Archive of Our Own

Grian is miserable. 

He hasn’t preened in—a while, admittedly. And, look, that’s for quite a few reasons, okay? He’s been insanely busy working on his base, as Impulse and Gem and Scar have forced him to do. Impulse and Gem, especially, who crafted a glorified time bomb above his beautiful Dwayne the Rock. So forgive him if he’s been a bit focused on making sure that all his hard work doesn’t go to waste. Plus, there was that thing with the tunnel bore, and he’s been so busy with trying to collect supplies for Doc after that whole mess. Besides, the paranoia has been eating at him, since he wouldn’t put it past Doc to somehow mess with his base. Or, Void-forbid, his nest. 

Grian isn’t sure what he would do if Doc messed with his nest. Not on purpose, of course, because Doc would never do that on purpose. Doc would never go that far, even if Grian did something to explode everything he’s worked on for the entire season, because Doc knows that it would ruin Grian, but if he sends over one of his charged creepers, and it happens to find its way into Grian’s nest….

He shudders. No, he can’t let his guard down. Not even to take care of his wings. 

Except, now it’s all his fault that his wings are itchy. It’s all his fault that he can’t focus on anything besides the dirt and sweat and grime lodged between his feathers. It’s even his fault that he’s curled up in his nest as if to provide some semblance of comfort, knees to his chest, wings splayed out behind him as he tries to bite back tears of frustration.

He hasn’t been sleeping, with how busy he’s been. He doesn’t remember the last time he ate three real meals a day. And his wings feel so terrible and awful and overstimulating, and that’s been contributing to his lack of sleep as well, and he’s just—miserable. And exhausted. And did he mention that he’s miserable? 

Any other day, he’d take care of it by himself. He’d grit his teeth and plop himself down in his nest and start working through his wings, combing through the feathers, tugging out the loose ones. Starting with his left wing, moving from top to bottom, and then turning to his right wing to finish the other half of the job. It’s something he’s gotten used to, when it comes to regular maintenance. 

But…he just can’t, today. 

Part of it is just rational. Grian doesn’t often let his wings get this bad. In fact, he thinks it’s been years since he has—the last time was back in Season Six, when he was so determined to prove that he belonged on Hermitcraft. Too focused on making sure that he didn’t fall behind to realize that he was slowly deteriorating. It was only when he turned up to a Sahara meeting, swaying dizzily and with his wings rumpled and tattered, that Mumbo marched Grian to the nest and sat down behind him until his wings were thoroughly preened and he was fast asleep, slumped back against Mumbo’s chest. 

He had slept for a day and a half. When he woke up, Xisuma was staring down at him, arms crossed. He got the scolding of a lifetime, that day. Apparently, it’s ‘not safe’ to work that hard for so long, and he was ‘neglecting his health’ by not bothering to preen. Grian stands by the fact that he was just focused, okay? He hadn’t even realized that his wings were that messed up, or that he hadn’t slept in days. 

(According to Xisuma, that’s even more concerning, but Grian had just ignored him. He was fine, after all! Absolutely fine!) 

So, yeah, his wings are in rough shape right now. Bad enough that even if he could take care of it by himself—which he’s still not sure he could—it would take him hours upon hours and he’d probably dissolve into an overwhelmed mess about halfway through one wing.

And, besides…Grian doesn’t want to do it alone. Okay? He admits it—he doesn’t want to preen himself. Not today. There’s an intrinsic loneliness to preening yourself, something so deeply etched into his instincts that sometimes he’ll avoid preening himself just so he doesn’t have to stop every so often to press the heels of his hands into his eyes and try to breathe through the ache in his chest. 

He can’t bring himself to preen alone, today. He thinks it would destroy him. But, truthfully, he doesn’t have too many options. Usually, he’d go to Mumbo. Mumbo usually stops by every couple weeks to check on Grian’s wings, make sure that he’s taking care of himself, and if he’s not, then force him to sit down so Mumbo can preen him. Grian doesn’t have too many days like these, where preening himself sounds like torture, but when he does, his first choice is always, always Mumbo. Except—that’s not going to work, today, or for the foreseeable future. 

Because Mumbo’s been gone for months, now. Living his best life, climbing up mountains on a multitude of different servers. Jimmy’s busy on Empires, and he’s not whitelisted on Hermitcraft, anyways. He could ask Pearl, but—

He shudders. Pearl would do it, of course, but she’d be teasing him the entire time. Poking fun at the way his instincts make him a fuzzy mess, laughing at the fact that he waited so long to ask anyone for help. Or, worse, she’d be so horribly serious about it. She’d be concerned, and they’d have to talk about why asking someone to preen his wings makes his throat tighten and his heart rate spike. Because avians like Grian and Pearl and Jimmy aren’t supposed to preen themselves. Pearl doesn’t, as far as Grian knows—sometimes she gets Grian to do it, sometimes Gem or Impulse, sometimes someone else. Jimmy doesn’t preen himself either, always relying on Joel or Scott or Fwhip back on Empires. So Pearl would either make fun of him, or she’d be terribly worried. And neither of those are ideal. Actually, Grian thinks he’d rather die, thank you very much.

So…not Mumbo. Not Jimmy, and certainly not Pearl. Which means that there’s only one person left who Grian trusts enough to take care of his wings. Not the best option, since this person has never preened before (as far as Grian knows), but Grian’s desperate. He’s so desperate.

Teeth gritted, fingernails biting into his palms, Grian gets to his feet. His wings rustle, discontent, and he has to clench his jaw to keep himself from tearing up at the feeling. His breaths are shorter than they should be, and he feels oddly lightheaded. He’s not sure whether it’s from the way his lungs seem to refuse to expand to their full capacity, or from the way his instincts are screaming at him in distress. Either way, he feels unsteady, and he wobbles as he moves to exit his nest. 

He almost passes out when he exits his nest—it’s a near thing. His vision goes white and his ears ring and, for a moment, he’s entirely taken over by his instincts. And his instincts are begging him to get back into the nest, back to safety, to get his flock, because they can protect him, they can take care of him—

Grian shakes his head violently, breaths quickening as he wraps his arms around his stomach in a sort of embrace, as if that can replace the gentle touch of his flock. His family. He can’t—he can’t stay here. This is killing him. But he’s nearly as positive that it would kill him to leave his nest, because everything is too much. It’s all too much. 

He takes a few stumbling steps away from his nest, despite how it makes his stomach churn and his head spin. The place he’s headed towards is close to his base, thankfully. In fact, they’re connected by a crooked dirt path. It’s not like he’d have to walk too far, but in this state? When he can barely even bring himself to leave his nest? He could fly, true, but his wings are protesting at even the slightest movement, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to make it there in the first place.

No—no. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. 

Grian bites down on his tongue hard enough to taste iron and forges onward, in the direction of Scarland. 

About halfway down the path, Grian realizes that Scar might not be working on his base, today. He could be anywhere else on the server—visiting one of their neighbors, playing Decked Out 2, even collecting resources, as he so often does for such a huge project, like Scarland is. Or he could just…not be up to company, today. Scar gets tired, sometimes. There are times when he’s more tired and more sore than usual, and those are the day that he remains in bed instead of forcing himself to go and walk around, even with his cane to rely on. If today is one of those days, Grian can’t possibly be selfish enough to ask him for help with his wings. 

He ignores the way his chest tightens at the thought that he might have to go another day like this. He doesn’t know what he’d do, if that were the case. 

