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Grian slams head-on against a hard surface.
The copper is sharp and cold, all edges, and it cuts Grian’s skin as he slides down the side of the roof, unable to make purchase with his hands. His wings are trashing behind him, incapable of taking flight and destabilizing him further. He can only feel the right one, and even that is numb at the tip.
He lands on the ground with a loud thud, and his right shoulder screams. Or maybe that’s Grian, crying out in pain as his wing bends further. Something cracks and splinters.
He can’t stay here. He doesn’t know who’s chasing him, and he doesn’t know where Scar is—his wings drag heavy behind him as he staggers up and stumbles forward, right arm hanging unnaturally from its socket.
“Grian?” A voice comes from behind him, and Grian bolts . The voice gets louder, yelling his name—Grian keeps running, panting and disoriented. “Grian, what’s wrong?” His wings drag over the floor and catch on branches and thorns as he runs, but he can barely feel it.
Then he trips. He falls ungracefully, broken arm taking the brunt of it, and he screams again. The pain is excruciating, but he still wobbles until he’s on his knees, trying to make his legs hold him up. Footsteps resonate behind him.
“Wait!” Grian freezes. The footsteps stop before getting too close. “I won’t come closer. Just—stop running. I’m not going to hurt you.” Grian flinches. The voice is so familiar, but he can’t think right, and his mind is a red fog whispering run and hide and helpless. “Please, Grian, you’re hurting yourself.”
Grian stays in place, shaking and twitching. He takes a step away from the voice and his knees buckle. Behind him he can hear rustling, like the person started forward and then stopped.
“Grian,” they whisper. “Please, it’s me. You’re okay. You’re safe.” Grian exhales, breath stuttering. His hands feel numb, and his back is throbbing. He flexes his fingers, slowly. The ground is hard and wet underneath him, and it smells faintly of rain.
It never rained in the desert.
He comes back to himself in fits and starts. It's so cold. His wings are soaked, and so are his trousers. He’s not wearing any armor.
“Grian?” Scar sounds almost scared. Grian bites his tongue until he draws blood to stop himself from freaking out again.
When he turns around Scar is standing far away from him, next to a tree. He’s wearing a haphazardly tied purple robe and pink slippers that now are caked with mud, and he’s gripping his cane on one hand, the other one half-stretched towards Grian.
His eyes are green, not red, and his skin is pink instead of gray. Grian exhales in relief and chokes back a sob.
“Can I come closer?”
Grian nods once, jerky. Scar approaches slowly, footsteps loud, until he’s next to Grian. He kneels next to him, wincing as his joints pop.
“Do you recognize me?” Scar keeps his voice calm and low, and Grian hates that it soothes something in him.
“Yeah,” he says, voice cracking. He clears his throat. “Sorry. About all that. I—sorry.”
Scar frowns at him.
“None of that, you silly goose.” His mouth twists further as Grian shifts and grimaces as his arm swings freely. “We need to get you all patched up.” He extends a hand, but he doesn’t touch Grian. He flinches anyway, and Scar’s brow furrows deeper. Something in Grian jumps in panic again.
“No,” he stutters, “no, no, I’m—all good. I just need to—I need to go back to my base.” He tries to stumble to his feet again and fails. He bites back a scream as the bones of his wings seem to grind together.
“G,” Scar says, his hands on his lap, voice still calm and unbearably gentle, “sit back down. Please.”
Grian does. His wings are shaking, muscles straining as they try to stop rubbing against each other and themselves. There’s definitely something wrong with them, and Grian’s breathing quickens again as he tries to fold them over his back repeatedly, to no avail.
“Hey, hey,” Scar murmurs, sitting cross-legged in front of him. His knees must be killing him, Grian thinks detachedly. “Breathe with me, G. You’re okay.” Grian shakes his head, almost frantic. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”
“My wings,” Grian chokes out. “They’re not—something’s wrong, I can’t—I can’t fly, I’m stuck—”
“Okay, hey, breathe.” Scar takes an exaggerated breath and holds it until Grian copies him, shakier and rattling. “You’re not stuck, okay? Your wings are—” His breath stutters as he looks at them, and Grian’s panic flares. “They’re a little hurt, but it’s nothing that can’t heal,” he says more firmly. “And I’m here with you. I’m not letting anything get to you.”
He looks so determined, in his silk robe that now has grass all over it. Something in Grian loosens a bit.
“My arm really hurts,” he admits, and Scar smiles softly.
“Yeah, I think you managed to pop that right out of the socket.” Grian grimaces.
“I should just respawn,” he says, even though the thought of dying makes his chest tighten again. He buries his hand in the soil.
“Isn’t that bad for your wings, though?”
Grian shrugs. “Not definitely,” he says.
“But they could heal like this,” Scar says. “And then you really would be stuck.” Grian flinches. “Sorry, I just—”
“No, you’re right,” Grian interrupts. “I’m—I can take care of it.”
“Let me help you,” Scar says, voice soft again. “Please, G. You don’t have to do everything alone.”
Grian’s wing twitches again, pain blooming down his spine, and he grits his teeth.
“Fine.”
Apparently Grian ran a good five-hundred blocks away in his panic. The walk back is slow going, because Grian’s wings are dead weight behind him and his legs are shaking now that the adrenaline is gone. He tries not to lean too hard on Scar, who is wincing every now and then, until he realizes and pulls Grian closer by the waist with a stern look.
“Let me help you,” he repeats, and shushes any protests Grian might have as he takes on more of his weight. “I know what I’m doing, G. You’re barely standing.” Grian bites his cheek and doesn’t say anything.
All of Boatem is quiet as they make their way through it, and Grian is thankful for it. He’s not sure he could handle Mumbo’s fretting or Pearl’s loud concern right now.
“Here, careful,” Scar says as he nudges open the door to Grian’s base. It’s a mess inside, a sprawling spiral of chests and shulker boxes, and Scar almost trips on his face as he steps inside. “Jeez, this is worse than my place.”
“I don’t believe that for a second,” Grian tells him, and Scar grins at him. “Okay, well. Thanks for—thanks. I’m all good now, so…”
Scar squints at him.
“Are you really trying to throw me out? Your arm is at a hundred-degree angle right now, Grian.” He puts his hand on his hip and tilts his head up. “You need help with that. And with your wings, for that matter.”
“Maybe I don’t want you to help me,” Grian snaps, as the walls of his house start to close in on him. Scar takes one step back. “I—”
“It doesn’t have to be me,” Scar says. His face is drawn and determined. “I’ll leave you alone, if that’s what you want, but first I’m waking up Mumbo.”
“No!” Grian reaches for his wrist without thinking. Scar’s skin is warm underneath his fingers, not cold and stiff. “Not—No. He’s probably actually sleeping for once, there’s no need to bother him with this.”
“I don’t think that’s how he’d see it,” Scar says slowly. He shifts his wrist around so that he can hold Grian’s hand in his. “I could call X, or Doc—”
“No,” Grian says. His voice comes out harsh and he knows he’s being unnecessarily unpleasant but he can’t stop. Scar is unwavering, though. “I—fine. Fine. If it’ll make you leave me alone.”
He staggers his way to the bed alone, Scar following close behind. Grian doesn’t turn his back on him. As he sinks down on the mattress his wings spasm again and he doubles over, clutching at his knees. Scar hovers.
“The chest below the stove,” Grian grits out. Scar gives him a worried look and goes to retrieve it.
“I can’t believe you keep your first aid kit in the kitchen,” he says when he gets back.
“As opposed to what,” Grian groans. Pain pounds on his head and it’s starting to burn, like his feathers are slowly turning into magma.
“Well, the bathroom, obviously,” Scar says. “You—hm. Lie down, will you?”
