Chapter 1
Notes:
Hello and welcome to a brand new long fic! š
It's a Scarian Zombie AU that Lock and I have been working on literally all of last year and we're sooo excited to start posting it for you guys! (So if you've been wondering why we had no new fics--this. This is why LMAO) It's been hard keeping it under wraps, but hopefully it'll be well worth it! :D
Heads up that Scar and Grian's characterizations in this fic are based heavily on the first three Life Series installments (Double Life in particular) and not on Hermitcraft. So if they're a lil hostile and a lil angsty, just think of it as them being on their Yellow/Red lives and being super on edge ;)
All that said, this first chapter is a long'un, so settle in for some excitement as desert duo get their lives crumpling disastrously around them :)
We hope you'll enjoy!! :D
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The week the world ends sticks out in Scarās memory as an eventful one, as far as things go. Fast paced, one hit after another, adrenaline pumping, the whole shebang. And really, itās got to be like that, hasnāt it? No good story has ever started with a rolling recap of the mundane. Not the kind that Scar likes to chew over, anyway.
No, the week where his life as he knows it changes forever is explosive from start to finish.
āsh*t,ā Cub hisses, the machine in front of him giving a loud, shuddering groan before popping several screws and spewing black smoke from the seams, ominous and foreboding.
From his position laid out on the couch, Scar whistles low, exaggerating a grimace that Cub responds to with an exasperated sigh. He snickers at his friendās misfortune, comforted in the knowledge that Cub would do the same if their situations were reversed. He then stretches his legs, dangling them to the side and grabbing the cane leaning against the armrest. It takes a minute, but itās a relatively low pain day so heās quickly able to get onto his feet and make his way over to where Cub is fiddling with a now pitifully sparking machine.
He looms over his friend in a way that comes only from years working by his side, peering down at the contraption below with curiosity, well in Cubās bubble without invading his working space. āWhatcha got there?ā
āItās the project I told you about.ā
āOhh, the one with the super strict deadline at the end of the month?ā
The machine sputters pathetically, another spurt of black smoke escaping from it before the whole thing gives one final shake and dies.
āYeah,ā Cub punctuates, grim.
āYikes.ā
His best friend sighs, pushing up his glasses to rub at his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose.
āItās not that bad. I can fix it, itās just gonna take more time than I anticipated. See, the gears I had were interfering with theāā
āDonāt explain it to me, Cub,ā Scar interrupts, throwing a hand up dismissively, āIām more than happy thinking of it as magic. All this engineering stuff is hocus pocus to me.ā
Cub snorts, fond in that subtle way that Scar knows is reserved only for him. āYouāre a weird guy, Scar.ā
Scar laughs, grinning wide and winking. After a moment more of tinkering, Cub sighs and moves away from the project, side-stepping around Scar and taking a seat in front of his desktop setup several feet from the machine. Now that heās up, he doesnāt fancy sitting down again, so Scar meanders over to the couch and picks up the remote lying on the cushion, flicking through the TV channels while Cub troubleshoots across his spread of monitors.
āIāve got a knack for magic, you know.ā He talks over his shoulder in Cubās direction, teasing, āJust point me in the direction of the crystals and Iāll make sparks fly.ā
āThe sparks are the problem, dude,ā Cub replies, distracted but playing along good-naturedly.
Scar snickers to himself and turns back to the TV, eyes catching on the drag performers showing off their outfits on a lavish stage. It strikes him that the show might be a good watch for date nights. He lingers for a bit, filing away the information for later before changing channels again and catching the trailing ends of a Halloween horror movie marathon before switching into the news. Almost immediately his stomach drops, a report about a spike of sudden hospitalizations is scrolling through the headlines, and the rows of hospital beds full of sick people on screen twists up his heart. He hated hospitals even before heād been diagnosed, but it always got particularly bad in this season. He zones out, stuck in his own thoughts.
The last time there was a wave of illness spreading through the city, his doctor had stopped barely short of ordering him to stay indoors. They meant wellādidnāt want to exacerbate the issues with his already fragile immune systemābut it had been the worst phase of his life for him thus far. Heād been isolated and alone, unable to leave his apartment or make any real human contact. Staring at walls and text messages day in, day out.
āScar?ā
He jolts, clicking the remote and changing the channel to something far less triggering, plastering a smile on his face as he turns back to acknowledge Cub. āMmm?ā
His friend looks him over at him for a moment, calculating, but eventually relents, āI was just asking if youād heard anything about this, seeing as youāre the resident Disney guy.ā Cub gestures at his computer screen, likely at some sort of article that Scar canāt see from his angle. āIt says here that theyāre closing the parks for a couple days. Thatās pretty unprecedented right?ā
āI suppose so,ā Scar hums. He usually loves rambling about the parks, but itās a little difficult to reorient himself after a near panic. āTheyāve closed before for hurricanes. Canāt fight natural disasters!ā
āYeah, sure, but itās not hurricanes thatāre doing it. Theyāre only citing ācirc*mstances beyond our controlā as the reasoning for it,ā Cub counters, tapping the end of his pen against the edge of his computer screen.
āOhh, that is interesting,ā Scar says, curiosity piqued.
He tosses the remote towards the couch and starts to make his way over to where Cub is standing when his phone starts to ring. Yelping in surprise, he takes a second to calm his startled heart before reaching into his coat pocket and fishing out the device. Itās a reminder, scheduled for now. He smiles at the message before muting it and putting it away. When he looks up again, Cub is watching him in askance.
āGrian,ā Scar explains, āItās my turn to cook tonight and Iām always forgetting, so he set up a little reminder for me! Isnāt that sweet of him?ā
The sound Cub makes is non-commital. āSure.ā
āAw, cāmon Cub,ā Scar admonishes teasingly. āDonāt be that way!ā
āIām not being any kind of way.ā
Scar knows he should leave well enough alone, but thereās this quiet anxiety that settles in his chest whenever he feels like the people he cares for donāt get along with one another. It makes him want to solve it. Like if he just forces the subject along far enough theyāll realise they really do like each other, and then everything will be fine.
āYou know, you should come over for dinner sometime,ā he suggests, keeping his tone cheerful and optimistic. āItās been a while since you two have hung out!ā
āScar, weāve talked about this,ā Cub sighs, leaning back in his chair and sending a serious look his way. āGrianās fine, I donāt have a problem with him. I like hanging out with him, even. Heās fun.ā
āSee? So whatāsāā
āI just donāt think heās good for you. Thatās it.ā
āCubā¦ā
An awkward mood settles between the two of them, Cubās lip curling up and his brow furrowing.
āYou two have been together like what? Three years? And he still wonāt let you call him your boyfriend,ā Cub says at last, when it becomes clear Scar isnāt going to speak first.
āHeās just a little shy!ā Scar defends, shoulders tensing up.
āThat goes beyond shyness, Scar. Anyone else would be living together by now. Or at least have left over more permanent stuff in your apartment other than a toothbrush and a couple of socks in a drawer.ā
Scarās palm sweats where heās gripping his cane, knuckles tight around it. His stomach churns. He hates arguing with anyone, but especially with Cub. Thereās no one who knows him better, except maybe Grian. When they fight it feels wrong.
His heart hurts. The evening was going so wellāhe doesnāt want to leave things like this, and he certainly doesnāt want to make it worse. The subject of his relationship with Grian is a conversation he and Cub have been having increasingly often lately, and Scarās not looking to add another strained night to the tally.
Taking a deep breath, he forces his muscles to untense, meeting Cubās gaze with his own pleading one. āThings are good between us, Cub. I promise. Andā¦ and if they werenāt, Iād come to you about it.ā
āWould you, though?ā Cub asks, testing.
His shoulders sag. āCub, come on.ā
Thereās a flash of guilt on his friendās face, and Scar can see the moment where he breaks. āSorry,ā he apologises, and Scar can tell he means it. āI know you would. I justā¦ get worried sometimes, I guess. I donāt want him taking you for granted, Scar.ā
Feeling the tension drain from the air, Scar smiles and crosses the short distance to Cub, wrapping him up in a hug where he sits. āOh, you big olā teddy bear! Iāll be fine, donāt you worry your precious head!ā
Cub laughs, a little strained, holding onto Scarās arms briefly before tapping at them to let Scar know to let go. āYeah, yeah. I gotcha.ā
Itās not the ideal way for them to part, but Scar knows not to push when it comes to things Cub feels this strongly about. One of these days heās going to have a proper sit-down conversation with his best friend about Grian. Cubās concerns arenāt unfounded, Scar knows thatāheās had several of them himself. But what do the little things matter when he comes home to Grian smiling at him, and falls asleep with him in his arms? Thatās got to count for something, right?
Crossing the room again, Scar picks up his phone, taking a moment to check his messages. Thereās nothing from Grian, but at times like these heās learned that itās better to act like there is.
āIām gonna head out nowāGrian says heās hungry. But hey, keep me updated on how much worse your project gets, alright?ā
Cub raises a brow at him from where heās already immersed himself back in his bank of monitors. āBold of you to assume Iāll answer any messages before Iāve got this handled. Iām going into fixation mode, dude. You wonāt hear from me until this is done or Iām dead.ā
āYou get good reception from beyond the grave?ā
āYou tell me,ā Cub grins, āYouāre the one with the magic.ā
The retort makes Scar laugh, genuine and heartfelt, and thatās how he knows things are okay between them. With his wallet, keys, cane, and phone, Scar gives Cubās shoulder a parting squeeze before he heads for the door. With an extra bit of banter, promises to drop by later in the week, and a wave as he lets himself out, Scar leaves Cubās apartment for the very last time.
Grian is late for dinner.
Then again, Grian prides himself on being the last to show up to anything, so Scar never really expected him to arrive on time. His stubborn lateness is just one of his many quirks, and Scar loves him for it.
His first text comes an hour after he was supposed to arrive.
āRunning late. Sorry :( See you soon.ā
Scar smiles and doesnāt let it bother him.
Forty minutes later, he gets another text.
āTerrible traffic. Be there in an hour.ā
The excuse settles funny in Scarās mind. Traffic? He slides his thumb along the screen of his phone, pulling up their messages from that morning, the ones where Grian said he was working from home that day.
Most days, Grian walks to Scarās place, insisting the fresh air is good for him. Trafficās never been an issue before.
āArenāt you working from home?ā
Scar doesnāt have time to put his phone down before it lights up with three quick messages.
āYes.ā
āI am.ā
āSee you in an hour.ā
Grianās never been particularly warm in text. When Scar thinks back on this moment, weeks later, he understands this shouldāve been when a warning bell went off in his head. Instead, he pulls out his cast iron pan and happily begins preheating the oven.
Two hours pass before Scar caves and texts Grian again. Grian had chastised him once for messaging him too often and Scar had since done his best to practise patience, but the low rumble in his stomach forces his hand.
āTraffic still bad?ā
It takes ten minutes for Grian to reply.
āI donāt think I can make it tonight :( workās awful.ā
He waits for a sorry, he waits for a love you.
He gets silence.
āNo worries,ā he replies. āIāll see you soon.ā
Dinner sits untouched in the oven, and Scar is ravenous. Itās past 8 PM, getting closer to 9. A cool fall evening, with the sky still caught in deep blues. The perfect, clear night for taking pictures of the stars. Outside his open windows, Scar can hear people talking, the rumbled sounds of traffic from the side-street, a distant dog barking. Itās only a short walk to Grianās place, but his legs already ache, and theyāll ache worse tomorrow if he pushes it now.
Still.
He packs a portion of their dinner onto a plate and covers it in tinfoil. In a cloth napkin he wraps up two large chocolate chip cookies he baked the day before.
Grianās working late, and Scar already went through all the trouble of cooking for him. Itās a short walk, but an even shorter drive.
In hindsight, he shouldāve seen it coming.
Grian lives in a townhouse in a good neighbourhood, on a nice street lined with big trees, decorations still out from Halloween two nights ago. Itās a lovely place, with more than enough room for two. Scar knows it. Everyone knows it. Scarās stayed overnight countless times, but the longest heās been welcome to linger in their three years of dating has been the occasional weekend.
Grian has a carport and a short driveway.
Scar almost doesnāt think about it when he finds another car parked there.
He parks on the curb, blocking a fire hydrant. Itās illegal, but heāll only be there for a minuteāunless, of course, Grian invites him in. But then, rules are made to be broken, and nothing is currently on fire. The hydrant will be fine, and so will he.
He has a key to Grianās front door. Of course. Of course he does. You donāt date someone for years and not get the key to their place. So what if Scar had to finagle a copy out of Grian like he was some sort of hostage negotiator? So what if Grian made him swear he would only ever use it for emergencies? Scar has a key to his not-boyfriendās place, thatās all that matters.
He still knocks first, though. Still leans on his cane as he stands on the front step, the bottom of the plate warm in his hand, the cookies balanced delicately on top of the tinfoil. He has a moment to think about how he wishes heād tucked a note in between the cookies, a pen doodle of a smiley face and a big goofy heart.
He has several moments, actually.
Maybe Grianās not home after all.
Heās not going to leave a plate of food on the ground, thereās a raccoon problem and he doesnāt believe in feeding wildlife, so he fishes out his key and lets himself in.
āReady or not, here I cooome.ā He meant it to sound sillyāit is silly, speaking out loud to an empty house. He nearly trips on a pair of shoes just inside the door, and itās odd, because when he looks down he notices theyāre bigger than Grianās tiny feet. Nearly as large as his own shoes, actually. Except heās never left a pair of shoes at Grianās place.
The navy blue jacket thrown over the bannister is new as well.
Thereās a sound he canāt place. Something is thumping softly against a wall upstairs. It goes on for a moment as he carefully steps over the unusual front-door clutter, then it stops.
In hindsight he shouldāve turned around.
In hindsight he should never have let himself in.
Scar is in the kitchen, giving a sideways glance to two unfinished glasses of wine on the counter as he opens the fridge to stash away Grianās meal, when he hears hasty feet on the stairs. He thinks, again, to the car. To the shoes. To the jacket and to the noises.
Grianās flushed when Scar finally sees him, frozen in the kitchen doorway, and for some reason Scar canāt make his body move to shut the fridge as they both stand there and stare.
Grianās cheeks are bright pink, distressed and embarrassed and something else incriminating and so much worse. His hair is mussed up, pushed out of place by fingers that arenāt his own.
Scar has a second to take him in, even as his mind plays catch up in the back, filling in all the blanks. Only a second to fully commit to memory the sight of his boyfriend, caught in the act.
āGrian,ā he says, the word forced to sound cheerful despite the immensity of his discomfort, each syllable incredibly heavy in his mouth as he forces them out.
āScar.ā If he didnāt think Grian was guilty before, the dread in the way he speaks confirms it. Thereās an inky, black sorrowābetrayalārising in Scarās chest, in his throat, that threatens to choke him. He swallows it back.
āI brought you dinner,ā Scar says, and the fridge door is forcefully closed, enough so that some of the magnets are jostled off and skitter away across the floor. Grian winces as they clatter and Scar feels nothing. āBecause youāre working so late.ā
āScar,ā Grian repeats, and it doesnāt sound better a second time.
āI only brought enough for one. Thereās two cookies, though.ā
Scar moves and Grian shrinks out of the way like water displaced by oil. Scarās back in the hall, passing the navy jacket, the shoes.
Heās leaving.
āScar,ā Grian tries it a third time, and thereās an edge to it now, like heās angry, like he has something to be angry about.
Scar doesnāt hear him.
He doesnāt hear him because thereās a man. Thereās a man standing on the staircase. Heās got his clothes on, but itās clear that, much like Grianās, they were put on in haste. His sweater looks soft. If they were standing in line together at the grocery store, Scar would ask him where he got it.
He has the same deep flush to his face that Grian has. Like two peas f*cking each other in a pod, Scar thinks.
The manās expression is unreadableābut then, Scar doesnāt exactly give himself time to properly study it.
Heās thinking about traffic that never existed. Heās thinking about the bottom of the plate, warm against his palm. Heās thinking about the rhythmic sound of the bedframe hitting the wall.
Heās thinking about Cub.
Heās thinking about how Cub warned him.
āI want you to come get your stuff.ā Scar doesnāt recognise his voice when he speaks. It sounds like heās hearing himself on a television set thatās playing in another room.
āScar...ā Grian tries for a fourth time, and has the nerve to sound hurt as he says it.
āTomorrow. First thing. Itās gone or itās on the lawn.ā
Heās shaking as he tries to open the door, and he has to fumble his cane into his other hand to try to get a proper grip on the doorknob. In his periphery he can see Grian moving forward automatically to help him, and a part of Scar feels like heās going to catch on fire and self-immolate if Grian gets within an armās length of him. He shudders, feeling sick, and then the door is open. The man on the stairs starts to say something, but Scar doesnāt hear himācanāt hear him. Scarās on the front step, down, cutting across the lawn. Heās stepping on some flowers, but heās always hated the look of a lawn with flowers.
Heās parked in front of a fire hydrant. He was only going to be here a minute.
He feels sick.
Grian isnāt chasing after him.
He remembers a morning, months ago, where he woke up from a dream to find Grian sitting up in bed, back resting against the headboardāthe one he just heard traitorously thumping against the wallāreading a book that Scar had thought sounded boring.
āI had a dream you cheated on me,ā Scar had mumbled, voice rough with sleep as heād moved his arm and draped it across Grianās lap.
āIs that so?ā Grian had asked, still reading his book, fingertips moving to idly pet the hair on Scarās forearm. āDid I trade up?ā
āHe had a moustache,ā Scar had mumbled, words muffled into Grianās hip. āAnd a son.ā
At least this one didnāt have a moustache, Scar thinks, and suddenly realises heās in his car. He doesnāt remember getting in it. The keyās in the ignition, though. In his rearview mirror he can see Grian standing on the front step, heās too far away for Scar to make out his expression, but distantly Scar thinks that he doesnāt look as sad as he should.
He releases his parking brake and pulls away from the curb more aggressively than heās ever driven before in his life. Then he jams his fist against the centre of his steering wheel and doesnāt let off the horn until heās several blocks away.
Once at a safe distance, he tries to turn the radio on, but every station is playing a news update, and he doesnāt want to hear about sports and the weather right now, so just as quickly, Scar turns it off.
Funny, he thinks as he drives home, ears ringing with silence and heart racing in his chest. The roads are incredibly clear.
Heās in no state to be driving, but itās fine because he barely remembers being on the road at all. His mind is racing, connecting the dots, things he overlookedāevery time Grian cancelled plans, his cagey responses about work, sudden friends from out of town he was meeting for drinksāthereās been months of this. A string of red flags going back further than he wants to admit.
He parks his car in a haze, slamming the door with trembling hands and feeling weaker than ever as he grips his cane tight and pushes himself back towards his apartment.
It had taken a lot of smooth talking to ensure himself a place on the first floor, but right now it makes no difference at all. Scar feels winded, breathing hard like heās been climbing flight after flight of stairs. His blood rushes in his ears, heart tight in his chest and body clammy with sweat and nerves. Distantly, like an afterthought, it occurs to him that he might be panicking. He doesnāt know how he gets his door open, but he does it in his continued fugue state, discarding his coat and his keys on the coffee table before collapsing on his couch.
Breathing still feels difficult. His stomach is in knots. He feels sick to his core, blood churning and the sting of bile sharp in his throat. His vision is watery.
He needs to call Cub.
Scar wipes at his eyes and struggles through a breath. He drops his cane carelessly to the floor and pushes himself fully back onto the couch, bringing his legs up and turning sideways so that they dangle over the armrest.
He promised heād call Cub if anything ever happened.
Itās justā¦ he never, ever thought anything would.
An awful, mournful noise works its way out of his throat, and even all alone in the dark of his cold, empty apartment, Scar feels humiliated by it. Grian always said he was too emotional, and right now, beat down under the weight of his feelings crushing against his chest, Scar agrees.
No matter how much he spins the procession of events around in his head, he canāt make sense of it at all.
How long has Grian been cheating on him? Does this go back half a year? Ten months? More? When Scar had thrown him a surprise party for his birthday a while back and Grian had flushed bright pink, all flattered and enthusedāhad he spent that following weekend in someone elseās arms instead of busy at work like heād said? Had he been spending days with his lover and nights with Scar? Was he splitting time evenly, or had Scar always been the lowest priority?
Surely there had to have been a time when he was Scarās and only Scarās? Surely?
Another anguished, half-choked noise escapes him, and Scar curses himself for not being strong enough to swallow it back.
What exactly had he done so wrong that Grian felt the need to hurt him like this? If they werenāt working out, why didnāt Grian just break up with him?
Or was he so indifferent to Scar that he hadnāt even considered his feelings in the first place?
On the coffee table, his cellphone comes to life with a shrill ring, black screen lighting up. Scar lurches towards it like a man possessed, clutching it tight in his grip and staring down at the display like itāll somehow magically smooth away the ache of his heartbreak. For a second, for just a moment, he hopes against hopeāonly to fall apart further when itās not Grianās name on the caller ID.
Itās Cub.
Anxiety overwhelms him at once. Logically, thereās no way Cub can possibly know what just happened. Scar knows that, he does.
And yet, itās impossible to pick up the phone.
Despite having longed for him only a moment before, now that heās calling, Scar canāt bear the thought of hearing Cubās voice on the line and having to confirm that his friend had been right about Grian all along. Heās ashamed of himselfāfor not seeing the signs sooner, for not listening to Cubās advice, for not heeding his many, many warnings.
Scar doesnāt want Cub to see him like this.
He holds the phone in his hand until the ringing stops, shoulders only untensing when the room goes silent again. But he has only a moment of reprieve, because immediately the ringing starts anew, Cubās name flashing urgently, accusingly, across the screen. Gritting his teeth, Scar switches his phone to vibrate and lets it clatter onto the coffee table once more. The insistent drone of the vibrations rattle against the wood of his table, but he turns his head away from it. When a call comes through for a third time, Scar grabs one of the couch cushions and stuffs his head between them.
Heāll talk to Cub, he willāhe justā¦ he needs a minute.
When sleep comes, Scar isnāt ready for it. He hardly feels like heās sleeping at all, forced to relive the drive to Grianās house in his dreams, the trip both too long and too short, nightmarish in the way his footsteps echo across the kitchen tiles as he turns to see Grianās face. In the dream heās smiling. He hadnāt been in real lifeāhad he? Scar canāt remember clearly, not in this circular hell where he runs out the front door and ends up right back in his car driving to Grianās place, the ground beneath his wheels shaking like itās seconds from cracking open and swallowing him whole.
Waking up feels like falling, disorienting on all accounts, and Scar finds himself gripping tight to either side of himself as his foot slips from the armrest where it had been dangling.
His phone is still vibrating.
He stares at it, blinking slowly. It takes him a second to place himself, and a second more to gauge how much time has passed. From the way the light has completely faded from the sky, itās been a few hours at leastāso surely itās not still Cub calling.
Scar steels himself and picks up his phone, answering it in the same instant.
He canāt avoid this forever.
āHello?ā he croaks out, dull.
āScar!ā Comes a bright, accented voice, excitable and entirely discordant with his current state. āDid you see the news?ā
It takes him a moment to place who it is, having been so sure heād be speaking to Cub.
āPearl? Is that you?ā
āOf course itās me, who else would it be?ā
His stomach twists awfully. āNobody. Sorryā¦ what did you call for?ā
She laughs, bright and delighted.
āThe worldās ending!ā
Thereās a feral kind of glee in her voice, and she laughs again with an almost manic enthusiasm that despite everything, still manages to light up a deep, earnest fondness in Scarās chest. Pearlās always been like thisāon the wild side of weird. Sheās always got something new: a conspiracy, a cover-up, a close-encounter. Usually he delights in it.
Today heās simply too tired.
āThatās great, Pearl.ā
His voice feels flat as he says it.
Thereās a pause on the line and Scar can almost picture the way Pearl must now be frowning.
āIs everything alright?ā She ventures, her voice cautious. āYou sound a little lowā¦ā
āIām fine.ā
Itās a lie, and she hears it as blatantly as he does.
āOh, so weāre telling fibs now?ā She asks, and he hears the sound of her beginning to grin through the phone. āCāmon Scar. You can confess to me, what did you break this time? Tell olā Saint Pearl whatās the trouble.ā
The words stick in Scarās throat, thick and tarry. As much as he tries, he simply canāt get them out.
ā...Scar?ā Thereās a genuine note of concern in her voice, now. He doesnāt want to worry herāhates that he canāt seem to stop it from happening.
āGrianāā Scarās throat closes up and he can barely get the name out. He doesnāt want to cry like this.
āWhatās happened to Grian? Is he hurt?ā Thereās an edge to Pearlās tone, tight with concern.
āNo.ā Scar chokes the word out like itās something rotten.
A moment passes. Then another.
āOh, Scarā¦ā
He can hear the pity now, rolling in like a wave. Itās kinder than if heād told Cub. None of the flat āI told you soā judgement that Cubāeven with the best of intentionsāwould try and fail to conceal, just the deep sympathy of a person whoās had her fair share of relationships turn sour. Two lonely people seeing each other clearly.
All at once the isolation is crushing. He canāt stand another second of being by himself.
āCan youāā
āIām on my way,ā Pearl says, finishing his thought before he has a chance to properly complete it. āJust let me get Tilly in from the yard. You sit tight, alright? Ten minutes and Iām out the door, tops.ā
Ten minutes is more like twenty, but that gives Scar a chance to sit up so that heās not curled in a ball on the couch when Pearl lets herself in.
