Cleo frequently has a point, at the beginning of these games, where they feel burnt out before anything has even happened. What do you mean, we have to start over on a new world where we won’t even last two months? Just the idea of having to build something to live in always seems exhausting.
Martyn took care of that, though. He sent them both on a stupid quest right away to collect what they needed to make their faces in the wall of their apparent base, and while she’d been distracted by trying to find spare pumpkins, he had built a nice little house.
Cleo wouldn’t have assumed they were sharing, but Martyn had spoken as if he hadn’t considered it any other way. He’d even made up a name for them, the Lost Generation or whatever it was he kept going on about.
He’s so weird.
Evening is just beginning to fall, the sun slowly sinking over the horizon, and Cleo is sitting atop her giant head, kicking her feet in the space still bereft of pumpkins. Martyn is beside her, uncharacteristically silent.
He’s so weird. Cleo’s been trying to get a read on him all week, but he’s been acting as if this is all totally natural. He’s actually making them doubt that they even had any sort of feud or distrust between them ever. Like, who would encourage her to build her own giant face next to his without so much as a mention of everything that’s happened?
“You’re weird,” Cleo says, after sitting quietly for far too long.
Martyn hums. “Not the first I’ve heard of it,” he says easily. “In fact, I think I’ll take it as a compliment. Thank you.”
Cleo snorts. Classic Martyn. “I didn’t expect to team with you,” they say. “Out of everyone, you were probably bottom of my list.”
“I have been wondering that,” Martyn says, and there’s the Martyn they know, pulling his knee up to shift around and face them, voice surely bright with ready-to-go quips. “Why did you stay?”
As much as they want to pretend this is all about Martyn, it really isn’t. Sure, Martyn’s been as welcoming and friendly as ever. He tends to insert himself in groups whether anyone had asked for him or not, and Cleo didn’t ask for him, but she also didn’t turn him down, so of course he thought he could stay.
Which is fine. Because he can stay. She wants him to stay.
But the question isn’t why he stayed. It’s why she stayed.
“I . . . Scott has helped me realize that I, kind of, sort things,” they say, hands awkwardly in the air. “Like, into two categories. I either hate it or love it. And once something’s in a category, I don’t much feel like changing it.”
Scott told her that, almost word-for-word. He’d said it casually, like he was commenting on something as mundane as the change of the seasons. This is how you think, Cleo, he’d said in that annoyingly superior Scott fashion. I know you.
The worst part is, he’d been right. Martyn falls into the hate category, and he has ever since he left them without a soulmate. Things locked away in that category (or people, as is becoming ever increasingly common) rarely come back out.
It’s so easy to let themself get filled with hate like that. One unintended slight can become an eternal fury, a fire that burns and burns and steals every molecule of energy from their body until they can’t go on anymore.
“I don’t like it,” they admit quietly. Martyn makes a sound of surprise.
“Really? I was just having the thought that everything all black and white sounds nice,” he says. “I feel like there are so many shades of grey, it hurts my head to try and sift through them all.”
“At least there’s dimensions to that.”
Martyn shakes his head. “It’s exhausting. I never know who I can properly, like, get on with.”
“And I never give anyone a second chance,” Cleo says drily.
“Sounds like a good system. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, and all that.”
Is that an invitation to leave him? Does he want them to boot him from their shared base without another thought?
They won’t. No, if the stubborn moron wants to stay, then they’ll let him stay. They promised.
Cleo sighs. “It was Scott, actually, who convinced me.”
“‘Course it was.”
“He just—” she gestures widely, trying to give shape to her frustration— “He just let Pearl back. Last time, you know? It was him and me and Impulse and Pearl, and I just didn’t get it. We hated Pearl, didn’t we? But then he pointed out that Pearl didn’t really do anything wrong in the first place, and she never did anything to me, so there wasn’t any real reason for me to be angry with her.”
“That’s true, all we did was go to the Nether,” Martyn puts in.
Cleo ignores him. “We were friends, her and I,” she says, feeling almost wistful. She really did miss Pearl at first, but it was so much easier to compartmentalize her into the hate category than it was to try and manage the conflicting feelings. “Really, now that I think of it, I just went with Scott because. . . .”
“Bros before hoes?”
Cleo smacks his arm. Martyn begins to howl a “Hey!”, realizes what he’s just said, and shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. “I deserve that. Let me think, er, queers before . . . before fears? But that would imply that you’re afraid of her—”
“Because that’s just how the cards fell,” Cleo finishes firmly. “I was upset with her because Scott was, but Scott isn’t anymore, and . . . it’s weird.”
It’s so weird.
The weirdest part is that these people don’t hate her. She was so terrible to them for such a long time, but Pearl happily moved in with her and Scott and Impulse. Martyn teamed up with her without a second thought.
“Do you see yourself in Pearl?” Martyn asks, voice contemplative. Cleo’s eyebrows shoot up to their hairline.
“Bit of a personal question,” they grumble, but. . . .
Pearl holds a grudge, that’s for sure. She doesn’t dance around her feelings. It’s always driven Cleo mad, the way people like Scar and Etho are just as polite as can be, putting everyone else before them. Cleo prefers people like Pearl, people like them, who aren’t afraid to cut people off for being too much to handle.
There’s something else that Pearl is, though, that strikes truer than anything else.
Pearl is lonely. Pearl is probably the loneliest person Cleo knows, honestly, which is quite sad—but what’s even more sad is that Cleo herself is the second loneliest person she knows.
Yes, they have Scott. They have Scott, and they’ve teamed up with other people here and there, but they wouldn’t say that they trusted any of them. Not enough to properly bear their soul to them, or whatever sappy thing that people say.
Sometimes, they think it might be easier to be like Pearl. Alone and free to be open about her feelings. Emotionally connected to everything she does.
Cleo has friends, and Pearl has feelings. Strip those both away, and they’re the same.
“Yeah,” they say eventually. ‘I . . . I suppose I do.”
“Cool, then we can say queers before mirrors, that’s good,” declares Martyn. Cleo bites back a curse.
Right. This is Martyn she’s dealing with. Of course he wouldn’t ask a deep question for the purpose of being deep.
“Is that what we are?” she asks, trying to keep any sense of a sneer out of her tone. “Queers before mirrors?”
“Er, how so?”
“Ren?”
Martyn and Ren are cut from the same cloth, that’s for sure. Martyn always running away, Ren always running toward, a dog after its own tail. There’s not been a single game that it hasn’t been the two of them against the world, not when they’ve both been here.
Honestly, Cleo’s not quite sure why they haven’t properly teamed up yet. They offered, of course, but Ren had been playing his pathetic loneliness game at the time and wasn’t ready to settle down.
Martyn does the same thing. They reflect each other.
Martyn’s looking at her, Cleo realizes, rousing her from her thoughts. She glances over, finds his gaze . . . odd. Contemplative, like he’s actually thinking something through for once.
“No,” Martyn says quietly, that freaky thoughtful look still on his face. “No. I think this is the opposite. Mirrors before queers, you know?”
Cleo opens their mouth to ask what on earth he means by that, but Martyn clambers off the hill and down to their base, down to the house he’s been tirelessly working away at, leaving them alone with their thoughts and no reflection in sight.
literally nobody understands nor wants what they have. + the real reason I wrote this fic
I'm so sorry that it's been so long since I uploaded anything! Unfortunately, early this month my hands caught on fire. As I spent the better part of the last month recovering from second-degree burns, writing and posting was not in my priorities nor capabilities. The ao3 author curse comes for us all.
FINAL CHAPTER! Please enjoy :)
~
Grian has never felt more alone in his life.
There’s no good outcome. He was too late.
He really, truly meant to tell Scar. He did! But at breakfast he decided he had plenty of time, and then he forgot about it while in class, and then he was busy getting his drag bag together, and then. . . .
Okay, he procrastinated on purpose. He didn’t want to tell Scar everything, not right before he was slated to perform. What if he told him and then Scar was miserable and hated him and he still had to go on stage afterwards? This conversation is only going to end with both their hearts breaking, and he can’t perform like that.
That was one option, and it was one that Grian quietly rejected. Another was to ensure that Scar didn’t make it to the show, and, well. . . .
That hadn’t gone according to plan. If anyone asked, Grian had not spread oil all over Scar’s dorm’s stairs, then panicked and covered it with flour, then panicked again when it became dough, then pretended like he was making bread when Ren passed by. It simply did not happen.
For unrelated reasons, he currently has a jar of yeast in his backpack that he’s supposed to return to Ren. He also has a sticky, gravelly mess of something that’s meant to be bread dough just loose in his backpack. His back has been vaguely moist all day, and his math homework is done for.
Is ‘my bread ate my homework’ an excuse that his professor will accept when he doesn’t turn anything in tomorrow?
The third option is to just perform and hope that Scar doesn’t throw tomatoes at him. Scar has absurdly good aim. And if he runs out of tomatoes, he will just start throwing anything. Grian does not want to be brained by a stray crutch.
Unfortunately, since the other two options fell through, that’s the only one left. It has to be, because Grian is currently in the hastily set-up dressing room (re: a somewhat hidden and long-forgotten bathroom with a stall that won’t open) in the university’s convocation hall.
All the other students doing drag tonight are preparing at home, preferring to arrive early and get seats to watch everyone else rather than wait backstage, so Grian’s alone in the dingy restroom, applying his glittery make-up and trying not to cry.
He has half an hour before he’s supposed to be on stage. He’s gone with a classic schoolgirl look for his first appearance, the skirt far too short and his knee-length stockings pure white and frilly. He only buttons the shirt up about halfway, showing off his lacy black bra and false bosom. It’s cute, but he far prefers the outfit he’ll change into for the finale.
Hanging up in the one stall that will open is a hot pink, sequined skirt-suit. It’s a pencil skirt but with a slit in the back, perfect for the high kicks that he’s choreographed to an Ariana Grande song. The top will once again just be his bra under the sequin-y jacket, buttoned at his waist. The heels for the look are deadly—six inch stilettos in white leather. He’s probably going to break his neck, but he’d gotten the whole fit at Goodwill for ten dollars, so it’s totally worth it to die in vintage. The suit jacket has shoulderpads. What more could one need?
Everything’s ready except his hair. He’s still wearing the grey beanie he’s been wearing all day, the hairspray still setting in his extensions. He got here early and fluffed them up a ton, but he’s been putting off clipping them in.
When he puts on his hair, he’ll be Ariana, and it’ll all be over. Right now, half-Ariana and half-Grian, he can pretend that nothing has changed and nothing will change. For these last moments, he can pretend that Scar loves him.
The truth, the truth that Grian has been running from for far too long, is that Scar has only been loving a fantasy. He’s never seen the Grian in Ariana that Grian sees every time he looks in the mirror. It’s always been hidden under curly blond ringlets and a pair of false boobs.
“Don’t cry,” Grian whispers, staring hard at himself in the peeling reflection of the restroom mirror. “If you cry, you’re straight.”
He dabs the corner of his beauty blender into the red part of the palette that he tends to use for lipstick and starts on the application, rubbing his lips together with each dab. It’s okay. Everything is over tonight but that’s okay.
Even Mumbo had been sympathetic when he bid him farewell at the restroom door. He’d hugged him, whispered that everything would be all right, and went off to eat dinner before the show. Mumbo, though he thinks that Grian’s been going about this the wrong way, knows how much this means to Grian. He knows how much this hurts.
Lipstick is done. Grian takes a selfie, the deep mourning clear in his eyes and the twist of his lips. He adds it to his private snap with the caption ‘this is the end’.
It’s barely been uploaded when Scott replies. DUDE seriously are you ok????
Grian opens it. He doesn’t respond.
He should have told Scar. He should have confessed the minute he caught feelings—no, he should have confessed the first time Scar approached him! He should have laughed and told the handsome stranger at the bar that he was very much a man, but thanks for the compliment.
Just imagining doing that makes Grian want to claw his stomach out.
If he had never gone out with Scar, he never would have known him. He never would have held his hand as he cried, or watched understanding dawn in his eyes as Grian explained pride pins, or helped him feel comfortable in a wheelchair, or giggled with him at the library, or kissed him.
He’s never going to get to kiss Scar again.
How was he going to survive without the feel of his lips?
Grian is survived by his sister, Pearl, and his best friend, Mumbo, Grian starts intoning silently as he tries to imagine life without kissing Scar. He was best known for performing as the drag queen Ariana Griande. His last words were something stupid that we forgot to record.
Mumbo would never let that happen. They agreed in freshman year of high school that if either of them died first, the other one would vouch that they said something super sick as their last words. Grian’s headstone is going to have a Tech Deck track, that’s how cool Mumbo’s going to make him seem. It’s in his will. Mumbo’s is going to have a marble race.
Grian checks his phone. Twenty minutes.
He should start on his hair.
Dread wells up from where it’s been building ever since yesterday afternoon, threatening to drown him. The noise of passing students around the corner and the distant sound of the crowd in the auditorium do nothing to shake him from his soul-burying despair and he stands, for a moment, and considers letting himself fall apart.
Then the restroom door swings open, and in walks none other than Scar.
He’s got his cane tonight, and Grian’s certain it has something to do with the bouquet of roses under his arms. He’s dressed in a reddish-brown waistcoat over a puffy white shirt with slacks to match, his hair brushed neatly and pulled into a tiny ponytail. For a moment, he seems surprised, but it quickly melts into elation.
“Ari,” he says, proffering the bouquet. “I didn’t expect to see you here! I brought these for you.”
He should have found a closet to prepare in. Of course, the only other student who knows this restroom exists is Scar. Of course. Because Grian’s lucky like that.
Too surprised to react properly, too full of grief to speak, too nervous to act, Grian chooses the only logical option and bursts into tears.
“What? Oh, hey, hey, it’s okay! Is it the flowers? I can get different flowers!”
Scar drops the flowers in a sink and immediately pulls Grian into his warm arms. Arms that shouldn’t be around him, because Grian has been lying to this wonderful man for so, so long, but Grian can’t help but hold on even tighter.
He smells like pine trees. He always does. He smells like real pine trees, not like the air freshener version, but like someone went out to the forest twenty years ago and chopped a pine tree into mulch and then baby Scar rolled around in it until it sunk permanently into his skin.
Grian thinks he loves pine trees.
He’s going to miss this. He’s going to miss Scar’s warmth, and his smell, and the slight scratchiness of his stubble on Grian’s cheek as he kisses away a tear.
He’s going to miss it so much.
“I can get different flowers,” Scar promises, his voice soft and comforting. One hand rubs circles into Grian’s shoulder, firm but without too much pressure. “I want everything to be perfect for you.”
It’s too late, because Scar is his everything and he’s already perfect, and Grian has to cast him away like he was never anything.
Last month Scar brought him a single rose, apologizing sincerely that it couldn’t be a dozen. Now he’s brought him a dozen, and he’s apologizing that he hasn’t brought the world.
What did Grian do to deserve such a cruel punishment?
“I love them,” Grian sniffles. He pulls back slightly and rubs a hand under his eye: it comes away pink with make-up. “Oh, Scar, your shirt—” Scar’s waistcoat has a similar print on the breast. He couldn’t have remembered setting spray before dissolving into tears?
“It’s fine,” Scar waves off, ignoring the face print on his likely very expensive vest. He wipes another tear from Grian’s cheek with his thumb, nothing but open and loving concern in his gorgeous green eyes. “Are you okay? Pre-show jitters? Did something happen?”
He catches I’m fine on the tip of his tongue, swallowing back the lie that so automatically rolls to the front. He can’t lie to Scar anymore.
“Something happened,” he forces himself to say, his stomach doing so many somersaults that he thinks he might throw up all over Scar’s shoes. Something is such an understatement. Everything that has ever happened between them has been pretended. Literally everything. He needs to start at the beginning, but it’s all gotten tangled up worse than a pair of wired earbuds and he doesn’t know how to sort it out.
What would Hannah Montana do?
She would make it as dramatic as possible for good TV. When Grian writes all this down in his memoir, he can make this story into a pivotal moment of his life if he plays it right.
