other two couldn't hear them. That one didn't surprise him; Impulse could be a menace under all that helpful energy. The hermits all loved him for it all the more. “But, but—after I scolded him earlier, he told me that if he won, he'd split the winnings with you. What'dya say I find out what he bet on and you two manipulate the game a little bit?”

The idea sparked something in Scar, sending a mischievous thrill up his back and right into his brain, where he could already see the images of plots forming. “I'll ask G about it, but I think he'll be more than happy to oblige.” He sent the buff man a sharp smile that was quickly returned. “Are you willing to be our accomplice in this ruse, Skizzy?”

“Of course, Scar. I'd like nothing more.”

~~~~~~

He was right about their bed schedule being broken. They were supposed to be apart that night, but, well—they’d just been found out by at least two people, and as much as Scar wanted to believe neither of them would snitch on purpose…that wasn't the only way secrets could spill. They'd all learned that well by now. Him especially so.

Grian's head had popped up into his makeshift cabin car just as the sun started to set. Scar, of course, could never deny him, helping him up fully and pulling him into a quick hug. He melted into his arms like putty, so 'quick' turned into—well, exactly the opposite. The stars were already shining in the sky by the time they managed to pull away from each other and make their way into his bedroom.

Somehow, his legs still hadn't given up on him yet—though with the ominous way every muscle was twinging in pain, he knew they would the moment crashed into bed. As such, he changed quickly, throwing off all his clothes sans underwear and slipping on a pair of very soft pajama pants. “G…?” He trailed off, knowing that Grian knew what he was asking for.

“You can leave your shirt off, Scar, I don't mind.” Scar could hear the roll of his eyes in that answer, but he still cheered—fist pump and all—and earned himself an extremely fond scoff. “You're like a puppy. You know that, right?”

“I'm choosin' to take that as a compliment,” he retorted, turning away from his dresser to stick out his tongue at the avian—who was already looking at him, with a soft smile that took his breath away, one of Scar’s sweaters draped over his shoulders(as always, the server easily shifted the garment’s code to accommodate his wings), practically drowning him. By the looks of it, he wasn't wearing any pants—which Scar supposed was fair. Eye for an eye, and all that. “I meant it as one,” he confirmed, voice just as soft as his expression.

Scar really couldn't breathe now, or at least it felt like it. He must've been wrong, though, because he had enough breath left to stutter out a string of words that formed a sentence. “Of course, of course! Of course you meant it as a compli—compliment, why—why wouldn't you?” He glanced out the window pointedly, “Bedtime! It's bedtime, let's do that. Bed, I mean—I mean let's go to bed.”

When he dared to look back over at Grian, he had a hand over his mouth and his entire body was shaking slightly—clearly trying to hold back laughter and failing miserably. The sight made Scar’s heart melt even further, bringing his head back down to reality a bit. “Bed—bed sounds good,” Grian agreed through muffled giggles before he reached out and grabbed Scar’s hand, pulling him lightly. “C'mon, big guy, your legs must be killing you.”

They were by this point, so he let himself be dragged along until both of them were crashing onto the mattress. It wasn't exactly the most comfortable landing, but comfortable landings weren't really either of their styles, and any pain that it could've caused was overshadowed by the absolute relief that flowed through him at the weight being lifted off his legs. They wrestled for a bit, playful slaps and soft kicks that would leave light bruises at most—or a scratch or two from a stray talon that he could already feel aching duly—peppering each other's skin until they finally settled.

Scar grabbed Grian by the waist and wrangled him into laying down, tucking his chin over the top of his head and burying his nose in the sandy curls. Taloned hands—after one last slap—slipped around his shoulders, curling together behind his back. In return, he slipped a hand under his sweater, resting it between his wings. The pleased trill he heard afterwards assured him of his choice, and let out a long sigh that caused hair to tickle his skin. He wished they could do this every night.

They basically already did.

He didn't let the silence last for too long—at the very least, not long enough for sleep to take either of them—before he spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “Sooo…” he drew out the syllable as he gently rubbed his hand over Grian’s back, feeling him shiver under his touch. “Our good friend Skizzy Wizzy proposed an idea to me earlier, for a—prank, of sorts. A con, possibly. As revenge for this whole bet business. Wanna hear it?”

“Of course I wanna hear it, Scar,” was the immediate response, Grian pulling his head back in tandem to look him in the eyes. He was wearing his classic mischievous grin, the same one that Scar fell in love with god knows how long ago. “Espescially if it's revenge. I still can't believe they did that!”

“I can't, either,” he admitted, more honest than he meant to. “I mean, I guess I get why they might've gotten frustrated, and they clearly never meant for us to find out, but—” he shrugged as best he could in their current positions. “I thought they thought better of us than that,”—thought better of me than that, a voice in his head selfishly whispered—“I dunno. But that's why we gotta mess with them back, yeah?”

In the time it took him to speak, Grian’s face had shifted, just a bit—some of the mischief slipping away in favor of concerned understanding, like he knew exactly what Scar was thinking. He probably did. “Yeah, yeah we do. What's Skizz got?”

This, he could do. Pick on Impulse. That was easy. That could help him forget about the slight ache in his chest. “Okay, so, apparently, Skizz literally only found out about the betting pool this mornin' after we ran past him—Impulse confessed immediately as soon as he was pressed.” He paused for a second, letting it set in for suspense, before continuing; “Only to leave to try and hang out with us and immediately find us literally goin’ in for a make out.”

Grian lost the battle against giggles he had clearly been fighting, dipping his head back against Scar’s chest to hide his face as he tried to get himself back under control. Scar couldn't help letting out a few quiet chuckles of his own. “Anyway. Apparently, Skizz—heart as gold as ever, Skizz—scolded him—pulled out his Dad Stare and everything, I wish I was there to see it—and under all that pressure, he said that if he won, he'd split the diamonds with us!”

Grian perked up at that, giggles momentarily forgotten. He seemed intrigued, anticipatory, just like Scar knew he would be. “Is this going where I think it's going?” He chirped, excitement showing through clear as glass.

“Oh, I don't knoooww…” he drawled, smirking. One second, then two, then—”Ow, ow, ow, okay!” A talon had dug into the back of his neck, just deep enough to draw a small bead of blood. “If you're thinking that we’re gonna purposefully control who wins the bet—specifically making sure Impulse wins it—with our loveable friend's help, yes, it's going where you think it's going. What’dya say?”

He knew what was going to happen before it did from the way Grian’s back muscles shifted under his hand, so he wasn't surprised when the answer ended up getting mumbled against his lips. Definitely wasn't complaining, either. “I say,” his birdie whispered, low and husky, “That that is the best idea Skizz has ever had. And that I want to kiss you to sleep now.”

Scar couldn't help himself from snorting at the comment, unintentionally denying him his wish. He would've had to, anyways, because there was one thing he just had to check—

“You…you know that to pull this off, the whole server is gonna find out about—this, right?” He asked, his gentle voice a stark contrast to the previous tone. Grian, however, seemed to understand why, and he leaned in to press a much more chaste kiss to his lips. “Yes, I know.” He affirmed, and his gaze drifted to somewhere over Scar’s shoulder. “I think…after today, that doesn't scare me as much as it used to.”

Those words hung in the air for a moment, and after musing it over for a moment, Scar huffed. “Yeah…yeah, me neither.” He leaned in to make good on his partner’s—he let himself think it, just to know how it'd feel—desire, muttering his last comment against him. “Seems like everybody's been waiting on it long enough.”