Sheās carrying a six pack of beers hooked on her middle finger and two pints of ice cream in a plastic shopping bag dangling from her wrist. Itās not that Pearlās especially good in a crisis, nor has she ever been particularly motherly, but she puts the effort in when it counts. A more than meagre part of Scar has always adored Pearl, and that fondness flares especially strong now as she shucks off her jacket and deposits her food offerings on the kitchen counter before crossing the room to join him on the couch.
āWe donāt have to talk about it,ā she says, getting the words in before he can say anything, having clearly rehearsed them on the short drive over. āI just want you to know that heās crazy and an idiot and a fool, and no matter what: you didnāt deserve it.ā
āI told him to get his stuff first thing in the morning,ā Scars says, numb and practical as he states the facts.
āYouāre kinder than me,ā she says, blowing out a breath and slouching down onto the couch next to him, her shoulder warm and solid as she leans into his side. Itās a welcome touch, not as overtly pitying as a hug, but sympathetic and supportive all the same. āWhen I broke up with my ex, I threw all his stuff right out into the snow.ā
āHe broke up with you,ā Scar clarifies, sullen but still a stickler for detail.
āMaybe so,ā Pearl replies, dismissive. She leans forward, reaching for the TV remote and turning it on, an easy way to break any morose silence that might seep in between them.
āNo news channels. I donāt want to hear about the world ending,ā Scar groans, pressing his forehead into the heels of his palms.
āIāll put on a movie, no worries.ā She sounds too casual, and not joining him in the bit takes Scar a bit off guard.
ā... Is the world really ending?ā he canāt help but ask, peeking out at her profile from between his fingers.
āYeah,ā she cackles like a witch, attention focused on the TV screen as she flips through channels. āFire and brimstone, the whole nine yards. Itās what we all deserve.ā Itās clear that sheās enjoying whatever disaster may or may not be unfolding in the headlines. Any other day theyād been delighting in it together, gleeful about whatever scrap of chaos sheās uncovered.
She catches his eye as he continues to look at her, and her grin turns mollifying as she explains, āJust some folk getting twisted out of shape and catastrophizing about a cold thatās going around. Nothing to worry about, Scar. Weāre fine.ā
He could press it further, get the truth about whateverās going on for his own peace of mind, but the fact is, he doesnāt really want to. They could all fall to a plague, or the floor could drop out from beneath them right now, and at this point heād welcome it gladly. The world ending would be better than having to sit a single second longer with this awful rot feeling currently hollowing out his chest.
Scar lets himself lapse into silence as Pearl finds an action movie from the 80s thatās already midway through its run-time. They sit in silence and watch it, neither really processing whatās playing on the screen. During one of the commercial breaks Pearl gets up and retrieves the beer and ice cream from the kitchen counter, and Scar accepts the offering gladly.
Heās almost done his pint of chocolate-swirled vanilla when he says, quiet, āI walked in on him. Caught him red-handed with some other guy upstairs.ā
āHeās an asshole,ā Pearl says cooly, using the side of her spoon to pry a chunk of brownie out of her ice cream.
The pain doesnāt feel any less all-encompassing, even with Pearlās frank appraisal of Grian. For a moment Scar sits, the question heavy on his tongue, before he finally steels himself and asks, āAm I a bad boyfriend?ā
Pearl looks at him, eyes wide, and Scar opens his mouth to retract the question before suddenly her hands are on his, her grip dewy and cold from holding the ice cream container that sheās hurriedly set aside. Dimly, Scar tries to remember the last time anyone held his hand and he finds himself pulling up a blank. Grian was never a fan of public displays of affection and always said they were silly.
Scar grips her hands tightly, struggling not to let himself wonder if all Grianās cagey distance was because he preferred the feel of another manās hand instead.
āScar,ā Pearl says, firm and broaching no argument. āYou look up the definition of Good Boyfriend and your picture is right there. Youāre an amazing partner, and any man would be lucky to have you.ā
Scar can feel the sting of tears biting at the corners of his eyes and he presses the heels of his palms up into them to stem it. He blinks hard in tandem, trying to will them back, which only makes them well up more.
āI hate this,ā he says, honest. āWhy did heāā he canāt get the word out, still canāt make himself face the reality that heās been cheated on. āf*ckā¦ā he says instead, defeated.
Pearl shifts her weight, tucking her knee up on the sofa before she tugs on Scarās hand, pulling his body forward so that heās forced to lean into her as her arms lift up and encircle his shoulders. For a moment he hangs, indecisive in the midst of the gesture, then the weight of the world crushes down on him, and Scar sags into her embrace, burying his face against her neck as he lets out a shuddering sob.
The movie continues to play in the background as Scar cries into the collar of Pearlās shirt. Eventually the story concludes and the credits roll and the programming turns to infomercials, but neither of them pay any attention. Pearl holds him and doesnāt say a word. After a time, her hand finds his hair, and soothingly combs through the short strands. It lulls him, comforting and calming, and he doesnāt realise heās fallen asleep until he abruptly wakes up.
āHey.ā Pearlās awakeāmaybe she never fell asleepāand is smiling softly at him, and the part of Scar thatās mortified he fell asleep on her finds only the barest comfort that at least he doesnāt have to worry about his boyfriend flipping out about it.
Not that said boyfriend had any problem falling asleep on others himself.
āI passed out,ā he says, groggy and not yet fully conscious.
āYeah, you were really gone for a while there.ā Her smile hasnāt fadedāif anything itās grown wider and more fond as she watches him struggle to wake up. āDonāt beat yourself up about it,ā she adds, as if able to read his mind and predict where his nerves were about to take him. āYou needed the rest.ā
āHow long was I out for?ā
Pearlās eyes slide towards the window, and slowly Scar realises the darkness of late night has been replaced by the early blue-grey that comes before dawn.
āsh*t,ā he mutters, sitting up quickly from where heād dozed off slumped against Pearl.
Grian.
He told Grian to come get his stuff first thing.
Itās not that he has to explain himselfānot after the state he found Grian in earlier. Not when theyāve already broken up. He just doesnāt know if he can handle the inevitable argument if Grian were to come over and find Pearl here.
āDo you want me to clear out?ā Pearl asks, reading his tension clear as day as Scarās hand anxiously combs back through his hair. His leg hurts, a throbbing pain that spikes all the way up into his hip. Everything hurts, actually. His heart continues to ache like an open wound in his chest.
āMaybe thatād be for the best,ā he hears himself say, his own voice sounding unfamiliar and distant, like itās being delivered by an actor hired to play him on screen.
āWill you call me when heās gone?ā Pearl prompts, resting her hand on his knee. āIāll bring Tilly over. We can trash old photos and get lunch.ā
āI thought you said the world was ending,ā Scar says morosely, unable to lift his gaze to meet hers, choosing instead to focus on the hand sheās left resting on his knee.
āWe can still get lunch at the end of the world,ā Pearl teases, and gives his leg a pat. Then sheās standing up, gathering their warm un-drunk beers and the melted remnants of their ice cream before she crosses the floor into his tiny kitchen, where she deposits them all unceremoniously in his sink before patting her pockets to check for her keys and phone.
Sheās amazing, Scar thinks. Dropping everything to come over and let him cry himself to sleep on her like he was some sort of infant, and then letting him carry on with all his dignity intact.
āWe can make that happen,ā he says, and her smile is bright and genuine in response.
āAlright. Iāll get out of your hair, then.ā
She pauses just inside his door, lower lip snagging between her teeth for a moment before she says, carefully, āMaybe I can loop Cub in. Send him over while you deal with Grian.ā Sheās cautious as she says it, not wanting to overstep. āYāknow, strength in numbers and all that.ā
Scar knows sheās worried about potentially breaking the news about Grian before he has a chance to tell Cub himself, but in reality he finds the suggestion comes as an immediate and overwhelming relief. It will take the pressure off him to deal with Cubās inevitable sour reaction, and leave Pearl to talk Cub into not flying off any handles.
āIād appreciate that,ā Scar says, gratitude in his tone. āCub doesnāt know. Heāheās not gonna take it well.ā Thereās a pause, reluctant and grim as he explains, āHe told me to call him, but I justā¦ā
āIāll handle it,ā Pearl says, clearly galvanized now that she has something concrete to do. āLeave it to me.ā
She quickly moves back across the floor, squeezing Scarās shoulder in a quick hug before she kisses the top of his head, and then she opens the apartment door and is gone.
With Pearlās departure, the place seems immediately gloomier. The thoughts that had shadowed the corners of Scarās mind become abruptly apparent, growing darker as they prowl around his empty walls and lonely rooms.
Thereās only an hour or so at most until Grian is due to arrive, and despite the ache in his legs, Scar finds himself pacing with restless energy, unable to sit still. Heās both dreading Grianās arrival with every fibre of his being and also incredibly anxious for him to get here already. Nothing seems appealing, no matter how his attempts to distract himself. No TV, no games on his phone, no mindless scrolling through the internet.
Instead, he busies himself collecting the meagre few belongings Grian has left at his place after all their years of being together. It all seems obvious in hindsight, now. Of course. Of course Grian hadnāt been faithful to him. The signs were strewn throughout their relationship. Like Cub said, anyone else wouldāve been living together after this long, or at the very least had a dedicated drawer of their own in his bedroomāa corner on his bathroom counterāa shelf in the tiny pantry of his kitchen. Grian had never once made any effort to integrate himself into Scarās life. Heād never even called Scar his boyfriend aloud, and here Scar had been chasing after him like he hung the moon.
Scar laughs to himself bitterly.
He supposed it was only about time before the moon came crashing down to earth.
Working methodically, Scar assembles a pile of Grianās belongings. Not in any sort of neat, organised mannerāhe knows better than that, nowāor done with any regard for Grianās convenience or ease, but because Scar figures itāll work best if he dumps Grianās things near the front entrance so he can minimise the amount of time he and Grian have to be in contact. Like this, itāll take two, maybe three trips for Grian to carry his things to his car. If Scar helped it would probably only be one butā¦
He thinks heās earned the right to watch Grian struggle through this on his own.
Itās as Scarās tossing the last of Grianās things onto the floor and the grandfather clock in his hall shows a quarter till nine that the thought sneaks up on him.
What if Grianās not planning on coming here at all?
Scar glances towards his partially open blinds. Daylight is now properly making its way into his home and still no sign of Grian, even though Scar had said to arrive first thing or his stuff would be gone. Did Grian not take Scar seriously? Did it not matter to him even if Scar was? Did he watch Scar drive off, laugh, and return to bed in the arms of the man on the stairs, rolling his eyes and giggling at what a nuisance Scar was?
A hot prickle of shame and embarrassment burns through him, heating his cheeks and stinging at his eyes.
He hates this. He hates feeling like this. A bother and a chore. Unwanted.
No oneās ever made him feel this way before.
He feels so small.
His hands begin to shake as he makes his way back to Grianās things, swallowing past the lump thatās formed in his throat.
Fine. If thatās how it stands, itāll work out for him either way. Having all of Grianās belongings piled up here just makes them that much easier to throw out.
Burying his aching heart behind his anger, Scar reaches for a stack of notebooks Grian had left from a project at work, debating on the catharsis in tearing each page of carefully articulated writing to shreds.
Itās as he pops open the front cover of the first notebook that his doorbell rings.
In an instant, his heart stutters in his chest, his body growing cold. He feels robotic, nearly automatic, as he puts the notebooks back down and steps up to his door. Peering through the peephole, he can see him standing there.
Grian.
A numbness settles over him, all earlier feelings of heartache and pain driven from him. Gone is the panic, the fury, the agonizing hurt. All that remains is a cool indifference that heās not even present enough to hope Grian is threatened by.
He opens the door to Grian looking small on his welcome mat, shoulders tense and nerves evident as he cautiously looks up in order to make eye contact.
āHi,ā Grian says.
Scar steps to the side, wordless, leaving room for Grian to enter if he squeezes past. Grianās awkward half-smile slips a little at the cold reception, and he breathes out a deliberate sigh through his mouth in a way that reignites a spark of anger amidst Scarās deadened haze. How dare he act as if this is nerve wracking and bothersome for him after what he put Scar through? The audacity of it makes Scar want to yell, if he only had any words come to mind.
Stepping in past him, Grian moves to the side and bends to take off his shoes like heās done countless times in the past. It makes Scarās heart wrench in an awful, ugly way, and he finds himself speaking before heās even fully thought through what heās going to say.
āKeep them onāyou wonāt be here long.ā
Itās a wonder how steady he sounds, considering all he wants is to fall to pieces right there. His voice is firm and unwavering, cold and precise. A perfect mask for the way he wants to drop to his knees and ask Grian why? Did he really hate Scar so much that he had to hurt him like this?
Grian flinches, embarrassment flushing his cheeks, and a distant part of Scar is gratified to see it.
āRight.ā He straightens up and clears his throat mindlessly, swinging his hands as he gathers his bearings. Scar can see when he spots the pile of his things because his eyes widen minutely in recognition. āOh, youāve already gathered everything up for me.ā
āNot for you,ā Scar corrects, still clinging to the stone-faced demeanour heās created for himself. āYou were late, so I was getting it all set to throw out.ā
Itās a lie, but Scarās always been a good liar when he needs to be.
And as it turns out, he thinks sardonically, Grianās even better at it.
Grianās blush grows deeper. āItāsāitās still morning, ScarāI just. I lost track of time.ā
Against his will, Scar thinks of the unfamiliar car in his driveway, the shoes by his door, the thump-thump-thump of his headboard. His lip curls, his grip on the doorknob tightening enough to make it creak in his hand.
āYeah, Iāll bet. You had a lot to occupy your time after all.ā
Grian visibly cringes and Scar wishes he could delight in it instead of feeling the persistent hollowness deep in his chest where every good memory of the two of them used to reside.
āScarā¦ā Grian starts, pleading, but Scarās not interested in entertaining any more of his excuses and certainly none of his platitudes.
āYou better hurry up with that stuff,ā he drawls, backing away from the door, plucking a dining chair from further in, and dragging it the short way back to the front. He takes a seat in it, the perfect vantage point to observe Grianās miserable little trek to and fro as he collects his things. āCub will be here soon, and itās probably for the best that youāre gone by then.ā
āCub?ā Grian bristles, like an electric shock has been put through him. āWhy is heā¦ did you tell him?ā
Scar shrugs. āHim and Pearl.ā Itās not the whole truth, but itās close enough that he feels at peace with it.
āPearl too?ā Grianās frustrated now, brows furrowing and annoyance clear on his face. āYou couldnāt have given me at least a day to get my sh*t together?ā
āOh, Iām sorry, did you want us to announce it together?ā Scar mocks in a singsong, his tone biting. āThis isnāt an engagement, Grian. I think I get to tell who I want when I want, when my partner of three years sneaks around and f*cks somebody else behind my back.ā
Grian tenses every muscle in his body, cheeks aflame with a guilty blush, but agitation writ in every line of him. āWell if youād just listened to me and stayed home when I told youābut no, you had to come over! You know, when you coerced that key out of me, I told you it was only for emergencies! And you justāGod, thatās the problem with you Scar, you never f*cking listen!ā
āAnd what would listening to you have gotten me, huh?ā Scar shoots back, refusing to bend in the face of Grianās misplaced anger over his own guilt. āAnother few weeks of not knowing you were cheating on me? A few more months?ā Despite himself, his voice grows hoarse, wavering as he speaks. āTell me, Grian. How long? How long were you screwing around and lying to me about it? Was he the only one? Are there others?ā
The silence between them is damning, as is the way Grian refuses to make eye contact.
Softly, stubbornly, Grian says, āWeāre not going to see eye-to-eye on this. So maybe Iāll just start taking my stuff out.ā
Scar doesnāt bother to grace that with any sort of answer, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. After a momentās pause, Grian stoops down and begins to gather up his belongings and Scar watches him impassively as he heads out the door.
In any other situation, it would be more than a little funny watching Grian struggle to carry his things out by the armful, knocking into the door and accidentally closing it over and over, cursing under his breath every time he did. But then again, in any other situation, Scar wouldāve offered to help him. As a team. Instead, Scar sits firmly on his dining room chair, watching Grian as if heās a stranger.
In fact, itās only now that Scar truly takes Grian in, having not really looked at him since that awful moment last night.
To put it lightlyāhe looks a mess. Heās still wearing the same clothing he was in the night before, all rumpled like heās slept in them. Only, itās abundantly clear that he hasnāt slept at all, or that if he has, it wasnāt a restful sleep in the least. There are dark shadows under his eyes, and a gaunt paleness to his usually bright complexion. Whatever had happened after Scar left hadnāt been easy for Grian, clearly.
An ugly part of Scar delights in that, a terrible schadenfreude sinking into his skin.
Heās not proud of the feeling, but somehow he thinks itās easier to be bitter and vindictive than it is to crumble as his life falls apart in front of him.
āI think this is the last of it,ā Grian grunts as he picks up the remaining items, accidentally knocking the door shut yet again in the tight space when he turns.
The frustrated way he shouts is music to Scarās ears.
He ought to get up and open the door for him, if only so Grian can get out and leave for good, but instead Scar finds himself watching as Grian tries to shift all the things heās carrying to one arm in an attempt to open the door with his free hand, only to realise the futility and accept heās going to have to put it all down and start over. In all honesty, Scar probably would have continued to watch indefinitely if it werenāt for the sudden, loud, thudding knock at the door.
āMust be Cub,ā Scar hums, enjoying the way Grian blanches at the sound of his name.
Scar gets up from his seat, stretching out his legs and feeling the stiff ache in them. Sighing to himself, he walks forward, side-stepping Grian and doing his best to appear calm and collected, even though the truth is that heās just as terrified of seeing Cub as Grian is.
What will his best friend say at the sight of him, when heād been the one warning Scar right from the start?
Scar steels himself for the worst of it, twisting the doorknob and pulling it open wide.
The man standing pressed against his door is on him in an instant.
To say Scarās surprised would be an understatement. He doesnāt even register that heās been jumped until heās on the ground, the man on top of him snarling and digging his nails into his biceps. Heās disoriented, relying on instinct as he shields himself from the strangerās attack, blindly grabbing for his shoulders and shoving him as far back as he can, still recovering from the shock of the initial lunge.
Distantly, he thinks he hears Grian shout something, but thereās no time to focus on that when the man snaps his teeth at him, angling his head forward like he means to take a bite out of his throat. Scar tilts his head away as best he can without losing sight of his attacker, adrenaline and instinct fueling him while everything in his brain continues to scream in confusion.
āsh*t,ā he wheezes, winded as the stranger digs a knee into his gut. His eyes water from the pain, his mind racing with questions. Whatās going on? Who is this man? And whatās Scar done thatās got him angry enough to try and take a chunk of flesh out of him with his teeth? Scar lives in a good areaāa quiet suburb where he gets along with all his neighbours. Heās never once in his life been randomly attacked.
The man screeches and makes another desperate lunge towards Scarās face, teeth snapping and spittle flying from his saliva-wet mouth. From up this close, Scar can see that his eyes are cloudy and bloodshot in a way heās never seen before. The man kicks, his hard-toed boots sending a sharp pain up Scarās shins that only compound the pain thatās already weakening him.
All at once he knows heās going to lose this fight, and itās going to be the last defeat heāll ever suffer.
From the corner of his eye, he catches only a flash as Grian runs up and swings down with all his strength, striking something heavy against the manās head. Scar can hear the crunch of the manās skull in a way heāll never forget for as long as he lives, blood and brain matter splattering against his face and slopping down onto his shirt.
Grianās face pales, his grip on the makeshift-weaponāa tire iron Scar had borrowed from Cub a week ago when heād gotten a flat tireāslackening, his voice pitching as he goes, āI killed himā¦? Oh my god, I think I killedāā
The strangerās head snaps back up, despite the gushing head wound. Thereās no change in his strength as he snaps his jaw at Scar again, as if unbothered by the way his skull has caved in on itself. Scar shouts for Grian, whoās watching in stunned silence, mouth hanging partially open. His fearful scream launches Grian into action, and Scar stares as Grian brings the tire iron down on the manās head again, and again, and again, till no normal person, no human, wouldāve still been alive.
It takes a lot longer for the manāthe creature, to go still. And itās only when he collapses fully that Grian throws the weapon aside and moves to drag Scar away from the carcass pooling blood on the floor.
āHoly sh*t,ā Grian pants, chest heaving and voice frantic. āHoly sh*t, Scar. Are you okay?ā
Instead of attempting to formulate a response, Scar stares at the body by his feet, shock keeping him from total hyperventilation. āIs heā¦is it dead?ā
The body on the floor twitches.
āf*ck,ā Grian curses, putting his arms under Scarās and shouldering his weight as he helps him stagger to his feet. The second Scar orients himself and isnāt in immediate danger of falling over, Grian lets him go and races back to pick his weapon up off the floor.
The thing on the ground groans, body undulating unnaturally.
āGrian,ā Scar gasps, fear locking his limbs.
āCan you run?ā Grian barks at him, taking a defensive stance that Scar does not like one bit.
āGrianāā
āCan you run, Scar?ā
He swallows, mouth dry. āNot very far. Not today.ā
Grianās eyes go wide, panic racing through him as he considers their options.
āCan you make it to my car?ā
Scar thinks of the spot Grian nearly always chooses to park at. The one he complains about. Not enough guest spaces, why is it always street parking, not enough shade, potholes that are bad for his tires, on and on and on. It would always make Scar laugh, somehow fond of Grianās constant griping.
He doesnāt know if he can make it that far.
He knows he has no choice but to try.
āYeah.ā
āGood,ā Grian says, fixing himself in place with the weapon raised over his head as the body on the ground slowly struggles to pick itself up, more slowly, more lethargic than before. āThatās all weāll need. The second this thing gets up, Iām gonna smash it. That should be enough of a distraction for you to get around it. Get to the carāthe doors arenāt lockedāand Iāll meet you there.ā
Hysteria lodges itself in Scarās throat, nervous laughter bubbling its way out of him. āButāā
āScar, for once in your life, listen to me! We donāt have time. Are you with me or not?!ā
Scar snaps his mouth shut, shelving the argument and a dozen similar ones just like it for later.
āIām with you,ā Scar says, steeling his resolve and looking at the exit just past the grotesque creature thatās slowly getting to its knees.
āAlright then. Readyāsetāā Grian laughs, hysteria creeping its way into him as well. The shambling thing, skull caved and shoulder dislocated, but still somehow very much alive, gets its bearings at last, standing still for just a fraction of a second before it locates them with what remains of its eye and screams.
āGo!ā Grian shouts as the monster charges, putting his whole force into the blow.
Scar watches as Grian smacks the thing down over and over again. Until blood and gore and viscera mark him up like a Pollock painting.
āWhat are you waiting for?!ā Grian snaps at him when he finally notices that Scar is still standing there. He grips the weapon tight and attacks a final time, slamming the creature down, good and dead, and standing panting over top of it, strained but victorious. āRun already!ā
As he says it, Grian is already rushing from the scene himself, calling back for Scar over his shoulder. And in a way thatās as familiar to him as breathing by now, Scar chases after him.
Grianās car isnāt far, half a block away at most.
It feels like miles.
Scarās entire body hurts, itās in agony. His joints and muscles, everything aches, but the adrenaline keeps him movingādown the front steps, across the yard, to the sidewalk. Grian is at his side, but even with his shorter legs heās outpacing Scar, glancing at him and stressingāinsistingāthat he go faster.
āScar, we have to move!ā
Itās adrenaline. Itās desperation. Scar can see Grianās car parked on the other side of the street. The back seat is piled with the things heād been moving out of Scarās apartment, shoved in haphazard, disorganised and ashamed. The sky overhead is bright and sunny, a clear sky for a temperate, pleasant day.
Grian opens the driverās side door as Scar rounds to the other side of the car. Heās fumbling for his keys, cursing under his breath, trying to get them in the ignition as Scar hastily buckles himself in.
Thatās why Scar sees them first.
Peopleāno, not people, not anymoreāstanding in the middle of the street about three blocks down.
āGrian.ā
Grian isnāt paying attention. Heās finally gotten the key in the ignition, heās buckling himself in, heās checking his rearview mirror as if thatās what he has to worry about most right now.
āGrian.ā
The bodiesācorpses; zombiesāare standing in the middle of the street. Thereās four of them, and they look lost, for lack of a better word, swaying back and forth as if undecided on where to go. Even from a distance Scar can see that theyāre stained with blood and viscera, smeared on their clothes and caked on their hands and faces. He feels sick just looking at them, and glad that theyāre not close enough for him to identify. He doesnāt want to recognize them as a neighbour. He doesnāt want to spot a former friend.
A fifth zombie lurches out onto the street as Grian finally pulls away from the curb, slow, like he has all the time in the world. At their movement, five bodies twist to face them in unison and begin moving. Theyāre not coordinated, but theyāre fast.
Scar canāt take it any longer.
āGrian, for goodness sake theyāre on the road!ā
Grianās never been good when things donāt go according to his plans. When he gets stressed, he gets anxious; he panics.
Heās panicking now.
āI donāt know what to do.ā His fingers are white-knuckled where they grip the steering wheel. The zombies are advancing, two of them faster than the others. Scar recognizes one, he thinks. His stomach twists.
āGrian!ā Scar yells, his voice loud, to the point that Grian startles on reflex. āThe gas! We canāt just sit here!ā
The front-runner is metres away, arms outstretched and making swiping motions. If they donāt move theyāre going to die.
