thinking about the parallels between scar and joel and their relationship with loneliness. scar, who loved and lost, time and time again ended up left alone at the end of it all, and eventually made his peace with solitude, to the point where he won and stayed alive in an empty world. joel, who never knew what it was to have someone, was surrounded by nothing but his wolves and was fine staying like that, but who grew and learnt, got burnt because of it, and only cherished the relationships he made all the more. who grew more and more acquainted with what it was to be loved over the seasons, and at the same time grew more and more afraid of being alone.
the man who was never meant to be alone, never knew what it was like to not crave someone at his side, fighting stubbornly before eventually accepting his destiny and finding comfort in the sound of nothing but his own voice. the man who was born wearing his loneliness like a second skin, finding out what it was like to be anything other than what he was and learning to dread the day that the soul-sucking solitude had him once more.
hi chatters sorry for dying. thanking @raijuchesis @loveroped @angeart and @sunieraes for beta-ing i appreciate you <3
here it is on AO3 x
and if you want to read it here you can do that !!
He’s succeeded his task, and the wind was faintly blowing in his ear, almost sounding like laughter.
He’s succeeded his task, and the sun was just peeking over the mountains. He didn’t even realize he’d gone the whole night without a blink.
He’s succeeded his task, and the cold air was gnawing against his skin. He could hardly care anymore.
Win Secret Life. Win Secret Life. Win Secret Life.
He was drowning now, and felt the familiar sense of life being drained from him before arriving back at the Secret Keeper. He stared at it coldly (everything was cold.)
A skeleton was somewhere in the distance. It was shooting at him, but Scar couldn’t be bothered to care. The arrows buried themselves into his skin, but as he bled and whatever remaining life source once again drained out of him, Scar didn’t recognize the pain as much as he should have. All he really felt was numbness, a fucked up sense of relief. He closed his eyes, exhaling softly, wishing, hoping, praying for release.
If he died now, he would be gone. He would be free.
Of course the Gods above cared too much about their entertainment to let him go. So when he opened his eyes, the arrows were gone. The only mark left that showed they were ever there were the scars. More to add to the collection, he supposed, bitterly staring up at the Secret Keeper statue.
Scar wanted to scream at it, to get TNT and blow the stupid thing to dust and rubble.
He pressed the button once more, wildly, angrily, and cursing so much that a sailor would cringe away.
Win Secret Life, it said. As always. He did win. As always.
Pressing the button over and over again wouldn’t do anything, but he did anyway, something in him snapping. Only getting more desperate and upset with each hit as it gave him more and more books. He didn’t care that his hand was getting splintered, that a nasty bruise was starting to form, that he felt it breaking. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care about anything anymore, he couldn’t focus on caring. Scar just wanted to go home.
He didn’t even realize when he started rapidly hitting the stone instead, putting so much weight and force into his attacks that the button had broken. When he paused long enough to realize, he swore he couldn’t feel himself breathing anymore. The books were splattered around, his hand was bloodied, and his legs crumbled from underneath him.
Scar prided himself on being resilient, only crying once or twice after a Life Game. But seeing his own blood on a half beaten rock where the button should have been, feeling the cold air biting at his skin, the awareness that he was irrefutably alone, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to do anything in order to go home, shattered any resolve he so wished to keep.
His hands didn’t seem like his as he laid them, shakily, gently, carefully, on pedestal once more. His whole body shook, wracked with impending doom. He was sobbing, he realized, though the tears never seemed real. None of this seemed real. He couldn’t breathe through it, and some sick part of him hoped that it would continue, that his body would finally collapse and allow him to be detached from this world.
But maybe he deserved this.
Maybe with how many people he killed, how many people he made suffer, this was his punishment. A permanent loop, a permanent limbo, forever cursed to be alone.
Maybe that was the reason for his time here; showing that his destiny, his purpose, his fate, was to be on his own. Where he grew up, it wasn’t exactly an option to talk with other people, and perhaps he got too comfortable in Hermitcraft. Last Life should have been his reminder, his push in the right direction, but he wanted the interaction. The comfort of being near someone was too tempting to turn down. Yet the bite of cold he felt constantly growing up in the apocalypse, it was the same he felt on that horrible mountain in Last Life. It was the same he felt now. He couldn’t escape it, no matter how many blankets or campfires he had, just like how he wouldn’t ever be able to be relieved of the crippling isolation that threatened to overflow and drown him.