They broke apart again as Grian barked out a laugh, but it didn't last long. They came back together within seconds and Scar let himself get lost in it until the darkness of sleep overcame him.

He had a nagging feeling that he had forgotten something as it did so, but he chose to ignore it. It would probably be fine.

Chapter Text

It was not fine. It was so not fine. So so so not fine. He had woken up comfortably, wrapped in Grian’s fluffy wings—as he often did, avians sheltered their cuddle partners by instinct and he adored it—and was ready for a slow, lazy morning before he heard a deathly familiar fake cough.

He scrambled up into the best sitting position he could, his legs predictably lighting up with pain as he did so. When he was finally able to turn around to look, he felt his heart drop.

Cleo.

“Good morning, Scar,” they greeted, voice low but harsh. It sent shivers down his spine, reminded him of a life long gone—the word 'mom' on his lips as he looked at the same but a different person in a house he barely remembered now. “How'd you sleep?”

“Great, great!” He crowed, trying hard not to let the panic slip in. It definitely didn't work. “Uhm—what are, when—what did I—?”

“What did you forget?” She finished for him, pointed. He let out a very embarrassing squeak, but nodded. “You wanted me to help you with armor stands. You specifically said you had time today. You also, again, specifically said that it could be early, and that if you were still asleep I could just wake you up.”

He had said that, their retelling of it tugging at a memory at the back of his mind. “I…did say that,” he conceded, meek. “I…did not consider that when I made certain key decisions.”

She looked from his hands clutching a blanket to his bare chest, to the multicolored wing sitting at his side where he had pushed it off, to the barely noticeable shock of sandy blond hair on his pillow.

“Clearly.”

He sighed, running a hand over his face. “Can you go get my chair for me? I'll explain on the ground—no lying or anythin'—I swear.” They made a face at him, and opened their mouth like they were about to argue, but he held up his free hand in a 'stop' motion. “Do you want me to wake Grian after we've already talked this out so I can give him some good news or do you want me to do it now when it'll give him a panic attack?” He glared at her through his fingers. “Because it's you or him, I'd give myself a concussion if I tried to stand. You of all people should know I wouldn't ask for this unless I had to.”

They huffed, but stomped back out of the room and presumably down the ladder to his basement. Thank god Grian was a heavy sleeper—when he wasn't on a life server, at least. His hand eventually dropped from his face, and he almost instinctively pulled over and started picking through the wing by his side. Rearranging feathers, knocking out little bits of grit, brushing off long-dead feathers. Grian shifted, made a happy little trill, but didn't wake.

He was still doing it by the time Cleo arrived in his bedroom door, leaning on it. “Chair's on the ground,” she stated, flat. “I'm gonna help you get down there with water.” He nodded, making a note to himself to add some sort of ramp until he got an elytra. “Aight then, c'mere, kiddo.” He didn't point out the nickname.

They hauled him up and slowly helped him over to the ladder, dumping down a water bucket that he gratefully jumped into the stream of to cruise down. Was it awkward getting him into the chair after he ended up flat on his back in the grass? Yes, but at least he didn't make his legs hurt that much worse in the process. Cleo only fussed over him a little bit before backing off and raising an eyebrow. It was time.

There was silence for a moment, then two, before he took a deep breath and blurted; “Can you please just ask what you wanna know? I don't know how to start, I've never told anyone about this before.”

Her face softened considerably from its usual sarcastic stare, and she sighed. “Yeah, yeah okay, Scar. I can do that for you. How did you guys end up like that?”

That was both the easiest and hardest question they could've asked. Easiest, because it had the most straightforward answer. Hardest, because the answer to it would be one of the most damning. He took a shaky breath—he had promised not to lie to her, and he tried to keep his promises. When they were important, at least.

“It was on purpose, Cleo,” he affirmed what she likely already knew, his cheeks burning. “Got changed into pajamas together and everything. We were cuddlin' through the night just because we wanted to.” And because after so long it almost feels wrong not to. “I—no one was supposed to find us like that. We're usually really good about it, too, but we both had a tough day yesterday and it just…slipped my mind that you were coming here this morning.” He rubbed the back of his neck, sparing a glance at the zombie hybrid only to immediately look away again at the look on their face.

“‘Usually really good about it’?” she questioned, “You do this often, do you?” To anyone else, they might've seemed harsh and pointed—okay, fine, they were being harsh and pointed—but that was okay. It was what he asked for; the conversation was being taken out of his hands.

“Yeah—yeah, we do,” he answered, eyes very purposefully locked on the smoke billowing out of his train. “A lot more than we should, probably, according to the—uhm—schedule.” He realized too late that mentioning the damned schedule was probably a bad decision, flinching slightly. “We only manage to both stay in our bases when we sleep like—three times a week? These days?” He let out a self-depricating chuckle. “And, admittedly, that's countin' the times we're apart at the start of the night—it doesn't always stay that way.”

When he dared to look down at Cleo again, he found he couldn't look away. Her face might've looked blank to anyone else, maybe even to Bdubs and Etho with how long it'd been, but—well, he had always been her favorite, no matter how hard she tried not to have one, so he could see through it. Their eyes were soft, curious, not quite concerned but close. He could tell she was listening to his every word carefully—considering them, how he said them, reserving her judgement until everything was on the table. He always felt so safe with her, and this conversation was a prime example of why.

“...okay then," they eventually said, drawing out each word longer than necessary. “Is there anything else you two do that I need to know about before I inevitably stumble upon you having forgotten yourselves again?” That was harsh and pointed, and he felt the blush that had partly subsided come roaring back with a vengeance.

It probably wasn't a real question. It was a jab, and he knew it, but his mouth moved and blurted out an answer anyway. “Kissing. Lots—lots of it.” She looked startled at actually receiving an answer, even more so as she processed what he had just said. “I—at least once a day, if not more. Anytime we can catch each other alone, honestly.” He flashed them what he wanted to be a suave grin but probably landed more on the side of a nervous smile. “So—maybe just try not to barge in on us behind closed doors…?” He felt the tip of his ears flare as he said the next line; “...or on secluded docks?”

There was silence for a couple beats, and Scar was grateful Grian was still asleep. He was a flighty thing at the best of times, and Cleo would've made him bolt a long while ago. When she finally spoke, it was in a tone that should've been mocking but wasn't—just filled with realization. Understanding, too. “Oh you're gone, aren't you Scar?”

“Long,” he confirmed, nodding sagely. That seemed to be enough for them, as they just ambled over and gave him a quick hug.

“Good. I'm glad you have each other,” she muttered before she pulled away, and it was enough for him, too. “Now let's figure out how to get you back up—I’m not waking up Grian in your bed, I'd get my eyes clawed out.”

Scar laughed, loud and booming, amusement filling his chest with warmth. “You're not wrong,” he agreed. “Just build a staircase outta slabs, at least three blocks long please and thank ya—with your help I should be able to get my wheels up there no problemo.”

They didn't argue, like they might have with anyone else. He appreciated it. Asking for the help was hard enough on its own.

Today was going to be a long day, he already knew, and her willingness to suck up her pride—and laziness—was making at least this part of it easier.