Grian feels himself tense. Scar clearly does as well, because he doesn’t rush him, instead busies himself with rummaging through bandages and disinfectant. Grian makes himself take deep breaths and slides himself down on the bed.
He feels immediately trapped. His wings are heavy weights on his back, claustrophobic and motionless. Grian feels his breathing start to pick up.
“You know, Impulse told me I should keep a first aid kit in every room of the house, because I’m so clumsy,” Scar says conversationally as he lays dressings in front of Grian. “I thought that was very rude of him.”
“Well, he’s not necessarily wrong,” Grian mumbles, and laughs as Scar pouts. Something loosens in his diaphragm.
“Here, I’m just going to—” Something shines silver in Scar’s hand, and in less than a second Grian has him pinned against the wall. The scalpel clatters to the ground as Scar opens his hands and stares at him, wide-eyed. Grian chokes on a yell as he pulls back his right hand where it’s holding Scar’s wrist.
“Jesus, Grian,” Scar says. “I was going to cut off your sweater. I don’t think you can get your arm out of that.”
“Right.” Grian stumbles back, head swimming. “Right. That makes—that makes sense.”
“Sorry.” Scar bends down to pick it up, slowly. He telegraphs all his movements as he straightens up. “I should have warned you.”
Heat pricks at Grian’s cheeks.
“I don’t need you to be wearing kid gloves around me,” he snaps, and drags himself back into the bed. Scar is quiet and then approaches with loud steps.
“It’ll just be a moment,” he says, and true to his word, it is. The scalpel doesn’t even glance Grian’s skin, and he’s still terrified the whole time.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Okay, I’m going to…” Scar trails off. Glancing at him Grian can see he’s staring at his wings more closely, mouth set.
“Is it that bad?”
Scar blinks at him.
“Oh,” he says. “Well, it’s—”
“Don’t lie to me,” Grian says, almost breathless all of a sudden, and Scar raises his hands.
“I wasn’t going to.” Grian stares at him. “I… well, you still have an arrow stuck in here. And something looks—broken?” Grian swallows.
“It feels broken, too,” he rasps out. Scar winces.
“I’m starting to think I really should get someone else, G,” he says. Grian shakes his head furiously. "Grian, I know nothing about wings. I could very well make it worse. I should get Pearl, or—”
“No,” Grian hisses. “Not right now. I—just help me wrap it and I’ll—I’ll get Pearl to look at it in the morning.” Scar is quiet behind him. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Scar says. He doesn’t sound pleased. Grian thinks he can stick it. “What do I do?”
“Clean them as best as you can,” Grian says. Every fiber in his body is screaming at him not to let anyone touch his broken wings, but he wrestles it down. “Don’t bother with any shifted feathers, just—clean the wounds and then I’ll tell you how to wrap them.”
“And the arrow?” Scar shifts from one side to the other, clearly unsettled.
Grian counts five breaths, in-and-out, and then he twists around in one motion and grips the shaft of the arrow, pulling it out.
“Grian!” Scar screams and reaches for him, dropping his cane. In less than five seconds he’s pressing gauze to his wound, which must be bleeding freely now. Grian tries not to throw up from the pain. “Jesus—Grian, what in the world possessed you to do that?” Scar sounds agitated, like he’s about to cry. Grian didn’t think him so squeamish.
“Faster,” Grian coughs out. He retches for a moment, gripping the bedding underneath him so hard it rips. Scar is slowly rubbing circles on his back with one hand as he puts pressure with the other.
“Faster,” he repeats in disbelief. “I—you—” He cuts himself off. Grian doesn’t pay him any mind, resting his forehead on his left arm and trying to breathe through the pain. His head is spinning. “I wish you wouldn’t do these things to yourself, Grian.” His voice is cold and detached all of a sudden.
“Easier this way,” he rasps out. Scar’s pressure on his wing turns almost unbearable for a second until it eases up.
“If the bleeding doesn’t stop in five minutes I’m calling Impulse,” Scar says, voice back to normal. He sounds tired.
Five minutes seems to be enough, though, because when Scar pulls back the cloth he only sighs. They stay quiet as he cleans the wound and dresses it, both of them ignoring Grian’s cut-off screams of pain and Scar’s hitched breathing.
“You need to fold it against my back,” Grian says, clearing his throat, after Scar drops his hands and seems to just… stand there. “And keep it in place with something. Both wings. I think one of them is—I felt something crack.”
“Yeah, it looks…” Scar trails off. “I know which one you mean.”
Despite everything, Scar’s hands are gentle as he takes the side of Grian’s wing in his hand and maneuvers it back into position. Grian thinks he would almost enjoy the touch if his wing wasn’t screaming in pain, muscles tensing against the pull. He grits his teeth. A tear slips into his mouth and he tastes salt.
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Scar is murmuring under his breath as he wraps the wing tight to his back, looping bandages over Grian’s chest.
“What are you even apologizing for,” Grian says.
“I’m hurting you.” Scar ties off the dressing and reaches for his other wing, still delicate like he’s handling fine china. Grian snorts.
“You’re putting me back together,” he says.
“I know.” This wing is even worse. Grian hopes the bone isn’t broken, because if it is—if it is—he doesn’t want to think about it. If he can’t fly again— “But it’s still hurting you. I don’t like it.”
“I’m sorry,” Grian mumbles. “That I made you do this.”
Scar is quiet as he folds the wing into place. He has to apply more force, because the muscles are twitching and spasming, and Grian’s wings are strong. Grian bites his forearm until he draws blood to avoid screaming.
“There.” Scar steps back as Grian drags himself into sitting. His mouth tastes of blood and his vision is blurry, and his arm shrieks in agony with each little movement. Scar winces as he clutches at it. “I can probably fix that too.”
“You’ve done enough,” Grian tells him, and Scar looks even more determined.
“There’s a sling here,” he says. “And elastic tape. Sit on the edge so I can pop it back into place. It would be better if you could lay down, but—well.”
Grian obeys. He’s too tired to argue, and in too much pain. His body keeps twitching, wings straining against the tape and gauze, and his eyes are wet.
Scar is careful in this, too. He takes Grian’s wrist and slowly raises his arm to a ninety-degree angle, pulling steadily, and rotates it until his palm faces up. Clunk.
“Oh, fuck me,” Grian hisses. Scar hums in agreement and softly prods around his shoulder, murmuring an apology as Grian yelps.
“That should be fine.” He slings Grian’s arm in what seems like record time. Grian squints at him. Now that it’s relocated, the steady pulsing in his joint has reduced to a dull ache.
“Relocated a lot of shoulders before?”
Scar gives him one of his half-smiles.
“Nope, but I sure have dislocated them! I have a lot of experience.”
“Of course,” Grian says, softly. He blinks. Now that he’s not in excruciating pain, he feels exhausted. Scar smiles at him. He’s wiping blood from his hands.
“You, mister, need some rest,” he says. Grian tries to glare at him and yawns. “Yes, exactly. To bed with you. And tomorrow I’m calling Pearl here first thing in the morning.”
Panic shots up his chest again, but he’s too tired for it. He practically falls asleep sitting up, and Scar’s hands are careful again as they help him lie down on his left side.
He wakes up to furious whispering.
“Surely it can wait five more minutes? He looks like he needs the rest.”
“No it can’t wait, Scar! Frankly, I’m a little appalled you didn’t call me last night.”
There’s a pause.
“He didn’t want me to.” Grian can almost hear Pearl’s eyebrows raise.
“And since when does that stop you?”
“He really, really didn’t want me to,” is all Scar says. Grian pushes down a wave of gratefulness that threatens to drown him.
He opens his eyes. He’s still lying on his side, sandwiched between two pillows to keep him in place. Standing next to the door to his house he can see Scar and Pearl standing close, heads pushed together as they whisper to each other.
