love is such a drag - ch. 10
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.
“Even though I’m not a girl?”
Grian laughs wetly, lightly shoving Scar’s chest. “That’s my problem, you—you spoon!”
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?”
“Hm?”
“I think I might not be straight."