He can’t imagine doing it any other way, actually. This is a moment that deserves drama because Scar deserves a fuss.
Scar is more important to him than any other thing in his life. He deserves to leave it with an emotional, movie-worthy moment.
Grian takes another step away. “I’m not who you think I am,” he says, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. Then, with something that could be called a flourish (but is really more like a sad flop), he pulls his beanie off his head.
Scar blinks. “You cut your hair?”
“No. No, I—” he hiccups a sob— “I’m not a girl. I’m so sorry, Scar, I—I’m Grian, Ariana is just my drag persona, I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry!”
He clutches his arms around himself, digging his sparkly nails into his elbows. He did this. He brought this upon himself, he hurt Scar like this, he ruined their lives all by himself for no reason.
“I’m afraid I still don’t know what drag is,” Scar says, moving a bit closer. “Do you—do you want a hug?”
He really wants a hug from Scar, but he shakes his head. “Drag is, it’s when you’re one gender and you dress up as another. I’m Grian, from math study group? Mumbo’s roommate. I—I dress up as a girl for fun. I’m sorry, I never meant—I never meant for it to get this far!”
He chances a glance up at Scar, wiping his eyes so that he can see through the blur of tears. It’s a bad idea.
Scar looks like someone punched him in the face. His mouth is slightly ajar, his eyes scrunched up in pain, his forehead wrinkled. He opens his mouth to speak, but a toilet flushes.
The stall that wouldn’t open, well, opens.
A student walks out, eyes down. He steps around Grian to the sink, carefully avoiding his make-up laid out on the counter. The faucet turns on.
Grian looks at the floor.
Scar finds something on the ceiling to be very interesting.
The student keeps his eyes fixed on his soapy hands.
Mentally, Grian sings through the entire alphabet twice before the guy turns off the water. He shakes his hands once over the sink, then grabs a paper towel from the dispenser. The dispenser squeaks loudly, and he grabs another one, eliciting another squeak.
“Sorry,” the student mutters, dodging around Scar. He tosses the balled-up paper towels in the trash on his way out.
As soon as the door swings shut, Scar speaks.
“I don’t understand,” he says, his voice utterly broken. Grian bites his lip, trying to swallow another sob. “I . . . you didn’t . . . like . . . me?”
“I—no! I mean, yes! Yes, I liked you—I like you so much!” Grian hurries to reassure. “That’s why—that’s why I never told you. Scar, you’re . . . incredible,” he says honestly. He wipes his eyes, then his nose, and does his best to offer Scar a smile, though his mouth opens unbidden, a mucusy spit bubble popping between his lips with a repressed keen. “You’re . . . you’re the best b-boyfriend I’ve ever h-had, so I didn’t tell you b-because I didn’t want to lose you!”
Grian buries his face in his hands. He can’t bear to have Scar look at him any longer and see everything that he isn’t. He can’t have his brokenhearted eyes searching for some answer that he doesn’t have.
“I can be the girl, I guess.”
“What?” Grian asks, looking up. That feels like a total non-sequiter, as well as being nonsensical. Did he miss something?
Scar doesn’t look quite as hurt as he did a moment ago. He looks thoughtful, like he’s trying to figure out a really tough math problem. “One of us has to be the girl, right?” he says pragmatically. “If it isn’t you, it can be me. I can become a girl. Like trans people.”
What is he talking about?
Grian’s brain takes a couple of seconds to catch up to exactly what Scar’s suggesting. Scar wants to . . . become a girl? So that they can stay together?
To be honest, it is a little tempting. In no world is that a solution that Grian would have even conceptualized, but it makes sense.
Wait. No, it doesn’t make sense. Unless Scar is actually trans, that would be cruel. Forget that Grian would be into Scar as either a boy or a girl, the problem is that Scar’s straight and Grian is a man.
“But I’m still a boy,” he points out. “And I’m—I’m bi, so it doesn’t matter to me, but you would have to be attracted to boys, too.”
Scar thinks on that for a moment. His eyes trace side to side, his lips pursed. Finally, he shrugs. “I can be gay,” he says simply. “Or—or, bi? Maybe? Or the other one? That would be easier than becoming a girl.”
“Wait, but—but are you bi? Or gay?” Grian asks, utterly befuddled. “If—if I was a guy—I mean, I am a guy, but if Ariana was a guy, would you be into him?”
“I really haven’t thought about it much,” Scar says, and he moves closer to lean against the counter. “But. . . .” he reaches out with his free hand.
Slowly, Grian sets his hand in Scar’s. This can’t be anything. This is Scar just letting him down slowly, and that’s it. It can’t be more than that. He can’t hope, or else he’s pretty sure his heart would quite literally explode.
Scar looks into his eyes. Perfect, still-hurt-but-not-only, emerald green eyes.
“I like you,” Scar says, and Grian’s heart trips and falls like someone tried to make bread on its stairs. “I don’t like you because you’re a girl—or, or not, I guess. I like you because you’re . . . you. Because . . . because you listen, and you’re funny, and when you laugh your teeth shine like stars, and I feel so . . . I love you, Ari—or, Gri. I’ve been wanting to say it for a while now.”
Grian’s knees are going to snap and he is going to collapse. It’s just a given.
Scar loves him.
Yes, he knows he isn’t Ariana, and he still loves him.
Is this real? It can’t be real. This conversation was always going to end with both of their hearts breaking. There’s no way that this is happening and real and not a delusion that he made up to make himself feel good about a way it could be.
Scar’s hand is soft and slightly sweaty in his. He smells like pine trees in the summer.
Grian bursts afresh into tears.
“I—I’m fine,” he says when Scar tries to comfort him, and this time it isn’t a lie. “I—are you sure? I lied to you, Scar. For, like, a long time.”
Scar raises a brow. “Do you want to stay together?”
“Of course.”
“So do I.” Scar shrugs. “Can’t it just be like that?”
Can it?
“I mean, from my perspective, I had a girlfriend and now I have a boyfriend? Kind of, like, both at the same time?” Scar squeezes his hand. “I’ve never had a boyfriend before, and . . . I really like you. Can we . . . will you be my boyfriend?”
Grian can’t speak. Tears choke his throat.
Maybe his heart is breaking, but in a good way.
He nods.
Scar’s cane falls as he pulls Grian into another hug. It’s real. He’s so real around him that Grian feels shellshocked and whiplashed and heartbroken and loved and treasured and joyful and everything, every feeling ever at the same time.
“I think I love you, too,” he whispers, and Scar’s shoulders hitch.
Scar laughs as well, holding Grian even tighter. “Losing you wasn’t even an option, you know,” he mumbles into Grian’s (short) hair. “I’d still love you if you were a worm, you know.”
Wow. There’s no way that Scar knows about the dream he had those weeks ago, so he doesn’t know just how much this means to him. That Scar would love him, even if he were trying to kill him?
Scar loves him.
“Also, I’m still not exactly positive on what a drag show is, exactly.”
The drag show!
Grian jumps out of Scar’s arms, fumbling for the sink that doesn’t have a bouquet of roses in it. “I forgot, oh—oh, shoot, I totally forgot, I’m going to be late—”
“I’ll stall for you,” Scar promises. He picks up the flowers and his cane, leaning heavily on it. “I’ll think of something. Oh, I was hoping to take you out to dinner after?”
“Uh, sure,” Grian says distractedly as he frantically fixes his eyeliner. “Where to?”
“Anywhere but Chick-fil-a. I’m banned.”
Grian tables that question for later. They have all night, after all.
They have forever.
He can’t quite contain a smile.
“Let’s go somewhere fancy,” declares Scar. “The treasury can definitely cover one more dinner.”
At first, Grian doesn’t process that. When he does he freezes.
“Scar,” he says slowly.
“Okay, gotta go, bye!”
The door swings shut behind him.
The tear tracks are still clear on his cheeks. Grian grins at the mirror, tabling that other question for later, as well.
“I have a boyfriend,” he says wondrously. “Scar . . . Scar loves me.”
Scar loves me for me.
No more hiding, Grian decides. He’s going to be himself, through and through, from now on. He’s never going to pretend to be someone else ever again.
Then he clips his hair extensions in, touches up his lipstick, and with a dazzling smile, Ariana leaves the restroom.
-
The convocation hall is packed. After hearing that a real drag queen was coming to perform, and that student performances were welcome, everyone that could come did. It’s standing room only, and with the wide space near the front of the stage has become something of a mosh pit without moshing. What are those things called? Martyn’s really not sure.
Scott’s supposed to be backstage, but he had said in no uncertain terms that he was going to watch the other performers, so he’s standing beside Martyn in the non-mosh pit, his cheap Elsa costume a little too-tight on his body. Jimmy’s also there on Scott’s other side, seeing as how the two of them are basically a package deal nowadays. He looks less sure of his place than Scott does, who is keeping up a running commentary about whatever it is that this Scar guy is going on about.
“Where even is Grian?” Scott whispers. “Scar isn’t supposed to be up there.”
Martyn shrugs, checks his watch. How long is this supposed to run? He’s never been to a drag show before. He has homework to do.
“And—oh, it looks like—yep!” Scar turns back to face the audience, waving the bouquet of flowers he has for some reason. “Now introducing the main entertainment—and my boyfriend—Ariana!”
“Boyfriend?” Scott says loudly, sounding utterly shocked. Finally, the real event.
And the drag queen who walks out is—
Oh.
Oh.
He sees the legs first. The man’s legs are slender and smooth, walking expertly in some super high heels. His figure—where did he get boobs? Are those real? And his hair?
It’s probably the best make-up Martyn’s ever seen. This guy looks—
Ariana reaches for the mic. She smiles, bright and adorable, and says, “Hey, guys! How are we doing tonight?”
How on earth does he get his voice—?
Warmth pools in the pit of Martyn’s stomach. He glances, wide-eyed, at everyone else—Scott is cheering raucously, Jimmy looks a little confused, and everyone else is whooping and cat-calling and not having any sorts of crises over this moment.
Scott knows everything, though, so Martyn tugs on his sleeve. “Scott,” he says. “Dude. Scott.”
Scott turns to him, a little red in his face from cheering, and raises his eyebrows. “What’s up?”
Martyn swallows, his mouth uncomfortably dry. He glances back up at Ariana, unable to process anything that she’s saying. All he can register is the man on the stage. “I, uh. Scott?”
you see, Grian. the problem is that you love drama. Also it's pride week
~
Mumbo doesn’t talk to Grian when he gets home.
It’s kind of awkward, because Grian hasn’t gone to bed yet when he arrives, so they just move around each other in a silent space usually full of laughter and teasing. Mumbo showers, puts on his pajamas, and makes a plate of spaghetti. Only enough for a single plate, not even asking Grian if he wants some.
It’s probably the coldest thing Mumbo has ever done.
Of course, it isn’t all on Mumbo. Grian isn’t doing anything to shatter the ice between them either. He’s still mad at Mumbo, even if he isn’t mad enough to be actively yelling at him.
Well, he isn’t really mad at Mumbo, per se.
He’s mad that he’s right.
Something they don’t tell you when you make a best friend is that sometimes, that best friend is going to be right about something and you’re going to be wrong. As far as Grian can recall, he’s always been the one in the right. It doesn’t feel so good the other way around.
So he won’t give Mumbo the satisfaction of knowing he was right immediately. Mumbo’s been pretty far up on his high horse lately, what with calling Grian out in the first place. If he wants to admit that he was mean about proving himself right, then Grian will forgive him, but until then he’ll make him sweat a bit.
He was right, though. Grian isn’t doing a good thing.
He’d had to imagine it from a different point of view. What if Hannah Montana, as Hannah Montana, was dating a smoking hot guy named Scar, and Scar was absolutely perfect to her and loved her so much, but then found out she was actually just a normal girl named Miley? That Hannah, the girl he’d fallen in love with, didn’t even really exist?
And then, what if it turned out that Miley was actually a boy?
It’s so similar to his situation that Grian can relate to it, yet different enough that he can look almost objectively. Yes, this is hurting Scar, and will only hurt more the longer it goes on. No, he can’t keep up the facade forever. Yes, his confession will likely put Scar out of the series until a cast reunion for the finale. There’s really nothing he can do about it.
Which sucks. It really, really sucks, because now that he’s realized it, all Grian wants to do is bury his face in his pillow and sob or scream or both.
Which is a really good way to describe his situation, so he puts it on his private story over a picture of the popcorn ceiling in the dark. Only this Gem girl and Scott are on the story, so he isn’t really worried about it getting out.
Scott responds instantly, as he always does. You good?
Grian, relishing in the drama, views the message, types for a moment, then closes Snapchat without responding.
The next time he sees Scar, he’ll tell him, Grian decides, lying in the dark bedroom with the suspicious lack of Mumbo’s loud snores coming from the bed beside his. It’s so quiet in their room. Too quiet. Quiet enough that he can hear the low murmur of Pearl playing video games in the next room over.
But Grian isn’t going to make the first move. He crosses his arms and huffs quietly. It’s already been, like, six hours of not talking or texting. Can’t Mumbo just stop being so stubborn and get over himself?
Whatever. He needs to come up with a plan of how he’s going to talk to Scar.
Scar’s out of town for a couple of days to properly wheelchair shop with his family, but they have a date planned for next Monday. The idea is to meet near the butterfly garden on campus around noon and take a walk—but, of course, Grian will be doing all the walking. Scar will be seeing how easily navigable the pretty spots on campus are with a wheelchair. They can talk and spend time together and Grian will be there in case the chair gets stuck and Scar needs help moving it. After they walk, they’ll hit up the campus cafe for lunch, then split off to head to afternoon classes (which means that Grian will be changing clothes in a bathroom somewhere. It also means that he’ll be underprepared for his class, seeing as he won’t have room in his backpack for textbooks).
That date will be the best time to talk to Scar. They won’t be in a restaurant, so there won’t be any obligation to stay in case of things going poorly. After a polite amount of time, Grian can say his piece about how he’s actually a dude but he still really, really likes Scar. He can apologize for playing the part of Ariana for so long and leading him on. He can show Scar who he really is under the make-up and hair extensions and fake boobs.
He doesn’t want to. It doesn’t need to be said, but there’s nothing Grian wants to do less than tell Scar.
On the other hand, though, this double life is getting exhausting. Sometimes, Grian speaks in his Ariana voice while ordering coffee. He automatically started doing his make-up when he woke up the other day. He feels naked if he goes out without being all done up in drag.
The other day he put on the whole ensemble just to take a couple of selfies, which he then sent to Scar after spending over an hour editing and adjusting them. He loses his train of thought all the time when Scar randomly pops into brain, stressing him out as he tries not to think of the confession that is sure to come. He keeps doodling Scar’s name all over his notes in class.
He wakes up later each morning after staying up late, texting Scar ‘in-character’ and flirting and joking and having weirdly deep conversations (which usually end in Disney talk), and by the time they both say good night Grian is racked with guilt and anxiety and exhilaration, which is frankly too many emotions to be racked with at once.
His phone lights up: a good night text from Scar, followed by two heart emojis. Grian smiles despite himself (and his stomach flips a little bit, because Scar is busy and in a different timezone right now while he’s out of town and he still remembered to send a good night text at the time that Grian usually goes to sleep) and sends one back with the happy-heart-face.
It’s so strange. Emojis, that is. He can send one and it somehow reaches Scar, and he can look at it and know that Grian—that Ariana is happy to hear from him and likes him. Isn’t that strange?
Stranger still is the method of transport. How on earth does it get to Scar’s phone? How is it even on Grian’s phone? How is anything on Grian’s phone?
Phones don’t make sense. He can just touch this little rectangle of glass, and suddenly he can do anything? How can something small enough to fit in his pocket contain so many multitudes? It can do so many things that weren’t possible in the recent past.
There’s just, like, a couple of wires and metal things inside. Squished in there, Grian imagines, though he’s never actually opened up a phone and looked inside. There’s nothing in there to explain how it can show so many things. His phone just knows how to display infinite images and words?