But no. As he comes up on the amusement park that Scar has been designing all season, he can see his friend flitting around with his elytra, whistling a cheery tune to himself, nearly crashing every few seconds, and Grian can’t help but smile weakly. He keeps moving, through the turnstiles at the entrance, around the gorgeous fountain in the center of the area, and towards where Scar has just dumped all of his shulker boxes out on the ground. 

“Hm,” Grian can hear Scar mumble to himself. “Now where did I put—I could’ve sworn it was in this one!” 

Grian huffs a weak laugh. He cocks his head to the side, reminiscent of birds in the way that avians so often are, and he watches with some amount of fondness as Scar digs through his shulker boxes, searching vigorously for whatever supplies he needs. Normally, he likes to stand and watch Scar struggle for a few minutes, relishing in the comical frustration that builds in his friend. And then he swoops in, startling Scar so badly that he cries out in surprise and throws his hands up into the air, before Grian offers to help. Any other day, that’s what he’d be doing. 

But today, his wings rustle, and the itchiness returns in full force, and the burning returns to his eyes even as he tries to blink the sensation away. So instead of waiting, he just exhales sharply and hobbles towards Scar, wings sending him off balance with the way they twitch every few seconds. 

"Scar—" he starts, and Scar jolts with an embarrassing yelp. He nearly knocks over the shulker box that he’s elbow-deep in as he straightens, staring wide-eyed at Grian like a deer in headlights. 

Grian blinks, and his face cracks into a grin. He presses a hand over his mouth to try to conceal his laughter. He hadn’t even been trying to scare Scar, this time, and Scar still—

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, mister,” Scar huffs, regaining his composure. Now that he’s aware of Grian’s presence, he leans against his cane, ever the picture of confidence and relaxation, as if he didn’t just almost topple over in his surprise. “You’ll see who’s laughing, soon!” 

“Yeah, Scar?” Grian sighs, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “And how d’you plan to do that?” 

Scar fumbles. “I’ll—I’ll—well!” He coughs, brandishing his cane. “I can’t tell you, or else it’ll spoil the surprise! But just you wait, it’ll be the scare of a lifetime! You won’t know what to do with yourself!” 

“A’course, buddy,” Grian placates, a smile playing on his face before faltering. “But, uh, I actually came here to ask you something?” 

Scar waves his hands invitingly. “Ask away, my good friend! Scar Goodtimes is here for all of your important questions!” 

“Thanks,” Grian murmurs. He doesn’t laugh at Scar’s tone or phrasing, and he can see that Scar’s eyebrows furrow as he notices the lack of amusement. He doesn’t comment, though, doesn’t even speak as Grian musters up the courage to continue. “Uh—are you very busy today, at all?” 

Scar hums, lifting his eyes towards the sky in an exaggerated show of thought. He rubs at his chin, tilting his head to the side. “Well…not particularly, no. I’ve just been working at trying to finish up Scarland, you know how it is! Always something to do, always busy….” 

Grian does know how it is. God, does he know how it is. Always collecting resources, always planning out creations, always building. Always something. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Of course. You’d be…free, though? If I asked you to help me with something?” 

Scar’s eyes narrow, just barely. He blinks at Grian, scrutinizing him closely—his bloodshot eyes, pale face, rumpled feathers. All of it lending to one conclusion: Grian…isn’t okay. “Yeah,” Scar tells him. “Yeah, I—I’m free, G. What can I help ya with?” 

“I—" Grian stops. He swallows. “My wings,” he finally admits. “They’re—a mess. And, usually, I’d just take care of it myself, but I was busy, so I didn’t get the chance to clean them, and they’ve gotten pretty bad, and…well, I can’t do it by myself, this time.” And doesn’t that hurt to admit? He should be able to preen himself. He can’t. “So…would you be willing to give me a hand?” 

For a moment, Scar doesn’t respond, and Grian’s stomach flips over. He’s about to backtrack—make his way clumsily back to his base, curl up in his nest, maybe shed a few tears, though he’d never confess that to anyone—when Scar finally speaks. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to go silent, there, birdie!” Grian’s instincts flutter at the nickname. “I was just a bit surprised, y’know? It’s not often you ask anyone besides Mumbo—ah, but Mumbo isn’t here, is he?” Scar switches gears quickly, eyebrows lifting in sudden realization. “Of course, of course, yes, I will help you with your wings!” He announces it like a declaration.

Grian feels almost dizzy with relief. “Thank you,” he breathes, though it sounds more desperate than he’s willing to admit. “Thank—thank you.” 

“Of course,” Scar repeats, but there’s something more heavy and confused to his tone. Like he doesn’t understand why Grian is so overcome. “Uh—one thing though?” 

Grian stiffens. He masks it with a carefully placed tilt of his head, and furrowed eyebrows. “Yes?” 

Scar shifts sheepishly. He rubs his thumb over the handle of his cane, a nervous habit that Grian has noticed over the years that they’ve been friends. “I…don’t know how to preen,” he admits, whispering the words. He cringes, embarrassed, but Grian just blinks. 

That’s it? Grian had expected that Scar was going to back down, or something. He had been afraid that Scar was going to tell him that he wouldn’t be able to preen Grian, for whatever reason. 

“Oh,” he says, simple and unbothered, and Scar winces. Grian’s not entirely sure why—this isn’t a problem. The opposite, actually. “That’s fine, I’ll teach you. No problem.” In Grian’s experience, people who are new to preening are more hesitant. Less likely to know what happens when Grian’s mind slips into his instincts, and less likely to purposefully trigger those instincts to take over. Mumbo, when first learning, hadn’t seen Grian deep in his instincts until he’d already taken care of Grian’s wings multiple times, and that was only by accident (though he continued to do it on purpose every time after that, just to force Grian to rest). Though preening in general is a one-way ticket to a dizzy and peaceful haze, there’s one thing that is sure to send him spiraling into oblivion, every time, without fail. And since Scar is new, he won’t know about it, and Grian intends to ensure that he never finds out. Besides, if Scar has never preened before, he won’t know to be concerned about the state of Grian’s wings. 

(And, though Grian would never admit to being grateful for this, people who are new to preening tend to take longer. Maybe, just maybe, that’s something he’s been craving.)

Scar relaxes at his words, his face breaking into a relieved smile. “Oh, can you? Thank goodness. I was worried, y’know! I wanna help, of course, but the last thing I want to do is mess you up even more!” 

“Appreciate it,” Grian says dryly, but his heart is thumping against his ribs with anticipation. So close. He’s so close. 

His wings twitch. 

Scar shifts back and forth. He rubs his thumb over the handle of his cane again. “Soooo…how do you want to do this? Just right here, or we can head into one of the shops here in Scarland…?” 

“No,” Grian blurts, suddenly tense and anxious. Scar blinks, confused and concerned, and heavy guilt settles into Grian’s stomach. He can’t bring himself to acknowledge it, though, not when Scar’s words are so wrong. “No,” he repeats, strained. “We—my nest. Has to be my nest.” 

Scar must take notice of his suddenly clipped tone, because he holds his hands out soothingly, lifting his cane off the ground. “Okay, buddy,” he agrees instantly, and something loosens in Grian’s chest. “We’ll go to your nest, yeah? Wanna lead the way?” 

“Okay,” Grian rasps. His throat is painfully tight, and he rubs anxiously at the base of his neck, just above where his collarbones meet at his sternum. “Yeah, we can—we can start heading that way, yeah.” 