“He could have bled out or broken something for good!”
“He can hear you,” Grian mumbles as he tries to sit up. He glares at his bandaged arm. Scar and Pearl startle.
“Hello, sleepyhead,” Scar says as he makes his way to Grian’s bedside. Pearl follows him, brow furrowed as she takes Grian in. She immediately gravitates towards his bound wings.
“Only you, Grian,” she says cheerfully. She brushes the bandages carefully. Grian flinches. “Come on, let me see them.” Pearl makes grabby hands at him and Grian laughs, despite himself. Her own wings are pressed against her back, sleek and well-preened.
“Do not mess them up,” Grian warns her, and she snorts.
“I hate to break it to you, but they can’t get much more messed up than this.” Grian swats at her and she laughs.
Her hands are light and certain as she unbounds them. There’s a sharp intake of breath as they spread, and Grian doubles over, new pain radiating from the base of them to the tips of his feathers.
“Yeah, okay,” Pearl says. “My God, Grian. What did you do to them?”
“I would like to know as well,” Scar pipes up. Grian looks up between breaths to see him leaning against a wall, staring at Grian with those bright eyes of his. “You never actually said.”
“Skeleton shot at me as I was flying,” Grian says. Pearl and Scar look at him expectantly. “I lost control and slammed against Scar’s roof?”
“You don’t sound very sure,” Pearl says. Grian shrugs. “Well, you sure mangled these as you fell, but they should heal fine.” Grian perks up.
“You think?”
“Yep,” she pops the P. “Remember when my wings got caught on that redstone machine?”
“Oh, yeah,” Grian laughs. “You cried so much.”
“I thought I was going to lose them!” She flicks him on the side, indignant. “But they were fine after like, three weeks. Yours will be too.”
Scar stays after she leaves. He’s just sitting on a chest, leaning back against the wall. There’s dark circles under his eyes. To the side of the bed is a chair with a blanket thrown over the back of it.
“Were you here all night?” Scar blinks at him.
“Yes,” Scar says, leaning further back. He smiles at Grian. “I was worried something would happen to you while you slept.”
“I’m fine,” Grian says, because he doesn’t know what to do with all that concern being poured towards him. “I would have been fine.”
“Well, I didn’t know that.” Scar taps his cane over the edge of the chest. “I couldn’t have gone back to sleep after all that anyway.”
“Sorry,” Grian says. Scar throws a piece of wool at him.
“Stop that.” He stretches slowly as he gets up, joints popping and back creaking. “I don’t think I’ve heard you apologize so much before. It’s weird.”
Grian is, at his core, a restless person. The sun has barely reached its zenith by the time he’s shifting around in bed, swinging his legs over the side and almost overbalancing forward. Scar laughs from the other side of the room.
He still hasn’t left. He’s been meandering around Grian’s base all morning, sticking his nose into his chests and his half-finished farms. Grian isn’t going to kick him out, but he might go crazy if he has to stay cooped up here for even five more minutes.
“Whatcha doing?” Scar's voice startles him, closer than he was a moment ago. Grian hops to the ground on unsteady feet.
“Do you really expect me to stay here all day?” Grian barely spares him a glance as he rummages through his closet, one-handed. Most of his clothes are long sleeved. He frowns down at his arm and then at his wings bound behind him.
“Wow, you have a lot of versions of the exact same sweater,” Scar says, leaning over his shoulder. Grian swats at him.
“It gets dirty!”
“I’m not reproaching you for wearing clean clothes,” Scar laughs. “I’m just saying you could diversify a little.” Grian rolls his eyes.
“It’s comfortable and it’s practical, what else could you want?”
“G, in no world is a sweater practical when you’re building.”
“You’re wearing a coat jacket and a vest!” Scar grins at him.
“Yes, and I look very dapper.” He smooths down the lapels of his coat and winks. Grian goes back to looking at the closet, face warm.
“I—this is nonsense,” he sighs. “I guess I’ll just wrap a blanket around me or something.”
“You could use my robe,” Scar blurts out, and Grian blinks up at him.
“Sorry?”
“Well, it’s very light and the sleeves are really big, so it won’t press down on your wings or your arm.” Scar is turning slightly pink around the ears as Grian watches him, fascinated. “Just like, for the moment. Until you find something more comfortable.”
“Yeah, okay,” is all he says in response. Scar stops his rambling to stare at him and Grian raises an eyebrow. “If you don’t mind?”
“I don’t mind!” Scar stands to attention, gripping his cane tightly. “Of course I don’t. Give me a minute.”
He’s off to his own base and back before Grian can so much as blink. It’s not the same robe he was wearing last night; this one is a softer lavender color, and it’s grass-free. Scar helps him get his arms through the sleeves, standing behind him, and Grian shivers. The material is satin-soft against his skin, shifting and sliding like flowing water.
“Thanks.” Grian clears his throat. Scar smiles at him, bright and dazzling. “You were right, it’s very light. I can barely feel it.”
“I know!” Scar steps closer. His hands are smart and quick as he carefully ties off the rope around Grian’s waist. His fingers leave hot trails over his sides as they brush him. “There we go. All secure.” He pats Grian’s stomach, right over the tied dressing gown. Grian stands perfectly still, barely breathing.
Mumbo practically ambushes him as soon as he takes one step outside. He’s hurriedly walking across Boatem, not quite running, looking more disheveled than usual. He has a strand of hair stuck to his forehead and redstone dust smeared under his chin.
“Grian!” He waves at him as he approaches, eyes widening as he takes him in. He hovers. “What—are you okay?”
“Spry as a chicken,” Grian says, and Mumbo grimaces at him. “I’m fine, Mumbo. I just had a little accident.”
“That looks more than little to me,” Mumbo frowns. Grian shrugs.
“I’ll live.” He elbows Mumbo as he keeps frowning. “Stop worrying, you spoon. Come on, what have you been up to? You look like you tried to fight a dispenser and lost.” Mumbo groans, running a hand through his hair.
“I don’t even want to talk about it.” Grian aww s and pats him on the shoulder, as patronizing as he can.
“Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out,” he smiles, condescending, and Mumbo grumbles at him. Then he tilts his head.
“Is that Scar’s dressing gown?” Mumbo squints at him. Grian tries not to flush and fails miserably.
“I can’t exactly shove these into one of my sweaters now can I.” He crosses his arms. Mumbo squints harder.
“Riiight,” he draws out. “You’ve been so weird since you got back, you know that?” Grian sets his jaw.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, and Mumbo shakes his head, but he drops it.
Grian manages a whole day of distracting himself with menial work, one-handedly shifting things around from one chest to another, a half-hearted attempt to organize his mess of chests. By the time the moon starts to peek over the horizon he finds himself sprawled face-down on the bed, half of his body hanging out.
His wings are sore and itchy. The dull pain has been slowly increasing during the day the more he moved, and now it’s teetering on unbearable again. Grian bites his lip until he draws blood.
There’s a knock on the door. Grian groans. Maybe if he stays really quiet whoever it is will leave.
“Hey, G, are you awake?” Scar pokes his head past the door. Grian watches him through one half-open eye as he wheels inside without waiting for a response. He brightens as he sees Grian is up. “Hey, you! How are you feeling?”
Grian groans, turning his head to the side. He can feel his wings start to twitch again behind him, straining and thrashing. It hurts. Scar makes a sympathetic sound.
“Yeah, I figured we should give those puppies a breather before you sleep.” Grian huffs. “I know, I know, but you still have a flesh wound tucked in there, G. Come on, I told Pearl I’d make sure to do this.”
Grian rubs his face and drags himself into a sitting position.
“She put you up to this?” He shuffles to the side as Scar grabs his cane where it’s tucked on the back of his wheelchair and lifts himself up, sitting next to Grian. He pats a first aid kit that he’s appeared out of nowhere.