“Mumbo?” Grian whispers loudly. “How do phones work?”
Mumbo sighs, loud and long, dragging on and on into a vocal fry. It’s frankly unnecessary. “Right, okay. Erm, why?”
Grian waves his hands around in front of him, despite Mumbo not being able to see that in the darkness. “You know. How does it know how to show me stuff? Because, like, it can play a whole movie. And it’s just able to show that?”
“Um, let’s think,” Mumbo says tiredly. “Well, I guess it has, like, receptors of some sort? And the receptors receive a signal that tells it to light up a pixel a certain way, and it does that, which makes a full image when you put it all together. And it goes really fast. I think. I would guess.”
Grian frowns. “Okay, but where does the signal come from?”
“Grian, I don’t know. Ask Tango, or someone else who’s actually in the comp-sci program.”
Grian probably won’t ask Tango (he doesn’t know him all that well), but he opens up his notes app and adds it to his list of things to figure out, right after has Mumbo turned Pearl into a vampire and is that why she’s usually up at night? and what is baby oil?
“Is that your list of things to figure out?”
“Maybe,” Grian replies noncommittally.
“You can remove the one about barcodes,” Mumbo says. “Turns out, they scan the white lines.”
“Really?” Grian gasps, and he copies which lines are scanned in barcodes? and adds it to the figured-out list, alongside how do you measure your trousers size? “Just like zebras!”
“Oh, and I found out that people with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome are called zebras,” Mumbo says.
“Oh. Why?”
“I . . . don’t know.”
Grian hums. He adds it to the list of things to figure out.
What he really needs to figure out, though, is exactly how he’s going to explain everything to Scar. He could write it down, but wouldn’t it be awkward to pull out a full letter and read from it when confessing something like this?
He would ask Mumbo, but he isn’t talking to Mumbo. And he would ask Pearl, but he’s pretty sure that she would be of less help than he would.
Grian opens Snapchat and grabs a photo of his pitch-black room. How am I supposed to tell him that I’m not who he thinks I am? he types on the picture. He adds it to his private story. Maybe Gem will have some helpful thoughts.
Scott replies right away. What even is this priv story what are we talking abt??.
Grian opens the message, then closes out of Snapchat.
He should sleep on it. He should really sleep on it. And then maybe nap on it. And maybe sleep on it a couple more times.
He’ll figure it out before Scar gets home.
-
Come March 1st, campus is decked out in pride decorations. And decked out, of course, means that there are little pride flags in every building and occasional posters or banners here and there. A little lackluster, but cute, and Grian smiles when he sees Scott across the quad, sitting at a table that’s handing out pins. Scott’s both on the activities board and the GSA board, so of course he’s going to be right where all the action is this week.
Grian’s already changed into Ariana. He’s wearing something more casual—a knee-length pink skirt and a white long-sleeved top, complete with his signature white converse. He wanted this outfit to be cute, but a little less . . . tryhard. Not that he usually considers his outfits to be tryhard, but he definitely has been going out of his way to try and impress Scar. He doesn’t need to. He needs to come as he is, and hope that Scar will accept that. Well, come kind of as he is. As Ariana.
He and Mumbo have started talking again, as they always do. Mumbo coached him over breakfast this morning about what to say and what not to say. Mumbo had highly advised that he meet Scar out of drag and confess right away, but there is absolutely no way that Grian is brave enough for that right off the bat. Still, his planned monologue is on repeat in his mind.
Scar, I have something to tell you.
Scar’s already in the butterfly garden when Grian steps in through the vine-covered arch. He looks . . . radiant.
Scar is sitting off to the side, beside a green bush that’s just starting to bud with little pink flowers. His eyes are closed, head tilted back, a slight smile on his face. He’s wearing his classic leather jacket on top of a black turtleneck that suits him quite well, his soft brown hair ending in a slight curl at the hem of the neck. That hair flutters slightly in the wind, rustling like silent leaves atop his head. He’s seated in an orange wheelchair, similar to the one that Grian had test-ridden but perhaps a tad bit more compact. The soles of his brown shoes lightly brush the ground as he gently sways his legs in time to some unhearable song.
I’m not who you think I am.
Grian’s never seen his face this relaxed. The crinkles around his eyes have washed into nothing, his skin soft and smooth. The slight smile belies some inner joke, perhaps, or a lovely thought that crosses his mind, lazier than a leaf falling into a pond. Even his slight scruff seems less shabby and more . . . serene, as if he was simply too busy breathing in the world to be bothered with such things.
I’m not a girl.
His chest rises slowly. In and out, in and out. Grian pauses, unwilling to disturb such a placid scene. All he can do is drink it in.
He looks at Scar and he sees everything. The entire world, spinning around them, but everything is still and perfect right where the two of them are.
My name isn’t Ariana.
Then Scar’s eyelids flutter, and beautiful green eyes land on Grian.
The smile grows into something that captures his entire face, and yet, it’s none the less peaceful. Laugh lines crease around his eyes, squinting them almost shut; his cheeks practically shine; the wind catches his hair just perfectly to swoop it back.
He’s beautiful.
He’s so, so beautiful.
“Ariana!” Scar says with so much adoration in his voice, and the golden bubble pops.
Grian isn’t who Scar thinks he is. For a moment there, Scar had been in love with him and everything had been perfect, complete with sunshine and butterflies. For that brief second, Grian looked into those eyes and only saw his life stretched out within them.
But Scar isn’t in love with him.
He’s in love with her.
The confession can’t come right away. If Grian has to tell Scar the truth right now, he’ll break. He’ll shatter into a million broken butterflies, their wings crumpled and torn, unable to take flight and enjoy the garden around them, withering slowly on the ground.
So Grian smiles, and Ariana smiles, and tries not to let the hurt show.
“Scar,” he says, hurrying forward. Scar stands from his wheelchair and before Grian can insist he sit back down, he wraps him up in his arms and hugs him tight. The smell of pine trees in summer fills Grian’s nostrils and his eyes burn, but he just grips Scar’s jacket a little tighter.
“Hey,” Grian says, when eventually he pulls back and Scar sits back down. Scar unlocks the wheelchair and starts moving off toward a nearby stone bench, dappled with sunlight under a white-blossoming tree. He parks himself there, and Grian sits on the bench, smoothing out his skirt.
“I’m kind of worried that I’ll slip on these petals,” confesses Scar. “So far, though, these wheels have kept up their tread! They’d better, with the fortune it cost me.”
“Right,” Grian murmurs. They need to go on this walk, because if they don’t walk then they won’t talk. “Scar—”
“Oh! I almost forgot, I got you something!”
Scar reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out something small, which he hands to Grian.
It’s a lesbian flag pin.
Grian stares at it.
He looks up. Scar is watching him expectantly.
Is Scar a lesbian?
“It matches your outfits!” Scar says proudly, and oh, that makes a lot more sense.
Grian tries really, really hard not to laugh. It’s just—well, yeah, the pin does match what Ariana usually wears, but there’s no way he can wear this pin without sending some wrong signals. “Oh, Scar,” he says fondly. “Scar, this is a pride pin.”
Scar’s brow furrows. “Pride? Like you’re proud of something, or, like, gay pride?”
Well, both, but that might be too much information right now. “Gay pride. This pin in particular is the lesbian pride flag.”
Scar still looks a little confused.
“Girls who are only attracted to girls, basically,” Grian elaborates. Scar’s face clears.
“Oh! Oh, I hope that isn’t you!”
“No, you’re good there,” Grian giggles. “I use a different pride flag, though.”
Scar’s face lights up again. He digs his hand into his trousers pocket and withdraws an entire handful of pride pins. “Good thing I grabbed one of everything! Which one is your flag?”
Grian shouldn’t be surprised. This is the same man who pulled a vase of flowers out of his pocket on the first date. Even so, he definitely didn’t expect this.
This is a wonderful opportunity to figure out Scar’s sexuality, though, and it’s been handed right to him! Grian scoots over on the bench and lets Scar dump the handful of pins between them, then begins sorting them.
“This is mine,” Grian says, holding up the familiar pink-purple-blue stripes. “Bisexual.”
Scar cocks his head like a curious dog. “What’s that?”
“It means I’m attracted to more than one gender,” he explains. “I like boys and girls.”
That one doesn’t quite land. Scar frowns, looks around, raises his eyebrows, smiles for a second, then frowns again. The emotions cycle through like a washing machine, round and round and round. “That’s . . . that’s not a thing. I thought it was just gay and straight.”
Wait, did Scar not even know about bisexuality? No wonder nobody can get a read on him! Grian nods vehemently. “Yep, bisexuality! This pin means gay, and this one is asexual, which means that you aren’t attracted to anyone. This one is pansexual, which is, like, you’re attracted to everyone.”
Scar grabs both pins with surprising speed and examines them, the purple and grey of one and the blue and yellow of the other. “They’re opposites,” he says, something akin to wonder in his voice. “I didn’t know that was possible!”
“There’s tons of sexualities,” Grian smiles. “That’s why they say LGBTQ+, you know?”
“Wait, does that mean something?”
“Lesbian, gay, bi, trans, and queer,” Grian lists off. “And the plus is for everything else.”
Scar perks up. “My friend Ren is trans! I actually just found out.”
Grian pauses for a moment. He can let that pass, or he can correct Scar. He’s inclined to move on from it, but Ren is a super cool guy and if he wasn’t out to Scar until just now, he probably doesn’t want to be publicly out. “That’s cool, but unless you know Ren is cool with it, I wouldn’t go around telling people,” he says. “Some people are more closeted than others.”
Scar hums in response. He turns the pansexual pin over in his hands, dropping the ace one back into the pile. “I didn’t know that was possible,” he says again, under his breath. Then he drops it as well, and picks up the nonbinary pin. “What’s this one?”
There’s so much to explain, and then Scar insists that they walk a little bit, and he picks a sprig of something green and tucks it behind Grian’s ear with a look so awestruck that Grian’s entire brain short-circuits.
So can he really be blamed if he doesn’t get around to confessing?
-
On tie-dye Tuesday, Grian and Mumbo and Pearl head over to the student center first thing in the morning to do some tie-dye together. Grian follows the instructions for a rainbow spiral, which he proudly dons as soon as he can (an unfortunate eight hours later, but maybe he’s a little impatient and puts it on before that time is up). It’s just in time for the math club, which he desperately needs to attend despite his fear of Scar. He can only struggle by on a C for so long, after all.
And, wouldn’t you know it, Scar does show up, peering into the door while leaning on his forearm crutches.
“Nice shirt!” Scar compliments with a bright grin, a grin that isn’t quite the same one he reserves for Ariana, which makes Grian want to sob for some reason. Instead he smiles and stands to show it off.
“Thanks! I made it today.”
“It’s staining the chair,” Mumbo complains. “Dude, you’re supposed to wait.”
“Oh, I just made one of those,” Scar says excitedly, setting down his backpack to pull out an opaque plastic bag. “I made it like the bisexual flag for my girlfriend.”
Under Mumbo’s heavy glare, Grian feels his ears heat up. “Oh, uh, uh, that’s cool,” he stammers. “I bet she’ll love it.”
“I hope so,” Scar says dreamily, then heads off for Impulse’s half of the study group, swinging his backpack over his shoulders.
Grian ducks his head away when Mumbo tries to catch his eye.
Which is really difficult, seeing as Mumbo’s teaching the study group.
-
On wear-your-colors Wednesday, Grian dresses in a pink cardigan over a purple top and blue jeans, and he and Scar meet up at the movies. Scar buys them a bucket of popcorn to share, and does that thing where he pretends to yawn and slowly stretches his arm around Grian, and Grian thinks his heart might explode.
He snuggles into Scar’s chest. This one barely even counts as a date, so it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t tell him today. He has the rest of the week.
-
On dress-like-royalty Thursday, Grian wears a typical Ariana fit with a feather boa and a tiny tiara for added flair. He meets Scar in the library—a study date, one that he had suggested, hoping that the quiet environment of the library would lead to the perfect time to confess.
Mostly it’s led to quiet kisses and giggles had in the cushy chairs on the second floor, near the ancient almanacs where hardly anyone ever browses.
It’s a risk to be here, as Ariana, but with any luck (luck that he hopes he doesn’t have) this will end with him not needing to hide any longer.
Of course, it’ll take a different kind of luck to keep from being discovered by someone else, and that luck is one that Grian always seems to be short of.
“Wait, so you’re on the student council?” Grian asks incredulously. Scar nods.
“Yep, I’m the treasurer! I don’t really do much, to be honest.”
Grian’s sure that Scar’s a great treasurer, because everything that he’s seen him do he’s been an expert at, but when he says that, Scar just kind of shrugs, a bit of pink dusting his cheeks.
“Oh, no. I ran for president, but ‘Suma beat me out,” he says. “I would’ve made a great president, though! My friend Bdubs always says so.”
“Of course you would,” Grian assures him. Scar feels like a natural-born leader, even if Grian’s generally opposed to the idea of leadership. He can make an exception.
Scar sighs wistfully. “Yeah. There were actually campaigns to get me removed as a polling option, though.”
“What? Why? What was your platform?”
“I was going to eliminate passing periods,” Scar says, waving a hand.
Grian blinks.
Passing periods? As in, the only thing that keeps every single student sane?
“I—what?”
“My schedule would look so much more neat without all those pesky little fifteen minute blocks!” argues Scar. Grian hadn’t been sure that he’d heard him right, but now that he knows. . . .
The campus is very, very lucky that Scar is the treasurer.
“I think I would’ve started a rebellion against you if you’d won,” Grian admits, laughing. “That’s . . . that’s terrible.”
Scar shrugs unrepentantly. “That’s what everyone says. I think they just didn’t see my vision.”
“Calling that a vision is generous,” a voice says from around the corner, and Grian fully panics as he sees a head of blue hair and a familiar gay smirk.
Scott comes into view, and for a moment his eyes crinkle in confusion at the sight of Grian as Ariana sitting with Scar. “Oh! Ariana Griande, I didn’t expect to see you . . . here.”
“You know my gi—?”
“Hey, Scott!” Grian hurries to interrupt Scar before he can finish his sentence. Please play along, please play along, please play along. “What’s up?”
Scott’s eyes flick between the two of them. It’s clear that he badly wants to know what’s going on, but after an antsy, perspiring moment, Scott’s eyes land on Grian and he raises his eyebrows.
“Are you already ready to headline the drag show tomorrow?”
The—?
Oh. Oh, the drag show. How could he forget?
The words, frozen in his throat, are beat out by Scar, who turns to Grian with a dramatic gasp.
“You’re performing in the drag show? I can’t wait!”
No. No, no, no, Scar can’t come see the drag show because then he’ll know, he’ll know, and Scott even asked Grian to give a short speech on what drag is which he had entirely forgotten about until just now and oh, his plans are all ruined!
“Me neither,” Scott says. “I’ve only seen—”
“Scar, you don’t have to come,” Grian blurts out. The look that Scar gives him is so terribly sad, though, his eyes wide and pitiful and lower lip quivering, that Grian immediately wishes he could retract the words.
“Of course I do! I want to support you!”
“And he actually does,” Scott points out. “He’s on the student council, they all have to attend for a special act that I have planned.”
Oh no.
Grian’s breaths are coming quicker and shorter and he can’t stop them.
This is just like the first time Scar saw him at the study group. This is just like when he realized he liked him. This is just like when they kissed for the first time.
This is just like the end of the world, and Iceland is calling Grian’s name.
Scott leaves with a jaunty wave and an even gayer smirk, even though Grian doesn’t remember a thing that happened in that conversation after learning that Scar would be at the drag show. Maybe he invented it? Maybe it was a hallucination borne of food poisoning. Does he have food poisoning? Maybe just normal poisoning.
Grian’s just about convinced his frantic self that he made the whole thing up when Scar turns to him with his gorgeous crooked smile and lovestruck eyes and asks a question that he never wanted to hear from his lips.
