★ charlie who lovessss showing you off. he’s obsessed with you and wants everyone to know you’re his and he’s yours. he posts you on his social media more than himself — every other post is you. you and him in matching cosplay, a mirror selfie of you and him out shopping, a candid photo he took of you while you were laughing at something he said. he always captions the posts with something cheesy like ‘my wife’ or ‘the art of being funny.’ when he hard launched you for the first time, it was a photo of you at an art gallery with the caption ‘all this beautiful art and yet she’s the only thing I can look at.’ half the comments thought it was corny and the other half thought it was cute, you were in the latter of course!
★ charlie who calls you angel like it’s your name. he can’t help himself! it just slips out at the end of all his sentences without him even thinking about it. it’s always “I miss you, angel” when you’re on the phone with him, or “c’mere, angel,” when he’s half asleep with you next to him and he wants you impossibly closer. it’s “do you want me to get that for you, angel?” when you’re out shopping and he notices you looking a little too long at an expensive necklace. it’s a murmured “thank you, angel” when you bring him a glass of water while he’s streaming — chat blows up and he ignores them, pretending not to see the multiple messages from stunned chatters; ‘did he just call her angel?!’ and continuing with the game like nothing happened (he’s secretly trying not to look too proud of himself)
★ charlie who gets really really clingy sometimes…especially when he’s tired. you’ll get home from work and he’ll push his arms around your waist while you’re taking your shoes off. “you’re getting in the way, charlie,” you’ll say, attempting and failing to hang up your bag because he won’t let go of you, his arms locked tight around your waist and his face buried in your neck. “don’t care,” he’ll mumble. you sigh dramatically (happy he can’t see the reluctant grin tugging at your lips) and give up, letting your bag slip to the floor as you twist to hug him back and bury your hands in his hair. he practically whines, tugging you into him and then half carrying you over to the couch where he doesn’t let you get up for a good half hour.
★ charlie who loves when your wear his clothes. it does something to him that he can’t quite explain but makes his heart buzz anyway. you steal his nerdy tshirts all the time to wear around the house; charlie loves how they look on you and sneaks a photo of you every time. unbeknownst to you, he’s got an entire folder on his phone of you wearing his stuff. if you’re out with him and you get cold he’ll never hesitate to give you his hoodie, in fact he sometimes hopes you’ll forget a sweater just so he can give you his. he even gets a kick out of seeing you wear his gaming headphones — something about seeing you wear something of his makes him even crazier about you than he already is!
promises broken, promises kept | (one piece) | 11k words
read here <3
mature audience
characters: Koala, Sabo
relationships: Sabo/Koala (saboala)
addtl tags: egghead island arc spoilers, slight spoilers for chapters 1083-1086/1095-1099 and episodes 1115-1119, angst with a happy ending, love confessions (&more tags on ao3)
summary: For Koala, it's been a long month. Between the events of the Reverie, the disappearance of Lulusia and Sabo, Kuma running off, and Sabo's sudden return-- she's exhausted. But when she and Sabo finally get a moment alone, away from the other members of the Army, she can tell that there's something wrong with him, that he's hiding something and trying to distance himself from her.
hhau mimic arc rambles - part V: avian, all alone (1/2)
(art by link // ramble ~7 k words // other parts & au masterpost here )
—
The ground no longer crunches with frost; the snow is slowly thawing, letting in a semblance of warmth that feels deceiving, like a trick. The wind is still ruthlessly cold; the slosh of melted snow turns rivers fast and greedy; the mud is almost as slippery as ice was.
But the blood sinks more discreetly into the soil than when it starkly marred the whiteness.
Grian’s breathing is slowly steadying back to normal as he turns away from the bodies of hunters that Scar is crouched over, claws dripping red, hands deftly searching through belongings that could be theirs now, if they’re even slightly useful.
Somehow, against all odds, they’re both still here. Still going.
They made it to spring, and they have a direction, and a plan.
The air is crisp, still tasting of winter. Grian scans their surroundings, double checking that they’re truly alone now, that the noise of the fight didn’t attract any further unwanted attention. His heart still beats a wild rhythm in his chest, a frantic, post-adrenaline melody.
It’s then that Grian catches sight of something.
The beat of his heart falters, tripping over itself.
He sucks in a breath, and then he’s moving. Forward. Away from Scar. Towards—
Somewhere further in the forest, a twig snaps.
Grian breaks into a run. “Wait!” he calls out.
Scar snaps to attention, startled, head whipping up and ears flicking. “Grian?!” His tone slips almost instinctively into a growl, preemptively trying to hold any threats at bay, even as his hands—clawed, bloodied, dangerous—linger on the coat of a man Grian helped him bring down just moments ago.
He sees no danger, but Grian is running away from him. Chasing something?
Someone?
Everything in Scar prickles in warning. Another presence is never a good sign. (Once upon a time, he thought there can be exceptions. He thought they could make it work. He thought they could make it good.) (He was proven wrong, in one of the worst ways possible.)
“Grian!” he calls again, scrambling to his own feet as he watches with alarm Grian dip between the trees, sprinting further and further away. He lets out a howl, one that reverberates and echoes, trying to tether Grian back and scare off anything that might want to harm them.
