Martyn complied, slipping back down into his arms. “Are you in pain at all or anything?”
His stomach. A lot. Because it’s never truly filled and it’ll keep yelling at him till it is. And he gets nauseous when it doesn’t get what it wants. It’s like it stabs him from inside out sometimes. Or his head, occasionally. When it pounds and calls and calls for many things he can not give. And when it fears for things he hadn’t been able to escape. A lot of pain—sometimes. But he doesn’t think about it. Or talk about it. It’s not to be mentioned, ever. That makes it real—and then he’ll have to think about where it came from. Why it is. He can’t—he just—
“A bit sometimes,” he shrugs. “Nothing bad.”
or
Ren and Martyn find each other once more. It causes a problem for Ren in the longrun
warnings; mild gore and violence, vomiting, a lot of talk about death
Ren was different.
Way different from how he’d once been. He looks different, he acts different. When he rushes to write something down his handwriting is no longer neat and perfectly between imaginary lines. He no longer wears the same clothes because he’s sure all his old clothes were destroyed. He’s lucky when he finds ones that fit him in the empty houses—and some he’d gotten as a gift from people. Either people that would give him a few items (and when he took them out of their hands they’d always notice that his own hands were way colder than theirs). Or people would give them the clothing without them truly being aware of it. Give, is the way he’d describe it personally. They weren’t really alive enough to say no, so.
Those things are only a few of the many. He's sure that there’s many differences that he himself doesn’t even know about. That the passing of time had simply blinded him to some of the changes. He knows the obvious ones, and that’s enough for him.
So it surprises him, when the other recognizes Ren like they’d seen eachother yesterday. Like he’d spotted Ren waiting for him at the corner of the street for a hangout, rather than seeing him for the first time in more than a year in a barren and dead mall.
But it’s not the same though—the same to the way they’d meet. Because…
When Ren looks back at the call of his name—a shocked call of it, like he could hear the shivers through his voice, now that Ren thinks about it. At the time he hadn’t—with a knife raised. Not a gun because most ordinary zombies did not articulate that well, so it was a person for sure. Slightly less danger.
When he’d met Martyn’s eyes then—in a normal meetup near their favorite cafe Martyn’s face wouldn’t be filled with as much emotion as it was now. It was such a weird blur of it. If Ren were to pick it apart he’d find shock, fear, joy. A lot of joy. But he hadn’t dissected it in that, too distracted by the ghost of his heart strumming in his chest, and the intense pounding in his head.
He blinked, once–twice. Because the universe must be fucking with him. Ren knows that the universe hates him in particular, but he never expected it to thrust such cruelty upon him. Well, that was if this wasn’t Martyn. Possibly a figment of his imagination, or a zombie that’d gotten particularly smart. Or-or even a survivor that held a grudge and knew how to hit right where it hurt. Somehow, somehow.
But, in a way, it being Martyn was cruel too. The pit that drilled into his stomach was proof of that.
“Martyn?” he whispers. He’s not sure the other even heard him, but Martyn can read lips if he remembers correctly, a weird talent. His hand lowers just slightly, barely.
Martyn’s different too. His hair’s more messed up, and longer. Sits in a too-loose ponytail on his shoulder. A bit more hunched over, and his eyes a bit more red and sunken. Like there’s been a few too many nights without sleep. Ren gets that, he can’t imagine sleeping in the world they inhabit currently.
He still has that mole, right near his jaw, on the left. Could someone copy that? Would someone put that much effort just to pull the life out of Ren?
He shakes his head, just to check if the image in front of him will disappear. It didn't. Ren swallows.
“Ren…” And yeah, that’s him. Because who else. Who else if not Martyn.
“You…”
Martyn spares him a smile that Ren didn’t know he was missing. Something that makes his hands shake.
“Me.” Martyn says. “And you. Alive.”
Ren doesn’t know what to say to that.
While the trust has catapulted itself to the front of his chest and tells him that Martyn is someone that deserves truth and always will, he’ll never know how much Martyn has changed. If he’s changed as much as Ren has, or possibly more. And that’s scary, that the face he recognizes might not be the person he knows. Humans aren’t that trustable in general, Martyn may not be an expectation. As much as his mind wishes it is.