~~~~~~

Getting woken up to find out that a third person in twenty-four hours had found out about his secret mate was an irritating way to start the day, to say the least.

Grian wasn't mad at Scar, no, he had no reason to be—they both carried as much fault as the other, for blatantly ignoring the large red X on their personal calendars. He wasn't upset about Cleo finding out, either. They knew how to keep their mouth shut, knew when a secret wasn't theirs to share. Even if he didn't remember why they decided to keep it a secret in the first place.

Oh, sure, he knew there was a reason, originally. He never did things without reason(even if some of them were definitely stupid ones). He had just forgotten it in the way Scar’s hair felt between his fingers—silky and smooth, always well-brushed—and vice versa, in the feeling of Scar’s hands in his feathers; gentle and careful during a preen or rough and teasing in one of their beds late at night, in the way Scar’s lips moved perfectly against his own like they were made to slot together. He had forgotten the reason like dust in the wind in favor of Scar, of all that Scar was.

And frankly?

Without his original reason to anchor him to the idea, he was getting really bloody tired of all the secrecy.

That doesn't mean, he thought to himself viciously, hitting the tree he was chopping down with a little(a lot) more force than strictly necessary, that I'm not an idiot for letting it slip so badly.

Scar would admonish him for the thought. Would look past the frustration and slightly joking tone and see that underneath, he almost believed it. But Scar wasn't here, so it sat. And festered.

He was just so—so frustrated. Scar was Grian's. He was his lover, his rock, his mate, and he always thought that when they were finally ready to tell people—the day of which was looming over them now, an undetermined date but certain in its finality, sending pleasant little sparks of excitement up his spine every time he thought about it—that he'd be able to show it off, as was in his nature. Show Scar off, if not physically then through his words—he could spin vividly descriptive stories about him and them all day, and his avian heart ached to do so.