āGrian, now!ā
Grianās leg jerks on reflex, hammering down the gas pedal. For a moment their world is nothing but the squeal of tires on asphalt and the force of the carās acceleration pushing them back into their seats. Grian veers left roughly, swerving around the nearest zombie. Thereās a moment, sickening and terrible, where Scar locks eyes with the milky, dead sockets of the creature as their side mirror clips its shoulder. It crumples to the ground in an explosion of gore and a screaming, too-human wailing that Scar will never forget.
Then itās over and theyāre past, and the zombies are rapidly shrinking in the rearview mirror.
Somehow, it doesnāt feel any safer.
āWhere are we going?ā Grianās voice is high and it quivers around the edges. Heās pale and looks like heās about to be sick. The last thing Scar wants is to be his emotional support right now.
He becomes it anyway.
āWe have to get out of the city.ā
āI donāt know where to go,ā Grian babbles. Thereās a frantic edge to his tone, a hairās breadth away from a panic attack. āWhat even were those things? Where did they come from? Why did theyāoh god, Scar, you almost died.ā
Scar thinks back to all the times he listened to Pearl prattle on about hypothetical emergency scenarios, listing the best places to go in a crisis and what areas to avoid. Itād seemed so amusing at the time, her silly fascination with the abnormal. The Scarlet Witch, heād teased her, always planning for the end of the world.
He wishes she were here, now.
āWeāll take alleys and side roads,ā Scar says, more calm than he has any right to be. āWeāll get out. Pearl always said, youā¦ you get out, you get clear, and then you re-evaluate. We need a safe distance toāā
āTo what, Scar?ā Grianās voice is biting, and Scar hates how it makes him bristle. āWhat are we going to do?ā
Service roads. They just need to get to service roads. Once theyāre outside the city they can. They canā¦
āWeāll go to the police,ā Grian announces, coming to his own conclusion amidst his panic. āThatāllāā
āGrian.ā Scarās tone is firm. Heās gripping his hands into fists so tight that his arms ache. āI think we can agree, you owe me at least one thing. So if you could listen, Iād appreciate it.ā
The air in the car grows tense and guilty. Grian stares grimly at the road and says nothing.
āWe need to get out of the city. If somethingās happening, if thereās some sort of invasion orāor infection, we canāt be here. Be smart about this, Grian. Think.ā
Grian is silent. Up ahead there are brake lights, multiple cars backing up at an intersection.
Grian turns left into an alley. He continues driving, taking side-streets, heading in the direction Scar knows leads to the outskirts of town. Heās listening, and thereās no need to fight about it, but Scar refuses to feel grateful.
On autopilot, he reaches out and thumbs on the radio, scrolling through the stations.
Thereās static at first, then music, predictable and casual, as if nothing is going wrong. Every station is playing the sameāradio ads, the weekend top 40, oldies, rock, classical. Scar scans the channels, one after the other, looking for a news report, listening for something to confirm that things arenāt alright.
Finally, one station breaks from the rest.
Itās an emergency broadcast, automated and on alert. The same words repeating over and over: out of an abundance of caution, with no cause for alarm, stay off the roads, stay at home, stay inside.
Grian says nothing.
Theyāre speeding, but it doesnāt seem to matter. The side-streets are empty. Emptier than Scar thought theyād be in a crisis. It feels like the world has already ended, like theyāre lingering in a post-credits scene that no one was meant to see.
āItāll be fine,ā Scar hears himself say. In the side view mirror, messy and streaked with gore, he can see a column of smoke rising in the distance. A building on fire; maybe more than one. āIām sure of it,ā he insists.
Next to him, Grian remains silent.
Together, they drive.
Notes:
THERE IT ISSS!! >:D We'll be updating every Friday barring any breaks/holidays so please check in once every week for a new addition! We're excited to hear what y'all think!
Also, please check out the fantastic art Lock has done for our AU so far! You can find it here and here!
See you next week! š«
Chapter 2
Notes:
Thank you all so much for your comments and support here and on Tumblr for the fic ;w; It was such a warm reception that honestly it made the wait till posting Chapter 2 feel almost unbearable! But it's Friday now, so here we are with the update! :D
As a reminder, both Scar and Grian are a little bit unreliable in their narration--not out of any deliberate maliciousness, but because it's kinda hard to see the best in a person you just broke up with ;) We haven't tagged it, because it's a mild hiccup in terms of the larger overarching plot itself, but it's good to keep in mind anyhow :D
ENJOY!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
āI think we need to break up.ā
Cub looks at Scar, expression flat behind the square frames of his glasses.
āYāknow,ā Scar continues, voice wavering around the edge of the word. āSpend some time apartā¦ see other people.ā
Cub remains silent, and Scar can feel the awful bloom of embarrassment from a joke failing to land winding slow up his spine. It makes him want to curl in on himself and hide his face in his hands until he can muddle out an apology and explain himself properly.
He thought Cub would be in on the joke and that he wouldnāt have to explain the bit any further in order for him to join in. Now he feels ridiculous, and the hot flush of it makes his face feel like itās on fire.
āI didnāt know you felt that way about me,ā Cub says after a silence that feels interminable, tone almost performatively neutral in its delivery. āBut if thatās what you want, then I suppose Iām going to have to respect your say on the matter.ā
A pause follows, marked only by the smallest up-tick of a grin tugging at the corner of Cubās lips.
āIām keeping the diamonds in the divorce, though.ā
The immediate relief Scar feels is overwhelming, to say the least.
āCub!ā he exclaims, boisterous as the world properly re-aligns itself around him. āThatās not fair! You know you canāt separate a man from his dozens of offshore shell corporations through which heās embezzled his millions.ā
āShouldāve signed a prenup,ā Cub says dismissively, focus slanting away as he returns his attention to the paperwork strewn across his work table.
Scar had invited himself over earlier with no forewarning, and Cub had casually welcomed him into the cluttered workspace heād built up in his garage with practiced familiarity. Heād assured Scar that he was just wrapping up and that Scar would have his full attention in a moment, but that had been hours ago. Usually, Scar was content to wile his time away in the periphery of Cubās company, but now, with the light of afternoon fading into evening, Scar was finally forced to jumpstart his true motive for coming over.
āThe thing is, Cub,ā he says with careful confidence, hoping the segue lands as well as he needs it to. āAs funny as they are, I think weāre gonna have to start tabling some of those kinds of jokes.ā
He can feel the mood shift, the amicable comfort that had spread between them pivoting towards something somewhat sour. Cub turns to look at him, face neutral and hands unmoving where they had just been sorting through the papers on his desk.
āJust,ā Scar adds, doing everything in his power to avoid making direct eye contact with Cub. āYou know, in case.ā
āIn case,ā Cub repeats, flat.
āIn case someone thinks weāreā¦ā
āWeāre...?ā
The sigh wrenches itself out of Scar before he can think it through, mild frustration with Cubās obstinance mixing with annoyance that he even has to say any of this in the first place. āThe thing is, Grian doesnāt find it as funny as we do when we joke about, yāknowā¦ us being a couple.ā
āAh,ā Cub says, and Scar can feel the judgement pressed effortlessly into the single syllable of the word. āGrian.ā
Scar doesnāt want to do thisādoesnāt want the responsibility of curating his friendships this way. He gets where Grian is coming from, of course he does. Itās justā¦ he wishes Grian hadnāt acted as if his friendship with Cub was now secondary in the face of their future together.
He wishes Grian had brought it up sooner if it bothered him so much, instead of letting it linger till he served an ultimatum and sent Scar off to ādeal with it nowā, forcing him to rush into Cubās home unannounced. He resents everything about this, really, but Grian had made it clear to him that the jokes had to go, so Scar was going to do the right thing and smooth out the creases before they had a chance to tangle up further.
He braces himself for the worstāan argument, a dramatic production of anger. At the very least heās expecting Cubās calculating gaze and the weight of their years of friendship levied against the short span of his relationship with Grian.
What heās not prepared for, is an immediate, uncomplicated understanding.
āThat makes sense,ā Cub agrees, and if Scar were standing heās sure his feet would have slipped right out from under him in shock. āIf it makes him uncomfortable, Iām glad he said something.ā
Scar doesnāt expect the relief that washes over him to feel as good as it does, his anxiety draining away in an instant. The fact that this doesnāt have to be a messy situation, that Cub simply takes him at his word and just understandsā¦ but then, when has Cub ever done otherwise? For a moment, heās embarrassed that he expected Cub to shout at or scold him when his friend has never been anything but patient and accepting.
He doesnāt know why he came here preparing for the worst.
āI guess that must make it official then,ā Cub adds, shuffling a stack of papers into a loose pile and tapping their ends to bring them in order. āCongratulations on the boyfriend, Scar.ā
āWell,ā Scar starts, drawing the word out as his face flushes and he busies himself with looking at a spot on the ceiling. āGrian doesnāt want to rush putting a label or anything on us just yet, soā¦ā
He can feel Cubās gaze on him, level and direct.
His silence speaks volumes.
āHe wants us to take it slow,ā Scar finishes lamely, levelling it like an excuse, aware of how flimsy it sounds.
Another tap of papers, Cub working efficiently now to clean up his workspace.
āSure, Scar,ā he says with a forced deference, like he has no emotional investment in the topic at all. āI understand.ā
Scar knows he has more to sayāthat heās about to say itāwords stocked up in the back of his throat, ready to defend Grian and the meticulously ill-defined shape of their relationship. Instead, the garage jerks suddenly, like a film knocked off its reel. The memory stutters in Scarās mindās eye. The images buckle and shake before they begin to fade away, forced into a sudden over-exposed brightness as Scar reluctantly opens his eyes.
He finds himself awake, bent awkwardly in the passenger seat of Grianās sedan, arms cramped from how tightly heās had them folded across his chest, his neck aching from the uncomfortable angle of the headrest. He hadnāt meant to fall asleep, and itās disorienting to find himself surfacing up out of a dream made from a memory he remembers so well.
The last thing he recalls is a spluttering radio broadcast fading into static, Grianās tight grip on the steering wheel as theyād driven out of town, and an uneasy silence laying wretched between them. The roads had been surprisingly empty, which Scar had thought was strange. Heād imagined more chaos in a catastrophe. Traffic backed up for miles, sirens and screaming, with helicopters hovering overhead. He still doesnāt know if the empty roads had been a good sign or not.
He sits up, clearing his throat as he drags himself out of the lingering dredges of the dream, his brain reluctantly reorienting itself.
āOh good, youāre awake.ā
Next to him, Grian is putting the car into park and pulling on the emergency brake, his fingers settling tense on the car door as he casts a wary glance around them. From the looks of things, theyāre in the parking lot of a rest area pulled off the highway via an exit ramp. Thereās a squat, nondescript building for a public washroom, a gas station, and a drive-thru burger chain arranged around a small green space edged with concrete picnic tables and trash bins.
There are no other cars aroundāin fact, there seems to be no sign of life near them at all. It wouldnāt normally be all that alarming, but theyāre not far enough out of the city for a place like this to be completely abandoned at midday.
Scar doesnāt want to investigate it, and blessedly, Grian doesnāt seem inclined to either. Theyāre parked on the edge of the asphalt, as far away from the cluster of buildings as possible. The car is pointed towards the exit back to the highway, as if anticipating the need to make a hasty escape.
āWe need to take stock of what we have, so we know what we need to pick up along the way,ā Grian explains. Matter-of-fact, like heās done this before. āWe should also get gas while weāre here. I didn't think to fill up the tank before I left home this morning.ā
Thereās an edge to his tone, a subtle shifting of responsibility that makes Scar feel like he has something to apologise for. It sits like an uncomfortable weight on his shoulders, making his throat tight as his brain reminds him of just what Grianās put him throughāthat he doesnāt need an attitude like this from him already.
The urge to run and put some distance between them claws at Scarās chest, but he knows itās impossible. Heās stuck here, and Grianās stuck here too.
The two of them.
Together.
Picking up on his silence, Grian finally drags his eyes away from scanning the parking lot and looks at Scar. His expression is pinched, a crease between his eyebrows beginning to form a frown.
āWhat?ā he prompts, and itās clear from his tone that heās already on the defence. āAre you still mad? I told you it wasnāt safe to go back, Scar.ā
While Scar has, quite frankly, more than a few reasons to be mad, thatās not the primary emotion Grian evokes from him when he thinks back to the city.
Itās incredible really, how quickly the narrative has shifted. Grian had stubbornly wanted to stay within city limitsājust in case the police managed to sort things out; just in case this was a one-off scenario that would soon be dealt with. Scar had had to guilt him out here in the first place, and Grian had been obstinate about it the whole time.
It stings more than a little that Grian had shut him down the second Scar had remembered there were others that might need saving.
Or maybe thatās the guilt talking. After all, it had only been when the radio alert had instructed people not to venture out in search of loved ones that Scar had found himself scrambling for his phone, realisation coming too late that theyād fled the city long before heād ever thought of Cub or Pearl.
The horror of it churns in his stomach even nowāscrolling through text after text from Cub, the usual bluntness of his requests slowly transforming to outright begging for Scar to pick up, to respond, to let him know he was okay, did he see the news, did he need Cub to come get him, please, Scar, donāt do anything reckless, itās dangerousā
Scar chokes back a staggered, wet, breath.
It was the dozens of missed calls from Cub, the single cryptic text from Pearl, and the fact that neither of them were picking up when Scar had tried to call them that had changed Grianās tune. Suddenly, he no longer wanted to wait for news while crouched within the city limits. Suddenly they needed to stay on the highway.
Suddenly, they had no reason to turn around.
āIf Cub was trying to call you, that means he was smart enough to get out,ā Grian had argued, vehement, shoulders square as the speedometer crept above the speed limit. āIf we go back, all weāre going to find is that he left ages ago. If youāre out, stay out. Thatās what the broadcast said.ā The words had settled awful between them, Scarās body taut with tension as he resisted the urge to rip the steering wheel out of Grianās hands and turn them back towards his friends.
It had been a meagre olive branch, offered as a paltry comfort, when, after several minutes of bitter silence, Grian had cast a quick glance in Scarās direction and added, āIf anyone is going to stay safe and survive in the face ofā¦ whatever this is, itās Cub.ā
The comfort hadnāt been well-received. Scar had bit the inside of his cheek and stayed silent, knowing the argument had already been lost and that Grian wasnāt about to budge.
It didnāt matter that Cub had tried to call him. It didnāt matter that Scar knew full well that without an answer Cub would have tried to come looking for him. It didnāt matter that Scar knew the scene that wouldāve greeted him was blood and viscera splattered across his entryway, front door left open, his own car still sitting in his driveway as what remained of his neighbours lurched across his lawn.
Grian was driving. And to Grian it wasnāt a priority, so it wasnāt going to happen.
He hadnāt even told him about Pearl coming over the previous night, not willing to face the brunt of his misplaced jealousy. Scarās stomach still twists thinking of her. Had she made it back home safe? Had she found her way to Tilly and gathered up her things in time to escape? Or had she been overcome along the way, taken by surprise because her focus was on Scar and helping him out?
If only heād listened to her musings about the troubling state of the worldāmaybe that wouldāve clued him into something. Maybe then they couldāve escaped together. Maybe theyād have met Cub along the way, and all three of them wouldāve been okay.
But sitting here like this, miles away and unable to contact either of themā¦ it feels like he might as well have killed both of them himself.
The sigh beside him is impatient and cutting, dragging Scar back to the present.
āScarāā
āDo you thinkā¦ā Scar interrupts, still in somewhat of a daze. āDo you think there are more of those things out here?ā
The expression on Grianās face flickers, changing from annoyance to something milder and more human.
āI donāt know,ā he admits at last, casting his attention uneasily towards the too-quiet gas station sitting across from them. āWhile you were asleep we passed a police barrier about an hour outside the city, but no one was at it. The traffic seemed normal, butā¦ā Uncertainty flickers in his eyes, lasting for a moment before itās replaced by something more focused and determined. āThe best thing we can do right now is take stock and get gas, and then keep going.ā
āKeep going where?ā Scar canāt help but ask.
āWell I donāt know, Scar,ā Grian snaps, exasperation returning in an instant. āItās bad enough with theāwith those googlies running around. I donāt have answers, alright? Weāre going to get gas, and weāre going to keep going until we find someone that can tell us whatās going on. Thatās all.ā
The buckle of his seatbelt clicks as he unfastens it. Grian moves with determined confidence, opening the door and stepping out onto the asphalt. Thereās a moment of stillness as they both take a breath, waiting for the world to dissolve into bloodlust around them, but nothing reactsānothing lurches at them out of nowhereāand with it Grianās confidence grows even higher.
āCome out and help me,ā he instructs, and obediently, Scar follows.
He steps out in the heat of noon, the sun shining high in the southern sky with only scant wispy clouds above to offer a fleeting shade.
Itās a beautiful day for the end of the world, the kind of fall weather that Scar wouldāve used to enjoy a stroll in the park, watching people having lunch, playing with their kids, and walking their dogs. Heād have settled back against a park bench and relished the warmth, daydreaming of pulling Grian away from work long enough to seize the day with him.
Instead, he keeps Grian at armās length as he walks around the perimeter of the sedan, gaze constantly scanning the area for any danger before he settles at the trunk, hauling it open and studying the mess Grian has crammed inside.
The time it takes them to assess the contents of the car is passed with Grianās usual brusque efficiency. The cardboard boxes and canvas tote bags containing the leftovers of his life are unloaded. His toothbrush, his extra sleep shirts and workout clothes, his breakfast cereals, several of his DVDs, his non-functioning iPod. There are two blankets rolled up in the trunk, remnants of a picnic date Scar had planned weeks ago that Grian had cancelled on at the last moment. Heād been busy with work, heād said. Scar knows what that means nowāknows that work was a confused looking man standing near the bottom of the stairsāand the way Grianās fingertips flinch when he touches the fabric says heās aware of it, too.
Scarās not polite enough to look away and give Grian a moment to collect himself, and Grianās not foolhardy enough to ask for it, so they continue sifting through his things wordlessly. A lot of it is junk in terms of survival gear, but luckily Grian had kept an emergency bag and first-aid kit in his car, and itās stocked well enough that it feels like they have something to go on, at least.
The monotony of sorting through items makes the earlier tension between them fizzle away, and soon they have an assortment of mismatched goods piled together. They put the things they have no reason to keep with them to one side for discardingāa plastic cactus in a clay pot, magnets Grian had bought as souvenirs but insisted on keeping on Scarās fridge, and a large stuffed bee that Scar had won Grian at a fair several summers ago.
āAw,ā Scar mourns as Grian sets the bee on the curb. āYou donāt want to keep Mr. Bubbles?ā
āI just donāt think weāll get much use from it,ā Grian reasons, though thereās a guilty tilt to his voice as he says it, eyes casting down towards the plush where it sits in a sad lump on the concrete.
Scar doesnāt push. Thereās not much to say anyhow when he essentially agrees with Grian. The truth is, heās just making conversation. Despite how much heād rather have some distance from the person who tore his heart in two, heās always been a social person, and spending time with Grian in silence is far worse than trying to maintain some sort of dialogue with the only person around for seemingly miles. Even if that person is now officially his ex.
Still, it settles melancholy in his chest that everything they have available to them right now originally belonged to Grian. Thereās nothing of Scarās leftānot his clothes, not his books, not the new couch heād only just bought, not his favourite caneā¦ not so much as a scrap of paper with his name on it. He supposes he should be grateful they have anything to pick through at all, but itās not lost on him that the only reason they do is because Scar had told Grian to take his things and go. He tries to ignore itādoesnāt want to pick at a wound that is so fresh it hasnāt yet had the chance to scab overābut it stings in a way thatās unfamiliar and new. It hurts that while he has nothing to get sentimental over, Grian has the luxury of picking out the excess from his trove and choosing to leave parts of it behind.
Scar hasnāt had the chance to make a choice. Not in any of this.
āCome on,ā Grian prompts, changing the topic before Scar has any chance to spiral in his thoughts any further. āWeāll get water and snacks in the gas station, weāll refuel, and then weāre gone.ā
The walk across the empty blacktop takes longer than Scar wouldāve thought, the cautious way they approach making them slow. He feels the tension coiling a tight knot between his shoulders as they approach the double doors of the gas station. Sunlight slanting down from overhead makes it impossible to see inside, showing only their reflection in the streaked panes of glass. Scar catches sight of the same nerves he feels mirrored in Grian, who looks likely to bolt at any second. There are still no sights, no sounds, nothing out of the ordinary to alert them that anything is remotely askew, but in its normalcy it all feels so wrong.
āShould we have brought something? Like a weapon?ā Scar asks, hopeful that maybe Grian kept the tire iron from earlier and hadnāt left it behind when they ran. He keeps his voice quiet, as if afraid to disturb the stillness that wraps all around them.
āWhat weapon?ā Grianās reply comes equally hushed, though itās sharp enough to dash Scarās hopes all the same. āDid you happen to hide a handgun in my glovebox? Or do you just want to wail on someone with Mr. Bubbles?ā
āOkay,ā Scar bristles, feeling his nerves smoulder under the prickle of Grianās ever-critical personality. āIām sorry for asking a questionāā
With a sigh and a dramatic roll of his eyes, Grian carefully pads forward, cupping his hands around his eyes as he leans against the glass of the gas station door and peers inside.
āI donāt see anyone,ā he announces after a careful study of the interior. āSome stuffās knocked over, but it looks dead in there.ā
Scar hesitates, reluctance written in every line of his body as Grianās hand settles on the push-bar of the door.
Itās as Grianās about to enter the gas station that Scar notices it. Off to one side, by an outdoor freezer that looks like it used to have bags of ice inside, is a bucket of sloppy grey water.
Thereās a squeegee sticking up out of it. A squeegee with a long, sturdy handle.
āHang on,ā he whispers, moving towards it despite Grianās small hiss of annoyance and whispered snap of his name. Pulling the squeegee out of the water, Scar lets it drip on the ground, casting Grian a proud grin as he returns and nods towards the door. āOkay, ready.ā
It takes Grian a moment, a flurry of micro-expressions crossing his face before he settles on a look of bewildered exasperation, shaking his head as he carefully pushes on the door and nudges it open.
They both wait, poised and ready. Scar doesnāt know what he expectsāan explosion of activity maybe, a zombified body lurching up from behind every shelf and counter, grasping and clawing and terrible.
He holds his breath, anticipating, but the door simply swings in on its hinges, letting out nothing but a curl of air conditioned air and silence.
Carefully they step in, one after the other, but there are no spring-traps and no sudden horde of undead to disturb them.
āGuess everyoneās got somewhere better to be,ā Scar suggests, optimistic for lack of anything better to say.
Next to him Grian rolls his eyes, but Scar can see the way his shoulders relax, the tension ebbing out as it becomes clear no fresh horror is about to unfold around them.
āGet water, and as many energy drinks as we can carry,ā Grian instructs, and despite the friction between them Scar finds himself following his directions, skirting around a rack of chips towards the stacks of water bottles piled next to the refrigerated walls of pop and soda.
Itās a little awkward to lift the plastic-wrapped cases with one of his hands encumbered by the squeegee, but Scar finally manages to heft two of them up onto his shoulder, casting his eyes around for Grian, who he finds with a wad of plastic bags in his hand, grabbing all the protein bars and beef jerky he can carry with focused determination.
āTheyāve got that cheese-flavoured popcorn you like,ā Scar remarks, but if Grian hears him he doesnāt react, shaking out another plastic bag with a flick of his wrist as he moves over to the stand of chocolate bars, pulling entire boxes off the shelf and bagging them.
He canāt help but feel silly, pointing out Grianās favourites during a crisis while Grian fails to acknowledge him at all. But then again, itās not exactly new behaviour. Their entire relationship was a series of times where Scar put Grianās preferences first, and Grian failed to ever acknowledge Scar had any of his own. He used to dismiss it, making excuses for Grian, justifying him each and every time. Now he knows itās simply because Grian never cared enough to pay attention to him in the first place.
It makes something desperate and spiteful curl in Scarās chest, the sudden desire to be prioritised, to have his needs addressed.
āCan you get me the Reeseās?ā he asks, shifting the water as he attempts to better redistribute the weight.
āIām not a fan of peanut butter,ā Grian answers absently, a fresh plastic bag snapping as he moves to the candy aisle, making a pleasantly surprised noise in the back of his throat. āThey have the good gummy bears, though.ā
Scar feels the sting and pushes out a breath to stay calm through it. He wants to believe itās not Grianās intentional callousness. He wants to blame the tension of the situation, the adrenaline, the uncertainty, but he knows from experience this wouldāve played out exactly the same way with or without a zombie invasion unfolding all around them.
āGrian,ā he repeats, stern, knowing heās making an issue out of something that would seem ridiculous to anyone else. He doesnāt know how to explain that he simply needs this. Needs the chance to assert himself when Grianās already taken so much from him. Itās stupid, he knows, but itās currently all he has. āI want Reeseās.ā
Grianās eyes connect with his over the racks of snacks. Thereās a frown on his features, something frustrated, ready to boil over and cause the same scene Scar desperately wants for himself.
āFine,ā he spits at last, like heās been tasked to do a chore unfairly. āIf itās so important to you.ā
Stubbornly, he rounds the aisle and pushes more chocolate bars into his bag. Thereās a pettiness to it that begs a confrontation, but Scar lets it pass, focusing instead on hefting the water back to the car. He leaves the gas station on his own, and something about that feels both incredible and frightening. The first deep breath heās taken since it all went wrong.