He didn’t know when time started to blur even more, he didn’t know when he started to feel so numb that it felt like he couldn’t move his legs. He couldn’t care for it. He wasn’t sure if he was capable of doing just that. The sun was blaring, it might have stung to look at, yet he just kept staring upward, blankly. There wasn’t much else he could do, anyways. He broke the button. He probably broke his hand too, but he was floating too much to really register it.
He didn’t notice when his legs became anchored to the ground. The hope that the possibility of his opponents (they were friends, they were friends, they were friends) cared enough to come back, to check in on him, was of course foolish. They wouldn’t. It should have bothered him more, and maybe some part of him was uneasy. But a bigger part of him was tired.
Now, his legs didn’t just feel heavy, they felt like stone.
And that’s when he noticed he couldn’t sit up. That everything was so much colder. That he was so much more aware of the world. He could make out every grass blade being eaten by grazing animals, the fish wading through the waters, and he didn't even flinch at the desperate snarling of the Undead– the zombies. They were hungry, ravenous, and all he could really do was shift his energy away from it.
He still felt like he was being stared at, yet he couldn’t detect the stare of the Secret Keeper anymore. It bothered him in the back of his mind. In the dark corners, it felt more than simply wrong. His eyes felt sluggish, but somehow he knew he wouldn’t be able to close them. Now he had to watch, to feel more than the ground below him, the suffocating air around him. It was dark. It was bright. It was hot, but so so so cold.
All he could do was stare into the sky, watching the sun reach into his peripherals and watch it fade away into a cold night, stars tracing each speck of his vision. It should have been the only thing he saw. He didn’t know how he saw everything. But the statue wasn’t there anymore, it wasn’t watching along beside him.
He tried to regard it as a good thing. That he didn’t have to feel that prying stare bear into him. But all he could think was that he was now those intrusive, intense, invading eyes. It wasn’t that it was gone, it was that he took its place. He didn’t know if shattering that stupid button was the cause, but he didn’t even mean to break it. He had just wanted to go home.
He can’t even think of how he’d do that now. He barely remembers the faces of his opponents. No, no, they were his friends. Yes, his friends. He couldn’t remember the faces of his friends. They were all muddled and blurry, just like the memories of their time together, hardly resurfacing when he tried to remember. He remembers a boat pole? Bluebells— no, that wasn’t right. He couldn’t frame it correctly, but akin to. A flower of sorts, poisonous to something. He remembers vague things about vexes, though they were just a– a mob with no real significance. He can’t quite... God, why can’t he remember. They were his friends, he said it himself, they were kind and funny and. He wished he could remember more about them other than their bloodshed, than their violence. There were pieces he was missing.
(He misses them. He needs them. He doesn’t know why he’s here, why he’s had to isolate and disconnect from everyone he knew for the sake of Watching. But it isn’t his job to question it, if he could even do such a thing. At least not anymore.)
Time passed on, he knows it’s passed on. There’s little, in this world at least, he doesn’t know at this point. But as far as the people who are gone, the people he killed, he doesn’t know where they are now. How long it’s been for them. He knows there’s not much he can do about it. There’s not much they can do to save him. He thought, he hoped, the numbness was back.
He didn’t know how much he even felt anymore, he wasn’t sure he was capable of feeling. So why, why, is there so much dread in the pits of his stomach. Why is there nausea building in his body, his head throbbing with a migraine. Why did his fear come back all at once, his disquiet of being so utterly alone solitary abandoned abandoned abandoned being seemingly worse than before. It’s not like it ever left, but if it did, it came back stronger than it ever was prior. He didn’t mind being numb, really. He half-heartedly wished for it back. He vaguely realized in his mind he won’t be going home anymore. And this wasn’t at all what he wanted. To be trapped in a never ending loop of pain and pressing buttons was hardly on anyone’s bucket list. He didn't even know what he wanted now, other than to simply rest.