But no. No, instead of presenting his mate to his friends with the respect and dramatic flair he deserved, they'd been caught out, left scrambling, been made to flee the conversations out of sheer embarrassment. He hated it, hated feeling like he was an embarrassment to his species. To his mate.

The axe connected with the tree far too harshly once again. He dropped it, not wanting to damage the wood to the point where it made uneven planks—he started pulling on his fingers instead, popping the joints in them one by one. He needed to calm down.

Sadly, that was easier said than done. It was his most basic of instincts that had been offended, and that took a bit more to smooth out then a couple deep breaths and popped joints. He wanted—no, needed—to do better by his mate. To spread the word of how amazing he was, how smart, how loveable—he pulled too hard on a finger he had already popped and flinched, cursing in avian. It was no good to ruminate on, anyway; he couldn't do those things. Not yet.

“Gosh, Grian, that's some harsh language—'specially for this server,” a voice teased from the treeline, and he whipped around to face it. It was Gem. His wings fluffed up, indignant.

“You only know that because Pearl uses those words even more often than I do,” he countered, snappier than he meant to.

She shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. What's got you cussing up a storm in avian? It's unlike you, and suspicious.”

He should've played into it. Should've acted like he was planning a prank—he could come up with something on the fly, surely, and she was almost willing to help as long as they were harmless—but by the time the thought had crossed his mind his mouth had issued a far more honest answer. “I just pulled one of my fingers too hard while cracking my joints,” he blurted out, flinching almost immediately afterwards. Too much. “You know how I get sometimes.”

A single red eyebrow raised, the gesture slow and pointed. He flinched. Way too much. “I do know,” she stated, walking towards him with a specific hesitation in her step, large horns looming ominously over her head. Grian suddenly felt like he was being cornered—but not to be eaten, no. Something much worse. “I know that you only do that when you're extremely frustrated at something—the most common victim? Yourself.” He was being cornered for emotional conversation. “Spill it, G.”

“But Geeeem,” he whined, in much the same way he did when he didn't want to finish the back of one of his builds, “I don't want toooo.”

That single eyebrow only raised higher. “Too bad. I care about you, and because I care about you I'm not gonna just let you linger in a pool of stress and insecurity. Talk to me, or else I'll follow you around and pester you about it all day.” He hated that he knew the threat was genuine.

He huffed, flapping both sets of wings in agitation. He didn't have to reveal his closely guarded secret if he didn't want to—although a small voice in the back of his head was begging him to, to show off his relationship he'd worked so damn hard for, to show Scar off like he deserved—he could just give…pieces. Enough for her to understand his frustrations. That'd make her leave him alone.

Probably. Hopefully. He made an irritated squawking noise, stomped his foot, and finally spoke; “I've had this…secret. It's really important to me and I've been really good at keeping it. For years. But—in the last day, three people have found out, completely out of my control.” Maybe not completely, he admitted in his head, I did forget about Cleo. “And I'm just—I’m really frustrated about it, that's all. I knew people were going to find out eventually, but I wanted—I wanted…”

Gem, clever as she was, seemed to catch on. “You wanted to be the reason they found out?” She finished for him, though she was kind enough to phrase it like a question. “You wanted to tell people yourself, not just have it stumbled on?”

“Yes,” he hissed out, frustrated still but not at her. “Yes, I want it to be my choice. But it hasn't been. That's it. Are you happy now?” He hadn't meant to snap at her like that. He felt bad as soon as it came out of his mouth. “Sorry—sorry, I’m…” When he looked back over at her, her eyes—her entire face—were gentle. It wasn't a completely unheard of look on her, but it was unusual enough to make him shy away from it.

“You know…if it's that you never got to tell those people yourself…” she started to say as she stepped closer to him, a lilt to her voice that suggested he was about to get unsolicited but probably very good advice. “Maybe telling someone about it on your own would help?” He raised an eyebrow at her, almost as pointed as her own earlier, and she flushed—waving her hands in front of her. “It doesn't have to be me! It could be whoever you want! I don't even want to know, even!”

But she did. He could see it in her eyes, the curiosity burning bright like a fire. And, deep down, that voice was still chirping—demanding theatrics and praise, all for one annoyingly handsome elf. He held up a finger to shush her before turning to his communicator.

Grian whispered to GoodTimeWithScar:

scar?

gem cornered me into talking about my feelings about

people finding out about a ‘secret’ of mine

GoodTimeWithScar whispered to Grian:

oH?

oh?*

-_-

Grian whispered to GoodTimeWithScar:

yea…

she said i might feel better if i told someone on my own

i think she might be right

i wanna tell her

Before he could even finish typing out his last message of ‘can i?’, the communicator buzzed again

GoodTimeWithScar whispered to Grian:

i know what your abuot to ask

you don't have to

yuo can tell whoevar you want

tell her

Scar was clearly trying to get the messages out as fast as possible—the typos and spelling mistakes that would usually be ironed out with a few rereads left in beautifully showcasing his haste, and it warmed Grian’s heart from the inside out. He cared. He cared so much. It made him laugh, alongside making him want to tell Gem all the more.

So, after he managed to calm down the wave of giggles that had overtaken him, he looked over to the moose hybrid, meeting her now-confused eyes. He didn't care, letting a giddy smile slip onto his face—which only served to confuse her more. “No, you're right. I'll tell you,” he assured, effortless, excited, and suddenly Gem was excited too.

“Really?!” She asked, grabbing his hands and shaking them up and down. He laughed again, feeling free, and leaned in like he was telling her a secret. Because he was.

“It's Scar,” he whispered, low and mischievous. He waited for her to react, and she did, taking a sharp intake of breath and looking down at him.