“Nope! I just ran into her while coming here,” he says as he motions for Grian to turn. He does, a little trepidatious. “Mumbo wanted to come check on you too, but I figured too many people when you’re tired and in pain would make you cranky.” Grian scoffs but he is, deep down, grateful. He’s not sure he could put up with anyone else.
Scar helps him remove the gown carefully, winding his arms around his waist to untie it and then cradling his hands around his shoulders to pull it off. His fingers brush against Grian’s bare chest as he unwinds the elastic tape, leaving sparks behind.
“Oh, did I tell you? I found Jellie earlier!” Scar talks as he starts undoing the gauze around the wound, careful not to pull on any feathers.
“Oh, yeah?” Grian smiles a little. “That’s good, you always get so nervous until she’s around again.” He feels Scar clean around the wound carefully, and he tries not to flinch.
“I do not,” Scar protests. “She missed you, too. You should come see her sometime.”
“Of course I will.” Grian sighs and then winces as his wings rustle, bent feathers itchy and almost painful. He still can barely feel the left one.
“Do you want me to…” Scar pauses as he picks up clean gauze for the wound. “Some of these feathers are really out of place.”
“It’s fine,” Grian says. Scar hmm s unconvinced.
“Are you sure? It doesn’t look comfortable.”
“It’s fine,” Grian almost hisses. He feels suddenly at edge, back turned and wings on displayed, all his vulnerable soft parts showing. His breathing picks up a bit as his wings try to unfurl and curl around himself defensively.
“Woah, woah,” Scar yelps. “Hey, it’s okay! I was just asking! G, it’s just me, it’s okay. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”
Grian scrambles out of the bed. Scar looks at him from where he’s sitting, eyes intent and mouth downturned. He doesn’t look surprised. His hands are folded on his lap.
“Let me at least wrap them again,” Scar says. “And then I can be out of your hair.”
Grian stands in the middle of his house, tense like a live wire. He’s not sure he can handle Scar’s hands on him.
“I think you should go,” he says. Scar stares at him, unimpressed.
“No,” he says, leaning back on his arms. “I can wait.” Until you’re not freaking out anymore. Grian bares his teeth, feeling wild and trapped. He thinks he can smell smoke. Scar doesn’t move, though. He doesn’t say anything as Grian paces at the furthest corner of the room like a caged animal, his wings dragging behind him. They hurt so much it’s like they’re burning.
Eventually, as it always is with Scar and him, he caves. He drags himself back onto the corner of the bed and sits, silent.
“I’m going to touch them to fold them back in place,” Scar says, voice low, and Grian gives a jerky nod. True to his word, Scar barely nudges them into position, and then wraps them in place with steady fingers. “There we go. Too tight?” Grian shakes his head. “Beautiful.”
Scar lifts himself back into his chair with practiced motions and gives Grian a little wave.
“Call me if you need anything, will you? Or just shout, the wall of Mumbo’s van is so thin he’ll just hear you.”
And then he leaves. Grian is both relieved and pissed off.
He curls on his side in a corner of the bed. The robe is carefully folded next to him, and without thinking he reaches for it and presses it to his cheek. It’s soft and cool against his skin, and it smells like Scar, something woodsy and floral. It’s comforting. Grian falls asleep clutching it close.
“Hey, Grian!” Impulse greets him as he steps outside at dawn, the first dredges of sunlight shining over Boatem. Impulse clasps him on the elbow of his healthy arm, smiling but brow furrowed in concern. “Sorry I wasn’t around yesterday, Mumbo just told me about it last night. How are you feeling?”
Grian waves him off, rolling his eyes.
“They’re all overreacting,” he says. “I’m fine. I am, however, falling behind on my building schedule.” Impulse raises his eyebrows at him.
“Right,” he says, half-laughing. “Well, you seem to be doing okay, then.”
“That’s what I’m saying!” Grian tries to extend his arms before realizing he can’t. It’s annoying. “But they’re all like—oh, Grian, you need to be resting. I’m fine.” Impulse’s smile turns more pained as he keeps speaking.
“You do kind of look terrible, is the thing,” Impulse tells him. Grian scowls at him.
“Thanks, Impulse.”
“No problem!” Impulse nudges their elbows together. “Oh, actually, I do have something for you.” He rummages through his bag, pulling out a bundle of fabric. When he extends it Grian can see it’s some sort of poncho. “I figured maybe you could use something like this while your wings are still healing.” Then he looks down at Grian’s—Scar’s—robe and raises an eyebrow, smile on his face. “Although I can see you’ve already figured something out.”
Grian clears his throat, face suddenly warm, and snatches the clothing from his hand as Impulse laughs.
“It was either this or going around shirtless,” he says. Impulse giggles. The mantle is soft against his fingers, and it’s a nice red, a pattern of darker lines squaring at the edges of it. “Thank you, this is—really nice, actually.”
“Of course,” Impulse tells him, face soft. He clasps Grian’s elbow again. “Take care of yourself, huh? None of us want to see you pass out because you pushed it too hard.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Grian says.
He spends his day the same way as the last. He organizes his chests (he’s managed to clear out the amalgamation of things in the entrance of his home, so at least that way he’s not constantly tripping), and he spends a very frustrating half hour trying to work a pickaxe one-handed before almost stabbing himself in the foot and deciding to call it quits.
He’s so bored, is the thing. And restless. His wings itch almost unbearably, and he’s fairly sure he pulled something in one of them earlier, trying to reach for a chest in one of his higher cabinets. He feels shivery, too warm despite the cool breeze that has been running all day. He hasn’t seen Scar, even though Pearl and Impulse have been trailing in and out of his house constantly, keeping him company. And his wings hurt.
That night it’s Mumbo who makes his way to Grian’s base and slowly knocks on the door, opening it before Grian responds.
“Why do you lot even bother knocking if you’re just going to come in anyway?” Grian scowls at him from where he’s sitting on the bed, poncho discarded to the side. He’s managed to unbind his wings and is currently contorting himself around, trying to reach at them with his left hand. It’s not going particularly well.
“Common decency,” Mumbo says, stepping inside, and then he catches sight of Grian and hurries to him. “What on Earth are you doing, man?” Grian frowns at him over his shoulder.
“Trying to fix my wings? They’re kind of a mess at the moment.”
“Yes, I can see that, Grian,” Mumbo says, exasperated, and reaches out to grasp Grian’s shoulders carefully, turning him back so that he’s not straining himself anymore. Grian frowns at him. “You’re going to break something like this.”
“Been there, done that,” Grian says, waving his sling. His wings rustle behind him and he grits his teeth. Mumbo sighs.
“Yes, that is precisely my point, thank you. There’s four people here willing to help you at any time, you know.” Grian raises his eyebrows, throwing Mumbo a grin.
“Aw, are you concerned? For little old me?” Mumbo frowns at him, face more serious than Grian expected.
“Yes, actually.” Mumbo stops, looking distinctly uncomfortable, but his eyes are a weird sort of determined. “You know, Grian, you came back… wrong.” Grian flinches and Mumbo’s eyes widen. “No, no, gosh, not—not like that. I just mean… Scar and you, you’re—different. And he won’t tell me what happened, and that’s—fine, really. But you don’t look well, Grian.” Mumbo’s hand is awkward and a little sweaty as he places it over Grian’s, but his face is sincere. “Just—you know you can talk to me, right?”
Grian swallows and turns his face to the side. He feels terribly raw, like he’s been pried open with clamps. He nods. Mumbo squeezes his hand and retreats, clearing his throat and adjusting his tie.
“Do you need any help with that?” He points at Grian’s wings. “I’ll get Scar, if you don’t want me to.” Grian startles, and then clenches his hands. He nods, slowly.