Grian chirps back, high pitched, frantic, desperate—but notably not afraid.
He can’t stop. He can’t let this go.
Not when he finally caught glimpse of feathers. Of a face with big, startled eyes, staring back at him for three seconds before the person—avian. avian avian avian—took a step back. Looking terrified but undoubtedly alive.
Every instinct in Grian tingles, urging him onwards. It’s been months, maybe even half a year by now, that he hasn’t seen anything winged live. (He tries not to think about th false mirror of his own wings. Just as he tries not to think about the blurred memories of the eclipse, the vague fragmented recollection of chirps rising only to be brutally silenced.)
There’s rustling behind Grian, one he recognises as Scar reliably following him. And as he keeps running after the avian, he wonders if they’re fleeing because of Scar. Because of a vex, freshly out of battle, bloodstained, and now chasing after them.
He wonders if the avian feels hunted.
(He couldn’t blame them.)
“Wait, please!” he tries again, almost tripping over some roots, his own wings unthinkingly flaring out for balance. “We won’t hurt you! Please stop!”
In the end, it isn’t Grian who trips; it’s the avian.
They land roughly, with a high pitched puppy-like yelp, rolling for a moment—but as soon as the momentum is gone, they’re whipping up, swallowing up a pained groan and scrambling to turn around to face their pursuers. Arms braced against the ground and breathing frenzied, their eyes are wild as they hook into Grian—as if the vex still catching up to them didn’t even exist.
Grian skids to a halt several steps away, hands flying up, trying to translate harmlessness. “Hi,” he greets breathlessly.
The avian shrinks, a small whimper the only sound given in return.
“Grian—” Scar comes to a stop, too, alert and confused. “What in the world, why did you—” His eyes jump from Grian to beyond, over Grian’s shoulder, to the small person sitting on the ground as if they wanted nothing more than to flee.
A winged person.
“Oh.”
The avian’s eyes snap to Scar. They shudder, pulling slightly back, making another distraught noise.
In an instant, Scar’s claws are gone. (But he can’t disappear the blood off his skin.)
Grian steps closer—just half a step, desperate but restrained, not wanting to crowd or scare. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.” He tries to keep his voice low, tries to make himself sound calm, even as his heart hammers a wild rhythm against his ribs. His wings rustle, unfolding slightly from where they were hidden underneath his cloak. Because maybe that’d help? Wings for wings. They’re the same. They’re the same. Please listen, please don’t be afraid, please don’t run.
The avian is rooted to the spot, breathing fast. Like a bird caught. Like a prey cornered.
Scar makes a soft inquisitive noise, glancing around briefly before settling his eyes back on the avian. Tension spills along his back, expecting a trick. Wondering through learned patterns if this is just another lure, something dangling in front of them looking shiny but being secretly attached to a maw with razor sharp teeth. (Juni crashed into their lives with a hunting party at his back, after all. And to run into an avian, surviving on their own? Surely Scar’s not wrong in wanting to be careful here.)
Grian’s slowly crouching down to the avian’s level, when Scar speaks:
“Are you alone?”
The avian’s eyes snap up to now-unobstructed view of Scar, only to find the vex stare back. There’s a sharp breath and a flinch, and they pull away, shifting as if they were going to scramble to figure out how to put their legs back underneath themselves.
“No, wait!” Grian twitches, itching to lunge forward and stop the avian from potentially running away. Nervous annoyance prickles along his spine, a misplaced frustration that keeps crashing into his desperation to anchor this moment, to make their little life raft stop feeling so rocky. He glances back over his shoulder, hissing: “Scar. You’re scaring him.”
Scar blinks, ears instantly pulling low. “I was— I was just— It was a reasonable question,” he defends himself.
Grian makes a frustrated noise, but there’s more pleading in his eyes than ire.
“I—” Scar starts again, but his gaze flicks back to the avian: small, grounded, shaking. Looking at him as if Scar truly was a monster from some foreboding fairytales. “... I’m not scary,” he counters, but it’s quiet, without a fight. Wavering.
He knows he has claws at his disposal.
He knows he’s covered in blood.
He knows he’s a vex.
And he just killed several men with Grian’s help.
He swallows hard and takes the smallest step away, hunching up. Moving slowly, the way one would in order to not spook a wild animal (or prey), he also lowers himself down to his knees, keeping himself small behind Grian.
Grian lets out a breath; it quivers as it leaves his lips, nerves frayed, stakes high. He regards the avian again, assessing. If the avian truly is alone, admitting it in front of strangers with unknown intentions must be terrifying. They need to start elsewhere.
His wings flare the slightest bit more; he doesn’t fail to notice the way the avian’s eyes snap to them, tracing his feathers. Slightly cleaner than they’d normally be, but still dishevelled and dirty. Grian exhales and lets them droop, wanting to communicate something. Relaxedness instead of protectiveness. He chirps quietly, earning another snap of the avian’s attention.
The avian’s eyes roam Grian’s face for a moment. He looks at Grian with an unreadable but undeniably raw expression; something hesitant and searching, unmistakable terror swirling in the depths—the kind Grian can’t decipher, but is determined to try to soothe anyway.