He lets himself, for a moment, wonder about Martyn. Is he in the same situation? Blindfolded, tied to an uncomfortable chair? A dirty gag pulled taut between his teeth?
Or is it worse?
Then he shakes himself. He’s not thinking about that. He’s not going to sit here and run himself ragged, panicking about what they might be doing to his friend. He’s fine, so he has to assume that Martyn’s the same way.
This was supposed to be an easy job. They only take easy jobs, after all—one of the perks of being independent contractors is that they get to pick and choose whatever jobs they want to work. But hiding bodies hasn’t been enough to cover rent as of late, and they really can’t afford to lose the junkyard.
They’ve worked for every respectable gang in the city, so Scott would have thought that there would be a bit more respect on the Mean Gills Hunk o’ Junk services. His and Martyn’s matching t-shirt uniforms are practically a Red Cross symbol around here. They aren’t to be touched.
The job had sounded pretty easy. Implicate this new gang, the Neighbors, in a murder that belonged to the Clockers. Scott didn’t feel too bad about it, seeing as the Neighbors hadn’t been so kind as to utilize their services yet. They seemed like a pretty small start-up, and the Clockers were probably trying to squash them out of the game before they really got their feet under themselves.
Well, they have their feet under them, that’s for sure.
The Neighbors aren’t actually a gang, that much is clear. They’re some sort of—private elite force, Scott thinks, with training that he’s never seen from the usual thugs. He and Martyn can hold their own in hand-to-hand combat, but a single man in a button-up shirt had taken them both down with a couple of lightning-fast sweeps of his legs. It had been almost like an art form, a fluid dance that only he knew the steps to.
Scott had woken up . . . wherever this is. Alone. Unable to move his arms more than to flex his wrists, his legs bound in three different places, the only movement allowed him the ability to twist his head around. Nothing to look at, not with his eyes covered.
How long was he out? How long has he been here, in this unknowable prison, waiting for whatever judgment is sure to come?
In all likelihood, Scott’s dead. There are very few scenarios here where he ends up alive. They’ll probably interrogate him about his past work, the many bodies that he’s thrown into the incinerator or buried beneath all the junk. Then they’ll kill him, his knowledge of whatever they’re doing too threatening to their work.
Why did he ever have to get involved in this business in the first place? He’d always dreamed of living an average-length life.
What had seemed like an easy way to get a lot of cash has backfired in an unfortunately foreseeable manner.
Scott sits in silence for far too long. Hours, if he had to guess—which is unpleasant, frankly, waiting for his own death for so long with restricted blood circulation. If they were polite about it, his captors would have come in right after he’d woken, done their quick little interrogation, and shot him in the head.
When someone finally joins him, they don’t ask the demanded questions he expects. They don’t take off the blindfold or the gag, but they release him from his other binds (which he can now tell aren’t ropes, but something like mini bungee cords, easier to loosen quickly) and pull him to his feet and into a brisk walk, all without a word.
Scott stumbles along with them, a person on either side, his wrists clicked into handcuffs before he can so much as lift his hands. That’s frustrating, and not because it restricts his chances of escape, but because he’s already struggling with walking as pins and needles fill his legs and he’d like to be capable of catching himself if he falls, thank you very much.
Somehow he keeps his feet, though he hasn’t got any sort of presence of mind to pay attention to where they’re going, especially when he can’t see. Probably to some other room to be interrogated.
But they stop suddenly after what he assumes is a bit of a hallway, and they don’t have him sit down or remove the blindfold or anything. They just stand there, fingernails digging into Scott’s arms, and wait.
Scott lets out a slow huff of breath through his nose, flexes his fingers. Is this some sort of intimidation thing? What are they waiting for?
This is going to be it. He’ll be standing here for ages, then some big scary man will come in and tear off his blindfold and gag. He’ll demand to know his purpose and press him for every bit of information he knows, then he’ll nod to one of his goons and they’ll shoot him in the head and his body will be dragged away (probably to be buried in his own junkyard).
He knows so many things, though—what if he keeps giving information that the big scary man doesn’t even want? He’s so overflowing with things that he knows he doesn’t even know what he knows! Great, now he’s going to get a bad grade in hostage, something that is normal to—
Shuffling footsteps.
Scott swallows as best he can behind the gag. It sounds like multiple people, kind of far away. Maybe two more men with Martyn in between them?
“Here,” a lilting, woman’s voice says. She sounds far away—like she’s at the other end of a long room. “There’s your target.”
What?
A beat passes.
“What?” a man (from that same distance) says incredulously, echoing Scott’s thought.
“You’re a marksman, aren’t you? Show us your skills.”
Is Scott in a shooting range? Why would they bring him here?
“What did he do?” the man asks.
“Doesn’t matter, does it? He’s an enemy to us.”
“But—but he’s helpless.”
“What does that matter?”
Oh.
Oh, no.
Scott can see it, in his mind’s eye. Him, bound and gagged, a faceless perpetrator, stood at the end of the shooting range. This anonymous man, perhaps facing a test of loyalty, placed at the other end with a gun in hand.
There’s still men on either side of him. A test of accuracy, too.
They aren’t even going to interrogate him?
Scott feels kind of offended, honestly, that they’re using him as nothing more than a prop in someone else’s test. He has knowledge of worth! He has dirt on every gang in the city, and despite what he always claims, it can absolutely be tortured out of him.
Maybe Martyn already gave up everything useful. Maybe Martyn traded his life for Scott’s. Sounds like something he would do—there’s never really been love lost between the two of them; circumstance brought them together and convenience kept them together and now convenience dictates their separation.
To be fair, Scott would have sold him out, too.
Ah, well. He lived a decent life—for the first sixteen years, or so. He was kind of a terrible person after that. To be frank, he probably deserves to die.
As someone else’s loyalty test, though? Really?
His ideal death is absolutely to sacrifice himself to save someone else for reasons that he’s not going to personally examine, but this is just embarrassing.
“I won’t.”
If Scott didn’t have a gag in his mouth, he would have groaned. Is he seriously going to drag this out? He’s seen movies, he knows what’s going to happen.
Sure enough, there’s a long pause, then a meaty thud followed by a pained grunt. After a moment, the woman speaks again.
“Shoot him.”
When the man speaks, his voice is notably strained. “No.”
Another thud. Then another, and a bit of a crack, and the man makes another sound of pain. After a moment of relative silence, he hears a sliding sound, as if something heavy is being dragged along the floor.
A door opens, then shuts.
Scott still has a gag in his mouth, but he makes his best attempt at a groan anyways.
-
That pattern repeats itself four times.
Scott is pulled from his chair and into what he has to assume is a target range. The anonymous man being tested is brought in, he refuses to shoot Scott, he gets beaten into submission, and then both of them are dragged away again.
The sixth time, as Scott stands in the target range with guards on either side, he wishes they would loosen the gag. Then he could at least try to make this interesting. It sounds fun to beg for help. Or maybe he could try to anger the man. Or he could stay silent by choice. That would be enigmatic.
The man sounds exhausted today, and Scott briefly wonders what he’s been going through when they’re not in the room together. Do they hurt him? Interrogate him? Train him? At least with Scott they give him food and water at fairly regular intervals. The man seems to get weaker and weaker by the day.
“Really?” the man says, his voice carrying thinly across the room. “Again? Same guy? Don’t you get tired of this?”
“Don’t you?”
There’s a long silence that follows that.
Scott waits with bated breath.
Is this going to be it, at last?
Even though he’s been prepared five times now, his unpreparedness strikes him like a staff to his knees. Did he ever thank his neighbors for the housewarming cookies they brought him? How long has his cat been alone at home? Why didn’t he ever reach out to his mom? Just a call would have sufficed. He could have even visited her.
The silence continues.
Then—a cry of pain—and relief drops through Scott’s chest.
It’s immediately chased by exhaustion, and a little bit of shame (it’s not like this putting-off of his death sentence will change anything that he has or hasn’t done, and all it’s doing is causing pain to this other man), but he only swallows and allows himself to be led away.
-
“Give me the gun.”
There it is again—that jump in his stomach, the weakness in his legs, because this is it, this time. No more trials.
Seven is a meaningful number, Scott heard once. He doesn’t know what it means. He has to assume it means the end.
“Good. Shoot—”
BANG.
Scott can’t help it—he flinches (he curses himself in the moment for flinching)—
He . . . isn’t hit.
There’s sounds—sounds of a struggle, shouts and deafening gunshots and the men on either side of him split apart, leaving him standing alone—and Scott hasn’t properly walked or stood on his own in what feels like days, so he sways in place, but he can’t balance himself with bound hands—
Running footsteps come toward him, and someone (who smells like sweat and blood, gross) wraps an arm around him before he can fall.
“Run, run, run!” the man’s voice says, too loud in his ear.
And what’s Scott supposed to do but run?
He lets the man guide him, stays as close as he can without tripping over his legs. He runs blindly, desperately trying not to fall—which is harder than it looks, blindfolded and handcuffed and weak. He manages to follow the twists and turns fairly well until the man drags him on a sharp turn and he stumbles over his own feet, falling flat on his face.
“Oh, geez—sorry, one second—”
A door squeaks; hands grab at his face, and the gag is pulled and pulled (and with it, painfully, the corners of his lips) and then torn loose. Scott gratefully lets his mouth fall shut, then winces as the blindfold is forcefully ripped from his eyes.
He opens his eyes (which hurts, the light hurts, how long has he been here?) and looks up.
In the dim lighting, Scott blinks past watery eyes and sees the man who has held his death in his hands seven separate times.
He’s—
He’s actually kind of hot.
Like, yeah, there’s blood trickling down the stubbly side of his face, and he has a massive black eye, and his blond hair is clumpy and tangled and gross-looking, but . . . he’s got potential. He definitely isn’t the worst last thing to see.
Scott swallows, his mouth bone-dry and tongue swollen, and manages, “Hey, hot stuff. What’s a guy like—like you doing in a place like this?”
Adorably, the man blushes. “I—um—can you shoot?” he blusters.
Scott hopes he manages a devilish smirk with his numb lips. “Only if you buy me dinner first.”
“Holy moly.” The man actually gets up and walks away, though he returns after only a few seconds. “Look, I can get us out of here if I can get a phone. You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you?”
“I haven’t checked,” Scott grouses. “I think it was confiscated in the onboarding training.”
“Yeah, same,” the man says absently.
Scott would check his pockets, but his hands happened to be bound with actual handcuffs, rather than the bungee cords that had bound him to the chair. He hasn’t noticed anything in his pockets as of yet—and who would leave a prisoner with their cell phone? It’s likely long been destroyed.
“Okay, well—I have these guns,” the man says, holding out two handguns. “Genuinely, can you shoot?”
“Not like this,” Scott says drily, jangling his handcuffs. The man hasn’t even offered to help him up. He’s just lying on the dusty carpet of this—it looks like a small meeting room, with a table in the center and a handful of chairs scattered about.
Come to think of it, it probably wouldn’t be too hard to hold a gun while handcuffed, but Scott isn’t exactly a marksman. He can hold his own in a fistfight, and he’s actually pretty decent with knives, but guns aren’t his specialty. Sure, they keep a handgun in the office in case of emergency, but he’s never really needed to use it.
“And I can only shoot one right now. . . .”
Scott scoffs, which quickly turns into a real coughing fit. When he can breathe, he chokes out, “You can only shoot one, period. Dual-wielding pistols doesn’t actually work, genius.”
The man shrugs. “I’ve been practicing, I can get decent cover fire. But they broke a few fingers, so. . . .” He holds up his left hand, which Scott can just barely tell in this lighting is shockingly swollen.
Despite his doubts on the gun matter, Scott grimaces. Broken fingers hurt, and he’s only ever broken one before (perks of accidentally slamming your hand in a door). He can’t imagine breaking multiple, then having to shoot with that hand.
“Okay. Here’s the plan,” the man says, checking out the open door. “First person to walk by, I shoot ‘em and take their phone. Then I call my friends and we get out of here.”
“That’ll be way too loud,” Scott points out. “They’d kill us before any of your supposed friends even showed up.”
“Well, it’s not like you’re throwing around any clever ideas,” the man says hotly.
Which is entirely unfair, seeing as Scott is literally lying on the floor, and until mere minutes ago was not only handcuffed, but blindfolded and gagged. Honestly, it’s shocking he can even function right now. It’s shocking he’s even alive right now.
They’re not actually going to escape, right? There’s no way, not when they’re in the depths of the Neighbors’ organization, when there are surely plenty of skilled fighters searching for them right now. They’ll probably kill Scott on the spot, then take the other guy back to continue whatever they’re doing with him.
“Search the room, would you?” the man says. “I’ll keep a look-out.”
Scott rolls his eyes, then shifts to his knees and pushes himself up, starts going through the room.
It’s just as small as he’d assumed, a table barely larger than a desk in the center with four chairs, two on either long side. There’s not any sort of tech in here, not even a projector, and the whiteboard on the wall only has a singular dried-out marker with it.
He turns around to tell the guy that there’s really nothing here, but he already has a preemptive hand held out toward Scott, clearly signalling to be quiet.
Scott freezes. Listens.
He doesn’t hear anything until the footsteps are almost upon them, just outside the door of the meeting room, and quick as a flash his accomplice darts out the door, then back in, dragging a struggling man in a suit with him, hand with the broken fingers covering his mouth.
There’s a moment’s struggle in which Scott’s accomplice tries to drag the suit to the ground, and the suit tries to get his gun aimed behind himself to shoot him. Scott’s fairly certain he hasn’t been noticed yet—he hurries forward, ramming his head into the suit’s stomach—
The force of it bowls all three of them to the floor with a loud thud. Scott rolls over someone’s lumpy body—his new friend cries out—the Neighbor grunts—
It’s too dark, for goodness’ sakes, Scott can’t see and he’s all turned around, his hands held together by the stubborn cuffs, there’s no way he’s going to survive this—
BANG!
Blinding pain overcomes Scott’s entire system and he thinks he only doesn’t scream because he’s left without any air in his lungs. He doesn’t know where he’s been hit, but it hurts more than anything that’s ever happened and he can’t see, can’t feel his body, can’t do anything but gasp in agony.
Is he dying? He’s probably dying. He’s definitely dying, it—it hurts so—
What’s happening? Why is he dying? He’s dying—
Scott isn’t sure how long he spends hanging in the limbo of all-encompassing torture. At some point, though, the pain begins to centralize in his right arm, and he sucks in a deep breath, some of the red on the back of his eyelids fading. The ringing in his ears starts to recede, little by little, until he can hear someone muttering in his ear.
“—you’re all right, help is coming, just need you to stand up—”
An arm worms its way under his back and pulls him up slowly, Scott helpless to prevent it. His knees buckle when his bare feet find the floor, but whoever has him doesn’t let him fall. His right hand pulses angrily, far too hot for him to focus on much else.
“Come on, it’s not that bad. We need to get out of here so my buddies can get us away, right? Can you open your eyes?”
Scott tries. He really, really, does, but he can’t quite wrench them open, his eyelids soldered shut. He does manage, however, to stand, though his legs tremble weakly under the weight of his body.
“Let’s go, let’s go. Are you gonna pass out? You look white as a ghost. Stay awake, yeah? What’s your name?”
His name. Scott lets the person supporting him guide him forward. “Scott,” he rasps.
“Cool, nice to meet you. What do you do for work, Scott?”
“Junkyard. I—” Scott finally forces his eyes open, the world before him grey and tear-blurred. “I—”
“Junkyard, that’s cool. Got any family?”
They’re escaping. They’re getting out of here, Scott and this random man. What happened with the other guy, the one in the suit? Did they take him out?
“Scott? You good?”
“Yeah,” Scott breathes, and his hand pulses—
He looks down.
He can’t really tell what’s up through his tears, but there’s a dirty piece of fabric tied around his hand, soaked through with blood. Blood’s all up his arm, all over his leg, dripping lazily from his fingers. He blinks, blinks again.
