Chapter Text
I'd fallen into a rhythm of cactus, cactus, lava, cactus, cactus, lava, but the prickly spines left on my hands and the feeling of being watched shattered it. I doubt I have even made it a quarter of the way around the Monopoly Mountain desert in the distance I can make out the distant silhouette of the sandcastle the faint colours of oak, birch and sand creating a picturesque gradient of soft tones that contrasted with the vibrant greens of the forests that surrounded them. He remembered why he was here in the first place, and he let his eyes drop down to stare at his shoes in shame how Scar didn’t even seem to mind that Grian had led a creeper over to him. How eager Scar had seemed to accept his proposed allegiance, just until he lost his first life. Scar had pinned him against the wall, their foreheads almost touching. He felt a pang of sadness when Scar pulled away, saying they were going to the desert – just the two of them.
Just us.
As the harsh desert sun beats down, I look up, allowing the soft winds to kiss my face as they pass. The red-hot ground beneath my bare feet may as well be turning into glass. As I walked, the coarse sand grains tickled my skin and stuck between my toes. The sun dipped lower, casting rose and tangerine hues across the sky; the desert reeked of dust and sweat. My eyes glaze over the barren landscape, finding nothing and no one in my line of sight. After setting down my bags, I took off my crimson sweater. Then, my off-white undershirt followed. I exhale a breath I didn’t realise I was holding in and dip my toes into the turbid water; it's not genuinely an oasis, it's closer to a remarkably large puddle but deeper. Measuring nine by seven meters and one to two meters deep, it's like a swimming pool or a hotel spa. I sink down into the pool of water until only my head and shoulders remain out of the water. I feel a shiver down my spine and a tingle through my cramped wings; as the frigid water envelops me, my worries and anxieties wash away, and I practically forget I’m even in this death game to begin with. Over the next few valuable minutes, my mind trailed back to conscious thoughts of the Red King, Ren, and his eager hand, Martyn; how the King's golden crown was dipped in vibrant red blood from those he had slain. And watching Scar die twice—oh, don’t get me started on Scar. His glistening green eyes, the pale white line of his raised scar that runs across his face. Oh, and his hair, that flawlessly unbearable hair that flicked between shades of brown like a tiger’s eye crystal.
“Crap,” I hiss, “not again.” I paddled back to the shoreline, sitting contentedly with my knees dangling in the pond. No, no, no, I tell my brain, please stop; what is happening to me lately? I don’t recognise this feeling. It genuinely feels like being scared and truly frightened, but I couldn't be scared outside of battle; Scar wouldn't hurt a fly.
I feel a hand slowly rest on my bare shoulder; I turn, sword out and to my companion’s neck in under three seconds flat. My obsidian eyes widen and I rush to grab my shirt as I realise who it is.
Scar snorts and holds out my undershirt. “G, relax,” he blurts as I continue rushing to button up my shirt. “I, I won’t tell anyone,” he reassures me. “You're beautiful.” My stomach does traitorous flips after hearing what he remarked. His eyes widen as he realises what he’s said. “I mean, your wings are beautiful—I wouldn’t say that—I mean, not that you aren’t beautiful, that is.”” My heart beats at three times the speed: thump thump thump. My breath enters and flees faster than I can count. I'm grateful Scar can't see my face or, if he does, hasn't said anything. Subsequently, it clicks why I blush like a tomato every time I warn him to put his shirt back on, why I can't look him in the eye or directly at his face for more than ten seconds before my skin goes hot and I must turn away from him. Why? Why Scar? Out of all the individuals he might have fallen for, and given the array of opportune moments, why has it been this particular time? In the middle of this death game with Scar as his partner, not his enemy that he had sufficient reason to intentionally kill: his partner. Damn the meddling, Watchers.
“Grian,” says Scar, snapping me out of my spiralling mind.
“Yes,” I snap at him, coming out harsher than I intend. “Sorry,” I whisper. He smiles understandingly and nods in a way that says it's fine. “I'm going to stay with Tim tonight, if that's okay with you.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. He turns on his heel like a runway model and walks towards our house. I stand there staring into the distance long after he leaves. I bend down to pick up my communicator and fleece, only to find my communicator and his shawl in a pile topped with a sticky note that had a smiley face on it. Dang it, Scar, how had he not noticed Scar walk away with his jacket?
I give up and start the walk to the flower cottages. The woods are crowded, and the pathway is skinny. The leaves are hovering over me, their twindly fingers reaching out towards me. It’s moments like these that remind me of why I tend to avoid traveling at night and these woods in general. Alas I power through and a small clearing begins to emerge I smile at the messy rows of flowers and the crudely built wall surrounding the two cottages His brother and his friend Scott had chosen to live in.