“I’m Grian,” he tells him. “And that guy behind me is Scar.” He hears a rustle behind him, and hopes that Scar will stay still. (He can just imagine Scar’s downward-pulled ears and an expression of a scolded puppy. It squeezes at his heart, knowing that Scar was just looking out for their safety, just trying to be involved and to understand the situation.) (He takes another breath, keeping himself together.) “Neither of us is going to hurt you,” he says softly. “Promise.”
Once again, the avian’s eyes flick past Grian’s shoulder to Scar.
He looks so distraught, Grian wants to bind his attention again, until he can be sure the avian won’t flee. He tries to be gentle with his question, coaxing: “What’s your name?”
The avian jolts on the spot, eyes wide as he looks back at Grian. His feathers puff up, and there’s a clear hesitation on his face.
Grian has no idea why this question would be a big deal. He tries not to frown about it.
“I, um—” The avian’s gaze shifts away, for the first time since his fall not settling on Grian nor Scar, instead flicking around. Nervous. Lost.
“It’s okay,” Grian tries softly.
The avian looks at him with misery so thick it temporarily coats his fear. He mumbles something.
Grian blinks and leans closer. “Sorry, what?”
“Um. A–Avi…?” replies a trembling voice.
Grian chirps, straightening back up (not even realising how naturally that bird sound slipped out of him this time), earwings fluttering. “Oh! Avi? Your name’s Avi?”
He gets a hesitant nod in reply.
Grian feels more pleased than he should at such a tiny win, but it’s something. It feels like maybe they’re getting somewhere. Now they have a name and a voice to attach to a face as they get tentatively familiar with each other.
He regards the avian in front of him with slightly more care, now that it seems like the danger of flight is not so imminent.
Avi is small. Startingly small—smaller than Grian. And amidst the fear in his features, it strikes Grian just how young he looks. Late teens, or early adulthood, but certainly several years short on Scar and Grian.
Rationally, he knows some hybrids grow up in this world. And that avians especially don’t have long life expectancy. But it still rings wrong, for someone so young and so afraid to be out here in this cruel world all by themselves.
Avi’s hair is dark brown, tousled from the fall, strands slipping free of a lousy bun. There are freckles mapped across his cheeks, more prominent but less of them than on Grian’s own skin. His wings are black, dishevelled; his clothes and hands stained by mud he’s sat in. And— There’s fabric wrapped up around his palms and wrists.
Grian pauses at the sight, heart kicking up a storm in his chest. Irrationally protective, just by the merit of being the same doomed species. “Avi,” he says slowly, eyes hanging on the bandages a moment longer before he looks up. “Are you hurt?”
“Wh—” The avian looks startled by the question. His eyes widen and he looks down, trailing to look at what Grian saw. “Oh.” He prickles up instantly, head kept down. He looks almost… ashamed? Avi’s fingers curl in tighter, skin stained by fresh mud where they’re bracing against the forest floor. “N–no.”
Grian blinks at the answer and looks down again. There’s no sign of blood on the bandages, but Avi’s knuckles look scraped and raw.
Not from a fight, or a fall.
From the cold.
Connecting the dots, Grian becomes suddenly aware of the small, incessant tremble of shivers running through the smaller avian. He’s got no coat. No cloak. Wings exposed. The winter barely just ended, still clinging onto the forest.
Grian shudders.
“Scar?” he calls out, turning to look over his shoulder. (Trying to ignore the way Avi’s breath sharply hitches at the attention switch to the vex.)
“Were there any good enough spare cloaks?” Grian asks.
Scat tilts his head slightly. “Maybe?”
There’s a sliver of hesitation, a hint of anxiety lapping at Grian, but his mind is on a single-track right now, thinking of a small bird that needs help. “Can you go check?”
Tension floods Scar instantly at the mere suggestion. Uneasy, he shuffles closer instead of away. His ears tug low again, his expression not only troubled, but scared. He protests in a strained tone: “Grian—”
Before he can say more, a bewildered third voice crashes in:
“You want to separate?”
Grian and Scar both flinch, whipping around to look at the avian. He shrinks under their gazes.
“You don’t… have to,” he stammers, a bit squeaky, but bravely plunging on. “Not bec— not for me.”
Grian barely registers the words. His heart hammers in his throat, a wild and captive thing in uproar. His feathers are puffing up, but his wings are slinking back, thoughtlessly tucking underneath the cloak as if seeking out safety, stability, anything.
The thought of Scar walking away and out of sight is suddenly unbearably terrifying.
Why did he even suggest that?
“Grian,” Scar says again, his anxiety and reluctance palpable.
“I—” Grian hesitates, his eyes finding Scar’s concerned, pleading gaze. Determination burns in the green shine of Scar’s irises, defiant, disobedient, the emotion softened only by the desire for this to be amicably mutual. For Grian to understand and to agree.
They will not separate.
Eyes darting back to the avian, Grian chances slowly standing up. “We go together,” he declares.
He hears a sigh of relief from behind him, can imagine the exhaling slump of Scar’s shoulders as the worst of the tension drains out, a battle won. (A battle that was never meant to find them again—especially not through friendly fire.) (Grian swallows down the bitterness and guilt, pushing past them with practiced familiarity.)