“Can you walk yet?” the man asks, and Scott now notices how exhausted he sounds, almost entirely out of breath. “‘Cuz—dude, I can’t go on like this.”
Surely he can walk, right?
Scott decides to at least try.
He pushes off of the man—not completely, but enough that he’s mostly supporting his own weight. He’s still pretty much blindly following, but they really ought to move faster if they’re actually going to get out. Scott pushes past the jelly that his legs have become and increases the pace, swallowing back the instinct to vomit.
“What’s y’r name?” he forces out, more to keep himself conscious than out of actual curiosity. Which is probably why the man was asking him personal questions in the first place, come to think of it.
“Jimmy,” the man replies, after only a moment’s hesitation. “I think—I think that’s the door out. It looks like—here—”
They push together on metal, heavy heavy metal—
Scott breathes in fresh air—
Then his legs give out entirely.
He sinks to the ground in some sort of weird slow motion, and Jimmy manages to drag them both over the threshold before he’s falling too, and Scott feels all fuzzy in the back of his mouth and really, really sick. . . .
Then black.
-
“I can’t believe you passed out on the doorway.”
“Uh-huh, and who was it who basically dropped me?” Scott retorts, no heat in his words. Jimmy snorts.
“I’ll have you know, I had three broken fingers, four cracked ribs, and a broken collarbone,” Jimmy counts off. “Not to mention all the bruises. You just had a tiny gunshot wound.”
“A gunshot wound that blew off half my hand,” Scott says wryly, gesturing to his heavily-wrapped right hand, now bereft of a pinky finger and a decent chunk of his palm. “Those tend to bleed a lot.”
Jimmy winces. “Sorry—”
“No, you’d better not be apologizing again,” Scott interrupts. “Losing a finger is better than losing my life.”
“I should’ve been able to get the gun away from him, though,” Jimmy says awkwardly. “I know this stuff, I’ve been doing it for years.”
“Right, I totally expect you to be perfect after being tortured for a week.”
“Oh, come on, it wasn’t—”
“You’re both injured and you aren’t supposed to be out here,” a voice comes from behind them. Scott’s heart jolts, but only Grian comes up in front of them, arms folded over his zipped-up leather jacket. “Come on. In you get.”
Being out on the back porch had been fun while it lasted, Scott supposes. Back to the weird library-turned-hospital.
But Grian grabs Scott’s left arm, shoos Jimmy on when he pauses. “Go on, get your bandages changed. Scott and I need to talk.”
Jimmy hesitates a moment longer, eyes darting between Scott and Grian. Scott, despite his nerves, nods confidently.
“I won’t be long,” he says. “I’d never miss a chance to see you shirtless.”
The tips of Jimmy’s ears turn pink and he grumbles something, but heads on inside. Once the door to the patio closes, Grian lets go of Scott, leans back on the railing.
“You have to stay, now,” he says bluntly. “You’re too much of a risk.”
Scott grimaces. He doesn’t remember how they got here—he fainted as they left the building, then woke up in a bed in the heart of the Bad Boys’ base. Eight years he’s avoided swearing fealty to any gang, and somehow, he’s ended up with the Bad Boys. “I have a business,” he tries half-heartedly.
Grian snorts. “You think the Neighbors don’t know where it is? They’ll kill you before the day’s over.”
Okay, he really didn’t think that would work, anyways. New tactic. Become a Bad Boy?
He really doesn’t want to be a Bad Boy, but until he can find a way to flee the country, he’s probably stuck here. Good thing he’s hurt his hand so, he won’t be expected to be any sort of gunman.
He’s pretty good at making the most of situations, though.
“I think I have some talents that the Bad Boys would find useful,” he says. “As long as I’m compensated.”
“You’ll have to talk to someone a bit higher up the food chain to work that out.”
Scott nods. “The Baddest of Boys.”
“Please never say that again.”
“The Worst Boy, even.”
“Go back to bed.”
Scott chuckles and moves to head back inside, but once again, Grian catches his arm.
“Tim’s got a lot of people protecting him,” he says in a low voice. “If you’re just messing around, you’d better leave him alone.”
Which doesn’t make any sense, Scott thinks as he heads back to his library-hospital bed. He doesn’t even know a Tim.
cw: an unnamed character uses homophobic and transphobic slurs
~
Grian pulls into a parking space slowly, peering over the dash to ensure that he doesn't hit the piled-up snow in front of the curb.
Here he is.
The Cheesecake Factory.
He's been doing vocal warm-ups in the car for the entire drive (ten minutes), pitching his voice gradually higher until he feels comfortable in a higher register. Luckily, his voice already isn't the deepest, and he's never found it too difficult to flip up to his Ariana voice.
He'd spent a little too much time picking out his outfit, but he's happy with his choice. One of his classic looks—a magenta skirt that stops about three inches above his knees, almost pencil-thin, which works well to accentuate hips that he doesn't really have. He's matched it with a lacy white crop top, a pale pink cardigan halfway buttoned up over it to protect his bare stomach from the cold. His winter coat is his normal black one, but he thinks it could pass as a girl's coat, so he decides to wear it inside instead of leaving it in the car (and that way, if he gets cold during the date, he won't have to borrow the man's jacket or anything grossly romantic like that).
Grian checks his make-up one last time in the rearview mirror. It looks good, subtle in a non-subtle way. A typical face of make-up, a dab of light lipstick, some autumn-toned eyeshadow (which compliments his skin and eyes) and a bit of mascara. Nothing too special, the biggest flair being a bit of glitter here and there.
There's a bit of a spot where he hasn't quite blended it right, where it leads to his neck. He clicks his tongue, reaches into his little purse for his beauty blender.
He dabs at his chin, fixing the lacking spot, then closely examines his skin for any other irregularities in his make-up. Too much glitter here, perhaps? Uneven mascara? Or—
He's procrastinating.
Right.
This doesn't have to be a long date. An hour. Long enough that he can get his food, eat some of it, and bring the rest home in a take-out box.
Besides, this man won't notice if his make-up isn't quite right. After all, he's oblivious enough that he didn't realize Grian wasn't a girl.
So Grian does one more vocal warm-up, just a quick sentence in his girl voice, and pushes the car door open with the toe of his sneaker, hopping out onto the asphalt.
Pearl has been trying to convince him to let her get the car jacked up, but if they did that he would have to jump to get out of the car, and it's a 2004 silver Ford Focus and that would just look ridiculous. He isn’t strong enough to defend such an ugly car, and he isn’t tall enough to get into and out of it.
He slips his purse onto his shoulder (after, of course, stowing away his phone and his beauty blender and his keys) and clicks the lock button on the inside of the door before pushing it shut.
He can go on a date, for goodness’ sake. He's going to be fine.
And if all goes poorly, Mumbo's going to fake an emergency.
Grian picks his way around the snow, grimacing as he can already feel his converse soak through. He hates wet socks. Does anybody like wet socks? Probably weird people. The kind of people that Mumbo goes on dates with.
Should he wait outside?
Grian looks around at the cars, none of which look quite like what he's imagining. In his mind, he sees the man pull up in a Ferrari, or a Tesla, or something fancy to match his gold-tipped cane. Everything here is pretty average, with the most expensive being some sort of Volkswagen thing.
Then, as he's waiting, a car pulls in.
It isn't anything that he expected. It's a station wagon, older than Grian, some of the brownish-red paint on the sides peeling. The windshield is cracked, a long line along the bottom, sending a distortion through the little parrot plushie sitting on the dash.
The license plate is bent, and as Grian watches this car pull in a little too fast and the tires hit the curb, he can guess why.
The driver doesn't bother with backing up and trying again. He parks it there, and Grian almost can't bear to look.
That can't be him.
That can't be.
But the door opens, and in a maneuver that almost cracks the windshield even more, the driver pulls a cane out over the shoulder of the passenger seat, familiarly gold-tipped and used to push open the door a bit further.
“Sorry I'm late!”
The man scrambles out of the car, tugging soft leather gloves off his hands and stuffing them into the pocket of his brown leather jacket. “I had to make a stop—took longer than I expected—how are you?”
He looks pretty much the way Grian remembers. His brown hair is just the tiniest bit long—it still looks fine, but it's meant to be shaved short on the sides, he thinks, and it’s started to outgrow that sheared state. The same brown scar trails down the side of his face, but that doesn't stop his face from stretching in a wide smile, teeth even and almost sparkling.
He's good-looking, at least. Grian isn't going on a date with someone who looks like they just crawled out of the ocean and was instantly bit by a zombie.
Honestly, though, the date with that one sea-monster-from-the-dead-looking man wasn't his worst date ever.
The man hurries forward, his cane almost slipping on a patch of ice, and halts just before he reaches Grian, slightly out of breath, one side of the collar of his leather jacket tucked in.
The man doesn't notice his errant clothing, just stares at Grian, mouth slightly open and green eyes wide.
“Hi,” the man breathes. “I—well—um . . . should—go in?”
Oh, this man is absolutely enamored.
Grian will be able to order anything he wants.
The man insists that Grian go first, so Grian starts down the sidewalk toward the restaurant, checking behind himself to make sure that the man's cane doesn't slip again.
The man, of course, hurries ahead right as they come to the restaurant and pulls open the door before Grian can even reach for it, and he flashes another toothy smile as he nods his head for Grian to pass.
Grian steps in and moves to the side, pretending to check his phone while he waits for the man to figure out their seating. He isn't going to give any impression that he's willing to pay.
Soon enough, a waiter leads them to a small booth, tucked away near the back of the dining room.
Great, they aren't sitting in public view? He was hoping to be more visible to the other diners, deterring this man from any unwanted displays of affection.
He sits reluctantly, on the end of the booth seat closer to the door, leaving no room for his date to sit beside him. He isn't taking chances with this one.
Luckily, his date doesn't try to squeeze in next to him, settling down (slowly) in the seat opposite. The waiter leading them sets down two menus, then steps back with a cheeky grin.
“Can I get you two anything to drink?” he asks, and Grian's date practically bounces up in his seat.
“Two Strawberry Blossoms,” he says, clearly quite excited.
And that—
Nope!
No, that's alcohol, that's got to be alcohol. Grian is underage, he can't get carded right now.
He hadn't even thought to bring his fake ID. They were going to the Cheesecake Factory, for goodness’ sake!
Not only that, but both his real and his fake have his face and name. It would entirely blow his cover to have to pull out his ID.
“Just—just pepsi, please,” Grian says before the waiter can ask for his ID.
“But—”
“Pepsi,” Grian says firmly, ignoring his date's protests.
The waiter nods, and when he reaches out for the other man's ID, the man shrugs morosely, looking quite like Grian had just confessed to being a drag queen.
He needs to stop thinking about blowing his cover if he doesn't want to actually blow his cover.
“I'll just have ginger ale, I guess,” the man says dramatically, valiantly going for a smile through his clear disappointment. His shoulders are hunched, his face the picture of weary-but-I-shall-do-it, his eyes somehow still sparkling through the hair that has drooped into his face.
Grian stares.
How can this man exude the same energy as six different cartoon characters combined? How can this man be the Voltron of over-expressive cartoons?
Why is he on a date with Voltron?
“I just want to be sober,” he finds himself explaining, even though he doesn't owe Voltron an explanation. “With driving in this weather, you know?”
The man perks up, reanimated by the simple sentence, even his hair seeming revitalized. “That makes sense!” he declares. He pushes Grian's menu toward him, fingers tapping on the plastic. “Is there anything—oh, wait, almost forgot!”
He unzips his jacket all the way. There’s a pocket on the inside of his jacket, and from it, the man pulls out an entire vase.
It’s thin, and red, and there’s a handful of multi-colored wildflowers stuck in it, and Grian can’t help but stare.
“How—how did that fit—?”
The man doesn’t answer, just places the vase between them with an odd flick of his wrist, then beams at Grian.
“Flowers!” he says, as if that explains and makes up for the absolutely insane act of pulling a whole vase of flowers out of your jacket.
Grian’s got to give him points for creativity.
“I was hoping they’d have pink and white,” the man says with a shrug, “but it is January, so I suppose I can’t expect the flowers to have much variety. But I think red and purple are just as nice—sunset colors, you know?”
“Mhm,” Grian answers absently (even though those are not, actually, sunset colors), his eyes darting from the vase to his date’s jacket. There’s no way. That had to have been some sleight of hand, or something.
He dated a magician in high school. Grian had been highly impressed by the tricks he performed, until they went on a date to the city-level robotics championship (to support Mumbo, of course) and Mumbo had been so distracted watching his magic tricks that he nearly lost the points that carried his team to the win. The next day, he awkwardly informed Grian that the magic his boyfriend was performing was actually a weird cover for ulterior motives, and that one trick that involved him dropping his phone and picking it back up to find the chosen playing card inside his phone case was part of an elaborate ruse to take pictures of Grian’s feet.
Maybe Mumbo wasn’t the only one serial-dating fetishists.
“I . . . they reminded me of you,” the man says, something bashful in his face as he sneaks glances at Grian over the top of his unfolded menu. “So I grabbed them. That’s why I was late.”
That’s. . . .
That’s actually very sweet.
When Grian doesn’t respond, the man clears his throat. “So. Um. Is there an appetizer you’d like?”
Grian flips open his menu, resolutely ignoring the flowers between them. He can’t find anything about this man sweet, or cute, or anything. He is the enemy. Grian’s just here for the free food.
“Er, the spinach dip?” Grian suggests, picking the first thing he sees. Spinach dip is always delicious (even if it hurts his stomach something awful every time he eats it).
“Perfect!” the man grins at him, and it’s quite a nice grin. It’s big, and lopsided, and his lips crack just the slightest bit to show his teeth.
Grian almost smiles back.
He doesn’t, but it’s close.
Grian’s been to the Cheesecake Factory twice in his life—once as a middle-schooler for his birthday (after he had won a coupon), and then again with Mumbo back when they were sixteen and they both scored jobs at Texas Roadhouse, as a treat with their first ever paychecks. He’s wanted to go back ever since, fascinated by the expansive menu. His first time, he’d gotten some boring pasta or something. With Mumbo, he’d tried the cheeseburger spring rolls. This time around, he knows exactly what he wants.
The Macaroni and Cheese Burger.
His mouth is watering just thinking about it. It sounds horrendous. It sounds beautiful. It sounds like everything he needs to make this date well worth his time.
“So! Do you live on campus?”
Grian’s eyes dart up—his date has set down his menu, fingers steepled before him, waiting for Grian to answer.
A simple, basic, getting-to-know-you question.
He can do that.
He can do this. He has to keep his eyes on the prize. Macaroni and Cheese Burger. He’s playing Ariana because it gives him the chance to taste his dreams.
How on earth does small talk work?
-
Two days later finds Grian back at the Aquetown bar, a blue drink set in front of him at the booth where he'd decided to sit.
He's not here as Ariana, this time. He's done with creeps for the night.
He'd worked a show at one of his normal venues. He wasn't the main feature of the show—he works with a group of five other guys, and there's generally three or four of them together at one show. Grian's pulled his own show several times, of course, even though he hasn't got near as much experience under his belt as some of his fellow performers—though, that may be part of the draw. Grian usually plays Ariana as a young, relatively innocent pop star, and there are plenty who find that desirable.
That does, unfortunately, bring in some . . . less than savory characters. Grian can usually shrug it off, worm his way out of uncomfortable situations, but tonight hadn't been a good crowd at all.
He'd left as soon as he had finished, exchanging grimaces with the two others that had performed, not even taking the time to change more than throwing on a set of sweats over his Ariana getup. In the car, he'd unclipped his hair extensions, and he wiped off the lipstick with a napkin once he sat down in the bar, but he really just looks a mess. His base makeup and eyes are still done, a bit of blush highlighting his cheekbones, and there’s still glitter in his hair, and—
Grian frowns at his own reflection in the dark screen of his phone. His dangly earrings. He unscrews those and shoves them in his sweatpants pocket, surely losing the back of at least one of them.
He really does love dressing up as Ariana. Drag is one of his passions! There are just are some nights where he can’t stand to be in it a second longer.