“You’ve grown…” Ren trails off.
“Taller?” Martyn jokes, stepping closer.
“Tired.” Ren says. He lowers his blade too, he almost hadn’t realised he still held it up.
“Ouch,” Martyn pouts with a hand over his chest. “I could say the same about you.”
Martyn’s walking up to Ren and a part of him, the logical part likely, screams at him to flee. To not let anyone close enough to lay a hand on him. To not let it be noticed that his skin is a lot paler than you would expect from the average person. Never since the start of this war had letting someone close ended well. Yet his head is pounding with the want to do nothing more than collapse into Martyn’s arms, fall into the safe haven that it had once been. Because it’s been so long since Ren’s let his shoulders sag and his jaw unclench.
Can he? He wants to. Is it safe to? Could he ask that—know it now before he gets his hopes up?
Did you change? Are you different? Do you still need to stick your tongue out to focus? Do you still make the references to our first ever play? Will you still shut the curtains and massage my scalp when the migraine creeps up?
Ren sucks in a breath suddenly. He hadn’t been breathing. His eyes focus, and Martyn’s closer than he thought. Their gazes meet and Martyn’s hold an emotion that Ren struggles to read. Ren’s never been good at reading human emotions, even less now he supposes.
Martyn looks at him, from the top of his hair to the bottom of his feet, up down. It sends a shiver down Ren’s spine. It always does, when he’s looked at this closely.
“...Is it really you?” Martyn asks, with a waver in his voice that makes Ren want to cup his face and place a kiss at his hairline. Like he’d done many times before.
He’s silent for a second.
No, he’s not. Not really. He’s a version of himself—a kind of person that he regrets. What Martyn wants, Ren wants too. That version of him that had blood flowing through his veins and heat rising in his cheeks. Ren’s done and been a lot, since this universe had pushed him out of his home with nothing on his back. Is this him? The version of him that’s meant to be loved?
No, not really. He’s not sure he’ll ever be. As much as he wishes.
“Yeah,” he says. His head tilts. “Yeah, it’s me. Are you?”
“In the flesh,” Martyn responds. Hah.
Okay. Yeah, okay. He’ll tell Martyn the truth. He will. But just for a second, he can feel his heart beat in his chest again, the heat in his limbs, when his hand slips into the hold it’s been missing. Finger’s intertwined, skin warm against his own.
Martyn’s home—Martyn took Ren home.
When he asked and found out that Ren doesn’t truly have a place to stay. Not a real one, at least. Never had. Whole time, always pretty much, he’d been jumping from place to place. Sometimes with people, either individuals or groups, temporarily—never permanently. Because they'd find out and–and Ren knew when he needed to run. Never managed with those for long, he’d be alone in a shed after a week or three at most. Then he’d find a hotel or house with at least enough cover for him to sleep.
Yeah, no, Ren didn’t have a home. Or house. Or anything for that matter.
Martyn sat at the complete other end. Apparently—as Martyn had explained—he’d gotten lucky and found a pretty good place to stay only a month or two after the virus spread. And from then on he’d just been building up the protection of it, next to loading it up with every valuable object, especially food, he could find. Not in a hoarder way though, Martyn said—although Ren doubts that slightly.
Ren gets to look around, as Martyn installs the many locks on the door, and the few traps that stand in front of it. Ren had nearly stepped on one. It wouldn’t have killed him—Martyn doesn’t know that though.
The space is large, bigger than the smaller bases he’s stayed in when he rode with a group for a while. Those would be small, with a lot of people crammed in it. This was large, with only one person occupying it. Two now, actually, Martyn said he could stay.
Until Ren tells Martyn the truth. Soon, he thinks.
“Was everything just empty when you found it?”
“Nah,” Martyn says. “Was actually pretty full—lived in even. A family picture and everything.” His voice turned a bit sour as he spoke, although there’s an attempt to cover it up with a dry chuckle. “Put all of their important things in a box—just in case they come back one day, you know?”
Ren does know. And they both also know that family likely won’t be back anytime soon. If at all. He nods either way.
Faintly Ren wonders how difficult the apocalypse was for Martyn. Even with the luxury he’s found himself in.