Grian sits in silence as Mumbo goes rummaging around for clean bandages and some warm water. His head is all fuzzy again, thoughts blurry and dissipating between his fingertips as he tries to keep hold of them. He tenses as Mumbo settles himself behind him, and he has to strain himself to keep his wings from thrashing around.
Mumbo is clumsy but careful as he changes out the bandages and flushes his wound, although he looks nauseated when he’s done. Grian relaxes a bit and stifles a laugh.
“You look like you’re about to lose your dinner,” he giggles, and Mumbo huffs.
“And my breakfast, and lunch. That’s gnarly, Grian.”
“Yeah, well.” Grian shrugs. “I’ve had worse.” Mumbo looks at him, something too close to pity in his eyes, and Grian swivels away from it. “You didn’t have to do this, anyway. Yesterday—uh, last night Scar came over. He’s less squeamish than you, that’s for sure.”
Mumbo flicks him on the back, softly, and clicks his tongue, but he looks knowing.
“He would probably do a better job,” he says. Grian shrugs. He can’t wait to not have to depend on other people.
Grian wakes up the following day well past noon, throat dry and an uncomfortable pressure on the inside of his head. He groans, turning around still half-asleep, and yelps as he bumps his arm against the mattress.
Pressed to his back, his wings are hot and pulsing, and Grian can feel every bump and torn feather intimately. He grits his teeth.
He stumbles out of bed gracelessly. Even the poncho a is tortuous pressure as it shifts against his wings, and Grian trails his fingers over the robe neatly hung up on his closet. He should wash it and return it to Scar, but—
He waters his crops and harvests some wheat, feeds his sheep and fixes a bump on the redstone machine he’s been tinkering away at. He singes his fingers, but in comparison to the beating pain behind him it’s barely a prickle.
“Grian!” Pearl bursts into his house in the afternoon, right as he’s considering making his way to the G-train and getting some progress done. “Grian, Grian, G—”
“I’m here, I’m here, what—”
“Shh!” Pearl shushes him aggressively, slamming the door shut and perching herself underneath the window, carefully peering out. “Don’t be so loud, he’ll hear us!”
“He?” Grian makes his way to the window and peers out. He can’t see anything. Pearl hisses at him to move out of the way.
“Impulse! We bet a stack of nether stars for the person who dies first, so I’ve laid a devious trap for him.” She grins at him, wings rustling happily behind her. Grian raises his eyebrows, intrigued.
“A stack?”
“Yep, and I have a total of two right now, so I’m not planning on losing!” Grian sits back on one of his chests and snorts.
“So, what, you put a trap on his doorway? That’s the most obvious thing, Pearl,” he says, and he doesn’t think about failed traps or TNT or any of the sort.
“No, see, that’s where the genius comes in! I put a decoy trap on his doorway, and another one in the middle of his farm. The real one is in his bathroom.”
“I don’t think Impulse is that gullible,” Grian says. He brushes back his hair, sticky with sweat and plastered to his forehead. His skin feels vaguely warm. Pearl shakes her hand at him, still squinting out of the window.
“No, trust me, it’s foolproof.” Then she actually sits back and glances at him, eyebrows raised. “You’re looking a little peaky there, friend.”
“I’m good,” Grian mumbles. Now that he’s sitting down it’s like his entire body is melting, eyelids drooping and head pounding. Pearl leans forward to press a hand to his forehead and hisses.
“You’re burning up, dude.” She frowns at him. “Jeez, you’re terrible at taking care of yourself, huh.”
“No I’m not,” Grian says, and groans. His head is spinning. Pearl makes an alarmed sound.
“If you throw up on me I will never let you live it down,” she says. “Okay, come on. Let’s at least get you to bed.”
Time becomes a blur. Grian thinks he can see himself from the outside, thrashing around as Pearl and Impulse hold him in place to stop him from banging his back against the mattress. The wrongness at his back is now unbearable, and he needs to spread his wings, he needs to be able to fly, he’s stuck—
By the time he’s coherent again, the pain has dulled a bit, and he feels pleasantly hazy. When he looks to the side there’s Scar, sitting on his wheelchair next to his bedside, Jellie curled up on his lap. Grian must make some sort of noise, because his eyes snap up and he startles, reaching forward.
“You’re awake,” he breathes, and smiles in relief. “How are you feeling?” Grian blinks the sleep out of his eyes. There’s a tightness in the corner of Scar’s mouth that Grian recognizes, and the bruising under his eyes has just grown darker.
“You look tired,” he rasps out, and Scar’s expression morphs into surprise and then exasperated fondness.
“A little,” he says. “You had us all very worried, mister.” Grian rubs his eyes.
“I don’t even know what happened.”
Scar crosses his arms and fixes him with a stare.
“You had a nasty fever, is what happened,” he says. “Because you spent all your time toiling around instead of resting your body after having a traumatic injury, like anyone else would.”
“I barely did anything,” Grian murmurs, and Scar sighs.
“Doc came around,” he says. “And got you some painkillers.” He swirls a bottle so that Grian can see it. He supposes that explains the looseness in his limbs and the numbness in the tips of his fingers. Grian yawns. “G, I know you don’t like being stuck in bed unable to do anything. I know. I understand that better than anyone else. But you can’t—you have to learn when to stop. For your own good.”
Grian flattens his lips and doesn’t answer. What does Scar know about his limitations? Grian’s doing just fine. Scar sighs again.
“In any case, the good news is that your wings seem to be doing well,” he says. “For all Doc knows, at least. The wound is scabbing over, and you managed not to get it infected—I don’t know how.”
“I know how to take care of my wings.” Grian yawns again.
“Uh-huh. Well, if you really want them to heal, then you’re staying in that bed at least until your fever’s down,” Scar says, firmly. Grian opens his mouth to protest—but Scar’s chin is tilted up, his jaw tight like he’s gearing himself up to fight. Grian deflates.
“Fine,” he says. “You’re responsible for entertaining me, then.” Scar’s face softens, and he laughs.
“Oh, am I now?”
“Yes.” Grian reaches out from his spot in the bed and lets Jellie, who has just woken up, sniff his fingers. “At least someone here is good company.”
“I see how it is,” Scar says, mock offense in his voice. “Should I just leave you two alone?”
“Hmm.” Grian pretends to think it over. He scratches Jellie on her little head, and smiles as she licks his finger. “No, you can stay.”
“How magnanimous of you.” Scar smiles at him and wheels closer until his knees are pressed to the side of the bed so that Grian can pet Jellie properly.
“I know,” Grian yawns. “Don’t get used to it.”
“I would never dream of it,” Scar says, softly.
The thing is: back there in that awful place they went, with the sand and the red and the fighting, Grian didn’t have to worry about his wings.
They were there— but clipped, barely fledgling, awkwardly sticking out of his back. It was enough to stretch his arm and dust them off, carelessly pull out any broken feathers and aggressively shake the sand out.
So now that he’s back, a full set of wide wings behind him, it’s odd.
He used to have a sort of system worked out—his wings are big enough that he can contort himself and get most of the dirt out on his own, and Mumbo was there to take care of the more meticulous preening.
But it’s different now. He tenses whenever someone catches him by surprise. Yesterday, Mumbo got too close from behind and Grian almost drew a knife on him. He knows Mumbo wouldn’t hurt him—he patched them up, after all. But he can’t imagine sitting down and letting him touch his wings for hours. At least not until whatever is wrong with him settles.
Which presents a problem: his wings are terribly itchy. They still hurt, less with the painkillers, but the itching won’t stop. Grian has half a mind to slam himself against a wall if it will make it quiet for just a second, but he thinks his friends would have his head for it.
It makes him feel bad, too. He’s not particularly precious about his wings, but he enjoys keeping them tidy. Even if he can’t see them, he knows they’re a wreck, and he feels messy and unpresentable.