His hoodie is baggy enough to hide his cleavage, luckily. And the white tennis shoes he'd worn on stage are innocuous enough to not be out of the ordinary.
Stressful night, he texts Mumbo. Stopped for a bite.
As if on cue, his food arrives: nothing fancy, just some chicken fingers and fries. He starts on them, too tired to worry about washing his hands of the sweat and glitter left on them from the show.
Despite the night, his thoughts are elsewhere.
Namely, on the date with the man.
He had never figured out the man's name, because he had been so stupidly polite that he barely talked about himself. He just listened to Grian, eyes fixed on him, occasionally making an excited comment, utterly enraptured in whatever few stories Grian felt safe telling.
And when he had talked, it hadn't been bragging. It hadn't been overplayed boasts, or clearly false stories.
It had been a surprisingly informative discussion about what an Imagineer was (which was the man's dream job).
Which . . . that was kind of cute. Come on, who didn't secretly dream about finding a man who was attractive but hadn't lost his sense of whimsy? A man who loved cartoons and would sing in the car at the top of his lungs? A man who elected not to talk about himself in place of weaving an interesting and factual tale about the Disney parks?
It was nice. It was nice, for once, to have a guy that was actually nice.
Of course, Grian had ghosted him. There was no such thing as a man that perfect. And even if there was, there's no way such a man would be interested in him. Even if the man's intentions seemed perfectly genuine and chivalrous, at the end of the day he'd been on a date with Ariana, not Grian. He liked Ariana. He wouldn't have given the time of day to Grian.
He feels maybe a little bit gloomy, then. Not really, because he isn't actually into this nameless man, but it had been fun and now he probably won't ever go to the Cheesecake Factory again. Or anywhere else expensive.
Such depressing thoughts, combined with the mediocre bar food, keep him distracted enough that he doesn't notice the shadow of a person approaching him.
“Hey, fag!”
Grian winces, pushes his still-sweaty bangs out of his eyes and looks up.
The man before him is an older guy, his hair graying, his once-handsome face now a bit weathered, laugh lines carved around his eyes. He isn't laughing, his face twisted in a sneer.
There's another man behind him, a bit shabbier than this one, but just as condescending.
“Leave the dress-up to the girls,” the first says, and Grian should have just skipped grabbing dinner and gone home. Going out for food is one of his favorite comforts, but it isn't worth this.
“Or do you think you're a girl?” The man leers. “Tranny.”
Grian stares at them.
Just a level, tired stare, praying that the men will get bored with the non-reaction and leave.
He's way too tired to deal with this. And he needs to take off all his make-up when he gets home, still, which is probably the worst part of all of this. There’s so much he needs to do before he gets into bed.
He isn't hurt. He isn't even really offended. He's just so tired, and everything feels just a little too overwhelming, and he isn't too surprised when his itchy eyes start to burn with tears.
“Even his drink is girly,” the second man says, picking up whatever blue thing it was that he'd ordered. He swirls it a little, then spits in it.
A tear slips from his eyes, as frustrating as it is.
One of them touches his hair, pulls at it a little bit, and Grian just knows he's saying something about its length, and it isn’t that long, really, he’s been meaning to get a haircut but this works so much better with the extensions and why can’t they leave—
“Hey! What's going on, here?”
The two men step away quickly, and Grian hurries to rub his napkin over his face (which he'd avoided, not wanting to use the cheap napkin on his skin), scrubbing off as much make-up as possible while drying his tears.
He knows that voice.
He knows that voice, and he is keeping his face covered as much as possible.
A tall, rakishly handsome man with a scar trailing down his face stands before the men, leaning heavily on a gold-tipped cane, looking oddly intimidating in his green waistcoat and button-up shirt.
Because of course he does. Because Grian’s night can’t get any worse.
It’s the man, the one that asked Ariana out on a date in this very bar, and why didn't Grian think he might be a regular patron here?
“Nothing,” both men say at the same time, but one of them shoots a smirk toward Grian.
The man seems entirely unimpressed. “Sure,” he says. “I think it's time for you two to head out.”
“What? We're just chatting with—”
“You can't do that!”
Grian's former date draws himself up self-importantly. “I happen to know the owner of this establishment,” he declares, “and if you aren't gone in thirty seconds, I will be informing him that you are not welcome back.”
With surprisingly few additional mutinous mutters, both bullies leave, and Grian lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Great. He can wait a couple minutes, then leave as well. Then he can go home and rant to Mumbo about how terrible the night was while he gets cleaned up. Mumbo will know just what to say.
But the man, curse him, slides into the seat opposite Grian and holds out a hand.
“My name's Scar,” he says, and that cannot be true.
Scar? Scar? It has to be a nickname.
Grian coughs into the napkin, unable to restrain his surprise. “For real?”
Grian does not shake his hand, and after a moment, Scar turns it into a smoothing of his hair (which would be cool, if he hadn't held his hand across the table for a solid ten seconds before).
Scar smiles winningly. “Born and raised! I'm sorry about those guys. If it helps, I'm here every weekend and I've never seen them.”
“Do you really know the owner?”
“Yep! He's one of my mom's friends, consulted me on the interior, all that. I even worked here for a while!”
Grian doesn't pull down the napkin, instead choosing to scrub at his eyes with it. At least his make-up is a decent bit more excessive than it was on the date, though the rhinestones pull off with little jabs of pain as they get caught.
“I like your make-up,” Scar says, in a tone of voice so chipper that Grian isn't sure if he's being honest or lying to try and boost Grian's mood.
He shrugs. “I don't usually wear make-up.”
“You're good at it, though. I don't know the first thing about make-up—I wouldn't be able to tell a foundation from a—well, what's that little screwdriver thing that they use on the eyes?”
Scar shrugs. “Maybe! But it's just amazing that you can do that. Whatever those other guys said, they're absolutely wrong. And terrible people, if I may be so bold.”
Scar stands again, grimacing as he shifts his weight to his cane. Grian had assumed it was cosmetic, but he definitely needs it for some purpose.
“I'll let you get back to your dinner,” Scar tells him, offering a soft, warm smile. It’s a nice smile, just like it was on the date, genuine and happy and well-meaning. “I ought to head home, anyway. My roommate hates it when I drive after midnight. See you around, I hope!”
With that, he leaves, picking up a backpack from a table a few booths away from Grian, giving a nod to the barista before exiting the building.
No.
Grian lets his face fall to the table.
No, no, no, no, no!
Why is that man so—so nice? So well-intentioned?
Grian's never dated nice guys before. He's dated quite a few bad boys, the kinds with motorcycles and leather jackets and cigarettes. He'd even been a bad boy himself for a few months his senior year of high school, but his sunglasses became eyeliner and his leather jacket became boobs and cute skirts before too long.
And then he'd gone through a phase of only dating bears, but that had never coalesced into anything substantial. He and Mumbo had gone on one date, back in high school, but they were both looking for the same kind of man and that kind of man was not each other. In fact, after that date with Mumbo, Grian had entirely written off the idea of dating nice guys, seeing as Mumbo fell firmly in that category in his mind and he and Mumbo are nowhere near romantically compatible, codependent as they are.
Scar is different, though. Different from every man he's been on dates with. Scar is nice, chivalrous, caring—and that isn't to say Grian's had a ton of bad relationships where his partners weren't those things, but Scar is all those things to everyone. He respects Ariana and her decisions and seems genuinely interested in getting to know her; he protects random men he doesn’t know from harassment and does his best to help them calm down.
He smiles the same way to both of them.
Scar is kind, plain and simple. He's kind, and has a good heart, yet is totally secure in his masculinity. What kind of man can stand up to bullies while wearing a waistcoat, swagger with unreachable confidence around a bar that he doesn't own or work at, then turn around and gush about Disney parks and movies?
After a long moment of contemplating, Grian decides that he isn't attracted to Scar. Not really. He's just . . . the man is odd, is all, and he wants to know more!
So he stands, chicken and fries forgotten, and heads up to the bar.
The woman tending the bar raises a brow, flicking her blond hair behind her shoulder. “Need another?”
Grian hops onto a barstool, his toes barely touching the ground. “No, I have a question.”
He looks back toward the door, back toward where Scar had just exited.
“That man,” he asks slowly. “Scar. Do you know him?”
“Oh, yeah. He used to work here. We exercise together, sometimes.”
Grian leans forward. “What's he like?”
The smile on the woman's face is calculating, knowing. “Scar . . . boy, the stories I could tell.”
Grian's whole desk is just his make-up stuff (oh, and it's valentine's day)
:D
~
Grian parades through the living room in practically every outfit he owns, sorting them into yes and no piles based on mostly his own opinions, given that both Pearl and Mumbo are focused on their homework and only occasionally look up to voice their thoughts on the look.
“I really like this one,” Grian says, twirling around. It’s the skirt he wore the first night he met Scar, a light pink pleated skirt that poofs out when he spins. “It’s very Valentine-y, you know? But I’ve worn it before, and I kind of want a new look.”
“You could pair it with your new top,” Pearl suggests, glancing at him. Grian hums, then digs said top out of the yes pile—a white crop top with a heart shape cut out in the chest.
“Do you think I’ll get cold?” he asks, holding the top out in front of him. The sleeves are short and the cut-out leaves a fairly large expanse uncovered. The skirt doesn’t reach his knees, either, and his white sneaker heels (which of course he would have to wear with an outfit like that) have lace on the sides, not doing much to keep his feet warm.
“More of an excuse for him to give you his jacket,” Pearl shrugs, and she does make a very good point there.
“Mate, it’s already six,” Mumbo says. “Don’t you need to be there by seven?”
Grian waves a hand at him. “I just need to do my hair and makeup, it’s fine. This is important, Mumbo!”
“You’ve been at it for hours.”
Grian scoffs. “Like—like, an hour and a half!”
“You started at three,” Mumbo deadpans. “Don’t you have a quiz due at midnight?”
“This is important!”
“So is your academic career!”
Grian ignores him and snatches up the top, skipping back to the bedroom to change. He’d been hoping that he would be able to wear his new shirt, especially since he’d bought it with the dance in mind.
He just needs to have a good time tonight and feel good about himself. No worrying about Scar or where their situationship is headed, just going to a dance in drag with a handsome man at his side. What could be better?
It’s just a fun dance, Grian reminds himself as he shimmies into the top, adjusting his left breast just a little bit. Nothing serious or heavy. He isn’t even going to think about anything bad, just enjoy himself.
He can worry about all the messy stuff tomorrow.
Grian tugs the top down a bit on the left side, then turns around to check in the full-length mirror. It looks. . . .
Well, it looks a little awkward, he thinks wryly, running a hand through his hair. He hasn’t clipped in his extensions yet, so he really just feels like Grian dressed up in girl clothes. With cleavage. He isn’t a proper femboy until he gets his hair and make-up on, after all.
He does give the skirt a little twirl, though, snorting at the way it poofs up. He’ll need to put some shorts on under that.
“Hey, G, is Pearl driving you?” Mumbo calls, his footsteps trudging down the hall. Grian snaps open his make-up palette and sits at his desk, setting out everything he needs.
“If she can, that’d be nice,” he says as Mumbo enters. Grian passes him a beauty blender. “Can you get this wet real quick?”
Mumbo disappears out the door and Grian hears a second of running water before he returns, handing back the now wet blender. Grian nods his thanks and dips it into his foundation before patting it all over his face.
“The shirt is cute,” Mumbo comments. “Do you want to cover it while you do all that? With it being white and all.”
“Eh, it’s fine,” Grian dismisses with a wave of his beauty blender. “I’ve done this loads of times. Should I do eyeliner?”
A thump tells Grian that Mumbo has flopped onto the floor. “Erm . . . maybe something light? Whatever you normally do is fine.”
“Right, but what I normally do isn’t anything special,” says Grian. His nose crinkles as he pats foundation around his nostrils. He’s never much cared for the oddly sweet smell of the stuff, and he doesn’t seem to be getting used to it. “It’s a special day.”
“Right, but . . . it kind of isn’t?”
“I—yes it is!”
“G, there’s a 99.9 percent chance that you’re going to break his heart soon,” Mumbo says, not unkindly. “You shouldn’t try to make this out to be a special day, you know? Don’t get his hopes up.”
Grian’s fingers are shaking a little bit, but he still picks up his contour stick and starts tracing his cheekbones.
The thing is, this is a special day. For him, not just for Scar. Mumbo seems to have forgotten that Grian is practically as smitten with Scar as he is with Ariana, which makes this a very odd conundrum of trying to impress Scar as much as he can while also trying to wean Scar off of Ariana. He still hasn’t decided if he’s just going to come clean or if he’s going to make Ariana dump him and then try to seduce him as Grian. The first one will ruin his chances for sure, but he doesn’t see much hope for the second option, either.
No! He isn’t going to think about that right now. He’s going to do his best to focus on letting loose and having a good time, and that’s it.
“I just want a fun look for Valentine’s Day,” Grian tries to cover. “Maybe a little black heart next to my eye? That’d be cute.”
“Sure,” Mumbo says dubiously. “Dude, you’ll look good in anything. Just do it for you, yeah? Not some guy.”
“Tell me that next time you consider shaving your mustache just to see if a guy likes you for you and not your mustache,” Grian shoots back. Mumbo gasps.
“Don’t remind me of my weakest moments!”
Grian laughs. “I will never let you forget that, dude.”
“Ugh,” groans Mumbo. “I can’t believe I actually was going to do that. Young me had no clue what he was on about.”
“That was two months ago, max.”
“Don’t you need to go find some toxic bad boy to date?”
“Don’t you need to get up to your vampiric activities?”
“Dude, what is that even supposed to mean?”
Grian shrugs. “I dunno. You’re the vampire, not me. Stalking a victim down an alley, or swishing your cape around menacingly, or striding through the apartment all gloomily?”
Mumbo doesn’t answer that with anything more than a bonk of his head against the worn carpet. Grian pauses, comparing two eyeliners. The pink eyeliner is definitely a bit camp, so black it is.
“I think I would look good without a mustache,” Mumbo says, nearly making Grian mess up the gentle line he’s drawing down the edge of his left eyelid. He pulls the pencil back and blinks a couple of times, then turns around to fix Mumbo with an incredulous stare.
“Dude. The mustache is like, your thing,” he says. “You’ve had it since you were fourteen and it was just baby hairs.”
“Maybe it’s time for a change,” Mumbo says, looking far too innocent to be believable. Grian just rolls his eyes and turns back to lining them.
Some pink eyeshadow follows, then some blush, then a bit of silver glitter to join the highlighter on his nose and cheekbones. He doesn’t go overboard in the way he’s tempted to, but he does draw a black heart on his cheek and a couple of tiny white ones at the corners of his eyes. He ends it with a pink lipstick that’s subtle, but still makes a statement. It looks super cute—he flashes himself a grin in the mirror, then wipes his hands off on a tissue and moves on to his extensions.
“Grian, you ready to go?” Pearl calls from the living room. Grian checks his phone—it’s already twenty til seven, which is just ridiculous. Where had all the time gone?
“Doing my hair, five minutes!”
Grian pulls most of his fluffy hair up— “Mumbo, hand me that clip? No, the large one. No, next to it. Dude, next to it—” and clips it in place once Mumbo hands him the correct one from the pile on the floor, then starts clipping on his extensions layer by layer. It doesn’t take too much effort, but it is time consuming, so hopefully Scar doesn’t mind him being a tad bit late.
Scar. He’s been on several dates with him at this point, but it’s totally different now that he likes him! What if Grian gets all tongue-tied and can’t even make conversation? What if he’s so nervous that he embarrasses himself? What if—
“What if his concussion knocked some sense into him and he’s no longer attracted to you?” Mumbo suggests.
Ah. Grian had been thinking out loud again. “Don’t joke like that, Mumbo,” he says, adding the second layer of hair. “I will genuinely cry and-slash-or throw up.”