“You don’t have to stand there so stiffly,” Martyn says, walking up to Ren while stretching his arms. “Mi casa es su casa, or something.” Much to Ren’s surprise, he finds it in himself to chuckle at the comment. He’s not sure how long it’s been since he’s done that.
Martyn’s hand slips into Ren’s like it’s nothing—like they hadn’t lost each other for a year just a few hours prior. Ren freezes for a second, but after, in a similar way, he lets his head fall on Martyn’s shoulder like he’s always been there.
Martyn lifts up Ren’s hand, holding it in both of his own.
“Your hands are really cold. We should get you under a blanket.”
And what’s left of Ren’s blood freezes up at the mention. Right—that. He should just be honest, truly, and tell Martyn that he wasn’t just cold. To say what’s actually going on, and to not let this run on for long, and to not let this make a bigger home in the husk his heart left. To just explain, because as much as he wishes, he can’t just utter it in a single sentence to get it over with. He should not let himself enjoy something he’s not allowed.
So when Martyn tries to pull Ren with him to grab one of those blankets, Ren pulls back on his arm slightly.
“Martyn wait-”
The other stops in his tracks. “What’s up?”
He’s saying it.
He was gonna say it, he’s sure.
“I need to clean up first, dude. Can’t just come in and dirty all your stuff.”
Not this time, he guesses.
Martyn blinks at him for a second, before it morphs into a smile. “Oh yeah dude, no worries. I can lead you to the shower—” he points to a hallway behind him over his shoulder “—I have running water so you can just use that.”
“Running water?” Ren says, raising an eyebrow. “At this rate I might have to call you my lord with how fancy all this is.”
And that pulls a laugh out of Martyn that fills Ren with pride. Like he did something right.
“Don’t even—being one was so much work I don’t know how you did it.” Martyn pulled Ren along to the bathroom and Ren had never been more pleased to follow.
“A lot of practice, like a lot.” Playing that role took way more effort than he ever would’ve thought it would. Many nights revising those lines. Often with Martyn’s hand in his.
Just like now, he thinks. As he looks at their intertwined fingers. Although then their hands hadn’t been as scarred. Ren wonders where Martyn got all those small cuts from. Ren also wonders why his own hand had to be so pale in contrast to the other. It’s all the same still, in a way. In a way that Ren is only now realising he’s been yearning for.
He squeezes Martyn’s hand. Martyn squeezes back.
He’ll tell Martyn, he will. But perhaps, he’ll let himself bask in the memories just a bit longer.
Ren can’t keep promises to himself, he’s starting to recognize.
He wants to blame it on anyone but himself—but the only other person near him that he could blame was Martyn. And he doesn’t deserve that, not in the slightest. It really is his own fault, if he bares himself the honesty. He prefers not to, though.
And to that statement—he still hasn’t told Martyn. Somehow it was just never the right time. Or–or the words would get stuck in his throat and all that’d come out of him was a shaky breath. Or he’d want to say it, but his body wouldn’t comply and instead just fell into the pit of hope it was given. Like he was grabbing onto any bit of care he could get.
He’ll tell Martyn. He thinks, right now even.
But they’re cuddled up into each other’s arms, under at least a few blankets because Ren was cold, and for some reason Martyn was attempting everything to try and warm him up. He wondered if Martyn was uncomfortable under all this, if the multiple layers were actually too hot for him, and he just put up with it in the hopes that Ren gets warm too.
Ever since the start Ren had always been cold and pale, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed. As much as Ren had hoped it would.
And he did bring it up, with a hand running through Ren’s hair. That it was strange, and concerning.
“You also don’t eat much,” he said, concern lacing his voice like a ribbon.
Martyn couldn’t connect to the dots to the true cause yet—primarily because Martyn probably didn’t even know that cause existed. He’d never be able to find out on his own. Ren supposed that that is a good thing, in a way. If Ren never told him, he would never find out.
Although that’s not true. Passively—if neither of them acted on it, Martyn would see. Not hear, nor learn, but see with his own eyes.
Ren hadn’t truly let that settle in him yet. And then suddenly it does, like a bug crawling over him. Martyn wouldn’t find out, but he’d see it when Ren moved out of pure desperation instead of hope. And Martyn wouldn’t see what Ren was made of. No, he’d see on his own, and he’d draw conclusions based off of it. All he’d see was—was—
Ren swallowed. He should tell him.