Though now he figured this was why he was here. Why wouldn’t they want someone already contiguous to not one soul— someone so bloodthirsty— in their grasp. Playing their sick games until he could only regurgitate futile means of escaping. Watching for them. Commanding for them. Succeeding for them. Maybe he should have felt horrified at the prospect, and maybe he did, but if it wasn’t at the forefront, he could hardly be expected to feel anything other than that flooding sense of numbness. Maybe he didn’t want to be here. Maybe he did. It didn’t matter now. He had a job to do.
He succeeded his task, and it was then he noticed the button on the stone pedestal was back. It was nicer than the old one. Engraved in markings he recognized. It was the traditional Elven designs that coiled around harsh stone, though he could already feel the connection to his identity fading away.
He succeeded his task, and yet when he tried to reach out for it, he couldn’t move his hand anymore.
He succeeded his task, and now he’d be making sure when others came along, they’d succeed too.
He could vaguely remember that he was Scar, but even that was fading from his mind. Now he was the keeper, the beholder, the Successor of the thing that was here before.
.
.
.
.
.
They had no idea how long they were trapped in there. They tried to glance around, and though they could technically see, they couldn’t See, not how they were used to. They didn’t wish for it back. Or perhaps they did. But the harsh transition made it difficult to look around at all.
They knew they were not envious of their replacement— though it was still hard to grasp that they could feel, really feel again. The sensations latched onto them like they'd always been there; like it was coming home— but they couldn’t remember anything to match it, or anything at all. It had been too overwhelming to have so many of them, to notice and detect sensations other than stone and that icy cold that swallowed them whole.
It had been far too long to even remember their name. They were trying awfully hard as well, to remember the identity they had left behind. Before all the buttons, before all the colored names and hopeless faces showed, before all the cravings of violence just to get a sick taste of what being angry meant. They had a life, surely.
They looked down at their new body. This one couldn’t have been their old one– Staring into the reflection they remembered the face of their Successor, eyes still red and running rampant on Red Life urges. They weren’t in that world, and yet. They wondered if the bloodshed would ever stop.
It was rather warm here, they noticed, but for some reason they could still sense that bite of cold they felt as the Keeper.
They didn’t quite know where they were, but they could hear someone approaching. They almost expected a button to be pressed, for them to make a request. Of course that didn’t happen here, and instead a voice called out.
Excited, concerned, afraid, afraid, afraid—
“Scar, oh my god.” The person, upon seeing them, ran over much faster than they had expected. And to their own surprise, they recognized their– her– voice. She was hard to forget, really, because admittedly, she was one of their favorites. The Newbie, the first to truly find the End in their domain. (Their old domain. It wasn’t theirs anymore.) One with such promise, such potential. Of course now they’re rather glad she didn’t win. “Scar, where have you been?”
They forgot they were in place of the Successor, they forgot that was even his name. They tried to open their mouth to respond, but it turns out after spending what felt like centuries with their mouth made of literal stone, it was a bit harder to get words out. They were sure it’d be raspy anyway, from the misuse.
They remembered her name now, and vague recollections of Scar’s memories came back from when they Saw him. Her name was Gem.
Gem frowned at his silence, and Scar– not Scar, they’re not Scar– tensed, worried that they’d already be found out within five seconds.
“I won’t– I won’t push you into talking, Scar,” she said, to their surprise. She surveyed them with such concern that it made them discern… something. Guilt? Embarrassment? She continued, spurred on by them remaining silent. “It’s just– you’ve been gone for almost, uh, two months now. I think.”
They didn’t have to pretend to shudder at the time frame.
It had been way longer than just two months.
Honestly, they really did try getting their mouth open to speak, to demand, but all they could manage were raspy grunts. Gem winced, yet kept her relatively calm demeanor.
“It’s okay, I don’t want to force you.” She reaches over slowly, maybe so that if they wanted to back away, they would. They didn’t. It could have been because moving was so unknown, unfamiliar. Or because they regarded Gem as more than just trustworthy; as safe.
The touch burned before it felt like a regular mortal being was actually holding them. She gently encouraged them to move forward, for them to follow her, a smile now plastered on her face.
“Come on, Scar, let’s get you home, yea?”
Home.
In their last moments before the Successor took over, they remembered his last thoughts were wistfully praying that he’d be let go. Back to wherever here was, where they could pretend his past was long gone and have fun and play— not dangerous— games. Where they could have just a little company.