Mumbo clicks his tongue disapprovingly, but doesn’t say anything else. Grian finishes up his hair as quickly as possible without rushing, then once again checks himself out in the full-length mirror.
Yeah, Scar’s not going to be able to focus on anything other than him tonight. Grian smiles, waggles his fingers in a little wave at himself. The skirt and the top go perfectly with his make-up. The tiny heart earrings that he’d chosen look adorable next to the tiny hearts on his face, and his white sneakers complete the look.
“Come on, let’s go!”
Grian snatches up a purse from the floor of his closet, his normal white quilted one with the gold chain, then hurries out of the room and the apartment, Pearl following behind.
This is it.
He’s for real going on a date.
And, yes, he’s been on dates with Scar already, but those weren’t exactly real dates, were they? He was there with intentions to mooch off Scar’s money. This is entirely different; this is the first date he’s been on since he realized that he likes the man.
Is it weird that he feels more nervous about this one than he’s felt about any date before? Is it weird that he thinks he’s more in love he likes Scar more than anyone ever?
Grian allows himself one more panicked thought about what he’s going to do after tonight, then puts on his best Ariana smile and heads out into the cold.
-
Grian sees Scar before Scar sees him.
Now, Scar is always dressed up to some extent, but this is next-level. The man has a three-piece brown suit on with a matching brown tie, his hair pulled back in a tiny ponytail that has Grian absolutely salivating. His oversized leather jacket is on the bench beside him, his gold-tipped cane resting against it.
Wow. Wow, wow, wow.
Grian really should have realized he was head over heels for this man earlier than he did, because that is the crispest-looking suit on the most roguishly handsome man he has ever seen. He’s hunched over a bit, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at the ground, his mouth turned down in an adorable pouty frown, his long fingers tapping against his chin in time to the music echoing distantly from the gym.
His hands are so pretty, aren’t they? How has Grian never noticed that before? His fingers are long and lithe and gentle, the veins on the back of his hands popping just slightly, a bit of hair peeking out from under his shirt cuffs.
This man. This man is here for Grian? Is there some sort of mistake?
No. No, he isn’t here for Grian. He’s here for Ariana.
There’s a difference, and it totally isn’t breaking Grian’s heart.
Grian clears his throat as he gets near, and Scar jolts, looks up—
And his face just melts.
“Hello, there,” Scar breathes, then he fumbles around for his leather jacket, not breaking eye contact. “Um, uh, one moment please—”
From under his jacket, he pulls out a single red rose.
Okay. Yeah. Grian’s heart is not breaking, nor is it competing in olympic gymnastics. He’s so very fine and normal.
Grian accepts it, pushing his nose between the red petals (more to hide his blush than to actually smell it). It’s wrapped in plastic, accompanied by those little white flowers that are always with roses and a couple leaves, all of which will probably get pressed between two of his textbooks to preserve them.
“Thanks,” he says shyly. He clears his throat as feminine-like as possible, then smiles up at Scar.
Scar grins back, his face taking on that dopey look that Grian’s so accustomed to. “Of course!” he says. “I wanted a whole dozen of them, but the store was already out.”
“No, this is perfect,” Grian reassures. “It’s . . . it’s really nice.”
His eyes are so beautiful. Grian really hasn’t paid much attention to his eyes before, but they’re green. Isn’t green a rare eye color? In the light of the street lamp above them, they’re a little dark, like spinach leaves. Or, no, something prettier than that. Like . . . like green eyes.
They look nice, okay? Grian’s not great with descriptions.
He’s known this whole time that Scar likes him, but the look on his face is utter adoration. If Grian asked, Scar would probably agree to marry him right now, no further questions.
Which he isn’t going to do. That’s—that’s a terrible idea.
“Excuse us!”
Grian blinks and steps back; a group of four or five girls push forward toward the gym, giggling and holding onto each other.
“Er, should we go in?” Grian asks awkwardly. Scar nods quickly, and, for the first time, he gets up, his movements stiff and slow.
Right, he had a concussion—
“Are you okay?” asks Grian, stepping forward to offer Scar his arm. Scar declines, but once he’s straightened up, he shoots Grian a dazzling smile and shrugs.
“I’m doing just wonderful,” he insists. “Oh, but Ari—you aren’t wearing a coat! Here, take my jacket.”
Scar doesn’t hold the jacket for him to put on, but he does hand Grian the leather jacket, which he takes with a shiver—he hadn’t really noticed how cold it was until Scar mentioned it. The jacket is warm and well-worn and smells like Scar’s woody cologne (Grian surreptitiously sniffs under the arm as he pulls it on, but he isn’t sure what kind of wood it’s meant to be). It practically swallows him in size, but Grian just pulls it around himself, shoving up the sleeves so that his fingers show.
“Milady,” Scar says, offering his free arm.
Grian bites back a smile. “Milord,” he teases, and wraps his hand around Scar’s bicep, his heart thudding a million times per minute.
Can Scar feel his heartbeat through his wrist? That’s one of the places that pulses can be taken. He can probably feel just how fast it’s beating.
Or, easier, Grian’s palm has probably sweated through his suit jacket and his button-up shirt and he knows how nervous he is from that. Or he’s suddenly developed mind-reading powers because of the concussion that he got, and he knows exactly what thoughts are racing through his mind right now.
If his heart beats too fast, will his veins burst?
Scar hands their tickets to the attendant inside the gym building, the music louder now. There are well-dressed students hanging all over the lobby, leaning against the walls and chatting in small groups or waiting by the door for their date. There’s about six people on the floor playing Uno, their coats and purses discarded around them.
The doors to the gymnasium are propped open, loud music booming from within, a chattering wave of voices flooding out. Grian leads them in, pausing inside the doors to survey the situation.
The gym is dimly lit, occasional pink and purple lights flashing from a spinning mirror ball hanging above their heads. There’s a couple of plastic tables with snacks set up along the wall beside them, with folding chairs lining the back wall. The rest of the gym is sparsely populated by groups of students dancing, enjoying whatever unfamiliar pop song that’s blaring so loud Grian can’t hear himself think.
Scar says something that Grian doesn’t hear—the only reason he knows he spoke at all is his chest rumbles pleasantly, and Grian just barely finds the strength to not swoon before he looks up at his face.
Scar points to the snack tables, then the chairs, one eyebrow raised. Grian nods. He kind of wants to dance, but they can sit for a minute. He doesn’t even know this song, anyways.
Surprisingly, Scar makes a beeline for the chairs, even though he had gestured for the snack table first. Grian peels off him to get them a plate to share; he grabs carrot sticks, donut holes, and some pretzels, and debates getting them some punch but eventually realizes he doesn’t have enough hands for all that.
He barely even considers only getting them one cup of punch to share before dismissing the thought, face burning.
Scar smiles his thanks when Grian returns and plops down next to him, shedding Scar’s jacket. It’s hot in here, so many bodies mingling in a gym that’s never had great air circulation.
It’s hot and it’s loud—really, the only thing to do is dance. Grian’s not bored, per se, because he’s still on edge with Scar sitting right beside him, munching thoughtfully on a carrot stick, but there isn’t much happening as far as their dates usually go.
The song ends and another one starts—another pop song that he doesn’t know. Grian settles back in his chair and considers the food in Scar’s lap. He’s hungry after not eating anything for dinner, but there are so many butterflies in his stomach right now that they’re probably blocking any food that would attempt to enter.
“How have you been?” he asks loudly.
“What?”
“How have you been?”
Scar just looks confused.
“How have you been?” Grian practically yells, leaning up to say it in his ear.
“Oh,” Scar says. Whatever he says next, Grian can’t hear.
“Sorry?” he says.
Scar shrugs and leans down, his breath hot against Grian’s ear. Those butterflies in his stomach all clump together into a knot; a shiver runs down his entire arm and then back up and down his spine.
“Good,” Scar says. “You?”
Grian takes a moment to calm his everything before leaning back up to Scar’s ear. “Good,” he says. “It’s loud,” he adds, not sure what else to say but not wanting the conversation to die.
Scar chuckles and nods. His eyes leave Grian to scan the room, as if looking for something.
Grian tugs on his skirt, trying to get it to cover his knees. He remembered shorts, right? Yeah, he’s sure he did.
He picked some frilly socks for tonight, as much as he feels like a little girl when he wears them. They look cute with his outfit, but right now he just feels a little stupid in them. Does he look super young and it’s making Scar uncomfortable? He is kind of young, after all. Sure, they’re only a year or so apart, but is that too big of an age gap?
Well, no, because Scar knows how old he is. It must be something else, then. There must be a reason that Scar isn’t looking at him and dancing with him at the Valentine’s Day dance.
Maybe he got the wrong snacks. He’d thought that carrots and pretzels and donut holes were a pretty safe choice, but maybe he was wrong. Maybe Scar hates those snacks and it gave him the ick that those would be Grian’s go-to.
A new song starts, this one slow piano and a swinging beat, and Grian points to the dance floor before he can lose his nerve. “Dance?” he shouts.
Scar looks at him.
Scar’s expressions are usually pretty easy to read, seeing as they tend to stray toward the general area of besotted under any circumstances, but now Grian finds himself with a face that’s as inscrutable as the conversations around them.
Why is his mouth slightly turned down? Why are his brows furrowed? Why won’t he quite meet Grian’s eyes?
Before he can panic too badly, though, the expression clears with a gentle smile, and Scar pushes himself up with his cane, helping Grian up by his hand.
After a moment of determination, Scar gently rests his cane against his seat, careful to not squish the plate of snacks. He leaves those and his jacket (hanging over the back of Grian’s chair) and slowly heads out to the dance floor, leading Grian along.
Saxophone starts playing alongside the piano. “Give me a kiss to build a dream on,” croons Louis Armstrong’s distinctive voice, and Scar carefully places his arm around Grian’s waist, looking so terribly unsure of himself.
Grian puts his own arm on Scar’s shoulder, then links their other hands together. He doesn’t really know how to dance, but he’s pretty good at faking it, so he leads Scar in a small circle, their feet shuffling delicately.
Wow. This is . . . this is romantic, Grian decides, and he can’t hold back the smile that unfurls on his lips. He’s sure that his face matches Scar’s, dopey with—with liking him. This is romantic, totally and utterly blissfully romantic.
And when I’m alone with my fancies,
I’ll be with you.
Weaving romances,
Making believe they’re true. . . .
Carefully, more carefully than he’s ever done anything, Grian rests his head against Scar’s shoulder, breathing in his woody cologne. Those butterflies are going pretty crazy right now.
He could say it. He could say anything, right now, and Scar wouldn’t hear it. He could confess whatever he wants.
That’s moving way too fast, though. He doesn’t—he doesn’t feel like that, not yet. He just really likes Scar, and that’s okay.
Scar’s hand is sweaty in his, his palm soft and fingers gentle, fitting against Grian’s hand like it had been made to be there. Like they were made for each other.
The song transitions into a saxophone solo and Grian scrunches his eyes shut against Scar’s suit jacket. This is perfect. This is what he wanted. Slow dancing with his crush at the Valentine’s dance is everything he could have asked for and more.
Why is Scar so perfect? Why is everything so perfect?
But Scar—
Scar pulls away, just a little, just enough to lean down to speak into Grian’s ear. Grian waits, his breath caught in his mouth, for him to say something so perfect—
“Can we talk?”
Grian nods dumbly, not quite sure what he means. They can talk, but not here, certainly. It’s too loud.
So Scar slowly brings them back to their chairs and takes up his cane, then hands Grian his jacket and rose, and together, they walk outside, through the lobby and into the cold night, Louis Armstrong growing muffled behind them.
Can we talk.
That usually means something bad, right? That usually means a break-up, right?
But they aren’t together, so they can’t break up. And even if they do, that’s already halfway to one of Grian’s plans to get Scar to date not-drag him.
The bench that Scar had been sitting on is now taken, so Scar keeps walking, through the wandering paths that lead back up toward campus. “There’s a bench over there,” Scar points up ahead. “Let’s go sit.”
Grian nods, but ahead of them a familiar head of blue hair is pulled through a lamplight, giggling, and he immediately changes course. Scott cannot, under any circumstances, see him out with Scar right now.
“There’s one this way,” he invents, pointing to the right. “It’s quieter.”
He sincerely hopes there actually is a bench that way, because if there isn’t, Scar won’t be too happy with him.
Grian breathes a sigh of relief when they round a bend and one quickly comes into sight. They move toward it and sit down on the cold wood, fairly well isolated from the noise of the dance.
“I need to tell you something,” Scar says after they get settled, his voice almost unnaturally quiet compared to the gym. He doesn’t look at Grian, his eyes staring straight into the pavement.
Grian glances at the trees behind them, through which he can see what he’s pretty sure is the music building. It’s as if he’s expecting a murderer to pop out on them—this is the perfect start of a slasher film, if you think about it.
“And—it’s okay if you want to stop seeing me after,” Scar continues. Grian’s heart drops like a stone.
Stop seeing him? Over—over what?
Scar turns, now, and there’s definitely something unknown in his eyes.
Did he—
Did he see another woman?
What is going on?
“The other week, I fell,” Scar starts, his eyes falling from Grian’s as he fiddles with a button on his suit coat. “Down a flight of stairs.”
-
The emergency room had found a concussion and multiple bruises and contusions on his body, then sent him home with a walker at Cub’s insistence. He hadn’t used it, not once, had preferred to stay in bed or scoot on the floor on his behind rather than use it.
Then, a week later, he found himself at a follow-up with his primary care physician, an appointment that Cub had strong-armed his way into attending.
“I don’t want one,” he said. “My cane works just fine.”
His doctor exchanged a look with Cub.
“Scar, last time I saw you, I recommended purchasing a walker for bad days,” she said patiently. “How many times have you fallen without one?”
Scar shrugged. “I don’t keep count,” he said belligerently.
Cub sighed.
“With the way your condition is deteriorating, I have to recommend that you start looking at wheelchairs, and transition into using a walker full-time,” she said. Scar was shaking his head before she even finished.
“I don’t need a wheelchair, I barely ever fall,” he declared. “And when I do, it’s just because I’m tired!”
She fixed him with a look. “So what are you going to do on days that you’re tired?”
“Scar, dude,” Cub said quietly. “I don’t feel comfortable with you walking around without extra support.”
“I—” Scar gestured to his cane, the cane she had prescribed him, the cane that he hadn’t wanted to use but had begrudgingly accepted. “I have extra support! I have that! I’m fine!”
“You’re fine most of the time,” the doctor placated. “But there are times that you aren’t fine, and those times are incredibly dangerous.”
“What if you fall down another flight of stairs and nobody’s there to help?”
“In a wheelchair, I wouldn’t even be able to get down the stairs,” muttered Scar.
“You don’t have to use the chair all the time,” she said. “In fact, you could only use it around the house to start—that way, you can get used to it. But I would really like it if you used a walker around campus.”
Scar didn’t want that, though. He wanted—he wanted to be normal.
“How long do I need to use a walker before I can go back to my cane?” he asked. The doctor exchanged a look with Cub.
“Scar, you have a neuromuscular condition that has very low chances of regression,” she said, as if she’d told him that a hundred times before. “In fact, it usually progresses until people with it are wheelchair-bound. With how quickly yours is developing, I don’t think you’ll be able to return to a cane.”
His eyes burned, even though he knew what she was going to say. This was it, really. He’d bought himself—what, an extra year? He’d bought himself an extra year of time with his cane, but now it was time to lose pretty much every inch of freedom he had left.
How was he supposed to get to council meetings? How would he get down to the university greenhouses to visit the plants?
How would he take Ariana out on any dates?
He didn’t really remember the rest of the appointment. He signed some papers, listlessly sat while Cub discussed wheelchair options with the doctor, let Cub support him as they walked back to the car.
When they got back home, he went straight to bed, though he didn’t fall asleep.
He just stared at the ceiling and blinked away tear after tear, despair drowning every feeling inside him like a kiddie pool drowns mosquitos.
There really was nothing left for him, was there?
He might as well give up on every hope he’d ever had.