He pushes the cases of water into the back seat and then leans against the side of the car for a moment, taking in the sunlight and the fresh air.
Itās hard to believe anything could be wrong when the world goes on looking so beautiful. Itās idyllic and yetā¦ heās unable to stay for long before the anxiety starts to creep in, a concern for safety heās never felt before, forcing Scar to return to the store to make sure nothingās gone amiss.
Grian is just as heād left him, picking and choosing more items to take off the shelves and only glancing in Scarās direction for a moment as he enters before deliberately looking away again. Feeling magnanimous, Scar picks up a bag of the cheesy popcorn anyway, determined to be the bigger person.
Determined not to stoop to his level.
Itās on their final trip back to the car that it occurs to Scar to check out the drive-thru. At a glance itās equally deserted, and they havenāt even given it a passing look.
He doesnāt know what compels him to veer off from Grian without a wordāa careless action he himself wouldāve scolded Grian for if their positions were reversed. Maybe itās prompted by the earlier serenity he felt, when he was alone in the sunlight, far from the man that had caused him so much grief. Maybe itās prompted by a spiteful independence, the need to prove heās still in charge of some small thing in his life. Maybe heās simply being thoughtless. Whatever the case is, Scar ambles towards the restaurant with a relaxed air, like he has nothing in the world to worry about. Heās not cautious when he puts his shoulder against the door to nudge it open, the abandoned state of the gas station giving him a false sense of security thatās rewarded with hubris as a ghoulish figure lurches out at him, arms extended as it snaps and snarls.
He falls back, nearly tipping over, arms too full to counterbalance himself. The squeegee is completely forgotten, clutched uselessly at his side as the surprise immobilises him. Itās only Grianās shoulder pushed against his spine as he runs up from behind him that keeps Scar from toppling over, saving him from being descended upon and torn to pieces.
Grianās scolding yell catches in his throat as he steadies Scar, pulling him back with desperate urgency.
āScar, what are you doing?!ā
The creatureā personā thingādoesnāt move quickly, shambling on what should be an irreparably broken ankle as it limps through the door and follows them. Blood and spittle slick down its jaw, part of its shoulder mangled with a bloom of grotesque looking bite-marks, groaning wretchedly as it stumbles after them.
Scar watches in haunted fascination as it makes desperate motions towards them, hunger writ in every swipe of its protruding digits. Beyond its mangled arm, affixed to the front of its bloodied shirt, Scar catches sight of an employee name tag, innocuous and unassuming. It sticks ugly in his chest, the idea of a person being reduced to this.
It takes him a second to realise that Grian is shoutingāhas possibly been shouting this entire time. His hand is fisted tight into the back of Scarās shirt, and heās pulling, pulling, hauling Scar towards the car with a desperate urgency, even when it becomes clear the shambling mess of a body canāt possibly keep pace with them.
āāin the car, we have to go. We have to go now, Scar. Why did you open that door, what were you thinkingā?ā
The shock and surprise of the encounter has Grianās fury tuning in and out of Scarās hearing. He finds himself pushed into the passenger seat, door slamming as Grian scrambles to the other side of the car. Through the windshield, Scar watches the stumbling figure. They look to have been about his age, with a beard that wouldāve made them look handsome before it became clotted with gore. Beneath their employee apron theyāre wearing a t-shirt with the logo for Disneyland on it, and the part of Scar not frozen in shock finds that detail amusing.
The zombie is still yards away, barely having passed the picnic tables when Scar spots several others begin to shuffle out after it through the now open restaurant doors.
It solves the mystery of where all the people went, but it doesnāt feel at all satisfying to now have the knowledge.
He doesnāt know if Grian sees the others, but thinks he probably hasnāt when all his attention is focused on getting them out of the parking lot. The tires spin for a second with the speed that Grian applies the gas and then theyāre back on the road and entering the on-ramp for the freeway.
āIām fine, by the way,ā Scar says, still dazed from fright. āIt didnāt even touch me.ā
Grian yells something, loud and upset and angry, speeding too fast as he merges onto four empty lanes, but Scar, still thinking of blood and viscera splattered down the front of a theme park shirt, simply doesnāt hear it.
Notes:
Lock has posted some references on their designs for Scar and Grian in this AU which you can check out here! š
Thanks again for reading! See y'all next week! >:D
Chapter 3
Notes:
WE GOT FANART! šš
Thank you so much to Flykering for this gorgeous piece capturing the end of Chapter 2! Absolutely didn't expect any fanart, so this had us on the floor sobbing fr š« Please check it out and send Flykering your love!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The farmhouse is a bad idea, but itās the only option they have.
From where they sit, parked on the gravel shoulder of a service road that splits off from the highway, they can see the proper entrance to the farm. It lays at the end of a long road that skirts around the edge of several fields. It crosses a culvert and empties into a gravel driveway set between two large silos, a barn on one side and a simple saltbox house with a large garden next to it on the other.
Itās a three minute drive, four at most.
They donāt have enough fuel to get them that far.
While Grian had had the foresight to grab a gas can from a stack by the fuel pumps back at the gas station, they hadnāt exactly had time to fill it up during their hasty exit. Neither of them knew how to syphon fuel, but when theyād found an abandoned car on the highway, theyād stopped to try. Scar, at least, had an idea of how to do it, having watched Cub syphon gas a handful of times, an action that had always seemed both in and out of character when coming from the type of man Scar had always known Cub to be.
Heād tried, at first, to call Cub again for adviceāall while Grian gave him an impatient look and scolded him for āwasting limited batteryāābut unlike earlier, his phone didnāt even connect to Cubās answering machine.
āWeāre sorry, all circuits are busy. Please try your call again later.ā came the dull, electronic voice over the line, and Scar had to wonder how bad the spread had gotten for all phone lines in the areas to be filled to capacity. It had been several hours since theyād left Scarās apartment, but surely that was too short a time for communications to collapse?
Heart heavy in his chest, Scar had typed out yet another text to Cub, letting him know he was still fine, he was still alive, and that if Cub somehow received his message, to please let him know if he was okay. Heād sent the same message to Pearl, and tried not to think too hard about whether she mightāve been safer if sheād never come to comfort him at all.
The texts went through, which had been a relief, but it had also pinged a thought in his head that had made Scar quickly scramble to pull up the browser on his phone. Grian had peered over at his screen out of curiosity, eyes widening as he too remembered the data on their phones. Together, the two of them had tried to pull up site after site, desperate for answers. Unfortunately, it had been to no avail. Whether it was the news or a government webpage or any number of social media sites, nothing connected, either timing out or displaying errors or infinitely loading.
āThere must just be too many people trying to connect right now.ā Grian had reasoned, awkward in his delivery. āLike the phone lines.ā
Or the internetās gone down entirely, Scar had thought, but hadnāt said aloud. He knew Grian felt the same thoughācould see it in the set of his jaw.
āWeāll just have to wing it,ā heād declared, with more confidence than he felt, crouching by the abandoned car and trying to remember exactly what heād seen Cub do.
It had been an awkward few minutes, struggling with the length of hose theyād pulled from Grainās emergency roadside kit, but Scar had finally managed to coax a few litres of fuel out of the car. Litres that theyād burnt through sooner than heād thought they would, leaving the needle of Grianās fuel gauge deep in the red without a single other vehicle on the road.
Desperation is what had driven them to take the exit off the highway when theyād spotted the farm from a distance, and desperation is where they stand now.
āI still donāt know if this is a good idea,ā Scar says, voice deceptively calm.
āI can see three trucks from here,ā Grian reasons, impatient and defensive all at once. āBetween them thereāll be more than a full tank of gas. Thatās what we need right now, Scar.ā
Thereās a multitude of reasons that Scar isnāt a fan of this idea; itās too quiet for one. While the roads have been deserted with no sign or trace of the kind of carnage Scar had come to expect from the copious amounts of apocalypse movie watching with Pearl, it doesnāt bode well that thereās no one around. The silence is eerie and unnatural, the kind that winds a coil of tension tight in his stomach.
Of course, the alternative is coming across unfriendliesāwhether that be living survivors with no intention of working together, or the corpses of those that hadnāt escaped fast enough.
Admittedly, the threat of running into infected ranks at the top of his list.
The large drain water pond that separates them from the farm is a close second.
Itās wideātoo wide to jump across, its banks edged with tall grasses and reeds. Scar doesnāt know if itās ever been used for swimming, but he can see a tatty lawn chair on the opposite bank, left by someone for enjoying secret smoke breaks by the looks of the white butts he can barely make out on one of the armrests. On either end the pond empties into ditches, choked in duckweed and cattails, their sides too steep to clamber out of should they attempt to cross it there.
āI canāt believe they didnāt bother to build a bridge,ā Grian mutters, like the waterās lack of a proper crossing is in every way intentional. āItās gonna take us forever to walk all the way around.ā
āWeāre not gonna walk around,ā Scar scoffs, undoing his seatbelt and climbing out of the car. He doesnāt bother to shut the door behind him as he walks towards the trunk, already pulling the hem of his shirt up in preparation to lift it off over his head.
āScar, jesus!ā Grian squawks, looking away like thereās any semblance of modesty left to protect between the two of them.
āCome on, do you really think thereās anyone out here to see me?ā Scar asks, deadpan, as he undoes his belt. He wants to add more, wants to press that itās nothing Grian hasnāt seen before, but it feels too raw; too soon to be making anything close to approaching a joke like that.
He shimmies out of his pants, leaving him in his boxers as he pops open the trunk and shakes out one of the many plastic bags Grian took from the gas station. Packing his shoes into one, and looking it over briefly before deciding that itās as waterproof as itās going to get, Scar pads barefoot towards the pond. Over his shoulder he can hear Grian muttering a disbelieving, āYou canāt be serious,ā and then heās ankle deep in cold water.
He sinks deep and quickly as the bank slopes down under his feet, and he does his best to keep balance while holding his bagged shoes above his head with one hand. In the end, itās a simple task to effortlessly swim across to the other side.
Itās an easy breaststroke, albeit one-armed, the kind heād do as a warmup before a real swim. After his diagnosis, swimming had become a lifeline for himāa physical activity that was easy on his joints and good for when his muscles were feeling particularly stiff. Heād spent a lot of his time swimming before heād met Grian and started spending all that time with him instead.
The distance across the pond is shorter than the full length of a swimming pool. Scar doesnāt even strain for breath.
On the other side he hauls himself out onto the far shore, dripping water down the planes of his skin. Grinning from the exertion, he casts his attention back towards Grian, finding him standing with his hands on his hips, a mixture of a scowl and an expression that could almost be mistaken for pleasant surprise mixing on his face.
āItās not that bad,ā Scar calls across the water, raising his voice to be heard. āNot even cold, I swear.ā
āI canāt swim,ā Grian objects, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his words, even though Scar can hear him just fine. āNot when I canāt see the bottom.ā
Dimly, Scar feels that he knew this, and itās not something Grian is making up to be intentionally difficult. He could coax Grian overāwith enough persuasion he knows itās possibleābut instead, he upends the plastic bag on the shore, shoving his wet feet back into his shoes before he walks the short distance to the trio of pickup trucks they intend to syphon from.
The first oneās truck bed is empty, but the second yields what heās looking for; a stepladder, just long enough for what he needs, shoved in among a yellow plastic egg crate and several uneven pieces of plywood.
āHere.ā Scar makes his way back, Grian frowning as he returns not to the shoreline, but to the edge of the ditch. āBe careful.ā
Itās not an ideal solutionāin fact, itās barely a solution at allābut it does what they need it to do. The ladder lays flat across the ditch, making a simple bridge that stays stable once Scar jiggles it into place. He nods encouragingly at Grian, gesturing to how it connects either side.
Grian eyes it, openly reluctant as he stands with one foot braced against the rung that anchors the makeshift bridge to his side.
āScarā¦ā
āYou just walk. Try not to look down. Once you get past the halfway point, Iāll put my arm out and Iāll catch you, okay?ā
Scar explains it with confidence and ease, oozing the kind of charm that got him so far in his career before he had to leave it behind. Heās not trying to manipulate Grianāhe knows he can catch him if things go wrong, or swim to fish him out if need beābut he doesnāt think itāll come to that. This should be easy, and will be easy if Grian just agrees to go along with it.
āIāllā¦ I can crawl,ā Grian says, after a moment spent scrutinising the ladder. āJust make sure you hold it steady.ā
āItās steady,ā Scar assures him, crouching down to brace his hands against either edge of the ladder, holding it in place as Grian tentatively sets his foot on the first rung.
His crossing is not graceful or dignified; nothing like the standard Grian usually holds himself to. But one awkward, shuffled, crawl-step at a time, Grian manages to creep across the ladder-bridge to the other side. Heās ungainly as he puts both hands, then knees, on solid ground, pulling himself up into a crouch, entirely ignoring the hand Scar extends out to him as he gets up on wobbling feet.
āPut your clothes back on,ā he mutters, pushing Scarās shirt and pants into his outstretched palm before he proceeds to brush himself off. Scarās hand closes around his clothes automatically, and he steps back to give Grian space. He pries his wet feet out of his shoes, stepping one foot and then the other into his pants, legs still damp from his swim but not about to complain about it to Grian.
Scarās never been easily embarrassed about nudity, but heād have at least hung his head a little at the scolding if he hadnāt noticed the way Grianās eyes had glanced down his chest and torso as he handed him his shirt. He looks from top to bottom, his gaze roaming across Scarās body in a quick once-over that Scar is so familiar with; used to take pride in, even. Before Grian threw it all away, his lingering attentions would curl up warm in Scarās chest. Now all it brings is a mix of melancholy and regretāScar doesnāt care to be attractive to Grian anymore. Heād rather not feel seen by him at all.
āI didnāt know you could swim that well,ā Grian says, awkwardly conversational as Scar wrestles his pants up his thighs.
āWell. You donāt know everything about me,ā Scar replies, more short than he intends to be. Heās not being callous on purpose; thatās never been his style, though a part of him argues that after everything he has a right to be. Itās justā¦ he may be stuck with Grian for now, but it was only yesterday that heād caught him with another man. This is part of setting a clear distance between the two of them and reminding Grian where they stand.
Theyāre not dating.
Theyāre not friends.
Theyāre not anything.
Not anymore.
Regardless, his curt response puts an end to their chit-chat and Grian looks away, face flushed with what Scar hopes is some semblance of shame.
āIāll get the gas,ā Grian says, scuffing the sole of his shoe into the grass, pushing up a clump of soil. āYou check the house.ā
āCheck for what?ā
āStuff we can use,ā Grian explains simply, and it sticks weirdly in Scarās head. Grianās tone suggests that he doesnāt expect any other people around. It pushes something uncomfortable into the back of Scarās mind, fearful and desperate.
For all that Scarās grateful not to be alone in the apocalypse, heās not about to accept a future where he has only the man who cheated on him for company.
āWeāre not the only survivors,ā Scar reasons, as much a rationale as it is a request for reassurance.
Grian studies him, eyes dark and hand flexing on the plastic handle of the gas can. It takes him a moment before he says, deferentially, āWell, if there are others inside, maybe you can make some new friends.ā
His words make Scarās heart jump in his chest, surprised by how close Grian got to Scarās line of thought. He doesnāt refute the statement, and Grianās lips thin as his mouth twists, his expression unreadable as he turns away. The exchange brokers no additional conversation, and before Scar can so much as wave, Grian is setting off in a direct line towards the pickup trucks on the driveway.
With a sigh, Scar heads off towards his own task.
As soon as he gets close, he can tell from the state of the porch that no one will be inside the house to greet him. The front door hangs open, innocuous but telling, the screen door torn to one side. Scar wants to imagine that itās for a reason far better than the one that caused him to leave his own front door open in his desperation to get away, but he knows in his heart thatās impossible. He hesitates to ring the doorbell, and instead raps his knuckles against the wood frame, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark of the mudroom before he fully steps inside.
He can tell at a glance that this is a house that held generations. Family portraits line the walls; graduation photos, snapshots from weddings, baby pictures in pretty frames. The kitchen and living room are full of the clutter of busy people and overlapping lives, a harvest schedule pinned on the fridge right next to a chore wheel and grocery list. Dishes sit in the dishrack, a fresh round of dirty plates piled expectantly in the sink. Thereās a basket of laundry set on a footstool in the living room, mismatched socks layered on top of neatly folded sets of sheets ready to be put away. Everything about the home has the look of busy people caught mid-sentence.
He wants to believe their absence means they got out in time.
He hopes they had the chance to take more with them than he did.
Normally, Scar considers himself an opportunist, but he finds that he doesnāt like the way it feels to pick through the home of people heās sure will never be back to see it again. The feeling constricts around his heart, overwhelming empathy for a family heāll never know.
He doesnāt open any drawers or cupboards, doesnāt pry too deeply into the lives of unfortunate strangers. He feels bad for them, and honestly, not that much better for himself. He regrets his intrusion into a scene that looks so quietly untouched, and yet a part of him feels that this is important, that he needs to see all this so that he can better understand the magnitude of whatās unfolding all around them.
Quietly, he takes the stairs up to the second level, feeling the mounting pressure that heās trespassing where he shouldnāt be. The stairs creak with the familiarity of old wood, and he canāt help but picture children stepping in precise locations to avoid the noise, the secret codes of the house passed down through generations. Heās expecting bedrooms when he reaches the landing, and thatās exactly what he finds. The doors are left open, everything ready to be returned to.
He tries not to look at the walls, avoiding the pressure of humanizing the homeās former occupants any more than he already has. He tries to remind himself that survival is whatās important here. That he has to prepare for the worst of what the elements could offer. He hopes it wonāt come to thatāhopes things will somehow sort themselves out before the chill of fall fades into the frost of winterābut something in his gut tells him that itās a foolās hope.
With staunch practicality, Scar picks a throw quilt up from the foot of an unmade bed. He uses it like a makeshift pack, grabbing two clean towels from the linen closet and a plastic-wrapped six-pack of toilet paper from the hallway bathroom before rolling the whole thing up securely. He hesitates for a moment in the bathroom, contemplating if heās about to take a strangerās toothbrush, but ultimately turns away instead. He grabs a large red flannel overshirt thrown into a laundry hamper as he leaves, the colour catching his eye because itās always been Grianās favourite.
Itās not stealing, he tells himself; repeats it over and over like a mantra. Itās borrowing. Heās borrowing. And if the owners want their stuff back, then they can show up and tell him so themselves.
Itās in the last roomāclearly the master bedroom by the size and layoutāthat he finds it.
A brown aviator jacket, sheepskin collar and dappled with patches, draped over the back of a chair. He almost passes itāheās not here for a fashion statement, and Grian would roll his eyes at the choice for sure, but the cut of the coat looks wide, and itās rare for him to find clothes that fit his broad shoulders. Itās a bit awkward, setting down his pile of borrowed items, but he manages to do it without unraveling the throw quilt and spilling things everywhere.
Scar grabs the jacket and takes a second to slip his arms into the sleeves, hiking it up his shoulders and grinning when he feels how well it fits him. The leather is realānone of that plastic, faux nonsenseāand itās soft to the touch. Although there are some worn in creases from years of use, itās obviously been well taken care of, if the absence of scuffs and general sheen of it is anything to go by. It mustāve meant a lot to the original owner, and Scar feels like it would be doing a disservice to them if he didnāt take a moment to appreciate how it looks, despite the mounting pressure that makes him feel they cannot linger here.
Grianās probably already filled the gas tank. Heās probably standing impatiently by the ladder bridge, arms crossed and sighing in annoyance every few seconds. With a wistful sigh, Scar turns to leave the room without looking for a mirror, making sure to grab their scavenged goods as he goes.
Heās on his way back down the stairs, the few borrowed necessities tucked under his arm, an out of place spring in his step and a hum in his throat at the thrill of a new jacket, when he finally notices it.
Set off to the right of the staircase, recessed down a shallow hall, thereās a doorway, the kind that leads into either a basem*nt or a crawlspace.
The door is shut tight, wedged in place by a chair that, from the looks of it, was dragged in from the dining room. On the front of the door itself, marked quickly by a duct tape roll that lays discarded on the floor a few feet away, is a huge X, marked so prominently that it feels jarring.
A warning.
Scar takes a moment, pausing midway down the stairs. Part of him wants to creep in and investigate closer, but he remembers with clarity the drive-thru, and what happened the last time he went poking around somewhere without letting Grian know.
Thereās a nauseating, dreadful twist in his gut as he continues to stare, understanding with perfect clarity what lies behind the barrier.
There were people here. Not all that long agoāhours, maybe. A couple days at most, if it started here before it hit the city where he and Grian lived. People just like him, just like Grianā¦ Just like the neighbour who had thrown their mangled body full speed at Grianās car. Just like the stranger at the gas station who had stumbled out of the restaurant.
For a moment, Scar stands on the bottom step, overwhelmed by the sheer scope of it, the reality that this isnāt a concentrated event or an outlier. That thisāwhatever it isāis widespread, and not something they can simply drive away from. He feels the pressure like a vice gripping his chest, pressing tight to his sternum as it becomes suddenly difficult for him to take a proper breath. This isnāt the time or place to have a panic attack, but he feels it looming, a wave rolling above him, the full force ready to crash down.
If theyāre the only people left aliveāif itās just him and Grianāif the last person heās ever going to know is the man he caught cheating on him less than twenty-four hours ago. If his choice is a life with him, or a life entirely aloneā
The blocked door thumps suddenly.
Itās a listless sound, less like itās being intentionally knocked against and more like itās being nudged by the meandering passage of a shoulder dragging against the wall as a body circles the interior of the room.
Immediately, the noise is answered by a clattering in the kitchen, and the existential panic gripping Scarās chest shifts into something far more pressing.
Itās not Grian. He knows itās not Grian.
Grian wouldnāt wander in silent. Grian would announce himself, loudly.
He doesnāt like what else that means it could be.
With his arms full of jackets and blankets and towels, Scar moves quietly down off the last step.
The living room is in front of him, and through an open doorway he can see into the kitchen. Itās there, stumbling slowly out of the walk-in pantry, that Scar spots the source of the sound.
A womanāonceāmaybe the same age as him, maybe younger, skin mottled and blotched, dark with blisters that bloom around a series of bite marks trailing down one arm. The gore itself seems contained, less mutilated than the others Scar has seen in his short induction into this awful horror.
Her movement is aimless, dragging herself against the edge of the kitchen counter until she bumps blindly into the fridge, heedless of the magnets and coupons she sends scattering to the floor. Scar doesnāt know if she can see, doesnāt know if she knows if she can see. All he knows is that he needs to leave. Every second spent standing in the living room is a second towards her noticing him, and the catastrophe that will inevitably unfold the moment that happens.
And yet, a terrible sort of sympathy grips him in place, and he finds he canāt bear to move.
Sheās wearing a hoodie with āGraduating Class 2004ā printed on the back. Itās well worn, the kind of sweater youād only put on while at home, on a day where you donāt have plans that take you outside. Scar canāt help but try to imagine how her last moments unfolded. Who was the first to turn in this house? Was she weeping, when sheād been bitten all the way down her arm? Was she shaky and delirious, pressing her already infected family members into the basem*nt and barricading the door? How long after that had it taken for her to succumb? How quickly until sheād been lost herself? Did she have time to apologise? To say goodbye?
Scar canāt push forward, canāt wrench himself away from the sight of her. She turns slowly to face the other wall, hands grasping blindly at the sink. Itāll be only a matter of seconds before her wandering has her turning in his direction. Scar has a rapidly closing window of opportunity to sneak out past her, to leave her be and to put all of this behind himā
The axe comes out of nowhere, swinging down harsh and violent. It embeds deep in her shoulder, sticking for a second before itās jerked free and brought down again into her skull right above her ear.
Scar doesnāt have time to brace, isnāt at all prepared. The axe rises and falls again, againāthereās no fight, no struggle. Any instinctive reaction she might have had is robbed of her as she collapses in a pile of loose, disorganised limbs.
Putting his foot against what remains of her shoulder, Grian jerks the axe free, looking at Scar with his face pursed into a scowl.
āWhat the hell are you doing?ā
Itās snapped rhetorically, giving Scar no time to reply before Grianās stomping forward, hands out, snatching the bundle of blankets from Scar and turning sharply towards the kitchen door.
āYouāre going to get yourself killed, and then where will that leave us?ā
Scar knows Grian isnāt expecting an answer, and heās not sure he wants to provide one.
āShe was just getting a drink,ā he hears himself say, deflecting the question with as much casual humour as he can manage with his mind still so deeply unsettled. āYou got something against staying hydrated?ā
āNowās not the time, Scar,ā Grian sighs, and Scar can practically hear him rolling his eyes. He stops at the front door, holding it open expectantly, but when Scar hangs back, looking down at the corpse thatās mangled and spread out on the floor, Grian doesnāt wait for him.
āI got the gas,ā Grian passes back over his shoulder. āIām going back to the car. Donāt dawdle. Who knows how many more there are lurking in the corners.ā
Behind him, in the living room, Scar can hear the low moaning from behind the door, alerted by the commotion. Itās disconcerting, the rhythmic thump of bodies pressing against it in an effort to break free. He tries his best not to think backāto soft thumps coming from upstairs as he stood on the threshold of Grianās front door.
He tries not to think at all.