He doesn’t make an effort to move. His eyes are lingering on Scar’s hands, which are still hovering in the air. They’re calloused, as a builder’s hands often are, but they look soft. And warm. And Grian can’t help but imagine those hands carding through his feathers, brushing down his back—

“Grian?” Grian blinks back to reality, realizing he’s been staring for far too long. Scar is watching him, eyes squinted, forehead furrowed as he examines Grian’s actions. Grian moves uneasily under the scrutiny, and Scar’s face clears. His jaw sets, just for a moment, before he lets his face spread into a grin. “You ready to go?” 

Scar shuffles closer to Grian as he speaks. He offers his free hand—soft, calloused, warm—and Grian’s breaths stutter. 

“Yeah,” he manages weakly. He takes Scar’s hand, and it’s just as warm as he imagined. 

— / — / — 

“So…what do I do?” 

Scar sounds more nervous than Grian usually hears him. There’s a hint of unease to his tone, and he’s shifting audibly where he sits, behind Grian, staring at the avian’s brandished wings. Grian feels, somehow, just as nervous. He swallows. 

They’re sitting in Grian’s nest, now, with Scar sitting cross-legged among the layers of pillows and blankets, cane off to the side, and Grian sitting in front of Scar with his legs folded under him. He’s holding a pillow to his chest in a sort of embrace, squeezing it tightly. His wings rustle in discomfort, and he bites back a frustrated chirp—usually, he can restrain his instinctive chirps and more bird-like sounds with relative ease, but in the nest? All of that goes out the window, especially when his instincts are as upset as they are now. 

He hugs the pillow tighter. It’s hard to think of anything besides his wings. 

The walk back to Grian’s base was…brutal. He’d have flown—Scar even asked if he’d rather fly, since it would be faster—but Grian declined. Although Scar has an elytra, although Grian is probably the best flyer on the server (not that he’d be in top form, at the moment), they wouldn’t have been able to stay near each other if they were in the air. And Grian couldn’t bring himself to let go of Scar’s hand. 

So they walked, taking the same path that Grian took to get to Scarland in the first place. At first, Grian was still riding the instinct high of Scar holding his hand, and it was far easier to ignore his wings and focus on putting one foot in front of the other, listening distractedly to Scar’s constant talking. But as they progressed, Scar’s chatter faded into the background, and  his heartbeat echoed in his ears. 

His vision had begun to blur. His head started pounding, subtly at first, then harsher until he could barely register the world around him without feeling nauseous. And he does feel nauseous, now, enough that he’s almost positive that he’s going to double over and throw up. Not that he has much in his stomach—he doesn’t think he ate anything, today. Maybe not yesterday, either. He can’t remember. 

At some point, he stopped moving. Distantly, he recalls the way Scar tugged on his hand and said his name, confused. He recalls the way Scar’s eyes widened, even through his fuzzy vision, when Grian just shuddered and breathed unevenly. He recalls how Scar set his cane down on the ground and took Grian’s face in his hands, cupping his cheeks, staring into his eyes. How could he forget that? Even in his dizzy, unstable state, he couldn’t possibly forget the way his instincts wailed for more of that gentle touch. His face, his hair, his wings. He couldn’t possibly forget. 

He had calmed down, eventually. Had come back to himself just enough to respond hazily to Scar’s frazzled questions, to blink away the fog in his eyes, to request quietly to keep moving towards his nest. His instincts—because he knows that’s the reason his body and head are so messed up, today—his instincts will calm down when he’s in his nest.

Scar hadn’t protested. He complied, quickly and easily, scooping up his cane from the ground and taking Grian’s hand once again. This time, he just reached out and tangled their fingers together without asking, not that Grian minded. And they kept walking, just as before. The only difference was that this time, Scar was holding his hand that much tighter. 

Now, sitting curled up in his nest with Scar, Grian’s instincts are going absolutely mad. If Grian had any less self restraint—and self respect—he’d have succumbed ages ago to the way the little bird in the back of his mind tugged at him to slip into the haze, to only communicate in chirps and whistles, to finally let himself go, for once. But he bites down on his lip, hard enough to taste blood, and lets the stinging pain force him into awareness. 

Grian’s fingers dig into the plush pillow. Scar is waiting for him to respond. Scar needs to know how to preen him. He needs to explain, now. 

“Right,” he breathes, and he hears Scar’s breath catch as he finally answers. “Uh—okay. Okay.” He shoves away the part of him that’s begging him to let himself drift and boxes it up neatly, shoving it into a space between his ribs, where it can be caged in until he can’t hold it anymore. “So—it’s not too difficult, honestly.” 

“‘Quite simple, really’?” Scar quotes Mumbo, and Grian laughs hoarsely. 

“Yeah. Quite simple, really.” He snickers, loosening his grip on the pillow and lifting his hand to drag it down his face. “Chuffed to bits, and all that.” 

Scar laughs, and it’s squeaky, like a windshield wiper. Grian can’t restrain a tired grin at the sound. It tugs at his skin, and he feels suddenly dejected. Mumbo isn’t here to laugh with them. He misses Mumbo.

He regains his composure with a sharp swallow and an awkward cough. “Uh—anyways. Not too difficult, once you get the hang of it. You’ve just got to kind of work through the feathers, make sure they’re not super messed up, or whatever. Uh, try to get out whatever dirt you can. That’s a big one.” The dirt that’s stuck in between his feathers is, perhaps, the most irritating of all. He can barely focus for how itchy it is. “I think a couple of feathers might be twisted?” He knows that they are. He can feel that specific brand of discomfort in a few places on his wings. “So if you see that, you might have to give ‘em a yank. Same if you see any loose feathers.”

“Oh.” Scar sounds…troubled. Grian is about to ask why, when Scar asks hesitantly, “Will it…hurt?”

Void. If Scar keeps asking things like that—so soft, worried, tender—then it’ll be Grian’s heart that hurts, not his wings. He breathes once, to steady himself, and one more time for good measure. “It has to be done,” he says in lieu of a real response. Loose feathers won’t hurt, since they’re already prepared to fall out, but twisted feathers? They feel like being stabbed.

Not that he can tell Scar that. The man would never preen Grian’s wings if he knew. He’s too…gentle. And now he seems uneasy, like Grian’s deflection has put him on edge. Grian can hear him audibly swallow, and he realizes just how anxious Scar is about this.

“It’s okay if you mess a few things up, at first,” Grian is quick to assure him. “It’s a bit of a learning curve, if I’m honest. You’ll probably pull a feather or two that you shouldn’t have before you get used to it.”

He seems to have scared Scar even more with this, though, because his friend releases a very undignified sound, high-pitched and strangled. “I don’t want—“ he insists, then cuts himself off and shakes his head. “I don’t wanna mess this up.” 

“You can’t. You literally can’t.” Grian means it. Anything would be better than what he has now. At this point, Grian would rather Scar pull out every last feather on his wings and leave him as bare as a plucked chicken than stay like this for one more minute. He’d rather bear the stinging pain of each feather being tugged out, one by one, than deal with this terrible itchiness and discomfort. He’s already on the verge of tears, and he squeezes the pillow tighter as he tries to breathe through the burning in his eyes. 

Scar doesn’t respond, and Grian can tell he’s still unsure, so Grian lets his shoulders drop and his head dip. “Please, Scar,” he whispers, and he hears Scar breathe in shakily. “Just—just do your best. Genuinely, anything is better than how it is right now.” 