The memory made them feel like something was twisting in their gut, their throat closing up with such a tightness it felt like they were forgetting how to breathe. They didn’t remember what that feeling was. But they needed to get rid of it, and Gem’s words were so warm, such a drastic change from the icy wind clawing at each part of them, threatening to freeze them over.
Gem’s offer didn’t seem to hold the same malice, but when they tried to see into it, see her intentions, they were swiftly reminded their abilities were no longer with them. The similar sensation in their gut came back, and it screamed and yelled at them to run, to get far away. Logically, though, if they were to run, Gem would most likely catch them a lot easier than they’d like to admit. They were not used to having legs that— more or less— work. And if she wanted to kill them she would have already done so.
So they nod, following her carefully after she takes her hand off their shoulder. She let go, and it still felt like it was there, still felt like it was burning, still felt like it was there to keep it burning. Gem’s touch wasn’t bad, at least they didn’t think so. They hadn’t had any contact with anyone or anything for so long, and perhaps that was why it felt so sudden. So much. They tried to trail behind her as best they could, only becoming more overwhelmed with each step.
They’re not familiar with so much of this, so many textures, so many potential people around, so many so many so many—
It wasn’t her fault, really.
She just kept leading on, adding little comments here and there. It was hard to keep paying attention to her when she wasn’t the only one making noise. Grass crunched from underneath them, water was crashing a little while away, Gem’s armor was rattling against itself with every step, there were probably people in the distance, not bothering to keep their voices down.
Their vision got blurry after a while, their legs felt like mush. They didn’t think it had been that long, though that didn’t make them feel better. They could barely make out Gem’s face, her antlers being the only thing that they could really see.
Everything was spinning around them, going too fast. Or it could have been that they were going too slow. It hurt to keep their eyes open, but the worry that if they closed them now, the worry it’ll be like before made them try so very hard to not blink.
And despite their best efforts, they felt the impact of hitting the ground before anything else.
And despite themself, they knew their eyes were rolling back into their head.
At least it wasn’t everything all at once, but now it was— once again— nothing.
.
.
.
.
They woke up, not expecting to be able to feel the softness of whatever they were laying on. They were laying down as well, a position they hadn’t been able to be in before. Though they half expected to be frozen like that, it was certainly a lot more comfortable now than it used to be. They didn’t try to move, at least not for a while, unsure they even could.
They were talking about them. Not them. Well, maybe it was them technically, but it was still about Scar. The Scar they knew.
“—Just overwhelmed, maybe,” a voice— they could recognize once more as Gem— said, most likely contributing to a conversation that had already started. “I don’t know. He’s been gone for months.”
“Oh, trust me, I’m aware, Gem.”
Grian. That voice belonged to Grian. They didn’t have the same excitement towards the man as maybe some of the Others did. They didn’t want to like Grian, and as much as They tried to make them favor him, they had leaned towards Gem.
They thought she’d be smart enough to figure it out. Clearly, they had thought wrong.
They still weren’t moving, afraid to even try, and instead waded through the waters of their mind, through every crevice of newfound sensations, newfound thoughts. It still felt they weren’t their own, as if they were still rifling through someone else’s head.
They couldn’t tell if they still felt like it was burning, and they were once again worried they were back there again because even with however many sensations their body may have been experiencing, it still felt so far away.
They realized they were shaking.
Which was good, they thought. Good that they could move, at least. They couldn’t think much of anything else when trying to refocus on Gem and Grian, whose voices had become slightly raised.
“That’s not what I meant,” she huffed, inhaling sharply. “I am glad he’s back, I was just— concerned.”
“We all had this after the first Death Game, Gem. Scar shouldn’t feel more violent than, you know, he usually is.”
“But his eyes— even if they weren’t red— they were so empty.”
“Winning a game can be a lot. And Scar was by himself that whole time, even before his, uh, extended hiatus. I think we both know that Scar being alone isn't his favorite thing in the world.”
“You— Okay, I can see that. I mean I think the Death Games can be a lot for anyone, just on its own. But sure.” She let out a long sigh, as if she hadn’t taken a breath throughout that entire conversation. “I care about him too, Grian. It’s not just you.”