Avi keeps rooted to the spot, eyes following every movement.
“Come on,” Grian invites, trying to sound friendly and harmless. “You look cold. Let’s see what we can do.”
—
Together, they reach the patch of woods where the fight happened. Avi keeps further back, eyes nervously darting between the torn bodies and blood-drenched forest floor, and away. As if unused to the violence displayed. Or maybe just overly aware of its source standing still alive amidst the carnage, unfamiliar and dangerous.
Scar is sifting through the bodies, weaving in and out of the centre of it all. Out of the three of them, he’s the closest to the destruction he himself wrought with his bloodstained, clawed hands. He checks the bodies with practiced movements, no sheepishness left from those first days when he couldn’t look death in the face. There’s just cold indifference, a learned ruthlessness, the kind of practicality needed for survival.
Grian helps on the outskirts, unwilling to step too far from Avi’s orbit in case Avi would just slink away and disappear, given the chance. Grian isn’t entirely sure why that feels so important. Why his body is taut, ready to give chase, instead of letting this stranger go. Why he so abruptly and stubbornly needs to prove to this small, scared, lonely avian that he doesn’t have to run anymore. That he doesn’t have to be afraid.
Grian knows Scar is nervous about this. About another person allowed near them. About not knowing where Avi came from or where this will lead. How long of a presence this will be, and what mark it might leave on them this time. Of course he is anxious. So is Grian, in many ways.
But when Grian looks up and meets a brief flitting of Scar’s gaze and their eyes hold for a breath, he thinks Scar understands that Grian needs them to try here, despite that. Even if he might not be able to name a reason why they should. Why any of this would be a good idea. (They haven’t met any kindness in this world, and they were meant to be done giving it out themselves. It has only ever repaid them with hurt.)
Gratitude that he’s even entertained here—indulged, allowed—swells between Grian’s ribs. After Juni, to drag another person along with them is almost an unfathomable thought. Precarious. Toying with the line of unbearable. But—
Grian looks back at Avi.
He remembers how it feels, to be winged and scared and all alone in this world.
Of course this is a risk. A huge one. It tugs at Grian, anxiety nibbling and gnawing and tearing, endlessly warning him. But there’s something else alongside it, a different tug that just seems urgent enough to override everything else.
He wants this to be different. He wants their past experiences to be wrong—an outlier. He needs this to not be that. (They both do.) (Maybe all three of them.)
He looks back at Scar. “Is any of it good?”
Scar sighs from there he’s tugging at a cloak, assessing its side. “None small enough…”
Grian pauses. They can shorten the length if they need later, but it might give them trouble if they need to run and the cape gets stuck on thorns or trips Avi up or something. It is a hazard. Besides, with how small Avi is, they need to make sure it sits well enough on his shoulders, too.
Mulling things over, Grian bites the inside of his cheek.
He steps closer, crouching down to thumb at the material these cloaks are made of. Rougher than his current one. (His feathers bristle at the thought.) Less thick, too, but good enough to protect against elements at least.
It’ll have to do.
Hand lifting to the clasp of his own cloak—thick, wintery, fluff-lined, a good cloak—he asks: “What about for me?”
The vex meets his gaze, and understanding flickers to life almost instantly. “Oh.” Scar looks around again, then steps over a body. “Maybe,” he concludes as he starts tugging at one cloak, working to get it free from where it’s trapped underneath its previous owner.
Eventually, Scar manages to free a suitably-enough sized cloak, and he walks over to hand it to Grian. Their fingers brush and Grian offers a small smile, edges filled with trepidation and all the anxieties they share. Scar tries to return one back despite the nauseous pit in his stomach and all his nerves frayed and alight, awaiting the ruse, the danger, the trap.
When Grian turns to the smaller avian, Scar silently returns his attention back to the bodies, intending to finish the sweep and gather more things. Goodies, as well as any spare clothes and fabrics, will come useful later. And there’s no time to waste.
Avi watches Grian’s approach with unease that signifies he is still just a sharp movement away from spooking and fleeing. It’s discouraging, but despite the ache of knowing he can’t calm these fears on-the-spot, that they won’t rest so easily, Grian is determined to try.
There’s an unspoken expectation that Grian will hand over the cloak Scar’s just given him.
Instead, Grian unclasps his own and extends it over instead. “Here.”
Avi blinks, stilling completely. “What?”
“For you. It’ll keep you warm.” Grian tries to sound reassuring, tries to sound soft. The cloak is warmed by his own body, heavy with protection and somewhat frayed from wear. His wings shift on his back, feathers rustling slightly as he itches to have his hand free so he could replace their cover.
“You— You can’t give me this,” Avi stammers, eyes wide as they flit across Grian’s face.
“It’s not like you’re gonna run away with it,” Grian notes in a half-joke, though he knows the possibility could very well be real.
With a whispering crackle of shrubbery and twigs, Scar comes from behind, arms full of carefully balanced loot, slotting himself easily near Grian without having to be asked. He doesn’t crowd close enough to touch the wings, but he positions himself well enough to hide the violets from any unwanted sight from behind.
While Avi flinches slightly at his presence, Grian exhales, shoulders slumping in relief where nerve-wracking anxieties were starting to build up.