His voice wobbles against his will. He can’t stop a hint of desperation from lacing his words, twisting his tone into something raw and pained. A miserable warble escapes his lips, more bird than human, and Scar finally caves. 

“Okay,” he whispers. His hands ghost over Grian’s shoulders, still hesitant, still barely making contact, but Grian shivers at the light touch. “Uh—yeah. Okay.” 

His hands don’t move from Grian’s shoulders for multiple more seconds. Eventually, Grian clears his throat awkwardly and voices, “My wings, Scar. Not my shoulders.” He doesn’t want to have to tell Scar to stop, not when it feels so nice, but he thinks that the waiting is killing him. 

“Right, right. Sorry.” 

Grian hears a shuddery breath. It’s only another brief moment before a hand drags through his wings, almost painfully slow, almost painfully gentle. Doing nothing noteworthy, at first, not rearranging the feathers or picking out dirt, but just…petting him. Like he’s a soft and fluffy baby animal, and not a full grown man who just so happens to have wings. 

“I’m not your cat, Scar,” Grian grouses, but his words are…hazy, to say the least. The cadence is off, like he’d rather be communicating in quiet chirps than in anything intelligible. Taking some words too slowly, like they’re clumsy on his tongue, and rushing through some of them like they don’t belong in his mouth. They’re slightly slurred, too, as if he can’t quite remember how to form them. It’s subtle, still, enough that Scar isn’t likely to notice unless it’s something he’s really paying attention to—for now. But Grian has done this, before. He knows how easy it is to slip away from his mind. He knows how quick he can be to fall victim to his instincts, especially after so long shoving them away. This easy lack of awareness won’t stay for long, if things go just as they usually do. 

Scar huffs, entirely too lighthearted for the way that Grian’s head is still reeling from the repetitive touch. “Well, forgive me!” He pets Grian’s other wing, and, unbeknownst to Scar, Grian’s head tilts back and his eyelids flutter, his eyes rolling back for a moment as the touch glides down his feathers, delicate and ginger. “It’s not my fault your wings are so—so—so soft! And besides, I’ve never touched anyone’s wings before. I didn’t expect them to be so….” He trails off, unsure. 

“Soft?” Grian supplies, the corner of his mouth twitching. Scar must not realize that Grian is mocking him, because he nods and hums enthusiastically in agreement. 

“Exactly! Exactly, yes, you get it!” Grian feels Scar’s light touch, slipping in between his feathers and moving down his wings, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut and force himself to focus on his breathing so he doesn’t succumb to his instincts immediately. “Cop—cob—comparable to Jellie’s fur!” He clicks his tongue, mentally analyzing the similarities and differences between Grian’s wings and his cat’s fur. “Actually, no, Jellie is far softer than your wings. No offense.” 

“None taken,” Grian manages, and he has just enough awareness to inject some amount of dryness into his tone, to ensure that Scar won’t question the way he’s now trembling imperceptibly. He feels like he’s buzzing, like static is filling his limbs. His fingertips are tingling and numb, and he can barely feel anymore where they dig into the pillow that he’s still holding to his chest. 

He could stay like this forever, he thinks distantly, brain whirring like a redstone machine. His wings are itchy, and the twisted feathers hurt, but he could stay here forever, in his nest, with Scar’s warm hands digging into his feathers. 

Scar heaves a sigh, more anxious than he’s willing to let himself sound, and finally speaks. “I guess I’m stalling, aren’t I.” Grian just hums noncommittally. Scar is definitely stalling, but Grian doesn’t think he’d mind if Scar did it for just a little bit longer. But Scar coughs, and Grian can hear the newfound decisiveness in his voice as he states, “Okay, here I go. You ready?” 

“Ready,” Grian breathes weakly, even though the lie sours on his tongue. He’s not ready for this, not at all. How could he possibly be ready? 

Scar’s first real touch on his wings is nearly blissful. 

His friend is gentle, painfully so, and he buries his fingers deep into Grian’s feathers. Almost the instant that Scar starts to preen—brushing away a thin layer of dust and grime from his wings, picking out specks of dirt—the tension melts from Grian’s shoulders, and he slumps, oddly lightheaded with relief and his instincts. He could let himself drift, if he wanted, he thinks dizzily. It would be so easy. A soft fog is already lapping at his head like waves on a shore, not quite pulling him down just yet, but getting closer. It would be so easy to let himself sink into that gentle, peaceful fog. 

But no. No. He can’t let his guard down, no matter how insistent his instincts are. No matter how safe Scar makes him feel. If he lets himself give in, then there’s no telling what he’ll do. It’s not that he thinks that Scar will think differently of him. It’s not even that he’s afraid of going into his instincts in Scar’s presence—not too much, at least, even though there’s still that nagging feeling that he shouldn’t. 

No, the problem is what his instincts would make him do if he were to succumb to them. Because Scar isn’t Grian’s flock. Not officially, not like Mumbo and Jimmy and Pearl are. But Void, Grian has viewed Scar as a part of his flock since the very beginning. And if Grian’s birdbrain decides spontaneously to act on this while Grian can’t reason with himself (can’t think of all the reasons it could go terribly, horribly wrong), Grian doesn’t know what he’ll do. 

Allowing Scar to preen him—asking Scar to preen him in the first place—is already toeing the line so dangerously that he’s afraid he’s going to trip and stumble over it if he lets himself go. If he was confident that Scar was going to be okay with it (because it’s too much to hope for that he’d actually be happy about it), then he’d take one of his best feathers from the stash that he’s kept to give to the members of his flock. Pearl has a smaller one of Grian’s feathers tucked into a pouch, Jimmy wears his on a necklace with Pearl’s feather beside it, and Mumbo keeps his pinned to the lapel of his suit at all times. Grian likes to think about what Scar would do, if Grian were to give him a feather. Where he’d keep it, if he’d keep it on him at all times. His best guess is that his friend would thread it through an earring that he’d wear every day. 

(He tries not to imagine Scar standing before him, grinning brightly, sunlight glinting off of Grian’s feather that hangs from Scar’s ear. It’s almost too much to bear. Void. He wants it so badly that it hurts.)

He has to stay aware. He has to stay awake. He can’t let himself fall into his instincts, at least not deep enough that he doesn’t still have control over himself and his actions. He has to make sure to remember his reasons for never admitting any of this to Scar. 

So Grian presses his fingers—cold, trembling with adrenaline or fear or something more pleasurable—against his face, harshly enough to provide a grounding pressure, but not nearly enough to hurt. He tries to breathe through the fog, as Scar’s fingers keep running through his feathers. It only half works, and not for long. 

Even when Scar accidentally pulls out a feather that he shouldn’t have pulled, Grian only yelps hoarsely—bites back a pained warble—and responds with weak reassurances to Scar’s panicked apologies. It only takes a few more minutes for him to sink all over again.

As Scar keeps working at his wings—scratching a particular stubborn clump of dirt and dust from between two of Grian’s feathers, one that was uncomfortable while it was there and euphoric now that it’s gone—Grian’s hands slowly slip from from his face and fall back into his lap. His shoulders lose their tension, and he rests his hands on his lap in front of him, fingers loose where they curl around each other. 

Grian sits there, entirely too comfortable and entirely too willing to stay like this forever. His eyes drift lazily from one side of the room to the other, landing first on the blanket that Jimmy gifted him to keep in his nest, then on the sweatshirt he just happened to steal from Scar a few months ago and never returned. He remembers holding it in both hands, pressing it against his nose and breathing deeply. It had smelled of earth and sunflowers and the sun itself, streaming down through the clouds. Similarly, Grian had bathed in its warmth when he’d taken it from Scar’s base. Scar didn’t bother to ask for it back. Maybe he didn’t notice it was missing. Either way, Grian never offered to return it.