“Sickness,” he moves impossibly closer. “Been sick for a while now. Not too sure with what.”
Martyn sits up slightly, Ren resists the urge to pull him back down. “How long have you been sick?”
Ren doesn’t look up to meet his eyes. “A week or two, not long.”
If what he had was truly an illness, he was lying about that too. He’s been like this for months. He’s rotting.
“That’s not ‘not long’.” He puts the back of his hand on Ren’s forehead, as if expecting the heat of a fever. But that too was cold. Ren just missed the hand in his hair.
“We’re in an apocalypse. Can’t exactly go get medicine in a pharmacy within a day.” If he were sick. “Come lay back down.”
Martyn complied, slipping back down into his arms. “Are you in pain at all or anything?”
His stomach. A lot. Because it’s never truly filled and it’ll keep yelling at him till it is. And he gets nauseous when it doesn’t get what it wants. It’s like it stabs him from inside out sometimes. Or his head, occasionally. When it pounds and calls and calls for many things he can not give. And when it fears for things he hadn’t been able to escape. A lot of pain—sometimes. But he doesn’t think about it. Or talk about it. It’s not to be mentioned, ever. That makes it real—and then he’ll have to think about where it came from. Why it is. He can’t—he just—
“A bit sometimes,” he shrugs. “Nothing bad.”
Martyn rests his chin on his head, and Ren can hear his heartbeat. He’s found out that hearing it—letting his head fall on Martyn’s chest just to hear the blood flow—is very soothing. It’s like it tells him the world isn’t doomed, somehow. Because Martyn’s alive and well. That not everything has gone wrong.
He lays his ear against Martyn’s chest.
“Can I even trust your judgement?” Martyn asks, only partly joking.
“You should always trust my judgement, dude. I’m the most trustable person here and I’m always right, sooo..”
Martyn laughed. “Yeah, sure, definitely.”
Martyn was asleep. His chest rose and fell with even breaths. Alive. Well.
Ren had slipped out of bed, slipped out of his arms. He himself couldn’t sleep. All he’d do is stare at Martyn, even as the other held him tighter. He wouldn’t move—he was afraid of what he would do. Without his own want. What he’d do to Martyn.
So yeah, when the trust he had in himself disintegrated into something he could barely see, and when he was sure Martyn had fallen into a sleep deep enough, he’d pry himself out of loving arms to get out of the bed. He hadden gotten far though, before he nearly met the ground.
Now he sat with his back against the wall of the bedroom, knees in his arms, and gaze trained straight onto Martyn, who had no idea of what could possibly happen.
Ren was hungry. And not in a way he could solve with the food Martyn had stashed in the cabinets. Not in a way he could solve at all.Although he really could. If he truly wanted to. If the desperation from his stomach managed to reach his head. What was he to do then? If not to feed—
He stared at Martyn. Martyn, alive and breathing and okay. And not bloody. Ren glanced at his own hands.
He was hungry.
Sometimes, especially times like these, Ren really wished he could just turn his mind off. So that his life, his own existence, wouldn’t haunt him like a detective on his trail. He felt exposed, like every eye was on him, even as the only person awake in the room. He finds himself glancing around, just to check.
He’s the only one that knows what he is, what hides beneath his skin. But the universe knows to—and Ren can’t hide his insides from the world that he lives in. The world that keeps turning and the universe that keeps living—the universe that forces him to keep living too. It witnesses his hunger and his lust and his greed. And as far as he ran he could not hide from his own existence within a society. His own abstinence that wasn’t as appreciated as that of a human would’ve been.
He was human once, a version of him. He was a person once, instead of a monster stuck with unfathomable amounts of greed. He wishes, he wishes, he wishes.
Does the world know he doesn’t want this? Does the world know he wants to cry with every blood drop that falls?
Does it matter? Does it matter if he weeps?
At the end of the day he’s no different from the beings that creak outside their home. Covered in blood that isn’t there and skin rotting so bad you can see their bones. His fear doesn’t set him apart, and his tears don’t either.