Making his way into the kitchen and stepping over the corpse, Scar reaches into the dishrack, removing a glass and leaning awkwardly against the counter to avoid getting his feet in the gore. He fills it slowly with water from the tap, kneeling down and setting it on the floor near to what was once her outstretched hand.
āIām sorry,ā he says; to the corpse, to her infected family members barricaded behind the door, to the world at large, to himself.
He stands back up, wishing there was something more he could do, knowing his gesture is silly and pointless at best. He leaves the house, carefully shutting the door behind him as he goes, like heās closing the final chapter on the people who used to reside within.
Grianās already crossed the ladder bridge, standing near the car with his arms folded across his chest, looking impatient even from a distance. Feeling guilty for making him wait, Scar jogs across the driveway to catch up to him, ignoring the spike of pain that spiderwebs up from his knee and digs into his pelvic joint.
āItās about time,ā Grian grunts, hefting the second gas can into the trunk as Scar finally catches up.
Without a word he gets into the car, continuing to process the way the world around them has forever been changed, silent as he closes his door and looks out through his window at the farmhouse sitting still across the pond. Grian shuffles into the driverās seat with some mumbled words Scar doesnāt hear, though he does catch the way his gaze lingers momentarily on the new coat heās acquired.
When he notices Scar watching him, he scowls.
āYouāre welcome, by the way,ā he says, and Scar is forced to confront the fact that Grian, in no uncertain terms, has now killed for him. Twice. It doesnāt matter that they were technically these grotesque undead. What counts is that Grian moved without hesitation, valuing Scarās life above anything and anyone else.
Scar doesnāt know how to feel about it. He supposes he should show some gratitude, offer some words of thanksā¦ but all he can think of is how itās funny that Grian is willing to put his own life on the line for him, is willing to kill for him, but still somehow didnāt care enough to stay faithful to him.
Grian saved his life.
Grian broke his heart.
Scar stays silent.
Itās obvious that Grian was expecting some sort of response, but when the acknowledgement fails to come he turns away from him, tone rough and prickly as he says, āLetās go. Thereās a rest area six hours from here. If we drive straight through, we can sleep there for the night and see what the situationās like in the morning.ā
Thinking of the family of strangers, alone in their farmhouse, far from the ravages of the cityā¦ Scar doesnāt believe the morningās going to be any better. Nevertheless, he nods, works up enough of his voice to say, āLet me know if you want to switch off on driving.ā and thatās as close to āthank youā as he thinks he can get.
He can feel Grian staring at him as he turns back to look out the passenger-side window, but despite the momentary pause, thereās no further conversation as Grian starts up the car and steers them back onto the road.
Notes:
We've updated our tumblr a bit! :D Dunno how many of you still use it on desktop, but check out our Scarian theme and our new pinned post! (It's got some lovely new TAMN art ;3)
Things will slowly start to pick up from next chapter! Stay tuned >:)
Chapter 4
Notes:
More gorgeous fanart!! š Please show your love to the artists for all their hard work!!
First, this fantastic little comic by i-crave-sleep from Chapter 2!
Second, another lovely piece by Flykering from Chapter 3!
And third, this gorgeous, vivid work by Dizzovskey!
Thank you all sooo much! š« Honestly, we're both so overwhelmed with gratitude for the love and encouragement--really didn't expect this level of support for the fic and we're lowkey still dumbstruck that we now have all this art to print and put on all our walls HAHA To you three and to everyone reading along, we're so, SO thankful to you for every kind word and action š
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The sun rises. A rusty smear against an overcast horizon.
Itās chilly in that southwest November way. While theyāre too far south for it to get particularly cold when the sun is shining high up in the sky, in the early hours of the day itās another story. Thereās a bite in the air; a warning for the winter season to come.
Scar is awake. Heās been awake since just past five in the morning, when Grian had nudged him with his elbow and said it was time for him to take his turn on watch. Wrapped up in his borrowed coat and a throw quilt, heās been able to keep mostly warm, though heās glad to see the sun rise through the windshield with the promise of the dayās heat to follow.
Itās surprisingly boring being on watch. Heās never had to do it before, sitting up alone in the dark on the off-chance that something might happen. From what he had seen in movies and shows, heād expected it to be more nerve-wracking. Constant tension and watching your back to make sure no one snuck up behind you. Instead, the hours had passed, slow and miserable, with too much time to think and nothing to distract himself with.
Behind him, spread across the back seat in a far more comfortable looking sprawl than the one that Scar had managed for himself, Grian is still asleep. His shorter stature fits snugly in the back in a way Scarās long limbs simply couldnāt, his joints still aching from having attempted it hours ago.
Grianās breath is heavy, bordering on a snore. Scar used to find the sound endearing. Now it grates on him. One of a myriad of Grianās formerly delightful quirks that suddenly rub him the wrong way.
āGrian,ā he says, coughing to clear his throat as the syllables catch on his tongue. He waits a moment, but when Grian doesnāt stir, he reaches back and shakes him twice, firmly. āGrian, cāmon, time to wake up.ā
Grianās eyelids flutter but stay closed, brows furrowing in sleep-addled confusion.
āB?ā
Itās an unconscious accident, surely, a slip of the tongue that Grian isnāt awake enough to catch in time, but Scar feels it like a blow to the chest.
A sharp burst of pain and fresh betrayal rushes through him, hot and humiliating, running all the way down to the very tips of his fingers.
Unaware, Grian breathes a frustrated sigh, mumbling quiet into the bend of his arm. āYou shouldnāt have stayed over. I told you not to.ā
He should have expected this, really. Scar had assumed that Grian cheating on him hadnāt been a one time thing, and yet, somehow having it confirmed by the familiarity in Grianās voice as he mumbles out the name of his lover is suddenly too much to bear. Scar feels like his heartās been swallowed by his lungs; squeezed and constricted into breathlessness.
Sensing the silence, Grianās eyes shoot open, reality setting in fast as he sits up, face flushed and expression twisted into something both guilty and ashamed.
āScar.ā
The inside of the car feels impossibly small, not remotely large enough to contain the two of them and all the emotions Scar is feeling, welling up hot and heavy and ready to explode. He doesnāt realise the car door is open until heās slamming it behind him, taking long strides away from the vehicle as he stomps down the soft shoulder of the rest stop parking lot theyād pulled off into for the night. The arid soil kicks up dust clouds under his feet and he knows heās making a scene, but thereās no oneāno oneāhere to see it but Grian. And frankly, Scar doesnāt care what Grian thinks about his reaction.
Bitterly, he wishes he could skip to the part where he doesnāt care about Grian at all.
He takes a deep breath, staring up at the brightening sky, hands clenched into fists so tightly they hurt. He hates this. Hates being stuck, trapped next to the person who caused all this. Hates feeling anger with nowhere to put it. Hates feeling stupid and short-sighted and broken-hearted. Hates knowing that this is as much distance as heās going to get from the source of all his anguish, that the most he can afford is several minutes kicking sand next to the clumps of sagebrush and brittle, dry grass before the risks of drawing unwanted attention outweigh the catharsis of physically working the negativity out of his system.
In a normal world heād spend several weeks pouring his heart outāsubtly, too-politely, trash-talking Grian to everyone he knows while also painstakingly removing him from every single one of his social media posts; heād have his friends to keep his head above water every time his mind spiraled, trying to insist he mustāve done something to deserve it, that this was his fault, really. That he pushed Grian into this.
Theyād be exes, and heād eventually get on with his life.
In this world heās seen Grian cleave a blunt object through the skull of an undead monster. For him. Twice.
In this world, Grian calls out someone elseās name while he dreams.
In this world...
Grianās the only one he has.
He feels sick.
It takes Scar a few minutes to calm down, clutching to the front of his shirt and leaning over just in case he vomits. He tries his best to stay grounded, thoughts swimming with a sharpness that warns of an impending headache. He squeezes his eyes shut tight enough to see static, and breathes in and out shakily.
When he finally comes back to the car, Grian is sitting in the driverās seat with the door kicked wide open, eating a granola bar and refusing to make eye contact.
āThought I saw something,ā Scar lies, and Grian doesnāt press it.
He accepts the granola bar Grian hands him even though heās not remotely hungry, opening it and chewing on automatic. He doesnāt notice until the last bite that Grian had given him the peanut butter oneāhis favourite.
He doesnāt know how thatās supposed to make him feel.
āShould we look around?ā Grian asks, a foghorn in their silence. Itās obvious that heās desperate to bleed out the tension thatās blocked up between them by changing the subject and Scarās too tired to fight it. āWe got through the night in one piece. Donāt think there are any googlies here.ā
It makes sense. From what Scar has been able to discern, they mustāve been hit by the very start of the infection and acted quick enough to avoid the chaos. Theyād left the city immediately and then stayed far off the beaten path. Grianās navigation has kept them out of the thick of anything consequential or dire, staying ahead of any horde that mightāve been created in the home they left behind.
Theyād been lucky to get this far and only see a handful of corpses in the distance, shambling aimless around rest stops and overturned vehicles.
Scar just hopes that luck doesnāt run out the second they let their guards down.
Theyāve gleaned a few meagre updates from looping radio broadcasts that have phased in and out as theyāve drivenāitās all a mish-mash conflicting instructions; calls to avoid city centres, to shelter in place, to head for designated safety areas, or that itās every person for themself. The last transmission theyād heard was an advisory for people to move north if at all possible in order to avoid epicentres of infection, which had seemed as good a direction as any. Neither of them wants to recreate the chaos of their first encounter, so sticking to isolated rest-stops and out-of-the-way gas stations has served them well thus-far.
āNot like thereās anything better to do,ā Scar says, brusque despite himself. In his periphery he sees Grianās head shrink down into his shoulders and he tries his best not to feel a bitter curl of satisfaction at it.
The place theyād chosen to spend the night is slightly more extravagant than their previous pit-stops. A roadside attraction, advertised by large hand-painted billboards propped up by old cars spaced along the side of the highway, boasting genuine extraterrestrial artifacts and proof of alien encounters. The displays trackātheyāve been skirting the edge of Roswell, after allābut itās still a bit darkly comedic. The proof of aliens sits largely out of place and grossly inconsequential in the face of a true-to-life, zombie outbreak.
Still, by the light of day, with seemingly no one else around, it seems worth exploring. If nothing else, Scar figures it will get his mind off of the enormous, traitorous elephant sat between them.
āCome on, then,ā Grian mumbles, and Scar glances over the gear he wants to take with him while Grian takes the car out of park.
They drive closer to the cluster of adobe buildings covered in bright signage and colourful streamers. Light-catchers flash in the early sun as they twist from strings hung off the overhangs outside every doorway. Itās a kitschy tourist trap, the kind Scar wouldāve wanted to stop at anyway were the situation not so dire. The irony of it is not lost on him as he gets out the second Grian parks the car, impatiently tapping his feet while he waits for Grian to join him.
Scarās got the axe from the farmhouse wielded in front of himself protectively. The bladeās been cleaned, and Scar wonders if thatās what Grian had been doing as Scar had taken his time leaving the house. Somehow, the picture of Grian crouched over and wiping down grime and gore with nothing but water and scrap cloth is not as jarring to imagine as it should be. He wonders if maybe heās already becoming numb to whatās happening. If it all somehow pales in comparison to the heartache in his chest.
Nevertheless, heās glad for the safety the weapon provides, and when Grian finally joins him by the entrance to the building closest to them, he sees the way he eyes the axe in Scarās hands with approval. The two of them pause for a moment, wordlessly looking around for any signs of life; reanimated or otherwise. When they donāt see or hear anything, Grian nods at him, and Scar pushes open the door.
The building they enter is a single large room, lit with soft fluorescents and cluttered with shelves, glass cases, photographs, and shadow boxes. Itās filled to the brim with hundreds of maps, diagrams, photographs, and newspaper headlines amassed into an organised chaos, a lifetime of sifting and collecting conspiracy theories and government cover ups. At the centre of the room, there are two small pedestals hold bits of plaster and papier mache, a diorama supposedly recreating the sight of an alien landing in a nearby valley, and a variety of pebbles and stones set in a hermetically sealed box that alleges proof of an extraterrestrial encounter.
Nothing charges at them, no bodies lurking around the displays.
Itās empty, and theyāre alone.
Scar wanders inside, catching a sign marking this building as a āMuseumā and smiling to himself about it as he leans over the glass and inspects the contents inside more closely. Grian shuffles behind him, much more reserved. Together, they meander from display to display, but only for a handful of minutes before Grian abruptly disregards the space, classifying it as useless and urging them on.
āWe canāt dawdle,ā he insists, but thereās a reluctance to it, the words said cautiously, hyper-aware of the fragility of their dynamic.
āCāmon Grian,ā Scar says, unable to help himself from getting a little caught up in the novelty of the place. āThereās always time for legitimate proof of an alien encounter.ā
āThereās nothing legitimate here, Scar,ā Grian sighs. āThis is a lot of hokum and you know it.ā
āTheyāre pretty persuasive totally-normal-looking rocks,ā Scar counters, and the sigh it evokes from Grian warms something deep and satisfied within Scarās chest.
In the past, he used to delight in the ways he could get Grian to heave a beleaguered sigh at his antics. Now, he tries to convince himself that he simply enjoys grating on Grian as much as Grian grates on him.
They leave the museum at as much of a snailās pace as Scar can muster and cross a small paved courtyard between the buildings to enter whatās garishly labelled as The Extra Terrestrial Emporium and Gift Shop. This fares them slightly better, though not by much. The normal gas station fare is juxtaposed with more alien-themed tchotchkes than Scar thought existed in the world. On t-shirts, coffee mugs, shot glasses, fridge magnets and moreāall have the classic bulging black eyes on a bulbous-shaped head, and disc-shaped flying saucers.
They help themselves to a display of local beef jerky, emptying the majority of it into a tote bag Grian pulls down off a display board next to some t-shirts and hoodies.
Next to the cash register thereās a slushie machine, which continues to churn despite days without any human interaction. The flavour is listed as Alien Green and a part of Scar wants to try it.
āDo you dare me?ā He asks, nodding towards the neon green slush.
āI dare you not to,ā Grian says, beleaguered.
A petty part of Scar wants to drink it to spite him, but he loathes the idea of food poisoning, imagining himself hunched over the side of the road with Grian condescendingly saying āI told you soā while a shambling undead horde advances.
Instead, he takes a selection of puzzle books and crosswords off a wire rack. Things that will occupy time on the road and give them something to do outside of sitting in animosity and silence. He grabs a couple of pencils too, with alien shaped erasers on the end, as well as some other knick knacks that might come in handy, like a lighter with a bright green sun screen printed on the casing and a metal nail file with planets painted on the handle. Itās as heās rummaging through a bin of discount plushiesāall cheaply made and unravelling at their seamsāthat he spots it.
āOh my god.ā
The words escape him on instinct, a knee-jerk reaction as he abandons the toys and races to pick up the item that caught his eye.
Itās a disposable camera; the cheap plastic shell wrapped in green decal with the word FUJI printed on it in large capital letters.
āGrian.ā He holds it up like a prize, something remarkable, every other emotion sliding away as he gets swept up in the novelty of his discovery. Even Grian looks excited, a grin of recognition spreading across his face as he steps closer.
āHavenāt seen one of those in years,ā he says with the fondness of youthful nostalgia.
Itās true, Scar hasnāt either. Not since he was a teenager, away at summer camps and out on weekend trips. He remembers counting down how many photos he had left, mindful not to waste the limited roll of film. And yet they were always photos taken in haste regardlessāwashed out or reflecting too much light from the sun. That never mattered in the end though. Once theyād been developed theyād been precious snapshots to him all the same.
āI canāt even remember how these work,ā Scar mumbles, turning the camera over in his hands, squinting at the tiny instructions on the back, and sighing when the letters swim in front of eyes, unreadable. He rips open the packaging, making note of the bold ā27 photosā marked on the front and committing it to memory as he marvels at how little of the cameraās design has changed in the decade since he last held one. āIt shouldnāt be too hard to guess though, right?ā
āYou gotta wind it. Hereāā Stepping forward, Grian inserts himself into Scarās personal space without a second thought, deft hands taking the camera from him with familiar confidence. It sends a tension up Scarās spine, an urge to back away crawling through him, but he resolutely shoves it aside. Instead, he watches Grian focus on the camera with his head bent, heedless of the stiffness that has crept into Scarās posture; a rigid discomfort at having him so near.
Confident fingers advance the film, Grian popping up the flash prior to tilting the camera up at Scar, snapping a photo almost before he says the words.
āSay cheese.ā
The camera clicks and Grian immediately passes it back to Scar, their palms brushing at the gesture. With the camera pressed into Scarās hands, Grianās focus slides easily, unaware of the subtle shift in the air. His attention alights like a bird as he gravitates towards a rotating rack of keychains and fridge magnets set next to a shelf of large, alien-head shaped mugs.
Scar feels a tingling in his fingertips, like an electric current running through him. Itās the first scrap of entertainment heās had in days, the first thing theyāve done thatās been fun and not linked to survival and horror and grief. Heās near giddy with it, delighted by the simple accomplishment of taking a picture. Grianās hands around the camera, the smile on his face prompting one of Scarās own, even before heād said the wordsā¦
He doesnāt want to admit it was nice. Doesnāt want to give Grian the kindness.
āDo they have our names?ā he asks, forced-casual as he stays rooted in his spot, busying himself by winding the camera to line up the next photo.
āThey never have our names,ā Grian commiserates, distracted as he scans the keychains, letting them rattle together as he slowly turns the display. āGood news if youāre a Karl or a Dave or a Xelqua, though.ā
āOh good, we know plenty of them. Some souvenirs for the office.ā
Grian scoffs absently and itās enough mild approval that, out of habit, Scar pursues it. Itās better this way, he reasons. Itās better to keep the line of communication open and not let things stumble back into awkward, disjointed interactions between them. For better or worse, they only have each other after all.
āHow ābout this, Grian?ā He picks up a t-shirt that has āI went to Roswell and all I got was [censored by AREA 51]ā printed on it in neon green.
āEverything here is awful,ā Grian says, rolling his eyes before he holds out his hand. āHereāgive me the camera and Iāll take a picture of you with it.ā
Scar canāt help himself, grinning as he passes it over to Grian. He doesnāt think as he holds the t-shirt up to his chest, winks at the camera, and waits for the click of the shutter. Thereās no way theyāll be able to get the film developed. He's not even sure if these are memories he really wants to preserve. But he doesn't think about any of it, simply letting himself be led around the abandoned gift shop, posing for Grian when prompted, and chuckling together at the absurdity on display all around them.
He counts down the remaining photos, click after click after click, a force of habit. He tries not to dwell on how monumentally pointless it all feels now.
Itās only when Grian grabs his hand as they exit the gift shop that it all comes crashing down.
The fun fantasy of wandering through a store together, laughing and teasing like they used to do, abruptly shatters the moment Grianās hand interlocks with his own. Suddenly Scar is thrown back into the foyer of the townhouse, the grim resignation on Grianās face when he met him in the kitchen, the stranger standing on the stairs as Scar told him they were throughāthe stranger whose name Grian had murmured into his elbow while half asleep only an hour ago.
āIs there a timer on the camera?ā Grian asks, smiling, swept up in the moment and oblivious to Scarās abrupt change of mood. āLook, you can set it up here and we can go pose.ā
He points excitedly to the lid of a trash can directly across from a plywood photo-op. On it, there are two gangly grey alien bodies standing in front of a flatly painted scene of the desert at night, a flying saucer glowing and hovering in the background. Holes have been cut in the painting where the alienās faces would be, leaving gaps so that people can stand behind and stick their heads through. Itās the sort of thing they would have done as a couple, that Scar would have enthusiastically dragged Grian to, that theyād laugh and joke about looking at the pictures later.
Scar canāt stand the thought of doing it together now.
āThis isnāt a date,ā he remarks, blunt, noting the way Grianās eyebrows fly up before he flinches and pulls his hand away. āIāll hold the camera and take a picture of you, if you want.ā
āNo,ā Grian replies quickly, cheeks flush with embarrassment that Scar canāt help but feel he deserves. āI was being stupid. Nevermind.ā
Scar wants to drive the point home, but he canāt bring himself to muster up the effort for it. Itās a bad crash. He got too caught up in how much he was enjoying the moment, relieved at the sense of normalcy after everything theyād gone through. It lowered his guard. Stupid.
Thereās no going back thoughānot to moments ago, and certainly not to how they used to be.
Itās all gone now. Completely erased.
āAlright then.ā As easily as that, their lighthearted exploration is over. Scar shoulders what little theyāve pilfered from the gift shop and adjusts his hold on the axe before he starts back towards the car. āLet me know when youāre done looking around and we can go.ā
He doesnāt look at Grian as he says it, opening the trunk and dividing their new supplies between the space there and the backseat. He hopes Grian takes more time to poke around the area. He wants to be alone.
Getting into the car, he pushes the passenger seat back and flattens it out as far as itāll go before settling into it properly. He waits a minute, and then another, but thankfully Grian doesnāt show up. His impulse is to take a nap, but the only thing worse than falling asleep and being woken up by an irritable Grian, is falling asleep in a vulnerable place and waking up surrounded by a horde clamouring for his flesh, so he figures heāll need something else to occupy his time.
After a moment of hesitation, he pulls out his phone again, staring at the black screen quietly. Heās been keeping it off to conserve battery, because who knows when heāll ever have the chance to charge it again. He wants to get in the habit of checking it once a day, in case thereās any news from the people he still cares about. Bracing himself, Scar powers on the device, holding his breath as the lock screen appearsāa picture of cats from a shelter he and Grian had visited together, back when Scar had dreamt about adopting one with him.
He types in his passcode.
Thereās nothing.
No new alerts. No texts, no missed calls, not a word from anyone.
Heart heavy in his chest, Scar aimlessly scrolls through his last texts, as if somehow staring at them will make new ones appear. Thereās people from work, people from the gym, the park, neighbours and strangers he met out on strollsāheās always been charismatic, always been friendly, and somehow that just makes the isolation feel that much worse. A whole world of people at his fingertips, but not one still around to reply.
With a shaky breath, Scar dials Cubās number and holds the phone to his ear. The same message from yesterday greets him. Mouth dry, and knowing it likely wonāt be any different, he calls Pearl. Again, the same monotone voice. The same, āAll circuits are busy.ā
He needs air.
Despite wanting distance from Grian only moments ago, getting no response makes him feel more alone than ever, and Scar hops out of the car and walks back in the direction of the museum. He sees Grian sitting by the alien photo-op, his back to Scar, and it settles that anxiety in him about being alone. He considers approaching him, but ultimately decides against it.
Instead, Scar looks back up at the museum and all the hokey decorations surrounding it, and thinks of the disposable camera still in Grianās hands. He remembers all his time spent on day trips and vacations with friends, good times filled with laughter. He pulls out his phone. It takes a bit of finagling, to get both himself, Grianās back, and the Museum all lined up in one shot, but he manages it and takes a couple of selfies with a wry grin on his face. Satisfied with his results, he fires off the image to both Cub and Pearl.
āWish You Were Here,ā he writes, which is accurate and, at the same time, not nearly enough.
The images mark as delivered, but donāt change over to āread.ā
āWhat are you doing?ā
Scar jumps, startling and nearly dropping his phone as he fumbles it, clutching it tight to his chest.
āGrian! You nearly gave me a heart attack! You canāt just sneak up on a man like that in the middle of the apocalypse!ā
Somewhat amused but still managing to look exhausted, Grian raises a brow at him, āShouldnāt you be more aware of your surroundings? What if Iād been a zombie?ā
āIād have taken you out with the axe!ā
āWhat axe?ā
Opening his mouth to respond, Scar immediately snaps it shut again, remembering heād dropped it off in the trunk with the rest of their supplies. Grianās expression is smug and Scar has nothing but a sheepish shrug to offer in return. With a shake of his head, Grian turns away from him and walks towards the car.
āThereās nothing left for us here,ā Grian calls back over his shoulder, āLetās head out.ā
Scar takes one last look down at his phone, at the selfie he took and texts heād sent. He waits one second, and then another, but as the moments pass and no response comes, he gives in and powers the device down again.
Heāll try again tomorrow.
His long strides catch him up with Grian easily, and the two of them get back to the car in tandem.
āI think we should just stick to the road and keep driving through the state,ā Grian says as he locks in his seatbelt. āWeāve got food, weāve got a weapon, and weāve got this car. Itās not worth stopping for anything but gas.ā
Scar nods. āStill going north?ā
āThatās the plan. Weāll make use of the daylight and get as far as we can before nightfall. We can trade off driving and keep an eye out for any places that might make a good camping spot as the sun sets.ā
His voice is all practical and matter-of-fact. A natural born leader. Scarās always been fond of that about him, and even now, after everything, he finds it a comfort more than anything else.
āWeāve been lucky so far,ā Grian mumbles,taking the car back onto the road, āNot a soul blocking our routes, and only a handful of monsters to deal with.ā
āWhy do you think that is?ā Scar muses.
āHow do you mean?ā Grian asks, checking over his shoulder out of habit as he merges onto the highway.
āLikeā¦ isnāt it strange that weāve had no issues getting this far?ā
āI wouldnāt call being attacked by zombies multiple times āno issues,ā Scar.ā
āNo, I mean,ā Scar sighs, unsure how to phrase it. āBesides right at the start of all this, back at my place... weāve had it relatively easy. I wouldāve thought it would be worse, yāknow? Cars backed up, blocked roads, massive wandering hordes of the undeadā¦ it just seems really quiet for the end of the world.ā
āAre you saying youāre disappointed?ā Grian laughs, bemused.