He’s grown too relaxed, he realizes, even as he tries not to sink too far. His limbs are loose, and he feels oddly loopy. His head lolls to the side as Scar works on his feathers, and he can feel a delirious smile spread across his face. He’s been staring at nothing for far too long. 

He blinks, hard, and tenses up. Shoulders rise to his ears, and jaw clenches, and, perhaps most notably, his wings bristle. The feathers rustle, and Scar’s hands pull away from his wings at the sudden movement, taking the warmth with them.

No, Grian wants to plead, wants to warble desperately. Please, don’t stop. Please, keep going. But Scar just lightly lowers a hand onto one of Grian’s shoulders and breathes, “G?” His voice is thick, for a reason that Grian can’t begin to understand. “Are you okay? Did that hurt at all?” 

It takes a moment for Grian to find his voice. “No,” he croaks, but it’s pitched too high, as if his instincts have tried to latch onto it and turn it into a twitter. “No, it didn’t hurt.” The opposite. Always the opposite. 

He waits for the warmth of Scar’s touch to drift back to his wings. After a few moments of cold cold cold, he swivels where he’s sitting, looking over his shoulder and meeting Scar’s eyes. 

Scar looks…hesitant. His jaw is working, and his eyes are flickering from Grian’s wings to his eyes uncertainly. “Uh…are you sure? Do you need me to stop?” 

And of course, that’s absolutely unthinkable, so against his will, Grian releases an indignant squawk, feathers puffing up in distress as Scar’s hand jolts away from his shoulder like it’s been burnt. “No!” Grian yelps, more bird than human. “Don’t stop!” 

Scar’s eyes are wide with alarm, now. His hands hover in the air, fingers fluttering anxiously, and he shuffles, shifting back from Grian’s wings. All Grian can think is no. No, please, please. “Grian,” Scar starts, obviously trying in vain to keep his voice level and calm when Grian is very clearly not. “Listen, if you’re not comfortable with this, we don’t have to keep going. I’m sure we could find someone else who’s willing to help—or I can sit around while you preen yourself. Y’know, emotional support!” Grian huffs wetly, not bothering to explain that keeping watch over someone while they preen is nearly as intimate as preening them yourself. “Or—I don’t know, but I’m sure there’s some sort of other solution. If you don’t want me to keep going, please don’t be afraid to tell me.” 

Scar…thinks that he’s uncomfortable. 

Scar thinks that he’s not enjoying this. Scar thinks that the tension in Grian’s shoulders and hands and wings is from discomfort, not from a futile effort to keep himself grounded. Scar thinks that Grian wants him to stop. 

“It’s…not that,” Grian says hesitantly. He bites down on the inside of his cheek, then sighs. “Okay, just—hold on.” If he’s going to explain this to Scar—not all of it, certainly, but the important parts—he needs to look the man in the eye, as much as he’d decidedly rather not. So he plants his hands on the ground and twists, grunting, to face Scar completely. His wings still twitch in mild discomfort, but it’s far better than it was before Scar started preening him. Even if Scar hasn’t gotten very far—just the sensation itself is comforting. 

Scar looks pale. He’s fidgeting, rubbing his thumb over the side of his index finger in the same way he did to the handle of his cane. “Grian?” he questions, voice tight, and Grian exhales shakily. 

“Hold on,” he requests, and Scar nods respectfully, not speaking. Grian squeezes his eyes shut for a single heartbeat, sets his jaw, and looks directly at Scar. 

“Okay,” he states at last, and Scar straightens, laser-focused on Grian. His full attention is on what Grian is saying, and Grian swallows. “So—I’m not uncomfortable.” That’s the most important part. As long as he gets that out of the way, he’ll be fine. 

But Scar doesn’t look convinced. “Okay,” he agrees, but it’s hesitant. “But, listen, G, if you are, I won’t be offended—“ 

“I’m not,” Grian emphasizes again. “Genuinely, Scar, I’m not uncomfortable at all. Not even a little bit.” 

“Oh.” Scar slumps, a relieved smile spreading across his face. “Oh, that’s good.” His smile broadens into something more playful. “You scared me, mister!” He jabs at Grian’s chest, and Grian can’t help but giggle. That’s more like the Scar he knows. 

He sobers up quickly. “But, uh, yeah. The reason I got so…tense.” He tries to force his lungs to expand all the way. Scar’s eyes on him are so insanely earnest. “Preening is—intimate,” he manages choppily. “Like, really intimate, for avians.” His face is flaming. Void, this is so embarrassing. But Scar doesn’t even blink—he just nods along, as if he knew all of this already. “And, uh, when an avian’s wings are preened by—by someone else—“ He nearly said flock. He nearly said flock, before he swallowed back his words and corrected himself, so Scar wouldn’t find out. “—it’s really, really easy to get drawn into this sort of…instinctive state.” 

Scar hums. “Yeah?” There’s no judgement in his tone, just curiosity. 

“Yeah,” Grian whispers. “Uh, they—we—tend to get all…weird.” That’s an understatement. “Hazy, I guess? Almost like being drunk, but more…pleasant, I suppose. And we kind of revert into our instincts, so, like—more…bird sounds, for lack of a better word, and….” Grian can’t believe he’s about to say this. He can’t bring himself to meet Scar’s eyes as he continues, “We tend to get more…touchy.” If he had the choice, he’d be curled against Scar’s side, wings wrapped around both of them, face buried in his shoulder as he chirps contentedly. But he can’t, so he just lets himself daydream about it. 

He waits for…he’s not entirely sure. Questions, maybe. Confusion, or judgement. But Scar just continues to nod. 

“I was wondering why you weren’t getting all bird-like,” he confesses casually, and Grian blinks. What? “‘Cause I did some research a while back, and I might be wrong, but I thought there was supposed to be more of that involved in this sort of thing. Not that I’m saying it’s a bad thing!” he hurries to exclaim. “Just—I was curious, that’s all!” 

Grian can’t breathe. “You...did research?” He can’t imagine that. Of all things that he expected of this conversation, that may have been at the bottom. “When?” 

And now it’s Scar’s turn to flush, avoiding Grian’s eyes. “Uh…back in Season Six,” he admits, and Grian’s eyes blow wide. Season Six—the season that Grian joined. It could be a coincidence, of course. Or not. And from the self-consciousness lining Scar’s expression, Grian thinks it might be the latter. 

He could tease Scar about this to no end, but no. Not today. Today he lets it slide, and a small smile graces his face. “Okay,” he says simply, and Scar visibly relaxes. “So then you’ve probably heard about how…vulnerable it is?” 

“Mhm.” Scar shifts. “Gri….” 

“No, no, it’s not that,” Grian assures him quickly. “I’m—I don’t mind being in that state around you.” He winces. He really, really hopes that didn’t sound too odd, but from Scar’s expression—almost awed, almost honored—he thinks that he’s fine. “I just…don’t want to make you uncomfortable?” He squeezes his eyes shut. 

It’s only after a few full seconds of silence that he dares to peek at Scar’s reaction. His friend is quiet, and Grian presses his lips together. Eventually, Scar clears his throat. “Sorry. What?” 