They were both silent for a moment, and for a small second, they thought they had walked away. That was until Grian spoke.
“I know.” His voice was so soft, almost a whisper. “I know. I just— Let’s just make sure to make something fun for when he wakes up. Or at least a cup of water.”
Gem lets out a hum of agreement, and they can’t help but feel that pain in their chest. One that seems bad at first, yet seems to feel more comforting. Even as they hear the door being opened and closed, it remains.
It’s a feeling that, although they barely remembered anything, they know they craved and strived to have it. The feeling of being cared for, of knowing that you’re cared for.
It was ridiculous, especially as they weren’t even Scar. It was only a matter of time before they found out, before they kicked them right back out for very justifiable reasons. And yet it was hard to deny the temptation of staying, just to feel wanted for even a little while. To have a connection with a real person, a real being. They know it won’t last, as things usually do, but they didn’t see why they couldn't savor this.
It’s not theirs to savor, they know this. But there’s no one else to provide that connection to them anymore. Even if there was, they don’t remember. It’s frustrating how much they don’t remember, how much they remember about Scar more than they remember about themself.
They knew they should say something, but the thought of being cast aside was enough to replace the feeling in their chest with a much heavier weight.
They knew they weren’t Scar, but for now, they could pretend.
They knew they would be forced to leave eventually, but for now, just for now, they could stay.
So with the start of a new season and the end of sl I come bearing scar angst:
After sl ends scar gets stuck there right but no one knows. Pearl and grian, the other two winners, just think scar needs some time alone and they think he's just in a private server or something.
Scar meanwhile is stuck in sl and he has no way out. I imagine time moves differently in there so who knows how long he's been there.
I think he'd be very... hmm. Emotional? Like one moment he's sobbing and the next he's fuming and screaming at the secret keeper.
I think he should have nightmares aboht him literally being the secret keeper- that could be fun.
But anyway.
When season 10 starts the others just greet scar and tell him that it's good to have him back and that they hope he's okay- and scar realises they think he's just been somewhere by himself to deal with stuff, not that he was literally stuck in a server filled with dead bodies of his ~~friends~~ enemies.
So scar has to just pretend everything's fine and everything's normal and he's doing okay! He definitely doesn't have any issues! He definitely isn't touch starved!
Idk just scar wanting someone to hug him, to hold him, but also he can't bring himself to ask for any comfort because he feels like he doesn't deserve it.
I think him bottling everything up and not being able to deal with anything while in sl could lead to him being a bit more... uhhh what's the word.... aggressive? Like maybe he snaps at people occasionally without meaning to, he gets mad at stupid stuff like just dropping something on the ground etc.
He's just not doing very well and he's not dealing with anything at all.
I think he's also not used to being around other people who are actually alive.
Also the whole thing about magical mountain. I think Scar is just not doing very well in s10-
Something is wrong with Scar. Cleo regrets signing up for this.
(That’s a lie. They’re terrified what would have been if they hadn’t.)
CW: loneliness, arguing? that’s about it
in which sera takes a single line of dialogue scar had about knowing loneliness and runs with it
(also i was thinking of @stiffyck the entire time i was writing this so like. sorry if this tag is unwanted lol)
>>>>>>>>>*<<<<<<<<<
Look, Cleo isn’t worried. She isn’t. She isn’t.
But-
It’s just-
She sighs, running a hand through their tangled orange hair as they watch Bdubs and Scar bicker and laugh by the animals.
It’s something about the way Scar seems so insistent on finding a way to be useful. How he makes off-handed comments about knowing what it’s like to be alone, accompanied by a flippant laugh that does nothing to quell the small pit that grows in Cleo’s stomach at the words. How his face will fall for a split second when Cleo jokes not to call them “mom” before bouncing back to that damn grin of his. How that grin becomes so much more real when she does something as simple as toss him some food or ruffle his hair.
So no, Cleo isn’t worried. Just… healthily concerned.
They can practically hear Joe lecturing them about emotional awareness. He is so lucky he doesn’t come to these things, otherwise she would be whittling his clock down without a second thought.
A shout rings out across entertainment mountain, and Cleo sees Scar holding Bdubs’ clock- the one Impulse gave him, not his countdown- above his head, well out of the shorter man’s reach. As Bdubs lets out a string of words that sound way cruder than they actually are, she sighs. She should probably go stop them before one of them falls off of the mountain. Again.