āNot disappointed, justā¦ worried, I guess. Worried that this is it. That this is all there is.ā
Just you and me and endless miles of road and no room to breathe, he thinks.
Thereās a beat and then Grian prods, cautious. āIs this about Cub again?ā
It is and it isnāt. Not exactly. Despite himself, the line of questioning gets his hackles up, but Scar takes a breath and relents, āIām worried about him. About everyone we knew. Arenāt you?ā
āNo,ā Grian retorts, blunt, his grip tightening around the steering wheel, brokering no argument. āWe canāt waste time worrying about anyone else when weāre not safe yet, Scar.ā
Scar stares at him. āYou donāt mean that.ā
Grian doesnāt respond, gaze fixed resolutely ahead as he continues to drive.
āGrian, come on. Youāre worried too, I know you are.ā
For all that Grianās broken his heart in ways he never couldāve seen coming, Scar knows him. Heās had years to know him. And while Grian is great at putting up a tough front, Scarās seen the anxiety, the stress, the insecurity and fearāheās seen the worst of Grian; from the breakdowns to the cheating. Grianās not made of stone. Heās more than capable of warmth and love and affection. If he hadnāt been, breaking up wouldāve been so much easier.
Grianās worried too. Heās just better than Scar is at compartmentalizing it.
Frustrated, Grian argues, āHow I feel isnāt going to change anything, Scar. Getting emotional never helps. All itās going to do is make it more difficult, and then where does that leave us? No. No, we have to stay focused. Whatās important right now is going north and getting there in one piece. Everything else is secondary.ā
Hearing Grian now, forcibly detaching himself from the life theyād lived for years, some part of Scar can almost understand it. He can almost see why Grian wouldnāt think twice before throwing water over all they built together. Itās just who he is in the face of things new and uncertaināflighty, like a bird.
āItās early days yet,ā Grian says, somber, and Scar knows itās the end of the conversation. āMaybe this is just how these things happenāmaybe weāre fortunateābut I donāt fancy being caught unaware when our luck runs out.ā
Silence settles between them, nothing but the hum of the engine to fill the space. Wordless, Scar turns back in his seat and digs through the pile of knick-knacks heād grabbed from the gift shop. With a crossword book in one hand, and a green pen with an alien shaped cap in the other, he settles back in his seat and starts in on a puzzle.
Grian glances over at him, but ultimately doesnāt say anything.
Itās for the bestāScar needs to focus.
Crosswords are a bitch with dyslexia.
Notes:
Close-ups of our banner art can be seen here!
You guys have to help me convince Lock to get this printed as washi tape so I can stick the zombie au boys everywhere frNext week's chapter was a lot of fun to write! We can't wait to share it with you guys >:D
Chapter 5
Notes:
Happy day before Hermitcraft Season 10 everyone! š
To celebrate, we have a new chapter where everything goes fine and nobody lashes out at anyone! :)
(... unless...?)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Itās frustrating, at times, how disorganised the world has become.
Cosmically cruel, is how it feels. Because while the apocalypse brings its own chaos, thereās something else to itāsomething more. The fact that the world has chosen to fall apart right as Scarās relationship crumbled seems too on the nose. Ironic, in a cold and callous way. Itās messy, itās painful, and it hurts. His life unravelling as society slips into disarray all around them.
He and Grian have continued heading north as best they can, with the limited navigation skills they share between them. Mostly it means following the roads west in order to cross into the next state. The radio repeats the same message over and overāshelter in place, isolate, take only what you need with you to surviveāso they press on with a single-minded, almost desperate focus. Rest stops are minimal, only taken when they canāt put off refuelling any longer.
They sleep as little as possible.
Outside the car, the familiar desert has transitioned into low hills covered in dry, weathered grass and the occasional scrubby cluster of short, leafy trees. Although he knows itās only a matter of time before they hit the next stretch of desert when they pass through the Mojave, Scar appreciates the change in view. Itās distinctly different from the environment Scar is used to, and for the first time he feels like theyāre actually getting somewhereāeven if heās not entirely sure where exactly they are getting to.
For the last ten or so hours, he and Grian have been switching off at the wheel, taking turns driving so neither of them gets too cramped or too complacent on the road. Itās nice to be able to take a break, but if Scar is being honest, no matter what they do, he feels anxious and uncomfortable. Itās gotten worse the further theyāve drivenāthe looming, impending anxiety. Though the roads remain mostly empty, they pass through the outskirts of small towns cautiously, and as quickly as possible.
They pass through without stopping because they have to. Because they have no choice.
They do it because itās too dangerous to linger.
Because theyāre everywhere, now.
They see them, hoards of them. The shambling bodies of people who arenāt people anymore. There havenāt been any altercations because theyāve kept their distance, but itās impossible to ignore how many there are, in clusters and pairs and large, roving crowds. It gives Scar a sinking feeling. A fear he canāt escape.
He had hoped, somehow, that heading towards larger populations wouldāve meant more coordination, more organisation, more chances of survival in the face of the outbreak. Instead, they pass through abandoned towns strewn with bodies and riddled with zombies, roaming aimlessly and seeming without motive. Itās as if every piece of media heād ever consumed had it rightā the devastation over only two short days is immeasurable.
Itās disheartening, and itās terrifying.
Scar doesnāt know what theyāre going to do.
āThis is a mess,ā Grian says from the passenger seat, stating the obvious. His arms are crossed tight over his chest, posture stiff, looking every bit as miserable as Scar feels. āWhat are we supposed to do here?ā
Theyāre pulled off to the side of the road, surveying the entrance of a shopping mall. The sun set over an hour ago and theyāre losing whatās left of the daylight. They have to find a place to park and camp for the night butā¦ this isnāt it.
The building itself barely remains, only a fraction still standing, the rest collapsed in on itself in a mess of tilted rebar and masonry after what looks to have been a colossal fire. Thereās no sign that anyone tried to stop it- no fire trucks, no barricades, no emergency response at all.
Aside from the blackened, tilted structure, everything else looks untouched and unaffected. The garden beds immaculate, cars left in orderly lines on the large stretch of parking lot.
Closer towards what once was the glass-faced front entrance, are dozens of wandering infected.
āWe need gas,ā Scar says, flat. Heās tired. His body aches and he feels filthy. He longs for a long shower and a proper bed, neither of which heās going to get.
Heās not in the mood for Grianās attitude right now.
āI hate malls,ā Grian remarks, as if itās remotely relevant to their situation right now.
āWell lucky for us weāre not here to window-shop.ā The words come out meaner than Scar intends them to, and Grian bristles at his side.
āYouāre in a mood today,ā he grumbles, like he has a leg to stand on.
āIām exhausted, Grian,ā Scar sighs. āLetās not do this right now.ā
He parks next to a cluster of abandoned cars, as far from the group of corpses congregating towards the front of the mall as he can, and together they carefully sneak around and check them to find which will be the easiest to syphon from. Luckily, thereās a contender in the form of a cherry red convertible, which at least means they wonāt have to creep any closer to the wandering ghouls.
With now practiced ease, Scar dips the hose into the tank and tries to ignore how illicit the activity still feels. He canāt shake himself loose from mentally bracing for an accusatory shout every time he pries off a strangerās gas cap, expecting someone to ask what the hell heās doing, or threaten to call the police.
Part of him longs for it. The grounding normalcy of a stranger's accusation to prove heās not alone.
While Scar fills up their jerry can, keeping a wary eye on their surroundings lest they be caught off guard, Grian walks the short distance back to their car and pops open the trunk. Scar glances towards him for a moment, watching Grian as he rifles through their supplies. Itās been several days of gas station junk food and snacks, and Scar longs for something more substantial. He feels grimy, every inch of him uncomfortable.
At this point, heād settle for just brushing his teeth.
āI wish I had a toothbrush,ā he voices aloud, conversational as the gas can continues to fill.
āWhy?ā Grian asks, bristling slightly in that instantly defensive way heās had ever since they escaped Scarās apartment together. Scar gives him a moment, and when the question properly settles into him, Grianās shoulders relax. It takes him a second to consider it, unwrapping a granola bar and chewing on it before he offers, āYou can use mine.ā
Itās a stupid thing to get paranoid about, and Scar knows it. But heās dirty, his body aches, and heās not at his best right now. Thereās literally nothing to read intoāin fact, if anything, Grian is being uncommonly generous.
Itās stupid to spur an otherwise kind offer. And yetā¦
āSince when do you share your toothbrush?ā Scar canāt help himself from asking, a snap in his words that has no reason to be there.
āWhat?ā Grian begins to respond, caught entirely off guard.
āDid you share yours with āBā?ā
It comes out sounding hostile, saying the name Grian called in his sleep.
It is hostile.
Thereās no reason to drag him into this. A dead man Scar will never properly meet. Itās unnecessary. Petty.
Grian looks as shocked as Scar is that he said it. But Scar doesnāt regret it. Itās out there now, and Grianās wide eyes and hand clutched tight around the remainder of his granola bar donāt offer any excuses.
Roughly, Scar yanks the hose up out of the gas tank heās syphoning from, twisting the cap back in place before he hefts the jerry can and carries it back towards the car.
āWell?ā He prompts, looking pointedly at Grian as he goes about refilling their car.
Grian doesnāt look upset; doesnāt look angry either. He casts his eyes away as Scar stares him down, colour rising to his cheeks as he chews the last bite of granola bar and swallows it.
It might as well be confirmation, as far as Scar is concerned.
Itās not about the toothbrush. Not really. But Grianās silence speaks volumes.
āIāll take the bad breath and tooth decay then, thanks,ā Scar chirps, more cheerful than he has any need to be, tipping the jerry can up at an angle to wring out the last drops of fuel. When itās empty he pulls the spout back, holding it out towards Grian, murderously bright as he says, āYour turn.ā
Itās not unfair. It takes more than one fill from the can to raise the fuel gauge in the car. If they want to travel any real distance without stopping to syphon again, itās best to do it all here now, while they have an abundance of cars around them and the relative safety to do so.
It just sounds snide and nasty the way he vocalises it with weaponised cheer, passing the jerry can into Grianās unenthusiastic handsā and it sounds that way because it is. Though Scarās never been the confrontational type, heās not a pushover either. Heās always been able to sweet talk would-be aggressors, and deter bad-faith encounters with a little mirthful sarcasm; barbed words coated in honeyāa warning to anyone underestimating him.
No, his reaction to being slighted isnāt new, itās just that heās never had a reason to turn those skills in Grianās direction before.
To his credit, Grian doesnāt say anything haughty in return. Doesnāt put up a fight or resist. Instead he gives Scar a clipped, tight nod and turns away, walking to the furthest car in their corner of the parking lot as he retreats to lick his proverbial wounds.
It gives Scar a moment to feel and a moment to breathe.
Not for the first time, he wishes he had the company of someoneāanyoneāelse. Even if it wasnāt a close friend like Cub or Pearl, it would just be nice to have companionship from someone who he isnāt at odds with. He doesnāt enjoy arguing, and heād much rather spend the little down time they have relaxing instead of lashing out over ridiculous things that donāt actually matter.
Honestly, now that the moment has passed, he feels the predictable and immediate rush of remorse for attacking Grian like that. Itās not that Grian doesnāt deserve it. As far as Scarās concerned, heās been kinder about this whole situation than most others would be. It just seemsā¦ pointless. Itās silly to be affronted by the prospect of shared toothbrushes when the worldās been turned upside down.
Heās just got all these building emotions with nowhere to put them. He canāt talk it through with a friend, he canāt get distance, he canāt untangle the mess in his head through any healthy means, so here he is instead, taking it out on the person who caused them in the first place. Itās not the way he would have chosen to do this had he any say in the matter. Itās not the person he wants to be.
Still.
Heās not going to apologise for it.
He continues turning over his reaction, feeling it gross and wormy but objectively not wrong in his chest, until the trunk, left open by Grian, catches his eye. Itās a mess, things haphazardly shoved in with haste and no consideration for order or accessibility. Itās not in Scarās nature to organise, but his squabble with Grian mollifies him a bit. Sorting through things can be his non-apology. Something thatāll benefit the both of them.
He finds himself arranging their supplies, methodical and slow. Once heās gotten started, itās easy, just putting the most often used things within arms reach and the lesser used items at the back. He hums and haws over the axe for a moment, not sure if having it too close might mean accidentally cutting himself while grabbing a snack, but ultimately decides to leave it within easy grabbing distance. A little extra insurance, just in case.
Itās as heās cleaning that he wonders if maybe he could just use a little toothpaste to freshen up. Even if he doesnāt use Grianās toothbrush, he figures rubbing some paste on his teeth and gums will do better than doing nothing at all. At the very least itāll make him feel more put together.
However, it quickly becomes clear that none of Grianās toiletries are in the trunk, so once the last of the supplies are sorted, Scar shuts the truck and pulls open the back door of the car. He might as well air out the nest of blankets that Grian has piled into the back seat while heās at it, searching for wherever his things are squirrelled away.
Scarās bent over, pushing aside empty cans and food wrappers from the floor of the car, when he spots it.
Not a toothbrush, not a tube of toothpaste.
A used condom wrapperāgold, foil and square, torn open along its side.
Itās laying down beneath the driverās seat, in a place that would be easy to miss if someone wasnāt actively searching for it. Scar picks it up, feeling crushingly numb all over.
He inspects it mutely.
Itās not a brand heās ever bought before.
Not that he needs the confirmation to know whose it is. He and Grian have never messed around in Grianās car. Scarās too broad and tall for the back seatācontorting that way would do a number on his joints, his chronic pain making it basically impossible. It had never been an issue, though. Theyād talked about it once, on a whim, and Grian had said that he wasnāt interested in things like that anyway. Too old, now. Too mature. Not one for college-age shenanigans in sweaty cramped back seats.
It hurts more than anything to know that had just been another lie.
Spiralling, Scar canāt help but wonder how many more lies there are. How far back it all goes. Andāwith a sick twist of his gutāhe wonders how much of Grianās cheating was motivated by exactly this. The desire to be with someone who could do all the things Scar simply couldnāt. Someone who didnāt feel the muscles cramps and exhaustion. Someone who didnāt have the bad days. Someone who woke up and got out of bed each and every morning, and never had to wrestle or compromise with their body and what it could manage at any given time.
Panic tightens his chest. Negativity shrouding him in darkness, cloying and thick in his throat, making it hard to breathe. The guilt. The fact that maybe this was his fault.
That maybe he deserved this.
He tenses painfully, fingernails biting so hard into his palm he can feel the sting of his skin splitting under the pressure.
Thereās a loud scuffing of feet coming up behind him, and Scar jolts up and out of the car, heart thudding rancorously behind his ribcage, loathsome discovery cut short.
Itās not a zombie. His immediate fear congealing into a revelation far worse. Just Grian, dragging the soles of his sneakers against the pavement as he trudges back towards the car, the gas can thumping against his leg as he walks. Itās performative, and if Scar was being generous heād think Grian was trying to lighten the mood. A little slapstick pantomime in an attempt to make him smile. However Scar can barely pull himself together quick enough to appear neutral, much less appreciative of his theatrics.
Scar pushes the condom wrapper into his back pocket, turning to meet Grian, who blows out an overdramatic breath as he drops the gas can at his feet. The noise it makes sounds hollow, and it only takes a second for Scar to realise that Grian hasnāt returned with anything.
āWe arenāt the first people to think of this,ā Grian says, matter-of-fact. āTheyāre empty already. All of āem. Unless we want to search through the cars near the horde up frontā¦ā
They turn towards the entrance to the mall in tandem. The corpses continue to shamble around aimlessly, heedless of the way the light has faded from the sky and the temperature around them cools. Theyāre still oblivious to Grian and Scarās presence, and itās best to keep it that way.
Grian sighs, resting a hand on the hood of their car as he mourns, āIf we canāt refuel her weāre gonna have to leave her behind.ā Heās being over the top in his sadness, lower lip pouting as he speaks. Scar knows heās doing it intentionally, trying to clear the air between the two of them with an attempt at levity. In any other situation it might work, but Scarās in no mood for it right now.
āPoor Ariana,ā Grian continues, sounding genuinely crestfallen in amidst his theatrics. āSheās got so many good memories attached to herā¦ā
Scar doesnāt know what to say or how to react. Heās still processing, still holding back a tide of emotions that threatens to overwhelm him. Thereās just no ounce of strength in him left to respond to Grianās obliviously tone-deaf behaviour. In the face of all theyāve gone through, after all Scarās lost, mourning his car, of all things. It feels like a slap on the face of everything else heās had to deal with.
Unaware, Grian merely sighs nostalgically. āI got her when I was still studying at uni. Sheās been through so much with meā¦ God, actually, I think I drove home from my first date with you in this car.ā
Itās entirely too much. Scar canāt handle it.
Canāt cope with Grian waxing poetic over his fond memories while Scar stands with further evidence of his cheating burning a hole in his pocket.
āWe should go,ā he says, brusque, ignoring the way Grian looks at him, surprised and put out, like Scarās ruined some grand gesture he was trying to make. āWe canāt camp here, and weāve already lost our daylight. Weāll have to find somewhere else to stop on the fuel that weāve got.ā
āMaybe weāll find somewhere else to syphon along the way,ā Grian suggests, optimistic as he packs the gas can back into the trunk, oblivious or intentionally ignoring the edge in Scarās tone.
Scar hopes they donāt.
He has a good mind to use what little fuel they have left to drive them headfirst into a wall.
They resume driving in silence with Grian at the wheel. Scar canāt focus enough to give another puzzle book a try, so he returns to apathetically staring out the window. It gives him a chance to fester, the deep well of hurt within him mixing with an ugly bitterness and a growing revolt. He feels trapped, now, confined to a car thatās been defiled who knows how many times.
He canāt help himself. Canāt help but wonder how often Grian said goodnight to him, left his apartment, and slipped out to meet up with another man. Had it been months of this? Had he come to expect that Scar would leave him unsatisfied? Is that why it started? Was it just sex, or had it blossomed, ugly, into something more?
Scar wants to ask. Wants to grab the wheel and pull them off to the side of the road and demand Grian give him answers until he has no questions left to ask. But the thought of hearing his worst fears laid bare stops him. He doesnāt think he can handle having Grian tell him plainly that he lacked in ways he could never physically overcome.
It terrifies him.
So he keeps his mouth shut and stews in the rot of his own misery, letting it swallow him whole.
Theyāre alone in the darkness on the highway when the fuel gauge starts to ding. Scar watches, detached, from the corner of his eye as the tension begins to creep into Grianās shoulders. The slow realisation that their luck, such as it were, is running out settles on Grian visibly, heavy and inescapable.
āItās not fair,ā Grian shouts abruptly, loud, frustrated, and angry, slamming his palm on the steering wheel and breaking the silence theyāve shared since they left the burnt mall parking lot. āWe have so many supplies! Our water! Our gear! We canāt possibly carry it all! Everything we own is in this carāā
āEverything you own,ā Scar mumbles, pedantic to a fault.
āDo you really want to do this right now?ā Grian snaps, bristling at the apparent audacity of Scar daring to point out the truth. āThey were my things because you were making me take them, remember. But I feel like itās reasonable to say theyāre ours now, considering theāconsideringā¦ bloody hell, just look around, Scar!ā
He makes a gesture with his hand, taking in the state of the world around them.
āI donāt know what you want,ā Grian continues, irritable, like heās the one who has any right to be offended. āI donāt know why youāre short with me one second, and fine the next, but like it or not weāre all weāve got right nowā so we can split hairs and dither over which of us has it worse, or we can get it together, because I donāt know if youāve realised, but without a car this is going to be so much harder for us.ā
Thereās a sharpness to him, an undercurrent that Scar has never heard before.
Grianās been frustrated with him beforeāannoyed, blowing out his breath and rolling his eyes more times than Scar can count. Heās never gotten angry with him though. Not to the degree that he is now. It stirs something in Scar, something vindictive. The nerve of him to imply that Scarās the problem here, that heās the one making this difficult.
āAlright,ā he says simply. Petulantly. Filing all his simmering defiance away for later.
Grian nods his head; a single, rough jerk of a motion, his hands settling back on the steering wheel, fingers flexing to grip it white-knuckle tight.
āAlright,ā he agrees with finality.
They resume driving in silence, a cold animosity settling between them until the periodic ding of the gas gauge becomes a more frequent, insistent alert.
Thereās no other option. They havenāt come across a single car or gas station.
Reluctantly, Grian takes an exit off the main road, following the signs in a too-quiet area towards a regional park. It doesnāt take long before theyāre turning into an open area with an empty gravel parking lot surrounded on all sides by tall, towering trees. Itās one of those nice, tame parks, tucked safe within the city limits. A large sign posted at the entrance illustrates the abundance of walking paths and green spaces for ball games and family picnics. Itās the kind of place people go to jog and teach their kids how to ride a bike. It feels safe.
They know enough by now to understand that it isnāt.
āI donāt want to stay here for the night,ā Grian says, brokering no argument as he scans for a place to permanently park the vehicle. āItās too close to the city and too open. Weāll get swarmed before we even know it. We just need to pack up as much of our stuff as we can carry and get going before we attract any attention.ā
Past the signs and by the trees, Scar can see a lake large enough for swimming and paddle boats, the surface of the water illuminated by the moonlight overhead.
It sparks an idea.
āWait, waitāpark it by the lake,ā he insists, sitting up in his seat. Before Grian can dismiss his suggestion, he offers an explanation. āWeāll be able to see anything approaching better from the light reflected on the water.ā
The look Grian gives him is dubious at best, but he complies at least, driving up over the grass and stopping a few feet from the edge of the lake. Maybe he does it because heās glad Scar isnāt giving him the cold shoulder anymore. Maybe heās already lost to the grief of leaving his car behind. Whatever the case, Scar canāt stop the strange excitement bubbling in his chest as they both sit and stare out at the water through the windshield.
āI think we should have a funeral,ā Scar announces. āIf we have to say goodbye to her, we should pay our respects.ā
Heās prepared for a heavy sigh and a roll of the eyes.
Instead, heās met with silence. When he turns to look, Grian is staring at him with a sort of vulnerable tenderness in his eyes. The expression of someone whoās being given something that means a lot to them.
Scar tries not to let it get to him.
āYeah. Iā¦ I like the sound of that,ā Grian says at last, nodding.
The process of unpacking the car is a tedious one, but Scarās earlier sorting makes it easier to decide what to keep, at least. With no clothes and barely any survival supplies, their key focus is on portioning out the food and deciding whatās going to get left behind. Theyād pulled backpacks out of a camper van theyād found tipped over at the side of the highwayāsmeared in blood but with no sign of any bodiesāhundreds of miles ago, and those come in handy now, packed full with as much as they can manage.
Without making a big deal about it, Grian ends up hefting the heavier of the two bags onto his shoulders. He adjusts the straps so that they hug his body and donāt droop, settling the weight properly on his hips so that heāll be able to walk without feeling overburdened. He grabs the axe too, and Scar doesnāt stop him, too busy setting the car in neutral and making his own final preparations. When Scar steps back, he takes a good long look at Grian, whoās staring at his car, visibly upset, the reality of having to leave it behind clear on his face.
āShe was a good car,ā Scar says as he straightens up, taking a deep breath and speaking from his chest. He sounds as sombre as he does formal, speaking just as he would at a real funeral. āIt may be true that I only knew Ariana for a few yearsāI met her one stormy night, when she and Grian gave me a ride home rather than forcing me to walk in the rainābut I cared for her all the same. She was truly up for anything, be it a late-night drive or a weekend adventure. And Iāll never forget the smell of her Sahara Rift air freshener, whatever that label means. She always got us where we needed to goā¦ except right now, of course, what with her empty gas tank and all.ā
āScar,ā Grian hisses, but itās lighthearted, and Scar can see him smothering a grin even as he says it.
āWhat matters is, we will miss her,ā Scar continues, clearing his throat as he gets back on track, Grian bowing his head mournfully as he plays along. āā¦ And her broken cup holder that Grian never found the time to fix. And her CD player that ate every disc we ever tried to listen to.ā
āExcept for Christmas Cats volume 2,ā Grian adds.
āExcept for Christmas Cats volume 2,ā Scar amends, nodding in agreement.
They stand in silence for a moment, Grianās hands clasped in front of him while Scar tucks his own into his jacket pockets, one hand closing around the small, foil wrapper.
āMaybe youād like to say a few words,ā he suggests, prompting Grian in a way that seems to genuinely surprise him.
āOh,ā Grian says, eyebrows rising. āYeah. I should, shouldnāt I?ā
He takes a moment to collect himself, twisting his fingers together as he rubs his thumb absently over his knuckles before he opens his mouth and speaks.
āI bought Ariana because I needed a car,ā he says simply. āI chose her because she was fuel efficient and in my budget.ā
Scar snorts at that and Grian smiles.
He pauses, taking a long, reluctant breath. āI always felt it was a bit silly to care about a carāwhich is just a thing, and doesnāt have feelingsābut Iām pretty sad right now, so I guess I cared about her more than I realised. She was always reliable and got me where I needed to go. For every milestone in my life, Ariana was there, costing me a fortune in parking tickets because I just fundamentally donāt believe anyone should have to pay for the privilege of parking at the side of the same bloody road we all drive on.ā
āHere, here!ā Scar enthuses, egging Grian on as he inches closer to the vehicle.