“N-no,” Avi stammers, even though he still looks every bit like he might bolt.
Maybe Grian hopes that something borrowed will bind him to them. Maybe he hopes the show of goodwill and trust will soothe the worst of the nerves, swaying the outcome here. He isn’t sure. He just wants Avi to warm up, mostly. He looks so small and miserable, and Grian wants to help, however unwise it might be.
After all this time in the wilderness, surrounded by the cruelty of the world, it surprises him to find that still somewhere within him. If there wasn’t some desperate, instinctual response burrowed into him, and a core-trait stubbornness needing to prove something to himself and to this world alike, he isn’t sure he’d be acting this foolish.
But as it is, Avi is an avian, alone, cold, hungry, and scared. And Grian knows how that feels far too well.
He can’t just turn his back and let this world take another one of them down without even trying.
“Then consider it safekeeping,” Grian offers to Avi, still holding the cloak out.
He’s still met with hesitation. But then slowly, carefully—almost miraculously—Avi’s hands reach forward, fingertips shy when they meet the fabric.
Grian relinquishes it easily, glad to free his own hands to be able to put the other, less warm cloak on. Eager to escape the creeping cold and, most importantly, cover up his own wings.
Scar doesn’t move forward to claim a spot by Grian’s side once they’re all done dressing up. He stands still a step back, gifting the little guy some space. Looking, perhaps a little bit, like a seasoned bodyguard. (And he is, in a way, isn’t he?)
Grian turns to him, their eyes meeting. There’s an offer of gratitude in Grian’s expression, something soft and still pleading, and Scar meets it head-on. A soothing smile, even if tight around the edges, and a tiny nod.
Grian’s hands reach to take over some of the bundled things Scar’s holding, help with carrying and mobility alike. They need to be ready for anything out there, and stumbling with a heap of things is not good. Relying on one person not to drop their entire loot is also not ideal, not if they need to run—they’ve learned their lessons.
Even if no loot is worth more than their lives.
Expectation crackles through the air, weighty and hovering. Grian almost feels like if he turns back, the avian will be gone. Or at least several steps further away. There’s something about Avi that makes it seem like he doesn’t know how to handle company.
Grian can’t really blame him.
Yet when he faces him again, Avi’s still there. Tugging the warm cloak tight against himself and shivering into its warmth, the inside blissfully warmed by Grian’s body heat despite how long it’s been hanging in offer between them. The avian shifts foot to foot, eyes still skittish and nervous, as if unsure what to expect here. Unfamiliar with the next steps.
“You don’t have to be alone anymore,” Grian tells him, soft and inviting. “Come with us.”
A complicated expression passes across Avi’s face. He searches Grian’s expression, eyes flitting timidly to Scar. It makes sense: they’re strangers to him. This could easily be a trap. There certainly exist hybrids out there that lure others to their doom. Caution is warranted.
But there is a pile of bodies, snow stained by bloodshed, firmly putting Scar and Grian on one side of this fight.
And so in the end, despite any lingering anxieties, Avi follows.
—
They walk through the cold of the forest for what feels like forever. Bodies worn and stomach hungry, they know better than to think they’re safe enough—far enough—to stop. There are things Grian’s learned to recognise, and the fact these hunters wore lighter cloaks despite the still-harsh weather tells him they didn’t come from very far. Which means they want to get as far as possible before darkness descends.
Still attuned to an extra set of footsteps following them, Grian takes note of Avi stumbling. Tired legs threatening to give out.
There is no point pushing ahead if one of them can’t run in case of danger.
They search, scanning their surroundings, but ultimately it’s Avi who finds the unassuming crack in the rocky wall leading into a dead-end cavern. Faint, dying light pools in feebly from the outside, just enough for them to take stock of what they have to work with and declare it enough. Things get dropped, and Grian and Scar move to secure the entrance and try to find anything remotely dry in case they would dare a campfire—the cave walls seem sheltered enough for the glow not to give them away, and if the night is dark enough, the smoke will also hide. (Just another set of things they have learned to take into account and think about automatically.)
Grian offers Avi some of their food, and tells him to just rest. Tells him, quietly, that he’s glad Avi’s there with them. (That he chose to follow. That he chose not to be alone. That he chose, however tentatively, to trust.)
Scar waits by the exit, vex ears flickering as they catch every syllable. His heart tugs in complicated ways, seeing Grian crouched over a small, stray avian with tired body and nothing to hold onto in this world. And… he’s proud of him.
But he’s also scared.
They’ve been through something like this. And no matter how much Scar tries to ignore it and push it away, the anxiety flares up, over and over; his trust is made of dry kindling, and it’s keen on catching aflame, threatening to burn back into ashes at slightest prod.
He doesn’t want to wait for that prod. For that last thing to push it over. They need to be prepared this time. Watchful.
He isn’t sure how watchful Grian is. More than anything, he seems wistful. A little hopeful, a little desperate. With the memory of eclipse hunt surely in the back of both of their minds, pained and terrified calls of avians plunging into harsh, cruel silence… Scar can’t blame him. He really can’t.