Void, she really did just pick two idiots to team with, didn’t she?
Still, as she approaches the two men, she can’t find it in her to regret it.
“Scar! Bdubs!”
Their gazes snap towards her, eyes wide. Bdubs is the first to start talking.
“Mom-“
“Not your mom.”
“-he took my clock!”
Scar quickly stuffs his hands in his pockets, trying and failing to look nonchalant. “What? No I didn’t!”
Cleo raises an eyebrow at him.
“… ok, I did, but he started it!”
“I DID NOT!” Bdubs tugs on Scar’s arm, trying to get his hand- and subsequently, the shorter man’s clock- out of his pocket. This, to no one’s surprise, does not work, mostly because Scar is a good foot and a half taller than Bdubs. This does not stop him from trying.
This also does not stop them from bickering with steadily increasing volume.
“Hey, hey, hands off the merchandise, Bdubs!”
“I put my hands where I darn well please! You keep your hands off my stuff!”
“I don’t have your stuff!”
“Bullcrap! I see it in your pocket!”
“I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“Jeez! If I had known I’d be getting conned with my own schtuff I’d have had second thoughts about this team-up!”
It’s almost unnoticeable, so quick that Cleo can almost convince herself she imagined it. But, for a split second, Scar flinches.
“I- Well, it’s what I do, Bdubs!”
“You con and lie and bully! This is bullying!”
Void, Cleo does not get paid enough for this.
“BOYS!”
The two men freeze in their tracks.
“Scar, give Bdubs his clock back. Bdubs, apologize for yelling- actually, wait, both of you apologize for yelling.” They cross their arms, staring the men down.
Bdubs sputters. “What- no, I’m not apologizing, why wou-“
He’s cut short by a soft clinking sound. With wide eyes, he looks between his hands, where his golden clock now sits, and Scar, whose gaze is fixed firmly on the ground as he turns away.
“No, no, you’re fine! You can just- you stay here with Mo- Cleo, I’m gonna go get- get some air.”
“Scar, wait-“
Bdubs’ words fall on deaf ears as Scar hops off the rocks, towards the base of the mountain. He turns to Cleo, brow furrowed. “Was it something I said? Did I-“
“I don’t know, Bdubs.” The pit in her stomach is back, gnawing and twisting as she stares at the spot where Scar just was.
“… what do we do?” His voice is quiet, so unlike how it normally sounds. It makes Cleo want to shake him until he’s back to his usual self.
“We don’t do anything.” She sighs, turning to face her friend. “You go ahead and get some rest. I’ll talk to him.”
“But-!”
“No buts.”
Bdubs sags, his shoulders slouching considerably. Cleo reaches forward, laying a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey, Bdubs.” She waits until he looks up, meeting their eyes. “It’ll be ok, alright?”
Bdubs pauses before nodding hastily. “Of course, of course- I- I have no doubt. The great Bdubs just- just needs to go get some sleep.”
“You go do that.” They squeeze his shoulder one last time before letting go, turning towards the edge of the mountain.
“Goodnight Mom!”
“I will stab you in your sleep!” She tosses over her shoulder as she carefully slips down, doing her best to take minimal fall damage.
Scar is… much farther down than they expected. It takes a good minute of scaling down to finally see him, walking around with a frantic fervor and muttering under his breath. The words become clearer as they approach, and with them, so does the anxious feeling creeping in her mind.
“… can’t go back up to the chests. There goes my chance at a monopoly. Still, it’s between that or them being mad at me for taking stuff and then-“
“Scar?”
The man freezes in his tracks. Cleo takes a step closer.
“Scar, what was that up there for?” She tries to keep her words from being cruel, but receives a flinch nonetheless. She’s not sure how she expects him to respond, but…
“Sorry, I’m leaving. It- It’ll not happen again, no need to worry!” The upbeat tone has no place with the shaky voice and trembling hands accompanying it as he begins pacing again.
“You know Bdubs wasn’t actually that mad about the clock, he’s just like that-“
“No, no, he had every right to be, right? I was being a bad teammate. But- but don’t worry, I am getting out of your hair-!”