āThank you for everything you did for me, Arianaānamely getting me from Point A to Point B. Iām sorry I hit a zombie with youā¦ and a squirrel that one time. And also got too drunk that New Years that Scar had to drive me home and I threw up in you.ā Grian bows his head, contrite. āGoodbye.ā
Together, they take a moment of silence.
Itās as Grian is still taking a moment to reflect that Scar makes his move.
The click of a lighter sounds loud in the silence. Grianās head snaps up, immediate, but itās already too late. Effortlessly, Scar rolls the igniter with his thumb as he steps forward, opening the back door and dropping it on the seat. It lands on top of a tinder pile of crumpled papers and forgotten receipts, all left intentionally by Scar when they were unloading.
The flame catches fastāfaster than Scar had anticipated, spreading quickly from the point of ignition as it flares up over the upholstery.
āScarā¦ Scar, whatāā The stunned horror from Grian is satisfying enough in its own way.
Scar doesnāt respond, simply smiling as he walks back to the trunk and pushes the car with all his might, its roll forward made easier by the gear heād left it in and the gradual slope of the ground underneath its wheels. He stops it just at the edge of the lake, where one final shove will send it over. Itās there that Scar steps back, watching passively as the flames lick up the back seat with a hungry crackle, orange light spilling from the windows. Grian remains mute, eyes fixed on him, horrified, stricken, and dismayed.
Scar waits until the fire is past the point of extinguishing before he reaches into his other pocket and pulls out the condom wrapper, gold, open, and accusing as its foil catches the fire light. He makes sure to hold it up. Makes sure that Grian sees it. He keeps eye contact, smile fixed on his face even when Grianās eyes widen in recognition.
And then, he reaches out and tosses it into the flames, letting the fire swallow it in its destruction.
Finally turning away from Grian, Scar braces both hands on the quickly warming trunk of the car and gives it a decisive push into the water, something maliciously content settling in his chest.
āViking funeral,ā he says, flat.
Thereās nothing. No argument, no fervorous reaction. Grian stands in place as Scar returns to his side, watching as the flames grow, consuming the car, a beacon in the growing gloom of the evening. They crackle loud and ominous, metal creaking and airbags popping from the heat. The car wonāt sink immediately, maintaining buoyancy in the water, shallow beneath its wheels, so Scar takes a minute to enjoy the heat and light that comes with a job well done.
When the imminent threat of a signalling bonfire outweighs the satisfaction of watching the car burn, Scar sighs and bends down, lifting up his backpack and hefting it onto his shoulders before he glances over at Grian, whoās staring at him like heās seeing him for the very first time. Scar lays on the sweetness as thick as he can manage.
āAll those memories, eh? Bye bye!ā
Thereās something concentrating in Grian. A vitriol ready to burst.
āWeād better get going,ā Scar explains, eyes cold behind his smile as he turns away from the bonfire. āA lightshow like this is bound to attract some unsavoury attention. Theyāll be out here in droves before you know it.ā
Itās mean, but he feels like heās allowed that. An eye for an eye.
Justified.
Grian takes a moment longer to process, staring dumbstruck at the fire before he turns on Scar, shoulders hunched and tone furious as he spits out, livid, āScar.ā
āWe donāt have time for dramatics,ā Scar says, aloof in a way he can tell slides under Grianās skin like a papercut. āEvery zombie in the area is on high alert right now. Either we do couples counselling or we leave while we can, you decide.ā
Behind the two of them the flames roar, brighter and hotter than Scar had anticipated they would be. It sends a prickle of adrenaline up his spine, an exhilaration he enjoys more than he fears. Beside him, Grian casts one more glance back at his carāat the beacon and pyre itās becomeābefore he angrily twists his fingers into his backpack straps, straightening his shoulders as he stomps ahead of Scar, head bent and refusing to engage in any sort of interaction with him.
āGood choice,ā Scar needles, loud enough for Grian to hear.
The flames are warm against his back as he sets out, following in Grianās wake.
He doesnāt look back.
Grian doesnāt either.
Notes:
Catharsis. š„
Gonna need a new summary after this one--can't exactly have a road trip without a car ;)
fr tho send summary suggestions in the comments please, I'm very much at a loss OTL
Chapter 6
Notes:
Starting off strong with some fantastic fanart of Chapter 5 from Linkito! š« Love, love, love the way it turned out! Thank you so much ;w;
As for today's chapter, we're finally going to get a little bit of Grian POV ;) It'll probably leave as many questions as it answers, but we hope you enjoy it all the same! >:D
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Grian wakes up to a stiff neck and aching shoulders.
He feels a lot older than thirty. Forty-five at the very least.
The morning air is dewey as he slowly uncurls from the mess of blankets heās buried under. It takes him a moment to reorient himself, his brain struggling to catch up with the reality of where he finds himselfānot in his bed, not on his sofa, not even in his backyard hammock. Heās sleeping on the bed of a pickup truck, tucked down safely out of the eyeline of any meandering ghoul, everything he owns in the world is stuffed into a backpack settled at his feet, and Scarā
āScar?ā
His voice catches in his throat, rough with the earliness of the hour as he sits up and looks around.
He remembers now. Theyād been walking, leaving behind the flaming wreck that had formerly been his beloved car, her smoke a twisting plume that rose up like a spire into the sky. Grianās initial fury with Scar had tempered into a grudging tolerance once heād realised that by setting the car on fire, Scar had successfully drawn the attention of every zombie in the area. It had left them entirely unbothered as they walked west towards the sunset. Almost like heād planned it that way.
With the sun having set in the steady advance of mid-autumn, and no light reflected off the water to help them see along the way, theyād eventually had to agree they couldnāt progress any further until dawn. Theyād chosen the back of a pickup to sleep, for lack of anywhere else to shelter. Abandoned on the side of the road, its windows smashed, enough dried blood smeared along the side of it to paint a clear pictureāit was as good as they were going to get in the circ*mstances, and beggars couldnāt be choosers. Grian had offered to take the first watch, seeing the weariness around Scarās eyes and something deep inside wanting to relieve him of it.
Why though, when Scar had just destroyed something that meant the world to him? Any act for which heād shown no remorse, no sympathy at all.
Out of guilt, maybe. Out of some sentiment clinging at the back of his mind that insisted he owed it to Scar to help out; that it was the least he could do. Or something like that anyhow.
Heād been trying not to think about everything that had happened, and he certainly wasn't about to start now. Not when even a momentās distraction could mean the difference between life and death.
Theyād eaten a simple, cold dinner, not daring to light a fire. Afterwards, Scar had dropped off to sleep almost immediately. The sound of his breathing, heavy in the dark, had been a comfort to Grian as heād sat up, staring out into the night. It had been something reliable in its repetition, calming his heart while he periodically checked the soft, backlit, LCD glow of his wristwatch, unsure what heād do if something were to actually happen.
Heād dozed off roughly an hour and a half into his watch, and only his own nodding head pitching down into his chest had woken him. Heād snapped up, disoriented and panicky, doing a quick once-over of their surroundings to ensure his impromptu nap hadnāt cost them their safety.
Heād tossed a guilty look back in Scarās direction afterwards. Anxiety bruising his conscience at the reality of having betrayed his trust. Again.
The thought, āwhat Scar doesnāt know wonāt hurt him,ā felt a little too on the nose, but heād swallowed it down anyway.
Heād restlessly rubbed at his eyes before patting his cheeks to force himself awake. The next few hours had passed slowly, and it was a relief when heād finished the final minutes of his watch and been able to wake Scar. Heād taken over without protest, seemingly bright and alert the moment he opened his eyes. Grian had gratefully hunkered down into their single bed roll, still warm from Scarās body heat, with a wool blanket Scar had taken from the farm layered on top of it, and his arms under his head to make a pillow.
Heād fallen asleep faster than he had in years. Deep and dreamless.
Itās just a shame that waking up hadnāt cured him of his utter exhaustion, body and soul.
āGood morning, sleepyhead,ā Scar chirps, and if heās tired he doesnāt show it. His voice has the forced bright quality it takes on when heās trying to prove a point. āAll rested up?ā
āI could sleep for at least another eleven hours,ā Grian admits, rubbing the muscle in his shoulder to work out an ache before it has the chance to settle any deeper. āAnything exciting happen while I was out?ā
āOh yeah, we were jumped by at least thirty googlers. I dispatched āem bare handed, though. So youāre welcome.ā
Grian wants to smile and shake his head at Scarās mispronunciation; wants to at least pretend to play into his joke. He canāt feign the emotion though, the events of last night still weighing on him, so he merely nods, neutral, working his shoulder for a moment longer before he pulls his backpack towards him and starts rooting around for anything that can serve as breakfast.
āWeāll get going in a minute,ā he states, matter of fact, and if Scarās shoulders drop slightly, Grian pretends not to notice. āThereās no use sitting around just waiting to be found.ā
It takes twenty minutes for Grian to pull himself together, chewing his way through a protein bar and a piece of beef jerky before he packs up their sleeping bag and shifts his backpack onto his shoulders. Thereās nothing to do but continue walking in the direction theyād been driving, and Grian doesnāt feel he has to explain the plan as he climbs off the back of the truck and begins walking along the shoulder of the road.
āNo stretches?ā Scar asks, conversational as he falls into step beside him, more cheerful than he has any right to be considering their situation. āYouāre going to turn your calves into string cheese that way.ā
āIāll be fine,ā Grian grunts, and itās clearly not worth the hair-splitting because Scar shrugs and lets it slide.
Thereās a mood between them, a simmering tension ready to fracture and erupt at any moment. Grian feels, in a word, bad. Like overworked dough or underproofed bread. Itās like a key ingredient of him is missing, and he wishes he could lay in bed and nurse it until it smoothed itself away. Thatās not an option, though, not in the middle of an apocalypse. So he broods as they walk, hoping Scar can read his body language well enough to leave him alone.
āWe should talk about something,ā Scar suggests instead, his timing catastrophically poor.
āWhat would you suggest?ā
āI donāt knowā¦ā Scar says, shrugging. āMaybe what our plan is now that we no longer have a car?ā
Scarās tone is conversational; frustratingly up-beat. He chats like theyāre discussing the weather or he's describing a friendly cat he met.
It sets off the short fuse in Grianās patience.
āWe donāt have a car because you set it on fire, Scar,ā he snaps, angry.
Grianās never been good at putting on a brave face. He canāt act like things are fine when theyāre not. A part of him had always admired how Scar could smile no matter the situation. Though recently, more and more of Grian resents him for it. Bitterly.
āI set it on fire to honour its memory, Grian.ā Scar is wide-eyed and guileless, blinking at him in surprise. Grianās stomach twists at the obvious mockery, unused to being on the receiving end of Scarās honeyed sarcasm. āThat car meant a lot to you, it was only fair we found a way to pay our respects to it, donāt you think?ā
Grian keeps his voice low, like a warning. āI donāt want to play this game with you right now.ā
Thereās a beat. Abruptly, Scar stops and faces him, expression leveling out, the false cheer in his voice evaporating in an instant. āYou and I both know you had him in that car with you. So forgive me for indulging in a little bit of old-fashioned cleansing with fire.ā
It stings to hear it, the confirmation that Scar knows what he did. Guilt and humiliation curl rotten and searing hot in Grianās chest. He wants to deny it, but thereās no point in lying, not now. He knows thereās nothing he can say, not when the world is falling apart around them and there are more important things to focus on.
It doesnāt matter in the end. Heās not talking about it.
Scar doesnāt expect him to, anyway.
Bitterly, Grian grips his backpack straps and stomps ahead. Itās better this wayāputting space between them as they both struggle to calm their emotions. He just wishes his bodyās response to being overwhelmed wasnāt to well up with hot, stinging tears that bite incriminatingly at the corner of his eyes.
For the better part of an hour they walk in silence, Grian keeping himself resolutely ahead of Scar. It feels terrible, and itās not for the physical exertion of it. Without the protective shell of the car insulating them, the end of the world feels much more apparent. For days, as theyād driven through the desert, it hadnāt felt like much around them had changed. The absence of other people was unusual, but hadnāt felt too alarming, and the hours of dead radio had felt just like any other time theyād gone out of signal range.
Now, with society crowded up all around them, it truly feels like the world is over.
The wreckage all around them is unavoidable and seemingly endless. Cars and trucks piled up on the roads in a jumble of twisted metal and shattered glass. Entire neighbourhood blocks burnt down to nothing. In some places they see police barricades and pieces of riot gear, but everything bears the marks of chaos and disarray.
At one point they pass the open field of a high school and see a helicopter crumpled into what used to be the schoolās baseball diamond, co*ckpit shattered, propellers dug deep into the earth.
The worst part is the bodies.
Theyāre everywhere, in numbers too high to count. Grotesque, mutilated corpses, torn apart and left in pieces on the pavement and spread across lawns. If there are survivors, they arenāt anywhere nearby. They see no signs of them.
They donāt see anyone living at all.
In his silence, walking out ahead, alone, Grian canāt help but wonder how things could have gone wrong in such a short time. Had it really taken only a handful of days for everything they knew to collapse? Surely there had to be people fighting somewhere stillāpushing back the ghouls and setting up safe zones for survivors.
There had to be more left than these mile-long stretches of total devastation and nothingness.
Itās eerie. At the very least, Grian was expecting the undead to be wandering aimless in incalculable numbers. However, as they continue to walk he sees no signs of them, either. It feels foolish to jinx it and ask where they are, but he canāt escape the creeping dread that the world has become an enormous ghost town, and that the two of them, alone, have been left to pick their way across the ruins forever without a clear destination.
It doesnāt help that Grian feels the furthest heās ever felt from Scar. Their animosity curls sour between them, masked like an afterthought by Scarās forced-easy demeanour that only serves to bear down on Grian like a weight. He wants Scarās familiar affable reassurance. He wants a warm hand on his shoulder, pulling him close in a comforting embrace. He wants Scarās voice, mumbled soft against his hair, telling him things will be alright.
Instead, all he gets is Scar's emotional distance.
He doesnāt know how Scar feels about the hellscape theyāre wandering through, watching him hum to himself, seemingly at peace with their situation. He tries, desperately, to seek comfort in that; to let the repetitive tune push away the noisy static in his head. After a dozen or so tries, he actually manages to get the hang of it, body and mind relaxing.
And then Scar stops humming, heaving a gasp so abrupt it startles a yelp out of Grian on instinct.
āScar! What on earthāā
āGrian,ā Scar says, eyes fixed ahead. āWe have to go.ā
Heart in his throat, panic seizing his chest, Grian whirls to face what Scar is looking at. Heās expecting carnage on a level theyāve yet to see. Heās expecting a band of zombies shambling towards them, innumerable, with nowhere safe for them to hide.
What he doesnāt expect is for Scar to be staring at a road sign staked on the shoulder of the highway, a list of places of interest marked in large white capital letters.
The name āDISNEYLANDā is second on the list.
Grian feels his panic dissolve in an instant.
āYou have got to be f*cking kidding me.ā
āGrianāā
āNo.ā
āItās only seven miles.ā
āAbsolutely not.ā
āIāve always wanted to go. Iāve been telling you for years.ā
āYou canāt be serious, Scar!ā
Any other time, Scarās needling might have been amusing, mightāve been cute even. But the audacity of him to think they have time for thisāfor sightseeing at the end of humanity as they know itāGrianās voice pitches up, rising into the vehement tone he uses when heās determined.
āI said no. And I quite honestly canāt believe you think it sounds sane to even suggest it.ā
Heās firm, and itās usually enough to dissuade Scar from pushing any further.
This time, however, Scar pushes back.
Hard.
āI can safely say you owe me this,ā he says, flat and far harsher than Grian is used to hearing him sound.
He recoils. āYou canātāyouāre seriously bringing that up for Disneyland?ā
āI think Iāve earned the right to bring it up whenever I want to,ā Scar replies, cool.
It incenses Grian further.
āScarādonāt act like Iām doing this to be petty!ā He snaps, voice pitching up into a shout. āOf all the stupid thingsāthere are zombies, Scar! There are corpses walking about everywhere, and you want to go deeper into one of the most populated places in the country forāfor what? A theme park? What are you thinking?ā
āIām thinking that maybe Iāll just go without you.ā
The words send a chill up Grianās spine, closing his mouth as he stares at Scarās entirely indifferent expression.
Itās a bluff. He knows it is. Scar hates being alone, maybe even more than Grian does. He wouldnāt split off from him without another soul around for miles, itās unthinkable. And yetā¦
That doesnāt reassure him. Doesnāt stop fear and dismay from gripping tight around Grianās heart. Squeeze, squeeze, squeezing it until it feels like he can barely breathe.
It must show on his face how stricken he is, because Scarās expression softens.
āCub told me the parks had shut down. We didnāt know why at the time, of course, butā¦ theyāve been closed. I doubt there was anyone there other than a handful of maintenance staffers when things went sideways, and they werenāt going to stay at their post and go down with the shipā¦ I donāt think going there will be any more or less dangerous than us being out here in the open, wandering down the middle of the freeway.ā
Grian doesnāt respond, taking Scarās words in and trying desperately to see the sense in them.
He breathes in and out through his nose, calming his racing pulse as best he can.
āI just want to look,ā Scar adds, a gentler bargain than Grian deserves. āSee the castle from a distance, take a peek at the front gatesā¦ weāre heading in that direction anyway.ā
Grian chews at the inside of his mouth, struggling against the tide of petulance that rises up to battle the despair within him; the dismal sense that heās already lost. That he lost the moment Scar saw the road sign in the first place.
Itās not that he doesnāt feel Scar has earned this. Before things had all gone wrong he liked to imagine that heād always been happy to indulge the easy passions in Scarās life.
Itās simply the reality of their current situation. The persistent pressure of his anxiety, placed like a heel against his throat, that rankles him, causing him to twist in on himself with a defensive pettiness he knows is unfair.
āWe look at it as we walk by,ā he manages after a silence that stretches on too long, offering the words like a magnanimous compromiseālike he hadnāt been thoroughly shaken by Scarās threat to leave. āWe donāt get carried away.ā
When he looks up, Scar is beaming at him.
The genuine brightness in the enthusiasm of his smile makes Grian flush warm, unused to it after their fallout, and the awful, uneasy days that have followed it. It almost makes his concession worth itā if not for the sting of his pride, and the apprehension thatās now buried deep in his heart.
āNo aways will be carried,ā Scar reassures him as he resumes walking with renewed vigour, setting a pace Grian has to struggle to keep up with. āThis I promise you, dear Grian.ā
They get carried away the moment they arrive.
Itās a four hour walk to the entrance of the park. Much like the rest of their journey, they donāt come across another living soul, and the undead they encounter are few and far between, easily avoided with the aid of daylight and plenty of space for them to maneuver. The time spent feels easier- more light-hearted than the hours immediately following Scar burning Grianās car, If nothing else, his mood is far more agreeable now that Grian had acquiesced to his request.
While Scar had passed the time with idle conversation, discussing the history and trivia of the theme park they were heading towards, Grian had spent the walk calculating how to curb Scarās enthusiasm. For all that they're holding each other at a distance now, he knows Scar, and he knows thereās no way he would stop just to appreciate the scenery from afar.
āGrian, please.ā
The only word to describe Scar is vibrating. His hands grip the straps of his backpack tight, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as they look up at the gates of the park. Because of course, of course,ālooking at it from a distanceā had become āletās just walk to the bus drop-offā had become āwe might as wellāthe ticket booths are right thereā had become āI just want to look through the gates and take a peek.ā
It would be comedic if it werenāt so tense. Grian doesnāt want to do this. There are a hundred reasons why itās a bad idea, but he canāt voice any of them for fear of Scar calling it the final straw and leaving him standing on his own while he forges on ahead. Instead he stands stiff in place, coiled in a knot of his own nerves as Scar reaches out, wraps his hand around the iron gating and gives it a tug.
It doesnāt budge, which they both expected, but that doesnāt seem to deter Scar in the slightest.
āHere. Put your hands on my shoulders, Iāll give you a boost.ā
āScar.ā
They canāt do this. They canāt risk it. Thereās a tension in the air, like the lead-up to the jumpscare in a horror movie. Grian can already tell that their guards are lowering, lulled into a false sense of security by the quiet ruin all around them, seemingly devoid of survivors, living or undead.
Scar had said the parks had closed days prior to the final outbreak, but somehow Grian had still expected to find crowds surrounding the place. Looking around now, it makes sense to find it so desertedāthe area surrounding the park is all restaurants and shopping and hotels; a wide swath of commercial land designed for tourists.
If the parks were closed, and people instructed to go home, it makes sense why the area isnāt like the residential neighbourhood theyāve skirted around. The ones where residents were told to shelter at home, before they were driven wild by whatever sickness had compelled them to lash out and attack one another.
Still. Some innate instinct in Grian says that entering the park is a deathtrap, ringed on all sides by a wall and gates, tricky to enter and cloaked in greenery. If they go, his gut insists they wonāt come back out.
And yetā¦
āCome on, Grian. Before my knee seizes up.ā
Scar is crouched down, fingers woven together to make a step for Grian to put his foot in. At a glance it looks like heās proposing, but the absurdity of that idea is enough to make Grian feel embarrassed for even thinking about it.
He knows better. He knows he knows better.
āI just want to see,ā Scar says, quiet, and for the first time in days Grian finds Scar looking at himāat himādirectly. Not casting his gaze aside, not pinning his attention somewhere on Grianās shoulder or up by his ear. He looks him straight in the eye and asks, āPlease. Weāre never going to be here again.ā
The sentiments are implied, heavy and potent. It would mean a lot to me.
Without a word, Grian fits the sole of his shoe into Scarās grip, hoisting himself up, using his shoulder for leverage as Scar boosts him off the ground and helps lever him over the top of the gate. He lands heavily on the cobblestones on the other side, grimacing as his knees take the impact, but already Scar is hefting his bag over, forcing Grian to scramble to catch it so he can let it down gently.
Itās a testament to Scarās athleticism, the way he effortlessly grabs the wrought-iron bar that runs along the top of the gate and uses it to haul himself up and over without a second of struggle. It sparks a warm appreciation in Grianās gut, the kind of thing he used to praise and compliment Scar for. He opens his mouth out of habit, but ultimately doesnāt say a word. It feels weird mentioning it now, when things are so strained between them.
āCome on,ā Scar grins, oblivious to Grianās internal turmoil, reaching out to grab his hand presumably on instinct as he pulls him towards the park. āIf we wanna make the most of our time, weāve gotta be quick. Did you know the rail line was an opening day attraction? Disney had it built based off of his own miniature train Lilly Bell. He has it in his backyardānamed it after his wife.ā
Thereās an excitement in Scarās voice thatās contagious. Grian canāt remember the last time he heard him like this; openly and unabashedly enthusiastic. How long has it been since Scar had rambled to him? How long since Grian had paid any attention?
His heart aches. Sudden, guilty, and profound.
They walk through an arched tunnel that runs beneath the railway that encircles the park, and emerge out onto a large central avenue. The road is flanked by wide sidewalks in front of an immaculate recreation of a classic American main street. Itās deserted and silent, but somehow still manages to feel magicalālike something pristine transported out of another time, and not currently mired in the midst of an unfolding catastrophe.
The sun shines bright overheard without a cloud in sight; itās a beautiful day for a hellscape. Past balmy, verging on too hot, enough so that Scarās pauses to take off the coat heād donned back at the farm, wrapping it around his waist. Grian tries not to stare at his shoulders and the broad lines of his chest, but itās difficult not to when Scarās hand is warm as it holds his, as if theyāre simply on a date.
Grian isnāt sure Scar knows theyāre still connected, or if heās simply so swept up in the moment that heās forgotten their animosity entirely. Thereās a light in him Grian doesnāt want to dampen though, so he doesnāt draw attention to it. Instead, he threads his fingers between Scarās as they walk down the centre of the otherwise empty street, sunshine bright above them, reflecting off the storefront mirrors.
āItās all t-shirts and knick-knacks now, but in the old days they used to sell actual goods here,ā Scar explains, gesturing at the shuttered store-fronts. āInfamously, one of the shops sold bras, back when the park had just opened.ā
Grian smiles, unable to resist Scarās infectious attitude. They walk the length of mainstreet and end up standing at a central hub, the road encircling a statue and gardens before splitting off in several directions, each avenue leading to another portion of the park. Directly in front of them the iconic castle rises up, somehow smaller than Grian thought it would be.
He glances around, trying to maintain at least some degree of caution, but thereās nothing but beautiful landscaping and empty park benches to greet them.
āI always wanted to come here,ā Scar says, an aching fondness in his voice. āWhen I was a kid, yāknowā¦? But we could never afford it.ā His smile turns bittersweet, emotion welling in a way that makes his voice waver before he adds, āCub and I were gonna visit once. The summer before I met you, actually. But then he got a grant and had to work so we put it off, and then after that we just never really had the time.ā
The revelation twists jealously in Grianās stomach, his hand tightening on Scarās.
āYou couldāve asked me,ā he says, trying not to sound as petulant as he feels.
Scarās responding grin is equal parts amused and cynical, raising his eyebrow as he glances sidelong at Grian.
āWould you really have come if I asked?ā
The question sticks an uncomfortable accusation between Grianās ribs. He canāt help but think of all the weekend trips, the holiday plans, the impulsive vacations suggested by Scar that he had deferred and declined, time and time again. Just another facet of his reluctance to commit to any level of their relationship.