“What about him?” She whispered back, like the conversation was sacred. He supposed it was, in a way.

“What we do together when we're alone,” he answered, giddy once more. Free, so free. “God, Gem, have you ever wondered how good of a kisser he is?” She squeaked, clearly not expecting the question, but he wasn't looking for an answer anyways. “The answer…is an amazing one. He's even figured out where my avian sweet spots are, knows exactly when to go for them to get the best effect. It drives me crazy.”

He backed away, flushing red as he realized just how much he had revealed. He wasn't upset with himself though—no, his aural wings were flapping happily, his main pair puffed up and prideful. He had finally shown off his mate. He was happy.

Besides, the look on Gem’s face as she seemed to run his words through her mind over and over again was extraordinarily funny. Eventually the blue-screened look turned to mostly incoherent babbling, until she finally spat out;

“Years, Grian?!?!”

His blush deepened, the happy flapping quickly subsiding so he could cover his face. “Years,” he confirmed, almost feeling bad about it. Almost. Her face was still too funny.

“You two—!” She almost growled, grabbing at her hair. He knew it was for show by the way her eyes glinted with mischief. “You’re telling me you've had the whole server convinced you're hopeless, pining idiots for years but you've actually been sneaking around with each other under our noses the whole time?”

He smiled at her, and he didn't need to see his own face to know how bright it was. “Yep!”

She sputtered again, bringing her hands up to her face and very clearly resisting the urge to scream into them. He didn't blame her. She took a couple deep breaths before running them down her face in exasperation, looking up at the sky like she was praying to something. He didn't blame her for that, either. He did find it hilarious though, and he was happy to let it show through with giggles and happy little chirps.

She stared at him, blank. “Y'know what? I believe you, but I'm gonna say I don't.” He choked on a laugh at that, making it more of a strangled wheeze, but he wasn't upset. He was pretty sure he knew where this was going. “I'm not gonna believe it until I see it with my own two eyes. Show me.”

He pulled out his communicator once more.

Grian whispered to GoodTimeWithScar:

gem said she won’t believe me until she sees it with her own two eyes

she wants me to show her

(she was very obv joking, but…)

*coordinates*

GoodTimeWithScar whispered to Grian:

Omw birdie! ;)

He giggled again at the message—quieter, more private than the ones caused by Gem’s dramatics. These ones were just for him. As he flicked the device away, she seemed to realize what he'd done. “You didn't.”

He grinned. “I did,” he crowed, delighted in the slack look of shock on her face, “You should know better than to give me a challenge without meaning it, Gemmy,” He teased with a chuckle, tilting his head slightly. “Or to give Scar a challenge without meaning it.”

She groaned, attempting to slap him on the shoulder—but he dodged just in time, slipping under her hand so all she hit was air. “Well, at least I'll get a show outta this,” she grumbled, but Grian could see the curiosity in her eyes. The intrigue. Maybe, some part of her did need the proof to really believe it.

That one, he blamed her for. Just a smidge.

Before he could formulate a good response, the familiar sound of wheels tearing through dirt cut through the calmness of the forest. He felt his heart swell and he felt his face soften into lovesick goo. He'd recognize that sound anywhere.

“Well hello there!” An equally familiar voice called out from the treeline behind them, and he whipped around to face it. His breath still caught when he looked at Scar, sometimes; eyes trailing over his form, admiring every little detail, unable to pull away. This was one of those times.

He was giving an adorably characteristic, giant wave as he emerged into the little clearing Grian had made, his other hand just pulling away from turning off his chair's speed motor. A wide, showy smile was plastered on his lips, stretching and distorting the scars littering his face—it was an excellent blend of the conman's smirk he had fallen in love with on Monopoly Mountain and the Imagineer’s grin that stole his heart on Scarland’s opening day. It was so perfectly Scar, Grian's Scar.

“Usually this is where I'd sweep you off your feet into a kiss that would put most Disney movies to shame,” he called, catching Grian’s attention enough to snap him out of his haze and remember what movement was. “But uh…kinda impass—pooss?—impossible at the moment, now isn't it?” He patted one of the armrests of his chair, his smile now more dopey than showy. Grian loved it even more. It felt even more his.

He was more bird than brain at that moment, and Gem had requested a show(no she hadn't). If his mate wanted a Disney worthy kiss?

He'd get one.

He flew at Scar, not bothering to use his legs to move, stopping just before where his chair had come to rest on the ground—flaring out his wings a little more than was truly necessary, showing them off to both Scar and Gem—and dipped down, one of his hands simultaneously tangling in long brown hair and pulling up.

They met in the middle, lips crashing together a little more harshly than he intended—he forgot his own strength sometimes, okay?—but Scar adjusted quickly, reaching up to bury both his hands in his hair. It felt like heaven on Earth. When they pulled away a couple seconds later, Scar's smile was even dopier than before. Grian let out a breathy little chuckle, murmuring; “That Disney enough for you?”

Scar huffed out an equally breathless laugh, hands loosening and falling out of his hair. Gem was still standing right there. “Definitely. Better then. Loved it.” His words were slow, chopped, clearly more affected than he wanted to be, and it just emboldened Grian’s instincts—which right now were nothing but a chant of Scar, Scar, Scar, Scar.

He cooed brightly, pressing a kiss on Scar’s forehead before walking around to hug his neck from behind. He pressed another to the scar that cut through the corner of his mouth, smiling at the soft sigh it earned him. “See, Gem? Scar,” he chirped, happy as could be. “My Scar.” He vaguely heard the elf in question take in a slightly strangled breath, but he was too focused on flaring his wings out behind them to show off his mate properly. “Pretty. Mine.”