He hopes—not necessarily against all odds, but certainly against all experiences—that this will turn out to be okay. That this time, their kindness will finally be repaid, instead of punished. That maybe their bruised, doomed hearts can mend.
—
It’s difficult to see in the upcoming evening, leftover winter still quick to shroud them in darkness. They wade through the forest near their hideout, trying to be alert and quiet and never too far from each other, always within sight. Separating for tasks is no longer a possibility—not since weeks ago. Months? Time blurs.
But it’s especially not a possibility now. With a salvaged stranger curled up in what is meant to be their safe shelter for the night.
Grian’s looking towards the cave again. It’s silent, not a movement in sight. Avi is snugly put inside, presumably doing as he was told: resting. Restlessly, Grian chews at his lip, a small frown pulling at his brows, troubled.
Scar steps into his orbit with ease, shoulders lightly brushing.
Grian glances at him, half-distracted. But he leans into him, grateful for the anchor. For the attentiveness he’s given. He takes a breath, and slowly speaks what’s eating at him: “I worry he might run away.”
Scar looks at the rocky wall too, pensive. Tense. Rigid, yet secure in his place right by Grian’s side. “Then let him,” he suggests, tone falsely breezy.
“Scar—”
The gaze Scar throws Grian’s way is unreadable. “He’s not our prisoner, is he?” he points out.
He doesn’t add the loud nor our responsibility that persistently bounces in his head.
Grian’s lips purse. He can tell Scar is uneasy—unhappy even—about this arrangement. Grian himself feels off, but this feels important to him on a level he struggles to express. Though even he has to admit Scar’s right here. There is no point trying to prevent Avi from leaving if he truly wants to. They are not going to keep him against his will.
“No…” Grian breathes out eventually, on a sigh.
“Well then.” Scar leans in, pressing a brief kiss to Grian’s hair before he steps away, eyeing a stick on the ground ripe for picking. “Stop worrying so much about things you can’t control.”
The sound that leaves Grian is a defeated laugh, more a huff than anything. “Any easier advice up your sleeve?” he half teases, something fond tugging at his lips even if the troubled edge doesn’t leave his expression.
Scar hums, picking the stick up and dropping it almost instantly, once he feels how awfully damp it is. “Mm, well, what exactly do you wish to achieve here, Grian?” he questions, his own unease over the situation palpable as he turns to look back at his mate.
It’s a loaded question. What’s the end-goal? What are they trying to do?
Grian’s shoulders hunch up, both defensiveness and helplessness on clear display for Scar to read through. Things he doesn’t like to see, but is fairly familiar with. And this, they need to talk about.
“I just,” Grian stammers, heart picking up speed as he tries to tug at the knots of his own feelings. They don't give. “I…” His shoulders fall down, together with his gaze, lips downturned.
“Shh,” Scar is instantly stepping towards him, cradling the twigs he’s collected with one arm and reaching the other towards his mate. Fingers brush Grian’s shoulder, rub against it soothingly. “Just tell me anything. We can polish it later. I just— I need something here, G.”
Grian’s eyes jump to his, glistening with deep-set emotion. Something raw and alive and so horribly, indescribably cornered. “I just,” he repeats, his voice sounding even smaller for the lack of defensiveness that was in it before. “I don’t want him to end up like—” His voice cracks. Gives out.
They both know what he means. Death and blood and ripped wings. Screams of pain and pleas and nobody in this cruel world who’d listen or help.
“I need someone to survive, Scar,” Grian insists, determined despite the shakiness in his voice.
It’s not hard to read between the lines. To know Grian means someone winged beside himself. To prove that it’s possible. To go against everything this world demands. To resist, to rebel—this part of Grian is familiar, yet it’s drenched in such painful hues after what they’ve been through in the past months, Scar can barely stand to witness it.
“Okay,” Scar replies softly, tipping forward to let their foreheads meet. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Grian repeats, hope breaking his voice.
Scar pulls away to show Grian a lopsided, albeit a bit sorrowful smile. Sad for them. Sad for the fates of others. Sad for things they can’t control. But it’s a smile anyway, unrobbed of this part of himself, comforting and fond and devoted. The core of Scar’s heart that’s only survived thanks to Grian.
Maybe Grian can make more things survive. Maybe they can do some good, after all.
Maybe he just needs to trust a little. As long as they don’t let go of each other. As long as they stay vigilant through this. Together. It’ll be okay.
“I… Scar,” Grian’s voice is dipped low, still such a small thing. It reflects that same sorrow and fondness that’s written all over Scar’s expression. “We’ll show him that he doesn’t have to be afraid of you.”
He puts a name to the hurdle they have now: to make the avian feel safe.
Safe enough to stay.
And with the way he was looking at Scar, stumbling to stay at a distance from the vex, out of arm’s reach… This is clearly one of the first things that needs to be addressed.
And it’s the part that makes Scar feel weird. He isn’t used to be seen as scary by anyone who isn’t intent on putting him down or calling him a monster. This is a small creature, helpless and scared, and somehow Scar is finding himself on the big bad wolf side of this tale.
This is so unlike what happened with Juni. With the mimic, Scar was instantly put on a pedestal, a key to survival, a capable protector. Juni kept near him for Scar’s strength and for all the scary features, recognising them as assets instead of the nightmare they could turn out to be.