Grian grimaces. “No, it’s just—it can get weird sometimes, okay? And I get that. I know it can be super weird to people who aren’t avians, especially when they’re not—" he chokes over the words, “—not technically flock.” And why does Scar seem to droop at that? “And Scar, ask genuinely anyone, and they’ll tell you, they’ll tell you that I’m among the worst when it comes to getting all touchy, okay?” 

Scar shrugs easily. “Okay? So? I don’t mind! I don’t care if you wanna cuddle up or whatever!” He flashes a grin at Grian. “I mean, just look at me! Who wouldn’t want to?” 

Grian scoffs lightly. Part of it is genuine amusement, but he can’t suppress the hint of derision in the sound. “You don’t get it, Scar,” he sighs. “It’s a lot. It’s too much, quite a bit of the time. Pearl and Jimmy—they’ll tell you, if you ask. I drive them insane. For days.” 

Grian is, without a doubt, the most touchy of his flock. It can be a problem, when Grian’s instincts are still going wild even days after being preened, especially since neither Pearl nor Jimmy are all too interested in that sort of physical contact. Pearl will drag him into the occasional short hug, sure, and Jimmy likes to elbow him in the side and hook an arm around his neck, but not much besides that. Not unless Grian really needs it—or when his instincts really need it. 

Mumbo is better about it, but he’s far too anxious most times to be willing to initiate the contact, and it leaves Grian feeling worried that he’s making his friend uncomfortable. So he tends to avoid it, unless Mumbo is preening him. Besides, Mumbo can’t stay in one position for very long, anyways. 

But Scar still must not understand this, because he sighs and tips his head to the side, smiling at Grian. “Yeah?” He exhales fondly. “Well, lucky for you, G, I’m more than fine with that.” 

Grian closes his eyes. “Scar,” he tries weakly, but Scar cuts him off with a click of his tongue. 

“Nope! I’m speaking now!” He leans in, letting one of his hands settle on Grian’s knee. “Listen up, okay? I knew what I was signing up for when I agreed to help you out with your wings. I’ve done the research, I know the deal. I did that willingly, okay? And besides.” Scar softens. “I’m not your friend just for the human side of you, you know. I’m here for all of you—human and bird alike.” 

Void. Grian can’t think. Every part of his mind is begging him to ask Scar to join his flock, and now. He has half a mind to reach around to his wings and pluck out the finest feather he can find, right now. And Scar is looking at him with such a gentle smile, eyes squinted and soft, hand still lingering on Grian’s knee. 

Grian realizes belatedly that his wings are fluttering behind him, puffed up, in the way that they do when he’s so overwhelmingly happy. He swats at them to try to force them to still, then clears his throat and returns his focus to Scar. “Okay,” he croaks, horrified to feel tears budding in his eyes. “I’ll…keep that in mind.” 

“Good.” Scar pats his knee twice. “Now turn back around and let me finish! We’ve barely even started!” He laughs. “Sorry, I know I’m a bit slow with this. Hope you don’t mind.” 

Grian turns back around, baring his wings to Scar. “Not at all,” he whispers. “Not—not at all.” 

“Good,” Scar repeats cheerfully. “Now, don’t you go repressing your instincts this time, okay? I’ll know if you do, and I won’t be happy.” 

Grian huffs out a hoarse laugh. “I’ll try,” he allows, and Scar hums, pleased, before reaching out and touching his wings again. 

This time, Grian tries not to go stiff at the touch. It’s easier than he expects; he was afraid that his subconscious would refuse to let him fully relax, but clearly, that was never going to be a problem. He melts, eyelids fluttering, and distantly, he hears Scar’s deep chuckle from behind him. It’s almost in his ear, and Grian can feel Scar’s breath on the back of his neck. 

“Aw, you’re getting all comfy, aren’t you, birdie?” he teases lightly. Grian huffs in lieu of an irritated twitter. 

“Shut up,” he manages, slurred, and his friend just snickers quietly before returning his focus to Grian’s wings. 

At some point, Scar straightens out a particularly askew feather, and Grian breathes shakily. His throat itches with the desire to release a happy coo, but he swallows. Once, twice, until the feeling is no longer so insistent. Scar starts to hum a soft song, one that Grian doesn’t quite recall, but it makes his instincts reel with the desire to chirp in response. He grits his teeth. Scar, who has done research on avians and wings and preening, is humming a song to him during one of the most intimate rituals an avian can do with their flock. This is no casual miscalculation—this is purposeful. This is a taunt. 

Grian locks his jaw, refusing to let a single sound slip from his lips, avian or otherwise. He’s long since tossed the pillow aside, resolving to just fold his hands in his lap, and he tangles his fingers together tightly. He absolutely will not let Scar win this round. This is the one hill that he will die on. 

But Scar switches from a quiet hum to a whistle, and Grian’s vision goes a pleasant, hazy white. His ears ring, and all he can hear is the soft tune—something that Scar has whistled to him time and time again, and he’s been able to shove back his instincts every time in the past. But this time is different. This time Scar is preening him, while whistling to him. 

He only realizes that he’s joined in when Scar’s whistle breaks for a moment with a choked laugh, before starting up again. Grian is twittering along to the song that Scar is whistling, his instincts not even bothering to harmonize. He’s just chirping random notes, some that happen to work well with the ones that Scar whistles, some that clash terribly. 

Grian clamps his mouth shut and slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. “Sorry,” he mumbles, voice muffled by his hand and by the clumsiness of his all-too-human tongue. Scar just laughs gleefully. 

“Don’t apologize,” he insists lightly. “You have a very pretty voice.” Scar hums a few more notes, then continues murmuring to the tune of the song, under his breath, as if he doesn’t even intend for Grian to hear him. His words are melodic, and his tone dips up and down rhythmically. “Pretty wings, pretty voice, pretty bird….” 

Against his will, Grian’s face flames. He can’t stop a startled and embarrassed cheep from escaping his lips through his fingers. Void. Scar doesn’t even know what he’s doing to Grian, does he? Complimenting his chirps, complimenting his wings? Grian has been told a million times that his wings are pretty when he takes care of them, even when he finds it hard to believe it. Pearl has even gone so far as to comment that they can be gorgeous. But Scar is seeing his wings at their absolute worst, here, and he’s still complimenting them. 

Grian isn’t sure how much longer he can hang on. His head is spinning with Scar’s words, and he’s giddy with euphoria. Everything is a bit…overwhelming, right now. He’s hyperaware of every single slight touch on his wings, and everything in the world has faded away except for this. Him and Scar. Scar’s hands on his feathers, Grian’s hands in his lap. 

A dizzied twitter escapes his lips, wobbly and unsteady, and he shakes his head, feeling oddly woozy. He presses both hands against his cheeks. They’re still cold, and they feel good against his hot face. It doesn’t change anything at all. His head is still stuffed with wool and cotton, and he can barely even feel his fingers on his skin, anymore. The sensation of Scar’s warm touch on his wings swallows everything else.  

Thinking is…difficult. Normally he’s able to grasp some sort of thought, some sort of idea or snippet of a hazy sentence. But this time, it’s like trying to catch feathers in a windstorm, or like wrapping your fingers around a sunbeam. Slippery, elusive, never quite there when you think it should be. But always, always warm.

Scar has returned to humming, apparently content with the teasing that he’s forced Grian to deal with. Grian listens for a moment—tracking the notes, the pitches, how they dip and sway around him—and tips his head to the side. He whistles experimentally, just to see how Scar will react, because apparently, he’s already forgotten why he shouldn’t be doing that.