Another choked noise, louder this time. He let out a worried little trill, looking down at Scar with deep concern. When he found nothing but wide eyes and him flushed—well, everywhere, he tilted his head, chittering. Questioning.

“Oh, this is so funny,” Gem wheezed from the side, but he didn't care. Scar was far more important.

“You know what this is?!” Well, Scar thought she was important, so he supposed he'd look over at her too—though one eye was still worriedly placed on him.

Gem chuckled. “Your avian,” she said the first word very pointedly, making him coo softly; prompting another chuckle before she continued. “Seems to be in what Pearly would call 'head empty, only bird' mode. He's showing you off like she shows off her shiny things.”

He nuzzled the side of Scar's hair—mates were much more important than shiny things, but he wasn't going to say that and look stupid—and relished in the scent of pine and smoke it always carried. Something in him had seemed to relax, which made Grian happy. “So it's an avian thing, huh? Makes sense.” A scarred hand reached up and scratched behind one of the wings on his head, and he trilled—a light, airy one this time. “He doesn't talk about that stuff much, but now that you've pointed it out ta me he's acting mighty like he does when I'm preenin' him and his hormones are goin' cray-zy.”

He leaned into the next nuzzle, and Grian could just barely make out his eyes starting to droop. It made him ecstatic that he was the reason for it, right in front of one of his—one of their—friends. His instincts were alight with joy and he felt like he was floating. “Pretty Scar,” he murmured again, just for his mate’s ears, and this time he recognized and relished in the choked sound he let out. “My pretty Scar.”

Gem was laughing again, but that had faded into the background by now. The world had faded into the background, replaced with the feeling of marred skin under his lips and pine and smoke in his nose and the taste of Scar’s coffee on his tongue. “I'm gonna leave you two to…this. Have fun with it, Scar!” With the whoosh of an elytra and the crack of a firework rocket, she was gone.

Grian ignored her. He didn't think she'd mind. Scar, for his part, brought a hand up to his mouth for amplification and yelled out;

“Don't worry 'bout little ol' me, Gemmy! I'm havin' the time of my life!”