(And yet Scar remembers that flash of terror, right there, at the very end. When everything Juni clung to turned against him.) (When Scar almost took a life he’d regret taking. When Scar almost lost control, lost himself. When Scar almost lost everything.)
Despite everything, it’s still jarring to think of himself as scary. Grian never treats him as such, and sometimes he forgets.
“Yeah,” Scar agrees, this time with a crack in his own voice.
Grian’s eyes flood with shifting emotions, raw and deep and unspoken. He shifts his own pile of twigs to reach up, fingertips caressing and brushing Scar’s cheek so very gently.
Scar can’t help but purr helplessly, eyelashes fluttering shut as he leans into the touch with a pained line between his brows, starving for affection and reassurance in this new situation they’ve gotten themselves into.
“I’m sorry,” Grian speaks with ache in his voice, with all the doubts they both have, wrapping them in thorny thread of guilt directed inwards. Aware that this is happening because of him. For him. That if it was up to Scar, the decision might be different altogether. “Please, try with me,” he begs.
With a small whine upon hearing that tone, Scar’s eyes open again. Soft forest green spilling across Grian’s expression with the kind of pained fondness that’d make Scar follow Grian anywhere. “No, no, don’t be sorry,” he hushes, face tilting until his lips meet Grian’s palm. Scar’s fingers loop lightly around Grian’s wrist, keeping it near. Asking him not to retreat. “Of course, Grian,” he reassures quietly, private words meant just for them. “I wouldn’t take this away from you. I’m just a bit wary. It’s… hard to trust.”
Grian looks away as Scar voices what’s been troubling them both. The roadblock they’re facing. The one that’s staring them down right back, like a challenge.
“I know,” Grian mutters. “But he’s— Scar, he’s so small and scared.”
The point about how Avi is nothing to be afraid of dies on his tongue before it even forms. Both of them know better than that. There’s no reward in underestimating others. Especially when that is exactly what Scar thought about Juni, too.
Scar’s hold on Grian’s wrist tightens minisculely, and he dips to kiss Grian’s palm again, his devotion unfaltering. “Please be careful?”
Grian nods, heart thudding a painful rhythm against his ribs. He feels a little breathless there. It feels like they’re standing on a precipice, toes already hanging over the line, and they can’t see how deep the plunge is or what awaits at the bottom.
Grian’s wings itch.
Slowly, Scar lets Grian’s hand go. He readjusts the twigs that have started slipping his hold. His eyes never leave Grian’s. “You’re sure about this, right?” He checks again, just to hear it. Just to have their fate sealed.
Grian looks pained. But his answer doesn’t change. “Yes.”
Scar breathes out and leans in to press a forehead kiss on top of Grian’s head. “Okay. Just let me know what you need from me. I’m here.”
Eyes closing, Grian leans close, forehead coming to rest against the crook of Scar’s neck. Taking a moment of silence to recharge. Knowing they shouldn’t stay away too long, shouldn’t stay out here too long either. But just for a moment, just for a little bit… He wants things to still.
Just him and Scar. And whatever lies ahead.
He nuzzles slightly in, then pulls away. Gaze cast around to check their surroundings.
Everything remains still, except his stuttering heartbeat.
“I…” Grian starts, but falters. Still peering towards the dark, towering trees. The snow is thin underneath, whiteness and mud and dry pine needles gathering in patches. Three sets of footprints lead straight to their little cave, and they’re about to walk around a lot more.
Unease crawls up his neck. Trying to hide in winter, in flightless places, has been challenging. But he isn’t sure if the thaw of spring won’t bring with it more hunt parties, weather turning favourable to remain outdoors for prolonged hours.
“Mm?” Scar tries to grab his attention again, to steer it back wherever it’s fallen from.
Grian’s eyes find his, and the hesitation is still there, on clear display. His hold on the gathered twigs tightens, squeezing them to his chest. They poke and cling to his cloak, dirtying it further.
“G. What do you need?” Scar asks, his one free hand coming up to cup Grian’s face, thumb brushing over the sleepless bruising underneath Grian’s eye.
Grian takes a shaky breath, as if this idea itself took so much from him. His gaze searches Scar’s eyes, flitting like a skittish animal. But the thought is lodged, buzzing against his skin with instincts he never really listened to before he found himself empty-handed in this place. “... I want to make a… more proper nest. I think?” His eyes anchor and hold, part unsure, part pleading.
Making a nest here feels like an insurmountable feat. A needless luxury that he hasn’t allowed himself even back home where he had every means to make one. He knows that if he tries here, it won’t be much. He knows he might fumble through it all, unused to it. He knows that presenting a lacklustre nest to another avian who might know better might be a fool’s errand, but… There’s a part of him that thinks it might be comforting. That Avi of all people might appreciate it.
The extra clothes they looted earlier were always meant to be a cushion for sleep, for warmth. Strips of fabric are always needed for various things, all of it usable. But it’s not exactly enough for a real nest… Or so Grian thinks.
It’s not like he’d know.
He doesn’t dwell on it; the reality of how he’s never really done a lot of nest building, together with the reasons for it, slides right off him.
