Grian is a hypocrite. He knows. God, does he know it. He’d never acknowledge that fact, however, would never admit to it. He isn’t exactly the type that goes around readily confessing his flaws, after all.
He had told Jimmy he wouldn’t restart the session if he died, right after he’d been knocked down a few lives. Grian said it without hesitation, as amusement spilled from his voice like it had been paint in a can that tipped over. It wouldn’t be fair, nor right, to restart the session. And if he restarted it for Jimmy, what kind of message would that send the others? It might become expectation if someone permanently died so early on.
He needed to be firm about it—even if Jimmy’s misfortune came from bad luck, things out of his control.
Grian can’t go giving out special favors. He can’t be biased.
It happens on the mountain, right by the long staircase made of soft pink cherry wood. He doesn’t even notice at first, attempting to avoid his personal harbinger, a snail. Honestly, Grian didn’t mean for things to go this badly. As with most things with him, Grian thought it to be a silly joke. A hat tip toward a well known hypothetical query.
But in typical fashion, Grian overestimated his friends’ survival capabilities. With their own personal snails tailing them constantly, he watched as death after death rolled in, giggling over each one (unless it was Mumbo or Skizz).
Maybe by now he should know better.
“Who would make my snail invisible?! Who would boobytrap my snail like that?!”
Grian looks over at Lizzie, both flabbergasted and impressed, “That’s—that’s devious.”
The second he turns, it happens.
(Sandy domes under their feet, a ravine cutting right through their path. Mischievous giggles shared between them before they’re torn apart, the sound coming to an abrupt end.
With a shout he pushes his hand out, but to no avail. Yellow turns to red and all that’s left are their foot prints in sand, a pile of items below.
He’s left at the top, lips curling around the syllables of a name as hysteric laughter follows it, distress wrapping around it like a ring.
He never did manage to catch him.)
Grian is a hypocrite, because the moment Scar dies right in front of him, he panics. That invisible snail wasn’t Lizzie’s. It was Scar’s. He stops, breath cutting itself short on its own blade, body freezing itself in ice. He gets a second of eye contact with the man, seeing the shock and fear lacing his expression before he’s gone.
“Oh, Scar!” The outcry is loud as it crackles with distress.
This is it, he’s on his final life now. If he dies it’s permanent. No do overs. No restarts. No special favors. Scar will die. Grian can’t stomach the thought, can’t let it happen. He’s failed every other time and this world has only just begun. It’s too early. It’s… it’s not fair.
END THE SESSION. END THE SESSION! END IT. SAVE HIM. END END END END END END END!
Whether it be out of some sort of twisted and tangled guilt, or the lingering feeling of a debt to Death that never truly went fully repaid, he isn’t sure. There is no hesitation, just a natural instinct, an ingrained habit. If it were anyone else he’d let it happen, let the game run its course.
But his choice is obvious when it comes to Scar, even when he doesn’t want it to be. He’s always going to be drawn to him, always going to feel this pull. He’ll sacrifice it all, twist himself up in however many different contradictions he needs.
“The session is over!” he shouts, rapidly typing in the world chat for the others. He spams the message a few times in his hurry before switching to turn the wild card off. And he does it just in time, with Scar’s snail just a few inches away from the man. It disappears, along with the others, and a collective sigh of relief is released from those among them.
He feels Them watching, unhappy with their meal being cut short. But Grian doesn’t care. He never has.
“Man, that was a close one! I thought I was a goner,” Scar laughs over to his side, drawing Grian’s attention. “Thanks for the quick save there, G-man.”
Grian smiles at him, some small thing. “Don’t get used to it,” he returns.
There’s a knowing look in Scar’s now ruby eyes, and the sun on Grian’s hair feels warmer; heated, nostalgic. “Of course.”
He’s not supposed to play favorites, not meant to be biased. He’s not supposed to interfere to keep a player alive (something he made very clear to Mumbo and Skizz prior). But existing in a world like this without Scar feels wrong and near painful so early on. He couldn’t stand around and do nothing. He couldn’t just watch.
Grian pretends not to notice the glance Jimmy throws at them, a brow raised. He’s been seen right through.