“Scar.”
Silence.
“You don’t have to leave.”
“But I do!” He faces them now, finally faces them, but they almost wish he hadn’t. His face is still in that wide smile, bright as the sun, even as tears run down his cheeks. “That’s how this works, right? Scar’s alone! Again! All he does is lie and cheat, he doesn’t care. Just betray him! You mean nothing to him anyways!” His chest heaves with unshed sobs, and his eyes are screwed shut.
“It’s not like I can bring anything else to the team,” he continues. “After all, I die and I die and I die, I die and try to make stupid deals that only an idiot would take! Which makes me the biggest idiot of all, right? I-“
No one knows what he was going to say next, because in the same moment, a pair of arms wraps around him impossibly tight. He can’t stifle the gasp that escapes him at the contact, the warm warm warmth that enveloped him as Cleo squeezes, making his ribs creak and his heart swell. His tongue feels useless in his mouth, any words he could say stopped up in his throat.
“Scar, I want you to listen to me.” Cleo murmurs, not letting go. “We don’t want you here because you’re useful, or pity, or any of that. We want you here for you.”
He tries to talk, void he tries, but all that escapes his lips is a high-pitched keen. Cleo- beautiful, crazy, kind Cleo- simply hugs him tighter, rubbing a hand on his back so firmly and gently that it makes his heart ache.
“It’s ok, it’s ok. Let it out. We don’t want you to leave, the exact opposite.” She leans forward, resting her forehead on his. “We love you, Scar. We don’t want you to be alone.”
That’s all it takes for the dam to break.
Three games’ worth of pent-up sobs echo through the landscape as Scar sags, crying into Cleo’s shoulder. They hold him up, carding their fingers through his tangled hair. She doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t need to, because her arms are around Scar and she’s here and she isn’t leaving-
He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this, how he’s atoned for all his sins enough that he has Bdubs to tackle him in excitement when Cleo leads him back to their home. He doesn’t think he’s done enough to warrant one person being stuck with him in one of these horrid games, especially two people.
He doesn’t want to let it go, though.
The universe ticks down. Their lives lose length with every passing second they spend like this.
But they aren’t alone, none of them, and they won’t be again.
(And if Cleo doesn’t chastise Scar the next time he calls her Mom? Well, nobody needs to know that.)
Mumbo’s arms wrap around him so easily, so naturally, and it is both familiar and completely unknown. It feels like something old, something forgotten, something lost—but not found. Never found. Even now, it’s hovering somewhere just barely out of reach.
Scar leans into the hug, exhaling softly, but he can’t comprehend it.
Rationally, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows they’ve hugged lots in the past. He knows that this is normal. He knows that maybe it should be him to make that first step—to be touchy, to be clingy, to keep stepping too close into Mumbo’s personal space. He used to be like that, didn’t he? Greedy for affection. So very liberal with it.
It feels like he’s standing in a barren wasteland, squinting at the memories of his other self. It's so very far away from where he’s at, he can barely see it. But it's there, he knows, he knows. A version of him that is free; a version of him unafraid to give love. A version of him filled with joy and affection, unshy in the face of possible rejection.
And he’s been so damn lonely on that mountain.
He should want this. He should long for it and reach and take, take, take.
He isn’t taking.
He’s relaxed in Mumbo’s hold, but doesn’t linger when Mumbo pulls away. He doesn’t chase it. He doesn’t feel like he wants to; he just feels wrong and askew. A little bit empty. A little bit broken.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
He huffed lightly, trying not to choke on his words. “Of course. You’re not—you don’t have to stay here,” he tries. G stares at him with wide eyes.
“I just—I just think it’d be better because of your injuries.” Scar mind felt a bit hazy and his thoughts just wouldn’t align. He scrunched his eyebrows and huffed again. “You don’t have to,” he spoke under his breath.
And G still stared; a weird shock pointed straight at Scar. His home was uncomfortable and Scar wanted to be anywhere but here. He didn’t give G a chance to respond.
or
In another world Scar has never met Grian, not until he manages to save a guard from death. In another world Scar has never met Mumbo either, not until the Kingdom is wanting his head.
A mermaid au by two friends of mine, @/Stiffyck and @/Angeart on tumblr!