“Hey, G,” Scar greets, shaking him out of his reverie. He’s using a cane today, the one painted soft blue, and wearing a green flower-patterned vest that brings out his eyes. He looks good. Well-rested. “Gosh, a creeper almost exploded in my face just now. You should keep your front porch more lit up, you know. That can be dangerous.”
Grian snorts, disbelieving. “You, of all people, is going to preach to me about lighting up my builds?”
“Well, someone clearly has to,” Scar smiles, perching himself behind Grian and helping him out of his poncho.
By now it has become routine, Scar showing up every night and helping him into clean bandages. They require less changing by now, but Scar still insists in doing it, just in case, and Grian doesn’t really mind. Scar’s mindless chatting is a fun reprieve from the excruciating boredom most of Grian’s days are now. At least his arm is no longer in the sling, although he’s explicitly barred from doing any heavy lifting, and that includes building, Grian.
“Oh, this looks amazing,” Scar says, his fingers brushing one of Grian’s feathers. Grian shivers. “Maybe you’ll be able to start letting it breathe more soon. We should have Doc check it out tomorrow.” Grian hums in assent. He feels Scar hesitate behind him, but he’s too sleepy to stress out about it.
“What?” He yawns.
“I’ve been thinking,” Scar says, and Grian snorts. Scar swats at his non-injured shoulder. “I’ve been thinking, and talking to Pearl, and I thought—maybe we should try doing stretches.”
Grian twists his head and raises his eyebrows at him.
“What, for fun?” Scar snorts.
“No, dummy, for your wings. I mean, they’re like any other muscle, right? You’re going to need some physical therapy to use them again. I’m not sure they’re healed enough yet, though.”
Grian sits, and stares forward. For some reason, it hasn’t occurred to him until now—in his mind his wings will heal, and he’ll finally be able to go back to building and pranking and exploring. He hadn’t considered that there would be more steps.
Scar nudges his shoulder softly.
“Hey, it’s okay. It’s just a little regular moving to keep them in shape.” Grian exhales, long and drawn out.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you’re right, I just—didn’t consider it before, I guess.”
“Don’t worry,” Scar nudges him again. “We’ll make it fun.” Grian huffs, smiling a little, and falls quiet again.
“Can you help me?” He whispers, and Scar tilts his head.
“Yeah, of course. You know I will, G. Anything you need.”
“Now, I mean.” He clears his throat. “I need to—I need to know they can still move. Would you?” Scar’s hands twitch. Grian is sure he’s about to refuse, say something about talking to Pearl and Doc before doing anything.
“Come here,” he says instead, and Grian turns his back to him, relieved beyond comprehension. “Tell me if it hurts.”
Scar takes his right wing with almost unbearable gentleness. He tugs it to the side slightly, unfurling it from its folded position where it has been for the past week and a half, and then waits for Grian to nod. It pulls, a burning stretch as Scar makes it unfold to its complete wingspan, but it’s not excruciating. Grian breathes out.
“All good?” Scar’s breath tickles his shoulder. Grian nods. “I’m going to fold it back a little.”
And he does. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels like stretching out a muscle after a long time of standing still, sore and tender.
“Now you try,” Scar murmurs. “Nice and slow, no thrashing about.”
Grian tries. He can feel his wing shake behind him, muscles straining, and he hears Scar shift, opening his mouth. Then his wing starts to stretch, slowly, bit-by-bit. Grian could cry from relief.
“Oh,” Scar breathes. “There you go, then.”
Grian exhales, almost gasping, and folds it back up. Scar stays silent as he does the same with his other wing, slowly guiding him through the motions, and Grian feels a knot in him unravel.
A new routine develops. Grian and Scar sit outside every morning and stretch his wings, until Grian is sweating and trembling, laying down on top of the grass, exhausted. Scar sits next to him and hands him water and chatters at him as Grian shakes.
“I hate you,” Grian tells him as Scar watches him fold back his left wing for the tenth time, and Scar smiles beatifically and hands him a piece of muesli.
“That’s the hunger talking,” he says, and Grian glares at him as he bites into the bar. “You’re doing great! Just another twenty to go.” Grian groans and lets his head fall on the ground with a thud. Scar shifts next to him and taps him on the shoulder once. Grian grunts at him, and then shivers when Scar’s hand threads through his hair, waiting for him to nod to keep moving.
“‘m not a cat,” Grian gets out, and Scar hums.
“You certainly act like one,” he says. “I saw you smack Mumbo’s redstone off the table the other day while making eye contact with him.”
“He was building on the kitchen table,” Grian huffs, and then relaxes as Scar pets his neck. “We eat there!”
“Who’s this we referring to?” Scar’s finger brushes against the shell of Grian’s ear and he shivers. “I know for a fact if I didn’t feed you these every two hours you would wither away into dust.” There’s a crinkling sound as Scar waves the snacks around. Grian stretches out his arm blindly until he makes contact with something, and he feels Scar laugh as he pushes against his face.
"I can feed myself, thank you very much," Grian says, and Scar makes a doubtful noise.
"I like being able to help anyway," he says, and Grian falls quiet, cheeks burning. Scar sits silently and brushes his hair until Grian can get up without his knees buckling.
"They really are looking better," Scar says. "How do they feel?"
Grian grunts, wings shaking with exertion but responsive.
"A bit weird. I don't know, they feel—kinda weak." Grian stretches to the side and winces as his back pops.
"Well, you haven't been at it for that long," Scar says.
"I guess," Grian nods. "I—what if they don't get strong enough to fly again?"
It feels vulnerable to say it out loud. He doesn't look at Scar as he stretches down and tries to touch his toes.
"It's not impossible," Scar says in his level voice, and Grian feels oddly relieved. "We would figure something out, G. Between Doc and Mumbo I'm sure they could come up with the coolest wing prosthetic you've ever seen." He scoots himself forward until he can look up at Grian from where he's bent down, and he smiles.
"Yeah," Grian rasps out. "I guess you're right." Scar reaches up and laces their hands together.
"It's scary," he says. "But you're okay."
"I want to try flying tomorrow," he tells Scar a week later.
They're lying right outside of Boatem, on a grassy hill. The moon is big and looming above them, but for once Grian doesn't feel any sort of panic or mania. Scar’s head is leaning on his shoulder, eyes half-lidded as he looks at the stars.
“Cool,” he yawns, and snuggles closer. There’s deep smudges under his eyes, but Grian knows he looks the same. “I’ll bring the emergency first aid.” He laughs as Grian pinches him on the side.
“Oh ye of little faith,” Grian grumbles, but Scar is now smiling softly at him. He nudges Grian with his nose.
“I have all the faith in the world in you,” Scar says. Grian swallows and takes a deep breath.
“Good, because I need—a favor. Before I can do it.” Scar hums, and Grian tries not to chicken out. “I’m all itchy,” he says, shaking out his wings. Scar’s eyes drift towards them. “I need—it’s harder to fly with feathers all in disarray.” Scar hums again, but he doesn’t say anything, even as Grian stares at him. “Oh, you—will you preen them for me? Please.” Grian swallows, hands sweaty. There’s uncomfortable nausea sitting at the bottom of his esophagus. Scar blinks at him, mouth half-parted.
“Oh,” he breathes, and Grian bristles.
“If you make a big deal out of it I will leave,” he threatens, but Scar isn’t even listening anymore, he’s just staring at Grian with wide eyes that are almost shining. “Scar.”
“What?” Grian glares. “Not a big deal, got it! I will be so cool about it, Grian.”
“I’m already regretting this,” Grian says. Scar scrambles up to throw an arm around his shoulders and presses their cheeks together. His skin is warm and alive against Grian.