It’s hesitant, and quiet at first, but when Scar just pauses his humming to whisper a soft encouragement before continuing on, Grian twitters happily, then keeps whistling, more confidently this time. Louder, bolder, fueled by the warmth of Scar’s hands on his wings. His song is interspersed with the occasional delighted chirp, until the bird sounds escape from his mouth every few seconds, too often for him to be able to keep whistling consistently. Eventually, he’s releasing a constant messy stream of chirps and peeps, unable and unwilling to try to stop himself. There’s no reason to, after all. He’s safe here. He’s in his nest. He’s with his flock. 

His flock snickers. “Oh, you’re way gone now, aren’t you.” It’s not a question, and his flock tugs out a loose feather. “You’re so sweet when you’re like this. Not like the menace that you usually are.” 

His flock’s words are horribly fond, but still, Grian trills indignantly. He can’t remember why the vocalization comes with a dull spike of shame, embarrassment. Whatever human parts of him have told him to hide his instincts is long gone, now, along with all reason that went with it. 

“Aw, calm down, birdie.” His flock pokes at a spot on his back, just between his shoulder blades. “You know it’s true, don’t you?” 

Grian is about to chirp in objection, but Scar runs a hand down the middle of his back—just in between his wing roots—and all protests are lost. His hands drop where they’re still pressed against his face, and they fall limply in front of him. The world around him spirals into a fuzzy haze. Everything disappears, because of course Scar would find the one spot that Mumbo always uses to force Grian to indulge in his instincts. Of course. 

“Mhm.” His flock sounds smug, and any other time, that would be enough to drag Grian back to reality. But it doesn’t even touch him, this time. He’s in too deep. “That’s what I thought.” A finger trails down one of his feathers, and Grian shivers violently. 

“Y’know.” His flock’s voice is quiet, almost wistful. “I wish you’d let me do this more often.” A beat. “I really hope you don’t know what I’m saying right now, because that would be super awkward."

Grian has no idea what his flock is saying, for the most part. A few words slip through, here and there, but nothing he can form a sentence with. Nothing he can process, anyways, even if he did understand the words themselves. 

“Just….” A soft sigh. “I know you always get Mumbo to preen you—and I get it! I swear, I do! He’s your best friend! I just—" The hands on his wings falter for a moment. “I thought we were close, too,” Scar admits, and there’s enough pain in his voice that it makes its way through Grian’s muffled senses. All he can understand is that his flock is upset, and he coos sadly, swiveling around to meet Scar’s eyes. 

“I—" Scar cuts off, choking on a laugh when he sees Grian’s face. “Oh. Are your—buddy.” He sounds close to tears with the force of trying to restrain his glee. “Buddy, are your—are your eyes always like this, when you go all birdbrain?”

Because Grian’s pupils must be entirely swallowing his irises now, as they always do when he gets deep enough in his instincts. It’s rare, exceptionally so, because he doesn’t let himself relax that much most times, but Mumbo is always insanely excited when it happens. And Scar is, too, apparently. He chirps giddily, happy that his flock doesn’t sound so sad anymore. He helped! He helped his flock! 

“That’s adorable,” Scar gasps excitedly. “You actually look like a bird, don’t you?” Grian twitters, and Scar reaches out, his fingers ghosting along Grian’s cheek and lingering at his jaw. He tilts Grian’s face up, peering at his eyes closely, and Grian just lets him, completely and absolutely pliant in Scar’s hands. “Wow,” Scar breathes. “You’re so cute. Is this how preening always is?” He lifts a hand, tucks Grian’s hair behind his ear. “So cute,” he repeats, and his voice is far too tender. “So pretty. Pretty bird.” 

Grian’s wings rustle, and he can’t stop himself from releasing a confused and unhappy peep. He doesn’t understand. The state that he’s in, whenever he’s preened? Not only is it disgusting (wild, feral, wholly animalistic), it’s annoying. It’s too much. Being in this state around other people is just…embarrassing. It makes him a burden, on whoever has to deal with him, and Grian hates being a burden. Especially to his friends—his flock. 

And—and it’s different, for him. Pearl and Jimmy, they both have wings, too. Jimmy’s are a gorgeous gold, and Pearl’s shimmer with a midnight black that’s nearly iridescent under the moonlight. Grian could never call their wings anything less than breathtaking. But…they also can control their instincts. They don’t dissolve into a twittering mess when someone touches their feathers. They don’t fall apart if they don’t have constant physical contact for hours upon hours after being preened. They’re less animal than Grian is.  

His wings are shiny, sure. They’re colorful. Smooth, when they’re preened. But Grian could never consider them pretty. Not when they’re an extension of everything that makes him less than human. 

His breath hitches, and an almost distressed warble escapes. He shuffles away from Scar’s touch, and Scar pulls back, face lined with worry. “Grian?” 

Grian shakes his head wildly, drawing his wings back and away from Scar, pinning them behind him as if that will hide them from Scar, even though they’re far too big to conceal. Even if his wings were pretty, even if his flock didn’t mind preening him, Scar didn’t sign up for this. As much as Grian wants him to be, Scar isn’t a part of his flock. Scar shouldn’t have to deal with him, when he’s like this. It’s not fair to him. 

“Grian,” his flock—not flock, not flock, not really—pleads, shifting closer to Grian. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—offend you? Scare you?” He reaches out to try to calm Grian, but Grian flinches away. His flock—Scar doesn’t actually want to preen him. Why would he? Grian is an animal. He’s not human. He barely even counts as a Player. 

“Okay,” Scar breathes, and he sits back on his haunches. “Okay. That’s okay. I’m just—gonna wait, yeah? Until you’re ready. And then we can finish preening your pretty wings. Deal?” 

Stop. Stop calling him pretty, stop it, please. He doesn’t think he can handle it. He keens, wings mantling, feathers bristling as he curls his arms around his stomach. He misses Scar’s hands. He misses Scar’s touch. His mind is reeling, and his ears are ringing, and when he meets Scar’s eyes, they’re wide and shining with concern at the way Grian now holds his wings high, as if trying to protect himself from some unseen threat. 

Scar’s shoulders drop. “Oh,” he whispers. “Oh, is that—is that what this is?” Grian blinks rapidly, wings still brandished and tense. He doesn’t understand what Scar means, but the man seems to have come to his own conclusion, and he exhales, devastated. “Oh. Oh, G, I—" He breathes in shakily, breathes out, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize that you—Grian.” He shakes his head, almost incredulous. Grian tilts his head to the side, wings lowering just a few inches. Scar sounds…sad. “Why didn’t you tell me, buddy?” 

Scar shifts forward, and Grian’s wings ruffle, a scared chirp escaping his lips. Scar’s hand moves, and Grian jerks his wings away so Scar doesn’t have to touch them, but that didn’t seem to be his intention, anyways. He just cups Grian’s cheek, brushing away a tear that Grian hadn’t realized was slipping down his face. “Pretty,” Scar repeats for what must be the millionth time, under his breath, almost worshipful in his tone. “So pretty. Your face, and your voice, and your wings….” At the words, Grian’s wings lower, splaying out behind him on the ground almost against his will. Scar smiles, small and sad, and moves closer to Grian. Leans in. 

His lips linger just beside Grian’s ear. Grian can feel the hot breath on his skin as Scar whispers, “You’re beautiful, Grian. So, so beautiful. All of you.” 