His love possibly, but—
He stares at Martyn. Martyn, his beloved, Martyn that he’d dreamed of marrying, Martyn that he’d always end up finding. The one who holds his hands and puts his hair behind his ears without ulterior motives. Ren stares because when he closes his eyes all he can see is his own bloody hands around Martyn’s throat. And enough images haunt him already, he’s not sure he can hold onto a new one.
He bites the inside of his cheek. It doesn’t bleed.
He’s hungry. Not in a way he can fix. He gets up and goes to the kitchen anyway.
continue reading ->
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
“I love you,” he repeats, voice below his breath.
Mumbo heard it, loud and clear.
The words are gentle, soft. He was giving Mumbo something to hold, an option, Something attached to him that will lightly grab onto Mumbo, attach itself to him. It’s pretty and nice and everything that one could want. He has all the reasons to take but Scar is giving it with an option to refuse. This isn’t like one of the proposals Scar usually does, the ones he uses to take and not give, to pull someone dry of all they have—no this is more considerate. This is for Mumbo, for them both. Give and take. And Scar’s attempting to give.
Mumbo swallows, because the coal in his throat grows till he can't breathe.
“Say it again,” Mumbo says. Void knew it wasn’t his place to make demands but he’s not sure he can do anything else. “I don’t believe you,” he admits “Say it again.”
or
Scar confesses something they both already knew, Mumbo is struggling to accept it.
"You're staring a bit, you know?" The words snapped him out of his thoughts. A voice seemingly smooth like honey, and soft as a blanket. Maybe it wasn't, but it felt like that.
"I didn't notice," he lied. A soft smile dotting his face. A smile he wore all too often these past days.
Ariana chuckled, it was similar to the way she sung. Perfect maybe.
The room smelled of a morning orange. A morning, tiring yet a start.
Scar originally hadn't wanted to get up at all, having rather just stayed in bed and slept his life away. But old promises were made, and they were going to the mall today. Early, if they went later it would be loud and crowdy, if they went too late nothing would be there.
He's almost sure he could hear Kitten jumping around outside his bedroom door. He wondered where he got the energy, so early on the morning.
But it was now, wasn't it? The thought brought a smile to his face.
Scar sat on his bed with his hands between his legs, rocking himself back and forward. He was done getting ready, he wasn't sure what else do to.
He found himself staring as Ariana wandered around the room, living as if the room was hers.
He'd never be able to tell himself how he ended up in something that seemed so softly pink, yet so velvet red. Time where his fingers would trace over his hand, and minutes later he would have a hand to hold. He didn't often believe in luck, but he'd consider himself the luckiest. And he's not sure what he ever did to deserve this.
The room smelled orange and pastel pink.
"You're staring a bit, you know?" The words snapped him out of his thoughts. A voice seemingly smooth like honey, and soft as a blanket. Maybe it wasn't, but it felt like that.
"I didn't notice," he lied. A soft smile dotting his face. A smile he wore all too often these past days.
Ariana chuckled, it was similar to the way she sung. Perfect maybe.
"You doing okay?" Her tone was full of teasing, but the care wrapped around the words was so clear. It made Scar’s mind feel like a haze, chocolate coated.
Maybe his cheeks were a bit warm. Could he be considered lovesick? Lovestruck?
Maybe that's why he spoke before he could even think.
"It's something about the way you look at me—" Talk to me, love me, think about me, something. "—as if I'm your whole world."
Maybe the words had been illogical. He barely had time for his mind to catch up, his cheeks growing warm when it did.
A giggle, maybe he shouldn't have expected more. And he hadn't wanted less. He was really smitten, wasn't he?
The room smelled of orange and Ariana's perfume.
"That 'cause you are."
Four words, nothing more, and Scar had heard no lies. No real ones and none that he imagined to be there. It seemed unusual, surprising.
He rubbed his palms again eachother.
"Normally I would've argued if someone said that," his words were slightly breathy, still just a tiny bit tired. He didn’t like waking up early.
"It seems illogical and far-fetched."
He watched patiently as Ariana kept moving around their room. Putting everything they needed in the bag.
"But when it comes to you I just—" And he's not sure what he does. He believes, he can actually see it. He doesn’t feel the stabbing amount of guilt or shame. He feels a velvet blanket made just for him. And maybe his tone exposed that, or the way he smiled at the end.