A soft intake of breath speaks magnitude of Scar’s reaction. Wide eyes reading something sensitive and fragile in between the lines. Perplexed a touch, but mostly awed.
Warmth blooms in Scar’s chest, but he’s unsure how much to let it. Is it hope, or are they walking down a road that won’t prove to be good? He can’t tell. He can’t tell, but—
Grian wants this. Grian, who finds it so hard to give in to any too-birdlike instincts, who has been running from this and avoiding it his whole life— He wants to try to make a nest. Deliberately. With intent.
This is huge.
Scar barely realises his tail has sprouted out, swishing behind him. Faint glow of hopeful, smitten magic pierces the falling dimness of the evening as he rushes to nod, to agree, to do anything it’d take for Grian not to lose this precious, thin, barely-there thread. “Okay! A nest it is! We can make one, we—” He looks around, a little stumped. “What do we need?”
Grian huffs a small laughter, endeared and a little lost. A whole-soul kind of glad to have Scar so seamlessly onboard, no questions asked. (Well, one question asked. But not like that.) “I don’t actually know,” he admits. Because he doesn’t.
“Oh.” Scar straightens, ears flicking wildly. “Do you… want to go ask our new friend?”
Grian chews at his lip, gaze flicking away. He shakes his head. He wants to do this for Avi. He wants to provide safety that crawls in on an instinctual level. But the doubts seep in, rising like a tide up from his ankles, threatening to rapidly climb higher. A flood.
Scar sees the line that forms between Grian’s eyebrows, troubled, worried. It’s an expression he recognises, just shy of a spiral. “Hey,” he speaks gently, bidding for attention. Looking to divert those wild waters away from underneath Grian’s feet. “We can dry the stuff we hauled in by the campfire! That we’ll also totally make. Fire-warmed clothes! Those will be nice to burrow into, right? A nice, fire-warmed nest.”
The word nest travels down Grian’s spine in a yearning shudder. He feels himself mesmerised, caught by it like moth by a candle flame, eyes wide and wanting. His heart flutters in its bony cage, feeling bruisable, so very unsure. “... What if I won’t know how to make one?” Anxiety bleeds out of his voice, syllables timid and tiny.
Scar offers him a smile, unfailing, ready to walk through a battlefield if that’s what it takes. “How hard can it be?”
Grian latches onto it with a strength of a heretic. Doubt whispers against his skin, his hands already feeling clumsy, even though all they are doing right now is carrying twigs for the flame.
What if he messes this up? What if he won’t know what to do?
But Scar’s looking straight at him, seeing him with all of his fraying nerves, and he’s remaining steady. He’s remaining solid and unflinching, and he’s going to be here with Grian through this no matter what.
“Besides,” Scar tacks on, his voice saccharine and just a notch salesmany, “no one can be scared of a man doing laundry, right?”
That elicits a smile from Grian, however weak. “Worth a try,” he replies.
And then he takes a breath, readying to walk onto this particular battlefield together with Scar.
HMTB chapter 60: The Blood That Stains (Our Surroundings, Our Hands, Your Veins)
is now posted on AO3!!
---
This time, he’ll be a guard dog. He’ll learn how to bite when the conman smile isn’t working. He’ll learn how to keep Grian behind him, safe, safe, safe, putting himself at the forefront of the danger instead.
Grian’s spent all that effort to keep Scar alive when the sun beamed relentlessly down, warming the sand beneath their feet. He hung around him, concerned and anxious, watching over him. He told him Scar’s life is too valuable to lose.
Now it was Scar’s turn to tug those playing cards out of Grian’s stubborn grasp and take hold of them. It was his turn to play this game. To be watchful and protective. To put himself in harm’s way when he has lives still left to lose.
Well the good news is I opened my TFTDC doc for the first time in ages and ages!
The bad news is I opened it to entirely rework the mostly written June II and basically the entire remainder of the fic lol
But I truly believe the story will be better for the changes! (plot isn't really changing, just structural order)
I realized the story as I'd planned it almost 4 years ago just wasn't working with where TFTDC ended up going, and I think that's the main reason I've found writing it such a struggle in recent years.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
HMTB chapter 59: House Of Matches (Burning Down) II
is now posted on AO3!!
---
Impulse doesn’t want to wake up to a tragedy he was meant to prevent. He doesn’t want to fail here. He can’t.
He refuses to pick sinking contently into ignorance, just because it’s easier in this very moment. Because while pushing through to get answers might seem like the hard option here, the alternative is something none of them would be able to bear, and… Impulse can’t allow that. He can't let things slip through his fingers and fall. Can't, can't, can't.
And so, bracing himself, he squares his shoulders, brittle determination flickering in his gaze. There is no other choice to make here. It's simple: he won’t take those chances. He won't let that tragedy unfold itself without him trying. He won’t turn his back, close his eyes.
He won’t let everyone shatter in the aftermath of something preventable. Not on his watch.
Ignoring the vertigo that gleefully reminds him that he is not in control, that he holds no guarantees over their fates, he stubbornly marches on through marshes and trenches and minefields lined with barbed wires. Feet sinking into sand he never expected to be on the battlefield in the first place.
He has to keep going.
There’s nothing else to do but this. There never was.