-
“So I’m sorry,” Scar finishes, tears rolling openly down his cheeks. “I—I just wanted to dance with you, I just wanted to make this a perfect night for you, but I can’t. I can’t stand long enough to dance, and—and I can’t really do anything, can I? I can’t ever dance with you. I’m just going to get worse. So what’s the point?”
Grian stares at him. At some point in the story, Scar had shifted away from him, even though Grian wanted nothing more than to hug him as tight as he could.
He had no idea. How was he supposed to know? He was half-convinced that Scar’s cane was for aesthetic purposes! His only real theory was that Scar had lost a leg below the knee to a shark. He hadn’t been expecting this.
This isn’t about that, though. He can talk through the whole disability revelation with Mumbo and Pearl later. Right now, Scar needs him.
He recognizes that look in his eye, now.
Shame.
Slowly, almost afraid of spooking him, Grian slides his hand across the bench and slots it in perfectly with Scar’s hand.
Scar’s hand is warm, this palm calloused in a way that his other hand isn’t, marked by the constant use of his cane. Grian squeezes it and scoots closer.
“I think there’s a point,” he says quietly.
Scar’s mouth drops open in an o, his gorgeous green eyes shining. “I—what?”
Grian rubs his thumb along Scar’s knuckle. “I don’t—I don’t care that you can’t dance,” he says honestly. “That isn’t important to me. None of it is. Scar, I—I like you,” he admits, and the butterflies are quiet, the somber conversation still hanging over them. “I like you. I like you with a walker, or in a wheelchair, or—or whatever! I like you, dude.”
Why did he say dude, what kind of girl is he? Before he can fully cringe of embarrassment, though, Scar places his other, softer hand over Grian’s, turning to fully face him.
“I won’t be able to drive,” he says, voice cracking. “Or—or walk you home, Ari, or . . . or walk at all, eventually. Are you sure?”
No. No, because he isn’t Ariana, he can’t make promises when she isn’t even real—
Grian promptly tells that part of his brain to shove it.
“Yes,” he says, and Scar’s face glows.
“I really like you too,” Scar whispers, and Grian’s eyes dart down to his lips to make sure he gets the words right, because Scar really does say them quietly, and not for any other reason.
His lips look so soft. Soft, and slightly parted, and like Grian’s lips would slot in just perfectly between them.
No. No, he’s not going to that.
Grian looks back up to his eyes, and. . . .
Scar’s eyes are fixed on Grian’s lips.
Oh.
Cool.
And before Grian can stop himself, his lips are forming the all-important question.
“Can I kiss you?”
Scar, looking breathless, nods.
All night, they’ve moved slowly—on the dance floor, to the bench, holding hands. All night, Scar’s disability has kept them creeping along, progressing in inches rather than leaps and bounds.
They don’t move slowly now.
Grian surges up against him, fitting his top lip between Scar’s lips, warm and just as soft as he’d imagined, a little wet in just the right way, a summer afternoon that smells of a pine tree he’s leaning against (and that’s the scent of his cologne, isn’t it, pine tree) and feels like the sun against his mouth and tastes like love.
oki i posted this on ao3 almost two weeks ago but forgot to post it here so uhhhhh
enjoy some scariana griande
~
Scott: hey grian
Scott: do you know how much drag queens cost?
Scott: bc i just found out
Scott: and oh boy
Scott: that is not in the budget
Me: what?
Scott: so the activities board is doing a pride week in march
Scott: and we're planning a drag show for the last day
Me: ohhh
Scott: but wow you guys are kinda expensive
Me: we know our worth, scott
Scott: please sir
Scott: spare a free drag show for the poor? 🥺
Me: -_-
Scott: i'll buy you lunch
Me: you know that a good drag show usually requires more than one drag queen, right?
Me: like. several drag queens
Scott: i know that… now
Scott: ok what if we do an amateur drag show
Scott: mostly students who are interested in drag getting to perform
Scott: but with one real drag queen?
Scott: whose name may or may not be grian??
Scott: 😣🙏🙏🙏
Scott: pleek
Me: students you say
Me: i'll do it
Scott: oh thank mumbo
Me: but
Scott: uh oh
Me: sorry did you just curse by mumbo's name?
Scott: no comment
Me: ???
Me: ok anyways
Me: i'll do it
Me: but
Me: you have to do it, too
Scott: oh DEAL
Scott: i want to sing let it go
Scott: oh my mumbo i need to think of a drag name
Me: right. have fun with that
Me: when in march?
Scott: first week. the drag show should be that friday
Me: right i'll put it in my calendar
Grian does put it in his calendar, set right on March 5th. That isn’t too far away, really, but gives him plenty of time to prepare.
Then his phone buzzes—another notification from Scar, which immediately sends his heart into his throat as he swipes it away without even reading it.
He might make a noise, also. That would make sense, judging by how both Mumbo and Pearl start, looking up at him.
“You good?” Mumbo asks, then, before Grian can respond, he checks his watch. “Oh, dear—”
Mumbo jumps up from his chair, frantically stuffing his laptop and papers into his shoulder bag faster than Grian’s ever seen anyone do it. “I forgot—study group—”
“Have fun,” Pearl calls. Mumbo, already halfway out the door, simply waves a harried hand and hurries out, a dry erase marker still stuck behind his ear.
“Ah,” Pearl says drily. “He took the marker. Librarians aren’t going to be happy.”
Grian had been planning on using that marker, too. Not for anything important, but he’d had half a mind to draw something stupid on the dry erase board before they checked out of their library study room. Hatsune Miku, probably.
Then he remembers the text message with a jolt, and this time he hears when he yelps. It sounds kind of like Mumbo does when gets caught eating carrots out of the fridge at two in the morning. Just a little ah!
Pearl raises an eyebrow at him.
Grian sighs. “The guy I went on a date with keeps texting me.”
“Okay?”
“I—” Grian wrings his hands— “he’s a really nice guy,” he says reluctantly. “I feel bad for ghosting him.”
According to the barkeep, he’s not just a typical nice guy. Scar is everything that he seems: kind hearted, passionate, funny, a little ridiculous. He doesn’t deserve the hurt that Grian is surely causing him.
“Then don’t,” Pearl shrugs.
“Don’t—don’t what?”
“Ghost him.”
“I’m already doing that.”
“No, like—don’t ghost him.”
Grian blinks. Don’t ghost him? How can he do that while still getting out of this situation?
“Meet up with him again, tell him you don’t think it’ll work out, then block his number,” Pearl says, as if it’s that simple.
Is it?
And. . . .
Well, he’ll get another free meal out of it. Not in a vampire way.
It feels kind of sleazy, but no worse than he already feels for ghosting him. “Maybe you have good ideas sometimes,” he says idly. Pearl chucks a pencil at him, which is quite rude to do to your only brother.
So Grian unlocks his phone, and. . . .
He will text him back. He will.
But not—not yet. He needs a minute to gather his courage.
And how better to gather his courage than scroll through memes for a while?
-
Scar has sent seven messages to Ariana since the date. All of them entirely reasonable.
The first two were to express what a good time he had, and make sure she got home safe. The next two were asking her out on a second date. And the final three were daily check-ins, to make sure his messages didn't get buried.
She has not responded to a single one.
That isn't the end of the world. It can’t be. Because for some reason, the world is still turning and Scar is still found upon it, so it can’t have ended; it isn’t even the remotest possibility! The world definitely hasn’t ended.
But it sure feels like it has.
It’s three days later and he’s in his so-called math class, but he simply cannot force himself to pay attention. They really ought to devise some way to make boring classes more pay-attentionable. Perhaps they can adopt a school cat to frolic about on the table, causing comical cat catastrophes and being given the final say on issues of debate. It would also be nice for student government meetings. Oh, then he would be able to carry cat toys, of which he already has plenty due to his excitement to one day adopt a cat.
It would keep his mind off the angel, too. Otherwise, he can only focus on every little thing that he must have done wrong on the date.
He didn’t offer her his arm when they went in. That has to have marked him down at least three points, if not more. After all, it’s the chivalrous thing to do, and instead he just followed along behind her! Practical, perhaps, to give him more time to check for ice on the sidewalk and not slip, but not how a date should behave, especially on the first outing.
He tried to pressure her into alcohol too, didn’t he? Oh, that was a trainwreck—she wasn’t at all interested in the drink he had picked out, and had elected her own! Of course, Scar wasn’t exactly aware that the drink was alcoholic, but he was the one who tried to order it and he should have made sure first.
And he barely even let her talk! He talked all about himself practically all date, giving her no chance to talk about something interesting to her. How could he even imagine himself so intriguing as to hold her attention for so long? Nobody likes to listen to his Disney rants in a normal situation—Cub always tells him that they’re far too long-winded and he brings them up too often, clearly one of his main flaws, and he’d just flaunted his Disney knowledge all over her without even asking if it was okay!
She probably hadn’t even liked the flowers, no matter what she said. She probably didn’t even want to go on the date in the first place.
Scar sighs. To his dismay, nobody asks him what’s wrong.
He sighs again, slightly louder.
When nobody asks what’s wrong a second time, Scar huffs, glances around for someone to console him.
He’s the only person in the room.
He checks his phone.
Ah. Class ended several minutes ago. The last thing he clearly remembers about the class is the professor writing the agenda on the board—he’d entirely zoned out by the time the first formulas were being copied down.
He should probably go to that study group of Impulse’s, given his track record of paying attention. It does meet today, and fairly soon, right? And in this building, in a study room down by the exit. It’s basically on his way!
Perhaps Impulse’s study group will provide a suitable distraction for his heartbreak. He needs one, and desperately. Even imagining a cat hasn’t worked.
“Er, Scar?”
Scar looks up; Scott’s standing in the doorway, his backpack only half on his shoulders. Oh, good! Someone to opine to!
“What are you doing in my stats class?” Scott asks. Scar doesn’t answer that question and instead slides his phone across the table toward Scott, still open on the text thread with Ariana.
“Am I coming on too strong?” he asks, terrified of the answer.
Scott looks vaguely like he still wants to figure out why Scar’s here, but the opportunity to insert himself in someone else’s relationship drama is too tempting and he picks up the phone.
“‘Sorry if I made you uncomfortable, I just want to make sure you’re okay and not kidnapped or unable to speak due to some terrible accident, because if you got hit by a car as soon as you left after our date I would feel really bad forever and ever, so just text me if you’re alive because you’re very attractive and I think someone would probably want to kidnap you (BUT NOT ME) and I just want to know that you’re safe,’” Scott reads aloud. “You sent this?”
“Yes. Is it too much?”
“I mean . . . yeah.”
“Which part?” Scar asks, leaning forward. Scott gives him his phone back.
“The whole thing. It’s giving desperate,” Scott says. “You want her to chase you too—or, him, I mean.”
Scar chuckles. Oh, Scott. “An angel.”
“Did not clarify the gender.”
“A girl, Scott,” Scar says, a little affronted, though he isn’t sure why. “I’m not gay.”
Scott puts his hands up. “Geez, sorry. I just heard you tell Impulse the other day that Bdubs is super cute, so I didn’t want to assume.”
“Well, yeah, but every man finds men attractive.”
“No . . . no, I . . . I don’t think they do?” says Scott. “Guys who find guys attractive are . . . into guys.”
“Well, no. Every man has another man that they would, you know, go for! On principle! Like—like Ryan Reynolds!”
Scott looks at him. His eyebrows are raised, mouth a thin line.
Scar isn’t sure what that look means.
“How many men have you found attractive this week?”
Scar rolls his eyes. “Well, that’s impossible to count. You might as well ask how many animators work on any given film! There was the guy serving mashed potatoes yesterday, a real looker in the restroom this morning, a very pretty boy in make-up the other night, Bdubs, a blond boy playing soccer on the quad, this boy in the library, a—”
“Yeah,” Scott says. “Most men only have, like, one guy ever. Not every other man they pass.”
“Okay, but, I’m just as attracted to girls!” Scar protests. “So I can’t be gay, I must be straight. You’re either gay or straight, Scott!”
“Not remotely true.”
“I have to get to my study group,” Scar says loudly, snatching his phone off the table and grabbing his cane. “Thank you, Mr. Smajor, for your opinion. It will be recycled as soon as is convenient.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Scar raises his cane to him, then begins the trek downstairs to Impulse’s study group. He barely debates a moment before heading toward the elevator rather than the stairs. Maybe a year ago he would have chosen the stairs, but he doesn’t want to push himself any more than necessary.
“Scar! Good to have you,” Impulse says when he walks into the right study room (after walking into the wrong one twice). “Take a seat, man, right here.”
Scar isn’t the first person to show up, but he is surprisingly early. He takes the proferred seat, setting his cane up against the table.
“We’re actually going to split into two rooms,” Impulse tells him, leaning against the table. “I’ll be helping with more advanced concepts here, and Mumbo will be taking the easier stuff in the other room.”
“And trig is. . . ?”
Impulse laughs. “Definitely advanced, bud. How ya been?”
That’s a loaded question. Scar sighs dramatically and lets his head fall on the table. “Terrible. I took the most perfect angel on a date last week, and I haven’t gotten a single text back!”
“Who, Bdubs?”
Scar blinks. “What? No. You and Scott, I swear. . . .”
“You told me he’s cute!”
“Lots of guys are cute,” Scar waves off. “I’m straight, though. Not that anything else is relevant, because it was the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, and now I’ll never see her again!”
“Aw, come on, buddy,” Impulse says encouragingly, laying a hand on his shoulder. “There’s someone out there for you! And you know what? That’s what math is all about—finding what’s missing to make you whole!”
“I thought it was about finding x,” says Mumbo, poking his head into the room. Despite the potential of witnessing Mumbo’s beautiful mustache, Scar doesn’t lift his head, grimacing as he considers Mumbo’s suggestion.
“I don’t want to find my ex, Impulse, I can’t believe you talked me into this—”
“Nope,” Impulse says firmly. “Nope. It’s about finding a missing number.”
Her number isn’t missing, though. It’s right there in Scar’s phone, ten digits that will never respond to him, ten fingers he’ll never be able to clasp between his own again, ten children they’ll never have. . . .
Scar’s phone buzzes, sitting, as it is, on the table beside his head.
Scar straightens up immediately, scrambling for his phone. In his haste, he actually pushes it further away, then right up to the edge, teetering, tottering—
Scar practically throws himself across the table to grab it, and he manages to wrap his fingers around it, thank Mumbo—
But, as a result of the sudden exertion, Scar’s hands are suddenly sweaty, and his phone slips out of his hand and lands face-down on the tile floor.
“It probably wasn’t even her,” he says morosely, staring at the phone below. “It was probably another text from that lost dog poster I put up.”
“Oh, you have a dog?” Mumbo asks, while Impulse steps around the table to pick up the phone.
“No.”
“What?”
Impulse, phone in hand, places it back on the table—then seems to think better and picks it back up, placing it directly into Scar’s hand. “I don’t know if all those cracks were already there,” he says. “I think you need a new phone, buddy.”
There aren’t any new cracks, luckily, and Scar turns on his phone to see—
Yep. Another text from one of the lost dog posters.
Just as he begins to return to being a puddle of gloop on this table, his phone buzzes again. His heart leaps into his mouth, he frantically fumbles for the button—
Another lost dog text.
From the same number, actually. Something about the picture on the poster being a picture of their own dog, clearly taken while it was in their backyard. Scar isn’t trying to read all that, so he’s not entirely sure what their problem is.
Well, that was possibly the biggest disappointment of his life. And now he has to do math? Why, he might as well just be put out of his misery right now! Just taken out back and put down, like a sad dog, preferably a cute one like the ones he used for the posters, but a sad one nonetheless—
Wait.
Another message pops up, hidden under the first two that he had carelessly swiped away.
Ariana: lol no worries i’m alive
Ariana: a date on thursday maybe?
With any luck, Scar will get used to the gymnastics that his heart surely oughtn’t be performing.
Even if some part of him doesn’t ever want to get used to her.