Grian’s head is spinning. “Scar,” he croaks, high pitched and wobbling, and it’s the only word he can manage because it’s Scar’s name. It’s the only word that’s real to him. Nothing else makes sense, except for Scar. Scar. 

“I’m here.” Scar huffs out a quiet laugh, and Grian feels the warm puff of air on his ear. He shudders at the sensation. “I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you make me.” 

“Scar.” All other words are lost to him. Anything he could be saying or doing—anything he should be saying or doing—all of it falls away, like it was never there in the first place. With a simple whisper, nothing more than a breath against his skin, Scar has stolen away his thoughts and his mind and his reason. 

“I know, G.” Scar’s thumb is still rubbing over Grian’s cheek, and he leans into it, dazed and unsteady, and he must be hallucinating. None of this can possibly be real. “I think I understand, now. You don’t see yourself the way the rest of us do.” A pause, where Grian thinks he might explode. “The way I do.” The addition is quiet, more for Scar himself than for Grian, but it’s there. It’s there. 

A sound slips from Grian’s lips; a specific sort of trill, probably the most primitive sound an avian can make. A sound meant for only the closest members of flock. A sound that Grian has had to stop himself from making around Scar for what must be years now.

Scar laughs at the sound, quiet and fond. “Pretty voice,” he affirms again, and his thumb, where it’s still on Grian’s cheek, ghosts over the corner of Grian’s mouth. Grian realizes, with a start that’s like a cold shock of water, that Scar doesn’t know how to interpret chirps. He doesn’t know how to decipher the difference between a twitter and a trill. Scar doesn’t know what the sound means.

And that just won’t do.

Grian clears his throat—once, twice. It’s impossible to grasp onto words, now, but with Scar’s name still cycling madly through his head, it’s almost easier than he expects to cough out a single word. “Flock,” he manages hoarsely, and Scar stiffens. He doesn’t respond, and for a moment, Grian’s instincts wail—he did something wrong, he messed something up, he misinterpreted, Scar doesn’t want him, Scar is rejecting him, his flock is rejecting him—

But Scar releases a sound that’s almost like a mix between a laugh and a sob. “Grian—what?”

Grian repeats the word again. It’s more slurred, this time; he can only hold onto his thoughts for so long. But Scar really does sob this time, and he nods desperately into the side of Grian’s neck. 

“Yes,” he croaks. “Yes, I’d—I’d be honored to be part of your flock. Yes.”

Grian’s instincts explode with elation. He can’t stop a mess of happy twitters and cheeps and chirrups from slipping from his tongue, entirely unbidden, but no. No, he can’t celebrate just yet. There’s one last thing he has to do, before this can be solidified. 

With some difficulty, Grian twists, pulling away from Scar for a moment to reach over his shoulder. His groping fingers find what he’s looking for, eventually; a soft, vibrant red feather, nestled in the center of his wing. No imperfections. Absolutely exquisite.

Scar yelps when he tugs it out, protesting, but Grian can barely even feel the pain. He turns back to Scar, eyes entirely dilated, dizzy, and presses the perfect feather into Scar’s hands.

Scar cradles the feather in his palms, staring down at it reverently. When he lifts his gaze to meet Grian’s, his eyes shine.

— / — / —

Scar continues to preen Grian’s wings, even as his friend falls asleep slumped against him. His arms are starting to get tired from lifting them to access Grian’s feathers, and his legs have long since gone numb from sitting for so long, but he doesn’t intend on moving anytime soon. Not when the feeling of a feather sitting in his hands still burns against his palms. 

Grian hadn’t turned back around or relaxed until Scar took his feather and stored it in his inventory, safe, to store until he could find a way to wear it everywhere. He knows that Mumbo keeps his Grian-feather attached to his suit, and he thinks that he’s seen Jimmy wear his around his neck when they’ve interacted during the Life Series, in the past. He’s not entirely sure where Pearl keeps hers, but he’s sure it’s never too far from her. It’s almost sacred, as far as Scar knows; it’s an avian cultural thing, or instinct thing, or something. Keep the flock feather on you at all times. 

That’s fine. He’ll just have to decide where to keep it. 

Grian had passed out almost as soon as Scar continued to preen him. His eyes had fluttered shut, and his mouth had opened wide in a long yawn. It had only been minutes before he was dead asleep, making the most adorable little twitters in his sleep, sounding so terribly content that it makes Scar’s heart hurt—and his cheeks, from smiling so hugely for so long. 

As he works through Grian’s wings, more playing with the feathers than actually cleaning them, he thinks about how to best wear the feather. He hums to himself, picturing the size and shape of the feather—the image is still etched into his mind. An earring, maybe. He thinks that would work. He’d have to pierce his ears, again, probably. It’s been a long time since he’s worn earrings, and he’s sure the piercings have closed, by now. It would be worth it. 

He pulls out a twisted feather that he had missed with a sharp tug, just as Grian told him to do. The avian warbles quietly in discontent at the feeling, squirming in his sleep, but he settles back down quickly when Scar hushes him and continues to stroke his wings in the same way he pets his cat—and really, it’s a bit of an apt comparison, considering how Grian subconsciously pushes his wings into Scar’s fingers like how Jellie leans into his hands when he’s petting her. 

He wishes that Grian would let himself do this, in his waking hours. Even while Scar had been preening him, even when Grian was like putty in his hands, he never completely relaxed. Scar could tell; there was still some tension in his wings that refused to indulge in their instincts to fully surrender himself. 

That’s okay, Scar decides, tugging Grian closer in a way that feels almost protective. Scar will work with him on it. Someday, Grian will find his wings just as beautiful as Scar does. Someday, Grian will see the value in every part of him, both human and avian. Until then, Scar will do it for him. 

If Grian lets him, of course. Only if Grian lets him. As much as Scar is inclined to take care of Grian when Grian refuses to take care of himself, he’ll wait until his friend is ready. Anything else wouldn’t be fair to Grian. 

He passes his fingers through the soft feathers before him, and Grian shivers involuntarily, chirping in his sleep. Yes, he’ll take care of Grian. And if not, if Grian won’t let him, then by the Void, he’ll drag Mumbo all the way back home and find someone who can get Grian to listen.

…Or he can get Pearl. That would work, too.

Come to think of it, why didn’t Grian go to Pearl, in the first place? She’s far more experienced at preening, by virtue of being an avian herself, and she’s a part of Grian’s flock.

Though….

Scar summons the feather into his hand from his inventory and stares at it, feeling impossibly soft. He supposes that he’s a part of that short list of people, too, now.

Scar has to figure out his next move, now. He’ll wait here, of course, until Grian wakes up. He can’t go anywhere, not with his feathered friend still passed out in his lap. And after that? 

He doesn’t know. He can’t decide, really. Maybe he should call Pearl; he’s sure she’d know far more about what to do in this situation than Scar does. His research can, in no way, surpass the knowledge of someone who has lived as an avian their entire life. But…Scar doesn’t want to call Pearl. Scar doesn’t want to call anyone, right now. He just wants to pull Grian in and hold him closer to his chest and keep him safe. 

And Grian is safe, right now. He’s safe, with Scar. They’ll have to talk, later; Scar will have to ask him why his wings got so bad, and why he seemed so desperate to get them preened by someone else. He’ll have to ask questions that he knows Grian won’t want to answer. 

It’s okay. It will be okay. 

And as Scar pulls Grian closer, he presses one last kiss to his forehead, letting his lips linger for just a moment before drawing back.