“Nooo,” Scar laughs. “You won’t regret it, I promise.” He leans back a bit and smiles at Grian. One of his teeth is slightly crooked. It shouldn’t be so charming. “I’m glad you asked me for this.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, it could have been anyone,” Grian mutters. Scar’s smile doesn’t dim.
“Okay, so, uh. How does this work, exactly?” Grian blinks at him.
“Now?”
“Well, what better time than the present? Also, you kinda springed this on me last second.” Scar nudges him.
“It was a last moment decision too,” Grian says. Scar is looking at him, expectant. “I—okay, I’ll—I’ll walk you through it.” Scar nods, all enthusiasm and laser-focus put on Grian. Grian shakes his head and shifts himself around until he’s sitting cross-legged, his back to Scar.
There is, despite the fact that he’s doing this voluntarily, still a shiver that runs down his back as he turns. His breath hitches and picks up, and the night sky looks darker and more oppressive than it did a minute ago. Grian tries to breathe.
“You know, you really could have decided this a few hours earlier,” Scar says from behind him. There’s a sharp fizzle and Grian startles as Scar sets down a lit lantern, softly illuminating them in a circle. “My eyes are not what they used to be.” Grian huffs.
“You never light up anything, you’re more than used to working in the dark,” he says, and Scar laughs. “I think you’ll manage.”
So Scar sits behind him, and Grian exhales. Some of the tension leaves his body.
“Okay, listen up. First I need you to tidy them a bit—brush away any twigs or dirt that might have gotten under any feathers. I think I got most of the dried blood off, but there might be some left.” Scar makes a quiet noise and Grian clicks his tongue. “Never said it was going to be pretty, Scar.”
“No, no, I didn’t say anything.” One of Scar’s fingers brush the outside of his wings, barely a glance, and Grian startles.
“Right.” He clears his throat. “There’s also a bunch of broken feathers I couldn’t reach by myself. You need to pull those out.” Scar makes a distressed sound.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“It’s a little pinch,” Grian says, shaking his head. “I can’t wait for them to fall out on their own. Well, I could, but that’s too slow.”
“Is it—will that make them bleed?” Grian snorts.
“I mean, it shouldn’t. Unless you’re really bad at it.” Scar makes another distressed noise, and Grian reaches blindly behind him to pat him on the knee. “Scar, it’s fine. Unless you break a blood feather or something they won’t bleed, and even then it’s not like I’m going to bleed out. Chill. It will not be worse than the time I had to ask Tango to do it, trust me.”
Scar laughs.
“Tango?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Grian grumbles. “It was an emergency.” Scar giggles.
“Glad I have such high standards to live up to,” he says. He brushes Grian’s wing again, and this time he only flinches a little. Scar doesn’t say anything, and he slowly starts combing through the end of Grian’s primaries. “Oh. They’re so soft.”
Grian flushes. He can feel his wings clumsily puffing up behind him.
“Of course they’re soft,” he croaks out. “They’re not made of sandpaper.”
“Well, I thought—I didn’t expect them to be so silky.” Scar sounds fascinated. Grian’s face is so warm, and there’s something hot churning in his gut.
It’s slow going. Scar is clumsy, and almost too careful. It would be sweet if it wasn’t frustrating.
“Just pull it,” Grian tells him, exasperated. Scar huffs, his fingers fiddling with the shaft of a bent feather.
“I don’t want to hurt you!” He sounds almost upset. Grian frowns down at his lap.
“Scar, you’re not hurting me. It will be worse if you leave it there.”
Scar grumbles, but he does pull the broken feather out. It stings a bit, but Grian has had much worse.
“See? No damage done.”
Scar sighs.
“Sorry, I just—” He breaks off and sighs again.
“I know, Scar. It’s fine.”
Of course, there’s only so much Grian can distract himself by lecturing Scar, and eventually he has to face the fact that it feels nice. Scar’s hands are big and warm and gentle—no, loving. He straightens a feather and Grian feels the touch in his sternum.
“You have to smooth it in the same direction most of the feathers lie,” he says, voice hoarse, and Scar murmurs an asentment, focused on his task.
So Grian lets him go on, brushing his coverts and his tertials. Scar informs him that the underside of his scapulars are dusted in dried blood, and then cleans it out with only a few grossed out noises. When the right wing is done, Scar straightens and hisses. Grian cranes his head back, concerned. His mind is fuzzy around the edges.
“You good?” Scar gives him a thumbs up, rubbing at his knuckles.
“Cramps,” he says, flexing his fingers. “I just need a second.”
Grian nods, biting his lip, and Scar flings a broken feather at his face.
“Stop that,” he says. “Give me a moment and then I’ll be good to keep going.” Grian crosses his arms, and then an idea crosses his mind.
“Here,” he says, and lowers himself back until he’s sprawled on Scar’s lap, looking up at him. Scar blinks down, eyes wide. Grian grabs his hand, ignoring the spluttering, and digs his thumb on the tender meat below his thumb. Scar’s eyelids flutter. “Okay?”
“You don’t have to,” Scar says, and Grian rolls his eyes and tugs on his hand.
“Okay?”
“I—yes,” Scar laughs. He’s looking down at Grian with soft eyes now, a bashful smile curling his mouth. “A little less pressure, maybe.” Grian complies, and Scar sighs, eyes closing. “You really don’t have to do this, but thank you.”
“You’re helping me.” Grian rubs his fingers until they’re warm, and then switches to the other hand as Scar flexes it. “You’ve helped me a lot. I wanna return the favor.” Scar huffs.
“I like being able to take care of you. You’ve been kind of distant, G.” His hand reaches down to tuck back a strand of hair falling over Grian’s forehead and then he just cradles his cheek, tender. Grian swallows. If he turned his head, he could kiss Scar’s palm.
“Yeah,” he says instead. “I know. It’ll be fine.” Scar gives him a long look, but he just shakes his head.
“Come on, up you go,” he says, and helps Grian sit back up. “Maybe we’ll finish this before dawn.”
“At the pace you're on, the moon might crash before you finish,” Grian says, and Scar swats at him.
Scar meets him on top of his mountain the next day after lunch. It’s sunny, but there’s a brisk breeze blowing. It’s the perfect day for flying, and something deep in Grian itches.
“How are you feeling?” Scar is wearing his hat, tilting it to shield his eyes from the sun.
“Good,” Grian says. Scar raises his eyebrows. “... A little nervous.”
“Oh, there’s no need for that,” Scar says. He reaches up to hold the sides of Grian’s face and looks him in the eyes. “You’ll do well, G.” His intensity is almost too much to bear in full force. Then he smiles. “Want me to race you? Maybe that’ll give you some incentive.”
Grian laughs. Part of the knot in his stomach loosens.
“You wouldn’t beat me,” he says. “But—no, I have to do this on my own.” He breathes in. His wings feel good, strong.
“I get that,” Scar says. He pats the side of his modified wheelchair, where the rockets sit, and winks at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll be here if you need any aerial rescue.”
“That is still maybe the craziest thing you and Mumbo have built,” Grian says.
“I know!” Scar laughs. “Isn’t it great? Now stop dawdling and get on the air, you silly goose.”
Grian climbs up a rock, to the highest point of the mountain. Up here the wind whistles past his ears, so strong it almost makes him lose his balance for a moment. The ground is almost invisible below the clouds. He breathes out. He knows how to do this. The knot in his stomach loosens until it disappears, and it’s replaced by a familiar excitement building up under his diaphragm.
When he turns back one last time Scar is already looking up at him, and he winks and blows him a kiss with one hand while he gives him a thumbs up with the other. Grian laughs, loud and bright, and then he opens his wings and jumps.