Ariana smiled back.
"Are you guys coming? You're so slow!" A shout rang out from behind the door, making both of them turn their head to the source of it. Maybe they'd been talking too long. Scar didn’t mind.
Ariana laughed, quickly closing the bag and ready to walk over to the door. But she makes a quick beeline towards Scar just to give him a peck on the forehead, like she's done a million times before.
"I guess I'm doing it right then."
And Scar couldn't help but hold her hand and linger for just a moment as she walked over to the oh, so far door, that was five feet away from him.
His cheeks felt warm, the room smelled orange.
Just as she passed through the door, she looked back at Scar for just a second. "Don't take too long, yeah? Or he'll get all grumpy," she spoke under her breath, pulling a chuckle out of Scar just as she closed the door.
And maybe for the first time that morning he let himself take a deep breath and close his eyes. A velvet blanket over his mind, just for him. Something about it.
He was tired.
"—or do you wanna use the backpack?"
"I'm walking today!—"
The words sounded through the door. Domestic almost.
The room smelled of orange, and pink perfume. It smelled of home.
It was early, and Scar was nothing more than tired. And Scar was nothing less than in love.
Small Scar/Impulse thing I wrote for demon au @stiffyck and I go insane about
All fluff!
Short drabble, around 500-600 words
"I like your tail and the way it forms a heart—" But his statement was cut off by Scar looking up, blinking in something akin to confusion.
"Wait wait—a heart?"
"—I like you, and I like how soft your hair is—" He smiled, running his hand through Scar’s hair.
"—And I like your horns, and I love your smile—" He continued on, pretty much bathing in the joy complimenting Scar gave him.
Scar groaned, covering his face with his hands, glowing a dark grey all around. His tail swished side to side behind him and Impulse found himself staring at it. He found himself staring at Scar too.
"And I like—" "Oh jeez, Impulse please shut up," Scar groaned into his hands, no true malice behind his words. Impulse laughed.
"But I'm not done yet tho!" He called out, receiving a whine in reply as Scar leaned over to hide his face in Impulse's shoulder.
The moon was high and the air smelled of pink. Flowers blooming and the world sleeping with a tint of laughter.
And Impulse wondered if Scar was truly glowing, or that he could simply not focus on anything else. Scar shined in ways Impulse didn't have words to describe. His chest felt warm and he couldn't help the slight tint of adoration.
So he took a breath in. He'd be as annoying as he could be.
"I like your tail and the way it forms a heart—" But his statement was cut off by Scar looking up, blinking in something akin to confusion.
"Wait wait—a heart?" He asks, suprise and confusion clear as day. And Impulse took note of the way his face had turned a dark shade of grey-ish red and the way it made his eyes stand out even more.
So Impulse smiled. "Yeah! Your tails form into a heart!" He chuckled.
He felt like he was bathing in a sunrise that he hadn't seen before. His chest felt warm and his cheeks hurt from smiling.
The room kept tasting of a soft pink and morning glow. They stayed up for too long.
Impulse found himself looking up to the sky and letting his thoughts run into words.
"At first I thought it was a random thing—but then I noticed you do it the most when you're around me." He rambled, face flushing the slightest bit.
And I think it's cute, was a sentence he didn't say just yet.
He looked over at Scar, who now held his own tail infront of him, staring. He looked focused, and so much more that Impulse didn't have the words for. But it was a sight he wished he could've looked at for hours and much more.
Scar took a breath. "I didn't know I could do that." He gasped out with wide eyes. "I never noticed."
And Impulse felt his face soften in ways it always would when he was near Scar. Adoration, is a word he would use.
The air smelled of pink and morning breeze. And Impulse was tired in the most pleasant ways.
His tail reached over and wrapped around Scar’s, just under the heart. Just enough to get Scar to look up at him.
"I like you," He smiled. I love you, he didn't say, and he's not sure he ever would.
He adored Scar in ways that wouldn't have fit the human definition of love. Human concept did not always fit them, and he wouldn't try to make them.
But Scar knew that. Because Scar liked him too.
And even through the way Scar groaned and covered his face at the words. Even through Impulse his laughter. Even through the pink air,
He felt it when Scar’s tails wrapped around his too, and he saw how Scar peaked at him between his fingers.