The shrieking laughter that followed that comment, he paid slightly more attention to—if only because it was Scar that caused it.

~~~~~~

What was that about a schedule? There was no schedule. No schedule was necessary. Scar could sleep in Grian's nest whenever he wanted to, thank you. And! And, there were no early morning visits for either of them to worry about, they had checked. The schedule. That he was just denying the existence of.

Okay so maybe he was a little more tired than he thought, and maybe it was way past midnight, and maybe he should really be asleep right now—Grian was, peacefully curled into his chest with a wing covering them both like a blanket—but he couldn't. He just couldn't, not when all he could think about was their interaction from earlier.

“My Scar.”

Professed to Gem like a badge of honor, like he was Grian’s prized possession.

“Pretty. Mine.”

He had never thought of himself as someone who wanted to be kept—and he wasn't, not really, not entirely—but the way the possessives fell out of his partner's mouth lit something in him. Something warm, soft, loved.

“Pretty Scar.”

Remembering that specific line sent a shiver down his spine.

“My pretty Scar.”

That one, even more so.

The problem was. The problem was. That he couldn't figure out what any of it was supposed to mean.

Sure, Gem had said it was an avian thing. Given how close she was to Pearl, he was inclined to believe her. But why? What was the deeper reasoning, why did Grian’s bird brain tell him to flaunt Scar to her like…like that? To stake his claim so obviously, so joyfully?

“Your avian,” Gem had said. Grian had cooed at her like she had given him the world on a silver platter.

Was…was him calling them partners in his head, late at night when he was most vulnerable, not hoping for too much?

He had said before that he was fine with them having never talked about it. And to a degree, that was true—the attention and affection he got from the avian and was allowed to give in return was more than he ever thought to dream of before Third Life, and he'd worked so hard to get Grian comfortable with it. He loved the relationship they had, no matter what it would be called on paper if they so chose.

That didn't mean he wasn't curious. Didn't mean he didn't want to know what it would be on paper. Didn't mean that, deep down, he didn't long for a word for what Grian was to him. Even if it wasn't what he secretly hoped for—if they really were just friends with benefits and nothing more—at least he would know.

The sensation of wetness on one of his facial scars and the sound of sniffling snapped him out of his thoughts. Shit. This was why he usually didn't think about this when Grian was around. He took a few deep, shaky breaths, shutting his eyes as tight as he could. He couldn't be crying here, not about this, not when he could wake up at any moment.

It didn't work. The tears kept flowing. He swallowed against the lump in his throat before taking in another breath and holding it there for a while, releasing it when he felt like he couldn't hold it anymore. He repeated that a couple more times. Nothing. He could feel sobs starting to build, pressing against his lips, begging to be let out. Terrified of making too much noise and waking his cuddle buddy up, he pulled his hand out from under his red sweater to cover his mouth and muffle them.

Stupid mistake, on his part.

“Sc’r…?” Grian murmured, voice heavy with sleep. Shit. Fuck. No. That's the opposite of what I wanted. “Wha’s goin’ on…? ‘S late…”

“N-nothin’, G!” He assured quickly, hoping his voice didn't sound as shaky as he felt. Hoping that Grian wouldn't notice that he was still crying, that he couldn't get it to stop. “Don’t worry about it, ‘m just having a hard time gettin’ my eyes to stay shut. You know me. Go back to sleep.” Please, please let him go back to sleep.

The world had other plans. The wings on Grian’s head flapped a couple times, agitated. “You…sound weird,” he muttered, clearer headed this time. “Is somethin’ wrong?”

Yes, his brain supplied helpfully, I’m going crazy over the fact that we're not officially together. Instead of saying that, because that was ridiculous, he said; “O’ course not! I'd…I'd tell you if somethin’ was up, birdie.” The lie burnt like harming potion on his tongue, but it came out smooth as butter regardless. Now, if he could just stop crying—

Before he could even fully register the action, Grian was pulling away from his chest and reaching towards his face. He tried to pull away as soon as he felt it, but it was far too late. Taloned fingers gently—oh so gently, like he was a precious artifact that could tarnish with the barest touch—cupped his face, thumb quickly finding and wiping away a tear that had barely started rolling. “Scar…” he whispered, sounding damn near heartbroken, “You're crying. That's not nothing.”

“It—it is! It is,” he tried to insist, and tried to pull away again, but the grip that was at first so gentle was now holding him firm—though each and every fresh tear was still brushed away with reverence. It just made him want to cry more. “It's—it’s stupid, it doesn't matter, I wasn't even supposed to—supposed to be thinking about it—I can handle it—” he was cut off by a choked sob, and really, that wasn't helping his case at all.

“It's not stupid, Scar!” Grian hissed, pulling his free wing up and around Scar’s head. The adorably sweet action made his heart ache. “What—whatever it is, it can't be stupid. Not if it has you like this. Not if—not if you're lying to me about it.” He let out a distressed little whining noise, and that made his heart break. “Please, Scar, tell me what's goin’ on in that magical head of yours. I can't—I can’t stand to see you hurting and not be able to do anything about it.”

He shouldn't. He really, really shouldn't. It would be so easy to pretend to give in, to spin a tale of a nightmare from the games—his days stuck in secret life after winning always a worthy contender—and allow himself the comfort it would earn him, allow himself to pretend that he wasn't questioning every single touch in the back of his mind.

But when he opened his eyes and he was met with large, obsidian-hued ones in return, tainted with deep concern and confusion, he just couldn't do it. He was so sick of not knowing. So sick of nights with nothing but a single question looping over and over in his thoughts, keeping him up until daybreak. And so, so sick of that same question in the back of his mind during interactions like that afternoon’s—ruining what would otherwise be perfect moments with clawing insecurity and doubt.

“What are we, G?” he whispered, rough, vulnerable, desperate. Grian noticeably startled. “I—we’ve never talked about it, and god, I love it, I wouldn't give it up for the world, but I can't—I can't help but wonder, y'know?” He let out a wet, humorless laugh. “Maybe wonder's a bit of an understatement. It—it keeps me up at night, lingers in the back of my head during the day, I—I can’t get it to go away.” He choked on another sob, but now that the floodgates were open, he couldn't close them. “I don't—I don't even think I care about the answer, care about what our label is, but I—fuck, I think I need one. I tried so hard not to because you're so—so happy as we are but—but ‘m dyin’ over here, sweetheart. ‘M so sorry.”

He had no hope to stop the breakdown that was overtaking him, not when it had been looming for hours now. Raw, ugly sobs tore themselves out of his throat, and amidst it all he had the thought that he'd definitely need an extra bottle of water later with how much was currently leaking out of his eyes instead of staying in his body where it should be.

Grian reacted fast. Within moments he had sat up against the edge of the nest and was guiding Scar’s face into his neck, burying a hand into the hair on the back of his head—knowing how much the feeling grounded him. “Scar. Scar,” he practically begged, both wings lifting up to wrap around him like a security blanket. “Why didn't you tell me? You're—you’re my mate. You're mine. I never—I never needed more than that, never needed a fancy word that the outside world understands, but if—Scar. Scar.” He repeated his name, almost frantic, “If you need that, you can have it. All you needed to do was ask.”

