#ahahahahaj

[fantasmagoricx]

It seems today I am just a leaky faucet.

[moon1ee]

Here, have this 3rd life scarian fic I finished writing EXACTLY when the hermitcraft finale was posted that talks about Scar's attachment to his builds--

This is for @threeowlsinatrenchcoat 's request for a scarian fic//

The bunker was oppressive and smelled of blood, but Grian didn’t mind. It got the job done, even if it wasn’t as pretty as the desert tower, even if it didn’t give him the same sense of pride.

Grian didn’t mind the bunker, but he knew Scar hated it. The man had never been good at hiding his emotions, and the way he frowned at the bare sandstone floor of the bunker and the low roof was indication enough. Scar had cared for the desert tower more than Grian, always spending his free time simply sitting in it, but he’d still agreed with Grian’s plan to blow it up.

Grian wondered why.

Grian wondered why he himself still stayed with Scar, even though his debt was repaid. His eyes were yellow now. He didn’t need to be here. He could leave, go back to his ugly little hobbit hole, to the crastle, to the hobbits, maybe even to Dogwarts. He could be of use to them. They were an intelligent group. If he joined them, they had a better chance of winning then he did with Scar.

There was no point in staying here, with this madman. There was nothing keeping him here. Stockholm Syndrome, Martyn had said offhandedly, and bitterly Grian wondered if that was what it was. And yet, he had never been Scar’s prisoner. The only thing binding them together was Grian’s misplaced sense of duty. Scar himself had offered Grian the chance to leave anytime he’d wanted.

Grian stared at Scar’s sleeping form, curled on the single bed in the bunker. The majority of their resources had blown up with the tower, and they’d only had enough wool to make one bed, which they’d taken turns using. Scar’s brow was wrinkled, his mouth curled into a frown, completely unaware to the waking world. Grian could leave, right now, and Scar wouldn’t notice until it was too late.

Grian stood, putting down his netherite sword he’d been sharpening, taking a single step backward. Another. Slowly, he opened the trapdoor that led to the tunnel outside, and crawled out.

When he finally emerged out into the empty, dark night, the first thing he saw was the crater blown into the desert. Another one of his cocky plans that had failed. Scar had loved the desert, been obsessed with it, had spent night after night simply running across it, chasing rabbits and laughing while Grian watched from Monopoly Mountain, shaking his head. And yet, Scar let Grian trap the entire thing. Scar let Grian do whatever he wanted.

Let’s kill Ren, Grian had said, when all Scar wanted to do was steal a cookie. And yet, they did.

Let’s declare war, Scar. Let’s blow up our home, Scar. Let’s make a monopoly over dark oak, Scar.

Scar would have gone along with whatever Grian said, if only to keep him happy. If only to keep him.

Grian turned to look back at the bunker, where Scar was sleeping, unaware. He sighed. “What am I going to do with you, Scar?” he muttered. He ran a hand over his tired face.

A rabbit hopped by at his ankle, and unthinkingly, Grian thrust his sword out, spearing the rabbit in the eye. It dropped onto the sand, dead. He frowned, staring at it. They were running out of food anyway, he supposed, and Scar loved rabbit. Maybe he’d stay out and do some hunting tonight.

When he arrived back at the bunker an hour later, a handful of rabbit corpses in his hand, quietly closing the trapdoor behind him, Scar was sitting in the bed, bare back turned away from him. “So,” he said flatly. "You’re back.”

“Oh,” Grian said. “You’re awake?”

Scar turned to look at Grian, and his eyes were angry. “I’ve been awake for the past hour. Where were you?”

“I—” Grian gestured to the rabbits in his hand. “I was out hunting.”

“In the middle of night,” Scar said, eyes narrowing.

He shrugged. “They come out at night,” he said, getting more and more uneasy. Why was Scar acting so cold suddenly?

“Right,” Scar scoffed. “And you definitely weren’t planning on leaving.”

Oh.

Grian looked at Scar, properly looked at him for the first time since the Battle of the Red Desert, looked at his slumped shoulders and downcast eyes. Oh.

He set the rabbits onto the floor, and stepped forward. “Scar,” he said slowly, “I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t considering it.”

Scar scowled, and turned away from Grian, and Grian grabbed his shoulders and turned him back to face him, determined to drill some sense into the man’s thick head. “I said I considered it,” he said. “Because I’m free now, aren’t I? My debt is repaid. I could leave.” He paused. “But then I realized I could have always left, anytime I wanted. Scar, really, you couldn’t have stopped me if I’d left. But I didn’t want to, and I still don’t. Because—” He stopped. He’d said too much, and now Scar was looking at him with those infernal puppy eyes, and Grian didn’t know how to continue, or, he did, but he was afraid to say it, but he didn’t need to, because Scar pulled him into a hug anyway, burying his face in Grian’s shoulder, and Grian was uncomfortably aware of the fact that Scar was not wearing a shirt.

“Don’t leave,” Scar pleaded, still holding desperately onto Grian like if he let go, Grian would simply disappear. “Never leave. Please.”

Grian let himself sink into the embrace. “I won’t,” he promised. “I’m not going anywhere, Scar.”

Don’t leave me, either, he thought, but didn’t say. Don’t die, Scar. Don’t leave me alone.

Scar let go and smiled at him, and Grian felt something inside of him choke at the sight of it.

“Did you get rabbit?” he said, craning his neck to look at the spoils lying on the floor. “I love rabbit.”

Grian laughed, suddenly completely tired. He tried to stifle his yawn, but Scar sent him a knowing look before yawning as well. “Come on,” he muttered, pulling Grian into the bed. “Let’s sleep.”

“Scar,” Grian protested. “It’s your turn—”

“Come on, Grian,” Scar insisted. “You’re tired, I’m tired, and there’s enough space here for the both of us.”

There was definitely not enough space for both of them, especially with the way Scar liked to stretch out across the entire bed, but Grian was too tired to care. He let Scar shove him under the ridiculously thin blanket, and squeaked in protest as the other man immediately wrapped himself around Grian. “Scar—” he said, strained.

“Shh,” Scar muttered, face buried in Grian’s sweater. “Cold. Sleep now.”

“You know, if you actually wore a shirt, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Hm. Probably. G’night.”

Grian rolled his eyes, but subsided, because outside it was freezing, and Scar was a comfortable warmth.

The battle was not over. Dogwarts was probably planning battle strategies and another attack at this very moment, but for now, Grian didn’t care. He let himself have this brief moment of comfort for as long as the world would let him.

//I'm not even joking, I finished this fic, checked youtube, and all the hermits had uploaded the finale just FIVE minutes prior. And I was like Damn. I hope nothing bad happens.

pspspsps i crave reblogs and notes in the tags pspspsps