There’s a bit of fumbling. The wind is almost violent, and it shakes Grian around, wings flapping aimlessly. His stomach drops as he plummets, and he kicks his legs and arms around on gut impulse until muscle memory kicks in.
He straightens his wings out, fighting the impulse to shake them up and down, and he extends his body into a line, graceful, like a ballet dancer. And then he’s no longer falling.
He laughs. The current he’s on takes him forward softly, and once he’s stabilized he beats his wings, once. He gains altitude, and he cheers, joyous.
It’s not quite the same. There’s a strain in his back and on the tips of his wings as he keeps flapping them, getting higher and higher, and they cramp for a moment, making him drop several meters as he plummets. Grian breathes in and forces himself to relax and let an air current drift him down.
The wind cutting against his face. A low cloud dampening his hair. Sensations Grian never thought he’d miss—never tried particularly hard to commit to memory, taken for granted. He smiles so wide he can feel his teeth catching on his bottom lip.
He lands with a stumble. His ankle twists underneath him, but he lets himself fall with ease, wings spreading out into mildew-wet grass and moist earth. He’s still laughing, breathless. He still is when Scar makes his way to him, engine-powered chair cutting through the mud with ease. His eyes are glittering as he smiles down at Grian.
“You did it!” He extends out a hand and Grian, with bubbles in his chest so big they almost make him nauseous, clasps it and pulls. His muscles are butter-soft, though—his core gives out underneath himself and in a split second he finds himself sprawled back onto the ground, Scar half-lying on top of him. Grian laughs again—he feels almost delirious with relief.
“Sorry,” he says, catching on a giggle, and Scar laughs above him, holding himself up with a hand on his chest. Heat spreads through it like a burn. “Sorry, sorry, I’ll help you up.”
Scar pats him on the chest. He doesn’t look too bothered.
“No worries,” he says. “This is not too bad of a seat.” He winks, then—Grian flushes, not sure why—and rolls himself off of Grian’s body and into his back on the ground next to him. Grian side-eyes him and accommodates his wing around him, stretching it upwards. Scar’s hair almost brushes the lowest feathers.
“Your coat is going to get muddy,” he murmurs. He nudges Scar with his elbow. Scar props himself up with a hand in his chin and smiles at him.
“It’s been through worse,” he says, “although this seems to be a constant with my clothes, as far as you’re involved.” He makes a face at Grian, then—looks up at him up his eyelashes, mellows out his mouth. Grian sticks his tongue to the inside of his teeth.
“Maybe I’m just trying to get you out of it,” he says, and flashes a grin. He’s afraid it sounds too genuine—he can hear the real hunger in the lower tones of his voice, a hunger he wasn’t quite aware was there a moment ago. Scar just giggles, though.
“Grian, you know I’m always delighted to show off my abs to a fan.” Grian smiles.
“What, so you’re telling me my convoluted twenty-step plan was all for naught? I might never recover!” Scar laughs again in that pitched-up giggle of his and Grian lets his head fall back on the ground, pleasantly sore and content.
“You looked good up there,” Scar says after a moment, more subdued. He sounds almost wistful. “How did it feel?”
“It felt right.” Grian stretches out his wings carefully. The right twinges softly, but there’s no acute pain. “The cold. It felt like home.”
“I’m glad,” Scar says, soft, and his pinky brushes Grian’s hand where it lays between them. Grian shivers—then he thinks fuck it and twists it around to grasp Scar’s. His palm is a little sweaty, but he’s warm against Grian’s hollowed-bone chill. “I’m glad, G.”
“Thank you,” Grian says, voice small. “For everything. Without you, I—I don’t know what I would’ve done.”
“You would have been fine, Grian,” Scar says, but he’s squeezing his hand. “But you are very welcome.”
“Sorry I was such an ass about it.”
“You’ve never been one to lie there and take it,” Scar muses. Grian can hear the half-smirk in his voice. “So I expected nothing less in this, too. Don’t sweat it.” Grian sighs, but he lets it go. He’s loose-limbed and happy, and not particularly inclined to go picking battles against himself today. “I guess you won’t—um, will you still be needing help… preening?”
Grian turns his head to look at him. Scar’s lips are pressed together as he stares up into the sky, like he’s trying to keep his face still. Grian taps his index finger on Scar’s palm.
“Well,” he draws out, “for a bit more, at least. Maybe a month. Or two, if I’m trying to take it easy. Wouldn’t want to set myself back, you know.”
Scar exhales. His hand is still sweaty.
“That’d be a new one,” he says, but he’s starting to smile. Grian sort of wants to kick him, but he has no one to blame but himself. Then, all of a sudden, he’s desperate to be sure.
“You’re offering, right?” He props himself up on a shaky elbow. “I’m not—Scar, I’m not misreading this?”
Scar looks up at him, body lax, eyes half-lidded, and smiles.
“Grian,” he says, in the same tone someone might say beloved, “I gave you my robe.”
It is quiet for a moment.
“That’s not as helpful as you clearly believe it to be,” Grian tells him.
“Well, you’re just being dull on purpose,” Scar says. “Did you wear it?” Grian feels himself flush. Scar smiles up at him, sharp, but he’s also a bit wide-eyed, like he can’t believe it.
“You’re awfully presumptuous today,” Grian says. Something is swirling in his chest, hope and anxiety tugged so close together he can’t tell which end is which.
“I think I’m just feeling hopeful,” Scar tells him, rubbing a thumb over the raised scar on Grian’s hand. It feels like a natural progression of actions for Grian to bend down and kiss him.
Scar smiles against his mouth. The kiss is brief, almost chaste—Grian’s heart hammers against his sternum hard enough to crack it. Scar’s hand winds around the back of his neck and they breathe on each other’s air.
“Wow,” he says, and then he kisses Grian. And kisses him again. “I really didn’t expect—you really wore it?”
“Oh my god,” Grian says. “Is this really what you’re on about right now?” Scar laughs.
“You have to tell me,” he says, and kisses Grian, drawing his teeth over his bottom lip. His tongue is hot against his teeth. “Legally.”
“Oh, well,” Grian breathes, “if it’s legally.” He slides a hand over Scar’s horrid plum waistcoat, dipping down to his waist and holding fast there. Scar’s mouth is slick against him, and he kind of wants to spread him out on the grass and make him sing. He nuzzles Scar’s throat with his cold nose and Scar yelps. “Once. Impulse saw me on it, it was all very embarrassing.” Scar grins and cups his face to kiss him again, hungry. “Is this a thing? I should have known, Mr. Capitalism.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Scar frowns, but he doesn’t argue. One of his hands is brushing Grian’s feathers.
“You get a bit possessive with your things,” Grian mumbles. Scar raises an eyebrow.
“Who’s presumptuous now,” he says, and then laughs and kisses the corner of Grian’s mouth. “Pretty little thing. Maybe I am.”
“Okay,” Grian says, gripping his arm, “that’s enough, thank you.” Scar gives him a knowing look, sharp, and then it melts into something sly.
“We’re in the middle of nowhere, you know.”
“We categorically aren’t,” Grian cuts him off, “and even if we were, we are not having sex in the middle of the woods.”
“I never said that!” Scar places a hand over his heart, aghast. Grian sighs. “I am appalled. Offended, really. Who do you think I am? For shame, good sir!”
“Okay, okay, sorry I’ve slighted your honor.” Grian stands up, dodging Scar’s tempting grabby hands, and in wobbly legs dusts grass from his trousers. Scar waves him off when he offers him a hand, so instead he stands and watches in interest how his arms flex as he lifts himself back onto his chair. If Scar takes a bit longer than he usually does, well—Grian wouldn’t know.
In the horizon the sun has started to set. Grian can already make out the outline of the big moon shining above them. For once, it doesn't fill him with dread. Scar squeezes his hand and laughs as Grian drapes his wing over his shoulder.