“I—’m sorry, G,” he forced out through the shakes wracking his body, "I'm sorry. ‘M an idiot.” Words that were usually said with a humorous tone and a winning smile were now drenched in bitter sincerity, and he felt the way Grian tensed at them.

“No, Scar, no,” he scolded softly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “No, you're not. I never said that. I'm—I’m frustrated right now, but it's more with myself than you.” The gentle reassurance—alongside the talons that were now running along his back, just the way he liked it—started to do its job, and even the very next breath he took felt a little easier. And the next came easy enough that he could make a pointed noise of disagreement.

“N’t your fault,” he murmured, tightening his grip on Grian’s hips—he didn't know when his hands had gotten there, but he wasn't going to bother to move them. “I—I could've said something, you're right. I was just too scared that it would ruin it, that asking—” he paused with a flush, realizing just how silly what he was about to say was. “That asking for you to be mine, in my way, would be too much.”

“Oh, Scar…” He barely had time to process all the emotions in that utterance of his name before he was being man-handled once more—seriously, Grian was way stronger than he looked—and familiar soft lips were pressed against his, hands cradling his face. It felt different this time, though; gentler, slower, more intimate. They hardly shared kisses like this, too wrapped up in the harsh push and pull of their usual dynamic, but it was a very well-kept secret that Scar adored ones like it.

Was. Because the pathetic whine that he let out as the avian ran his tongue over his bottom lip—a soft, questioning gesture that they'd long discarded in favor of instant gratification—was pretty revealing in that aspect. The intimacy didn't stop when the kiss deepened like some part of him feared it would, instead multiplying as Grian explored every inch of his mouth. He must've known it all by heart by now, after years of make out sessions tucked behind closed doors, but that didn't stop him from thoroughly rediscovering it all with obvious glee.

Despite how recently he had stopped, Scar felt like he might start crying again. He just felt so cared for, so appreciated, so loved. It wasn't a completely new feeling, no, not even from Grian, but it was rare, and never like this. Never an all-encompassing wave, crashing over him like a tsunami. The sensation was so overwhelming that his body just didn't know how to handle it.

As they pulled back for a moment, both panting, a whisper nestled into the quiet between them. “I'm yours, Scar.” It was said almost like a prayer. “I'm yours. However you want. I'm so sorry that you didn't know that.”

For the second time that night, Scar felt himself break. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold it back, but he knew it was helpless as a whimper slipped out of his lips and he once again felt wetness on his scars. He felt, not saw, the moment Grian noticed, his entire body tensing, and he rushed to clarify before he started to panic. “Happy—happy tears, G,” he whispered, raw, “Pr’mise. ‘M just—just overwam—overwalm—” he made a frustrated noise as his tongue tied around the word. “Too much,” he eventually settled on, putting on an only slightly exaggerated pout. It had the intended effect, even though the shaky giggle sounded like it had been punched straight out of his partner’s lungs.

His partner. He could actually have that, now, with just a single question. What a wonderful thought.

“I love you, Scar,” Grian cooed, voice heightening an octave or two; a little bit of the bird within surfacing. “The…the answer to your question. From earlier,”—”What are we, G?” he winced, barely, as his own voice rang in his head—”Is—well, it's the same answer to my question, that I have now.” A thumb ran along his cheek, slow and encouraging, until he opened his eyes again. His sight might have still been blurry with tears, but he could still see the way Grian was looking at him. “What am I, Scar? What am I to you? Because that's what we are.”

Well, looks like he didn't even have to ask a question. Just answer one. And the answer to that one came as easily as breathing. “Partner,” he admitted, and god did it feel good to say aloud. “Whenever I’d—whenever I'd allow myself to dream, that's what it…that's what it was. I've always wanted you to be my partner.” Partner in crime, partner in play, partner in death, partner in life. Before he could even stutter out an ‘Is that okay?’, he was being kissed again—and this he was more used to, desperate and just a little rough, but there was still a new spark undercurrenting the way they pressed together, lighting up his veins.

“Partners,” Grian chirped under his breath, the sound so light and airy it made Scar feel like he was floating. “Partners. God, why have I never thought of that? That's—that’s amazing, I didn't—” he laughed, peppering kisses all over his face with abandon, making him start laughing too. “I didn't think I needed a label, but maybe I did, and I just didn't know. That's perfect.” He buried his face in Scar’s hair, trying to muffle his laughter, and—oh, wow, I had forgotten about that, he thought blearily as his elven heritage started to kick in at the feeling of breath between the strands, his brain fogging at the edges pleasantly.

That had never happened with Grian—or anyone—before. One, or both, of his hands in his hair always grounded him to the present in a way that wasn't fully human, yeah, but—but it had never had this much of an effect. Especially when it was just his breath, barely tickling his scalp. Suddenly, all at once, that tickling sensation wasn't enough, some long-lost part of his heart begging for more, more, more. He was hopeless to resist.

“Play—play with my hair,” he practically whined, flinching at how desperate he sounded. Well, he might as well commit. “Please.” It felt like the lack of contact was a hole to the void, his most basic instincts screaming in frustration and need.

His wish was granted in an instant. He was settled back into Grian's neck—a role reversal he was quite enjoying now that he was stable enough to recognize it—and both hands buried in his hair, cording through knots and pushing it away from his face and just touching it and…and Scar had never felt so fulfilled. He had started crying again—though he hadn't even realized when he’d stopped—but this time, he let it happen. It was okay. He was safe.

“You're actin' like I do when you preen me,” Grian murmured, giddy, hands moving in a different way now—seperating, folding, pointedly not mentioning the tears he must've felt on his skin. Scar was grateful for it.

“Mhm…” he hummed, taking time to get his mushy, hormonal brain to work to standard. “Yea. Ch’cks out.” He leaned further into his partner’s hands as he said it, sighing happily. “‘S like your wings, but for elves. Hair’s…’s everything to us. ‘S nice. Haven't…haven’t felt it in a while.” Have never even felt it before.

Grian’s hands stuttered slightly at that—much like his own had when he'd been told just how important preening was to avians—but didn't falter, continuing to weave what Scar now recognized as a braid into his long, dark brown locks. It made his heart ache, but only in the best way possible, a piece of himself clicking into place that he didn't even know was missing.

“I'll play with your hair whenever you want, Scar,” he promised, tone dripping in sincerity. “All you have to do is ask.”

He snorted. “Careful givin’ that offer to an elf, G,” he murmured, “You might never stop.” He was joking—mostly—and it earned him a laugh and a kiss on the head for his troubles. For the first time that night, the edges of his vision started to get fuzzy as his eyes started to droop without his consent.

“Nah, you could never leave your Zoo unfinished,” Grian countered, easy, but it was clear he noticed just how sleepy Scar was getting. Another kiss was pressed to his head. “Go to sleep. Lord knows how much—if any—you got before I woke up. I'll finish the braid before I do the same.”

There were still things they needed to talk about, of course there were; but those things could wait until they were both fully awake and alert, completely aware of themselves. For now, he was curled in his partner's arms, safe from all his doubts, safe from the world.

He let his eyes fall shut and drifted off to the feeling of hands in his hair, a smile still lingering on his lips.