And the sun wasn't there, and the world slept soundly.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
He huffed lightly, trying not to choke on his words. “Of course. You’re not—you don’t have to stay here,” he tries. G stares at him with wide eyes.
“I just—I just think it’d be better because of your injuries.” Scar mind felt a bit hazy and his thoughts just wouldn’t align. He scrunched his eyebrows and huffed again. “You don’t have to,” he spoke under his breath.
And G still stared; a weird shock pointed straight at Scar. His home was uncomfortable and Scar wanted to be anywhere but here. He didn’t give G a chance to respond.
or
In another world Scar has never met Grian, not until he manages to save a guard from death. In another world Scar has never met Mumbo either, not until the Kingdom is wanting his head.
A mermaid au by two friends of mine, @/Stiffyck and @/Angeart on tumblr!
Grian thinks he feels uncomfortable. He doesn't know what he's feeling exactly, because he's not sure he's been through this before. The feeling of gloom in his chest that burned all the way to his head.
He didn't curse but he wanted to. He didn't look at Scar and he's not sure he wanted to. He did not speak because his tongue was a knife that wasn't afraid to stab. So he swallowed.
Unlike Grian, Scar spoke. Beliefs did not align and thoughts were not meant to be kept inside your head. Every word he spoke felt like a spike that he could feel all the way in the tip in his tail, one that made him nauseous all over.
So when the words were spoken Grian wished he didn't have to hear it. "Why—" Scar began, and there was a venom in his voice that Grian had not heard before. Malice he wasn't sure existed. He flinched.
"—do you hate the idea of being a sea-life so much?"
And this was no curiosity, this was shock and pain that had been building and growing for ages. Pain that Grian had planted with his own bare hands.
Grian wished he could think on his own, but he couldn't. So instead, he spoke.
"People are not kind, Scar. People are cruel." And there were many words that he could say to explain, to back this up, but none of them wanted to force their way out. Like a hand around his throat and a knife at his gills he felt like he suffocated.
And there was a silence. And for a second Grian thought that Scar had understood, that he finally got the point. That he finally saw it from Grian's point of view.
And Grian feared that he ruined something, someone. Forced them to a place that he was drowning in. He hated the thought of someone living, existing, like he did, yet he desired nothing else.
But Scar was not Grian, that bit was clear.
So Scar’s words were shaky, like he mightve cried. Grian wouldn't have been surprised.
"You're wrong," he said, keeping his voice as straight as he could, and succeeding, barely. Grians not sure what made him flinch this time. Maybe it was because he had never seen someone disagree with these thoughts before. It was always him, and he was always wrong.
"You're—you're wrong because–" And Scar took a breath, breathing in ways Grian had forced himself to.
Grian did not see his tears fall, he refused to acknowledge it. He didn't want to know that the words hurt.
Because that meant the words had hurt him too.
"—I am people—" Scar said, words off from the common that land life spoke. "I am kind," he choked.
And Grian did not look up, Grian didn't listen. Because he didn't want to be wrong.
"I don't know who you've met—" Scar was swimming backwards, away from the shore, growing the distance between them. He choked on what Grian had hoped wasn't a sob, even if he knew.
"But I'm not one of them."
And Scar was gone.
Droplets of water had hit Grian and it burned in ways he yearned for. Grian did not look up, because he fears if he saw Scar again he might think. And that's the last thing he should do.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
“You normally don’t spend this long in your room, are you okay?” The question felt heavy, concern and maybe even curiosity clear in his voice. Maybe Mumbo thought too much about the fact Scar noticed, and even wanted to ask. Maybe he’d just wanted something and didn’t know where it was.
Maybe mumbo was making it seem better than it was, maybe Mumbo was making it seem worse. Both hurt just as much, both made him just as desperate.
And that simple desperation that came from something that could seem like affection, it made him answer.
“It’s nothing.” His voice wavered the slightest bit.
“You’re lying,” a simple statement, but they both knew it was true. Obvious as ever, Mumbo was never good at lying.
“I know.” He didn’t know what else to say.
OR
Mumbo learns that aliens don't smile. And maybe he doesn't mind.