Sometimes, itās a wonder to him that Scar didnāt leave sooner.
He tries not to think about it.
āI never knew you cared about theme parks so much,ā Grian says, deflecting Scarās question as they continue to walk. They pass the statue of Walt Disney himself, heading towards the wide road that takes them directly through the castle.
āThen you werenāt really listening to me,ā Scar answers easily, and Grian tries not to flinch. āI like this place in particularāsomething about the passion project of one man, you know?ā He pauses, joined hands swinging between them as he considers the castle, a large mountain capped in fake snow rearing up to its right and a lagoon beneath the drawbridge to its left. āI know itās all a corporate, capitalist mess now, but the thought of having a dream and building it yourself from the ground upā¦ā
He shrugs, a roll of his shoulder that feels a bit sheepish.
āI know itās silly,ā he adds, almost like heās getting the words out quick before Grian has a chance to.
Grian doesnāt want it to hurt as much as it does. It stings his ego that Scar doesnāt trust him to not say something cruel. Heās known for his biting sense of humour, sure, but heās never intentionally turned that on Scar. To think that he would start nowā¦ itās a painful blow to his ego.
āIāve always liked that you like things,ā he says softly, and itās honest. Scarās enthusiasm has forever been one of his best qualities. Grian likes it about him.
He likes so many things about him.
Scar smiles, but itās weak, like he doesnāt actually believe Grian is offering him anything more than lip service.
The conversation falters as they walk through the magnificence of the castle. Dwarfed by its towers and arches, their heads tilting up to admire the swooping architecture above them.
On the other side itās like entering into a fairy tale, the area filled with colourful recreations of something magic and idyllic, pulled straight out of a storybook. There are cobblestone buildings with thatched roofs and stone spires, bright banners strung between eaves, beautiful flowers sprouting up between sculpted hedges, and hundreds of brass stanchions forming empty queues for motionless rides.
āI wish I knew how to turn them on,ā Scar sighs as they pass by a ride for Peter Pan, a tattered pirate flag hanging near the entrance. āI donāt think anyone else on earth has had the chance to have the entire park completely to themselves like this.ā
āThe sounds might attract something,ā Grian cautions, not convinced that thereās absolutely no one inside.
Theyāre here, after all.
Out of the corner of his vision, he sees Scar roll his eyes.
Somewhat condescendingly, Scar says, āIām just daydreaming.ā
Grian canāt help but feel chided. However, before he has a chance to let the hurt settle in, Scar gives his hand a squeeze, bringing his attention back up and out of himself.
āTake a look at that.ā
Ahead of them stands an enormous carousel. Dozens of gilded white horses, their legs lifted in spritely steps, prance under a large pink and blue tent. For a ride that likely sees a lot of traffic, it looks remarkably polished, the figures clean and unscratched. They gleam in the sun, gold and sparkling.
Itās stunning. It feels magical.
āCāmon,ā Grian says, nudging Scar with his elbow. āLetās sit on one. Even if we canāt make it spin.ā
For a second Scar looks at him, wary reservation on his face, as if he canāt quite decide whether or not Grian is teasing him. Then he smiles, broad and genuine, and suddenly he and Grian are racing through the empty queue, Scarās hand tight around his. It pulls a laugh out of him, and that in turn makes Scar laugh as well. Itās unthinkable, somehow. Theyāre laughing together. Grian canāt remember the last time they were like this.
The last time it felt like they were truly having fun with zero reservations.
āPick your favourite,ā Scar encourages, and Grian nods. Heās attentive to the personality of each and every horse as they walk the perimeter of the carousel. Finally, he points towards a figure with a radiant mane and a candy pink bridle caught in its open mouth. Without a momentās pause Scar boosts him up, and Grian feels giddy as he sits astride the horse. Silly, maybe, but really, truly enjoying himself.
āAre you picking one too?ā Grian asks, but Scar is already shaking his head.
āWith all the walking weāve been doing, my joints are already aching like crazy. I donāt wanna push it,ā he explains, and it makes sense but still feels unfair.
A thought occurs to Grian, impulsive but insistent.
āWait.ā
Itās awkward, but he manages to shift his backpack into his lap. He searches through it deftly, reaching into one of the pockets to pull out the disposable camera from the Area 51 tourist trap. He winds it, turning towards Scar in order to capture his picture next to the nearest horseāa candid snapshotābefore Scar stops him, holding out his hand.
āHere, let me.ā
Grianās heart sinks. Heād wanted to make a memory for Scar, even if itās unlikely the film will ever be developed. He doesnāt want to be photographed alone. Nevertheless, he silently hands the camera off to Scar, less enthused now that his efforts have been rejected.
Onlyā¦
Scar takes it and immediately turns the camera around, holding it as far away as the reach of his arm will allow as he offers out his other, inviting Grian to lean in for the photo.
A picture of the two of them. Together.
Grian tries not to let his emotion show. Tries not to read too much into the gesture, even as his heart races rabbit-fast in his chest. He leans in, a surge of happiness filling him in a way heād forgotten it could.
He smiles and the camera shutter clicks.
Realistically thereās no way the photo will turn out. Even if all the zombies collapsed at the same moment, photo centers will probably be the last thing on peopleās minds as they attempt to rebuild society from the ground up. Grian knows that this image of the two of them, side by side, no matter the strain between them, will likely remain embedded, undeveloped, on this roll of film forever.
Still.
He treasures it, all the same.
They exit the carousel after that and carry on through the park. The warm afternoon weather keeps them company, light streaming over them and brightening their path. Scar points out the spinning tea cups and the miniature storybook boat ride, having a story for each of them that Grian listens to attentively. When they reach the outer facade of Itās A Small World, they stop as Scar stares in genuine wonder and delight at the display. Grian watches him, a fond smile never leaving his lips.
It feels surreal, like something out of a dream. Despite Scarās earlier suggestion that the park might still have a skeleton crew within despite having been closed to the public for days before the major outbreak, theyāre entirely alone every step of the way. They walk through the stillness, taking in the scenery hand in hand. Everything is frozen and left immaculately in-placeāevery kiosk and popcorn cart sitting patiently on the sides of paths and avenues; every storefront fully dressed and stocked; all of it waiting for the park to reopen and for people to return as normal.
They turn and retrace their steps back through the fantasyland and end up walking alongside a large lagoon with an island at its centre, a masted sailing ship sitting on its calm, glassy waters.
āThatās the Haunted Mansion,ā Scar explains as they walk past a foreboding looking house sitting on a hill in the midst of a dark and dreary garden. āThe house itself is fake, the rideās all hidden underneath it. They put you in a room and make it look like the ceiling is stretching up, but itās really an elevator taking you down.ā
They pass through a recreation of a New Orleans avenue, and Scar stops to point out an innocuous doorway marked with a number 33.
āThereās a really fancy restaurant in there,ā he explains. āThe waitlist to get a membership for it is years long. I couldnāt even pretend to afford it.ā
āLetās go in,ā Grian insists, sudden and determined. Without waiting for a response, he walks to the door, wrapping his hand around the handle and giving it a push.
It doesnāt budge, which he probably shouldāve expected. Instead of giving up however, he gives it a reproving look before he dips his shoulder down and puts it against the grey-blue door with a rough shove.
Nothing happens.
Itās laughable, probably. Definitely. Grianās not particularly large, and though heās strong in his own right, heās certainly not the kind of person that can break a door in simply by pushing on it.
Embarrassment heats his cheeks, but luckily, Scar is sympathetic.
āI donāt think the two of us together could get in there,ā he says, humouring Grian, if nothing else. āCāmon, letās leave it a mystery.ā But he pauses, considering the door for a moment before he adds, with a stupid kind of optimism that Grian has always rolled his eyes at, āWeāll try the waitlist when the worldās gone back to normal. I bet itāll be way shorter because of, yāknow, the tragedy.ā
Grian doesnāt want to sully the sentiment. He doesnāt want to insist that heās reasonably sure there will never be a āback to normal.ā Instead, he gives the door a kick with the toe of his shoe, and turns to Scar with his hands planted on his hips.
āWell, since this dump wonāt have us, where are we off to next, then?ā
āI want to see the Enchanted Tiki Room.ā
The name sounds preposterous and ridiculous and very Scar, enough so that an immediate smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Grian motions at him with a gesture of his hand. āLead on, then, Mr. Disney.ā
āPlease,ā Scar dismisses with a grin. āMr. Disney was my father. You can call me Mickey.ā
āAbsolutely not,ā Grian snickers. He makes a face and they both laugh.
They leave the faux alleys of New Orleans behind, and find themselves in an area thatās lush and overgrown, like a genuine jungle. The wide footpath is lined with bamboo signposts and awnings overhung with trailing vines, sandstone sculptures towering above them, torches and dangling lanterns left unlit.
The Enchanted Tiki Room is tucked away, shaded by palm fronds and festooned in wood statues and carvings. Unlike the rest of the rides, thereās no organised queue switch-backed outside of it, and when Scar leads Grian up to the thatched roof building theyāre met only with two doors, one of which has been left propped open.
It should be a warning sign, but they step inside anyway, caught up in the enjoyment of the moment.
āItās dark.ā
Itās a statement of the obvious but funny in its own way, and Grian canāt help the little laugh that escapes him at it. The building theyāve entered doesnāt contain a ride. Outlined in the dim glow of the emergency lightning, he can see rows and rows of benches arranged around a central carved pillar overflowing with flowers, things hang in bunches from the ceiling, but itās too dark to make them out.
āHang on. Iāve got a torch.ā
Shifting his backpack off one shoulder and pulling it under his arm, Grian opens the large zippered front and roots around until he produces a small flashlight, the kind youād attach to your keyring. It casts so little light it might as well be useless, but itās enough for them to get a glimpse of the room. There are masked carvings on every wall, oversized flowers hanging from every joist, and perches full of still, silent animatronic birds dangle from the exposed rafters.
āThey sing,ā Scar explains, reaching up to touch one of the long tail feathers of a red, yellow, and blue macaw. āIt was a whole musical animatronic show. The very first of its kind.ā
The longing in his voice is palpable, the desire to see the thing heās heard about for years. All at once, Grian wishes theyād come here before everything went so wrong. He wishes heād made time for it. He wishes heād cared enough to notice how important it was.
The realisation twists something resolute in his chest, creating a sudden determination to make at least this one sliver of Scarās dream a reality.
Holding the flashlight up, he walks further into the room, inspecting the walls and the large columns covered in masks that hold up the ceiling.
āWhat are you doing?ā Scar asks, fondly curious but clearly confused.
āThereās got to be a button or a switch or something to turn it on,ā Grian explains stubbornly. āThere are lights on in the streets outside, the world hasnāt gone dark. Surely thereās a way to get this rigamarole started.ā
He doesnāt notice it until he steps too closeāa back door, clearly intended to be an exit for the audience after the conclusion of the show, also propped open and left ajar.
Through it, one of themāone of those thingsāis emerging.
He doesnāt have time to properly assess them. Theyāre wearing some sort of work uniform, either custodial or maintenance, if Grian had to guess. Scar would know, but thereās no time to askāno point to it when every wasted second spells peril. The sleeves on the uniform are twisted up and rolled haphazardly, as if the creature was attempting to tear them off. Their head twitches left and right jerkily, like an animal hunting for its next meal.
Grian makes a noise, a choked gasp of surprise, and suddenly they find it.
The corpse lurches forward the second it spots him. Its movements are uncoordinated and unhinged, its jaw making an ungodly sound as it clamours for him. Itās only the fortune of Grianās high-strung nerves that has him falling back, stumbling over his own feet before he manages to catch himself against one of the benches. It should give him a second to assess his options, but in his panic his foot slides on the tile floor, and thereās a moment where he feels his centre of balance shifting, his body made unfamiliar by the weight of the backpack resting on his shoulders.
He knows that if he topples over then the zombie will be on him in seconds, but the low back of the bench gives him nothing to grab onto for purchase. For a second he sees itāhis throat torn to shreds, left mutilated, twisted and torn in a puddle of viscera right smack dab in the middle of Scarās most treasured memory. Then, out of nowhere, heavy hands are taking hold of his shoulders, straightening him up as Scar pulls Grian back, dragging him almost effortlessly as he manhandles them towards the door of the attraction.
āGrian, run!ā
The word is grit out, brokering no argument as Scar shoves Grian forward. He stumbles down the shallow stairs leading into the attraction, Scar right at his back. With the benefit of his long reach, Scar yanks at the door that had previously been wedged open, shutting it quickly. The sound of it slamming is loud in the otherwise utter silence of the park.
Grian just hopes it doesnāt sound like a dinner bell.
āVacation over,ā Scar says, any trace of the delight that had filled him mere moments before completely evaporated. āBack to the gate. We gotta get out of here.ā
They jog fast, occasionally sprinting as the urgency makes them frantic. Every shadow puts them on edge. Itās been hours since they last saw a zombie, and while Grian had tried not to let his guard down, itās obvious he had by the way this has shaken him. Just one creature in the margin of an otherwise undisturbed attraction makes the whole park feel suddenly unsafe and contaminated.
It doesnāt make sense for there to be just a singular member of staff on duty, he reasonsāwhere thereās one zombie, there must be others.
This whole time theyāve been wandering through a death trap.
Itās only as they prepare to pass under the rail bridge and through the tunnel that leads to the entrance of the park that Scar slows, reluctant as he turns his gaze towards an old fashioned fire hall: a dusty pink brick building festooned in red and white bunting, with an enormous bell on its gabled roof.
āScarāā Grian feels the hiss boiling in his throat, but Scar waves him off, nodding his head towards the second floor window of the building.
āDo you see that light?ā he asks, breathless from their flee.
Itās obvious at a glance, an old fashioned oil lamp sat in the centre of the window, white lace curtains pulled back on either side of it.
āWhen Disney used to come here, in the early days of opening the park, heād have that light lit to let everyone on staff know he was around.ā
Thereās something in Scarās tone, a grief and a sadness, a nostalgia for something he never got to properly experience. It makes Grianās heart twist in an uncomfortable way.
He wishes things could be different. Wishes he could reach out and comfort Scar in any way that matters.
āWe should go,ā he hears himself say, unsympathetic. Heās more curt than he means to be, but the anxiety of the encounter has left him unable to temper himself.
Scar looks at him and offers a small half-quirk of his lips, like thatās what heād expected him to say. Like heās used to Grian pushing his words aside.
Itās pointless to explain himselfāit would only waste time they donāt have, so Grian doesnāt. Heāll let Scar believe heās being intentionally cruel.
Just another mark on the tally.
Together, they quickly walk the rest of the way to the gates. Scar puts his hand out and helps Grian climb back over. When theyāre both safe on the other side, he doesnāt move to take Grianās hand again like he had in the park.
They leave with the sun high in the sky overhead, cloudless and perfect. A pristine postcard kind of day.
The bittersweet unfairness of it sits sour on the back of Grianās tongue.
Walking beside Scar, head stubbornly bowed, his hand feels empty and cold.
Notes:
Just something a little softer after the tension of the last chapter š (Even though it didn't end on the best note HAHA)
Also! Please check out this doodle Lock did of the burning car from last chapter! :D They drew this like last year back in January, when we talked about what we wanted to happen in Chapter 5 for the very first time! Hard to believe we're finally at the posting stage :")
Chapter 7
Notes:
Another batch of amazing fanart!! Seriously, you guys are blowing all our expectations out of the water, we could not be more grateful for the tremendous amount of support ;w; TYSM!! Please give the artists all your love, we're honestly so humbled š
Firstly, some moody, beautiful, eye-catching art by i-crave-sleep!
Secondly, great perspective and details by THB!
And finally, glowy, perfectly rendered work by verdantglow!
Thank you three for all the amazing art of Chapter 5! We're thrilled beyond words!! :'D š«
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Leaving Disneyland and the tourist area surrounding it behind doesnāt make things better.
In fact, it makes things worse.
They see them now. Zombies. Wandering aimless and alone, or in disorganised, shambling clusters.
Like a veil has been lifted, suddenly they become easy to spot, prowling aimless through back allies and across open parking lots. The sheer number of them is a stark contrast to anything theyād encountered previously, and it puts Scar and Grian on an incredible edge as they venture forth.
Itās not that itās difficult to avoid themāif they cut down side streets and across backyards, or just change directions entirely, by and large the zombies donāt seem to notice them. Itās anxiety thatās the issue. The tension wiring their jaws shut, clamping their joints stiff. The fear lodges thick and dense in their chests, making every movement, every word, fragile like glass that could shatter in an instant. No matter how hard they try, itās hard not to wonder when theyāll find a hoard they canāt easily back away from.
Scar tries not to be too hard on himself. A handful of days into the end of the world and they have no real experience to show for it. Theyāve been lucky so far, their rare encounters easy to flee and keeping them alive. However, the fact of the matter is that they donāt know how best to keep the undead from noticing them. Avoiding being spotted is a given, and being quiet, too, but can they smell them if they get too close? Can they simply sense the difference between the living and the dead in an innate way that Grian and Scar canāt hope to comprehend?
When it comes down to it, theyāre woefully ill-equipped as wellājust one axe between the two of them, deadly but not nearly enough. All that they have to fend off the hordes they donāt know nearly enough about.
They stick together and scope out areas as best they can, navigating tight corners with care. The few times theyāre sighted by a zombie, theyāre able to run without alerting others in the area. Scar wonders if maybe itās because itās only been a few days that things donāt seem so dire yetāwonders if maybe the zombies have had their fill of the living in the area and are fully sated, making them slow and almost passive; not driven by a ravenous hunger, making them desperate to attack them.
He shakes the thoughts away, forcing himself not to be complacent. To stop searching for a silver lining when there simply isnāt one.
Taking it slow is the right wayāthe safest wayāto go about things, but itās tedious and time consuming. Every detour eats up precious daylight, and the high sun of the afternoon creeps by hot overhead. They canāt afford to speed up; rushing through such a heavily infested area will only lead to careless mistakes, but as the afternoon crawls towards evening, the knowledge that they have nowhere safe to stay sits heavy in the silence between them.
The silence.
Yet another issue for them to contend with.
While Scar understands the need for quiet while in close quarters, sneaking past ghouls, there are so many open stretches of time that they could fill if only Grian would talk to him. It doesnāt have to be anything special, heās not looking for a deep dive into their breakup, or debate why Grian did what he did. He just wants something to keep his mind off the constant dread as they continue to push through the infested areas, looking for somewhere safe to stay.
He tries not to read too far into Grianās reticent silence, but it feels unfair on a monumental scale. Itās a problem he canāt find a solution for, his softball topics of conversation met with simple, single word replies, or ignored entirely altogether.
Heās not used to thisānot used to things being this complicated with Grian.
To be frank, every moment they spend together in silence is a reminder that heās no longer with his Grian anymore. The Grian he lovedāthe Grian he was building his life withāno longer exists in the same way he once did. The Grian walking at his side is a person of decisions and actions Scar never would have ascribed to himāwould have sworn he was better than.
Heās lied and cheated. Done things that Scar wouldnāt have believed unless heād seen them with his own two eyes.
Scar thinks about a version of himself that exists in a timeline where the world never fell to pieces. He thinks about a real breakupā a proper breakup. The time he wouldāve spent meticulously scrubbing Grian out of every inch of his life. That version of him couldāve chosen to spend time with friends instead. Heād have had the option to take all the time he needed to feel his grief, his anger, and eventually his acceptance. That Scar wouldāve had the ability to move on, in time. Not better for the experience, but grateful for the lessons it taught him.
A part of him hates that theyāve been forced to remain together. It leaves him unable to process what has happened, or grieve what heās lost, or even share his pain with a sympathetic ear. Instead heās made to relieve the reality of their situation over and over again, sharing every second with the person who hurt him most, continually scraping the wound raw so that it never has a chance to scab over.
Another part of him knows for a fact that he couldnāt do this without Grian at his side. Dropping the axe, pushing ahead, making the judgement calls Scar needs to be made.
More than anyone else on earth. No matter what heās done. That traitorous, pathetic, needy part of him is so, so glad Grianās here.
āItās nice that they donāt seem all that interested in us,ā he says, attempting yet again to fill the dead air between them.
Grian startles slightly, pulled out of his own thoughts, glancing first at Scar, and then down the street. Theyāre at a large intersection, stop lights blinking red overhead. Two blocks down they can see several zombies wandering together, aimless and utterly oblivious to their passing.
āYeahā¦ā Grian replies, dragging the syllable out as though heās unconvinced. āIād still feel better with another weapon or two in hand, though.ā
āOh yeah?ā Scar raises an eyebrow, relieved to finally have some conversation going to distract him from the complexities of his emotions. āYouāve already got that axeāwhat are you in the market for next? Tire iron? Machete? Bullwhip?ā
āI was thinking just a good old fashioned gun,ā Grian admits, hurrying his steps so they can get out of the zombieās line of sight on the off-chance they spot them from this distance. Scar follows closely after him, sticking close. āMaybe two guns, actually. And a third in reserve, just in case.ā
āIn reserve? What are you saving it for, a rainy day?ā Scar jokes, and caught up in the complacency of unhostile conversation, Grian responds without thinking.
āSaving it for marriage, of course.ā
They both hear it, but itās too late to take it back. Itās too soon to be joking about anything approaching the subject of relationships and marriage. Not when itās something Scar had once professed to dreaming about and Grian had waved off. Especially when the easiest retort would be the reminder that Grian couldnāt be trusted to save anything for anyone. Itās too soon to touch on any of it, to glance even accidentally in its direction, for fear of the ugliness thatāll follow.
Taking a deep breath, Scar does everything in his power to tramp down the spiralling thoughts that kick up in the back of his head. Heād wanted a conversation to keep him occupied, and heās not about to give that up over one ill-timed comment. He canāt afford to foster animosity between them, not now.
Besidesā¦ he canāt help but think of Grianās good mood. The way heād laughed and humoured him through his theme park ramblings. Heās not being intentionally cruel. He was just careless.
āI think thatās called a shotgun wedding,ā Scar smooths over with an awkward smile, and the tension visibly drains from Grianās shoulders, followed by a small, relieved tremble of laughter.
The topic passes as they find themselves faced with another intersection, this one completely blocked by abandoned vehicles. A pile-up of cars driven recklessly into one another, windshields shattered and doors twisted inwards or thrown open as if in a hasty exit. Crushed glass litters the street, twisted bits of metal and torn fibreglass spreading out from the accidentās centre, where more vehicles have been left, abandoned seemingly at random.
They pick through the cars and donāt talk about whatās inside of them. Bodies torn apart in ways thatāll be imprinted in Scarās mind forever. A few of the corpses have turned, but remain strapped in by their seatbelts, clawing at air as Grian and Scar pass, desperate to sink their teeth in. It sends a full-body shudder through Scarās system, a queasiness that sits like a rock in his gut.
āMaybe itās better that we couldnāt bring the car this far,ā he says, testing the topic as he helps Grian over the wrecked remains of a pickup truck, trying not to look at the blood splattered across what remains of the seats and windshield. Itās toeing the line of argument territory, but maybe itāll annoy Grian enough to make him keep a conversation going. āThereās no way we couldāve driven through this.ā
Unfortunately, as a conversation starter, it fails to work. Grian makes a face but doesnāt disagree, and Scar throws in the towel.
Together they press on, wordless.
Itās late afternoon when Scar starts to feel it. His muscles ache and his joints begin to hurt like they do before a flare-up. He keeps it to himself, doesnāt want Grianās irritation or panic.
Itās not an easy walk, but itās not the most difficult thing Scar has ever had to do. They follow the main through-ways, highway arteries of six lanes intended for rush hour traffic and heavy commuting. Itās eerie, experiencing the world like thisāno passing cars, no sirens, no construction. He longs for an impatient honk, or a frenzied car alarm.
He canāt help but wonder where everyone all went. There are zombies everywhere, more than he can count, but theyāve still yet to see even a sign of a single living survivor.
What happened during the two short days they spent driving alone through the desert? Had people escaped? Were their cars piled up elsewhere? He canāt help but wonder if maybe the buildings theyād passed were filled with survivors, hidden away for their own safety. Surely they hadnāt all been turned, not so quickly. But then why hadnāt they come across anyone else in all this timeā¦?
Scar dreads the thought that maybe theyāre it. That they now live in a world where theyāre the only ones left. He swallows back the nausea that comes with that panicked thought, physically shaking his head to clear it. He tries not to think about it, focusing simply on placing one foot in front of the other.
Theyāre passing a golf course, tall palm trees and Italian cypress silhouetting immaculate greens, when Grian speaks up, surprising Scar by being the one to break the silence, finally.
āWould you rather a grassy lawn, or mushrooms?ā
Bewildered, but desperate to have something distract his thoughts, Scar repeats, āMushrooms?ā
Grian hums in assent, arms swinging as he walks. He looks tired but he hasnāt yet complained, only requesting stops long enough to drink the water theyāve stolen from deserted gas stations and corner stores, still cold from refrigerators left running unattended.
āLike, instead of blades of grass thereās hundreds of mushrooms?ā
āNo, theyāre tall. Like trees. Big and red, with the white spots, like in books.ā
Scar doesnāt know what kind of books Grianās been reading.
āTree-sized mushrooms?ā he echoes.
Grian nods, driving the point home. āVersus grass.ā
āJust grass? No weeds or hedges orāā
āJust grass.ā
Scar takes a moment to consider the two options. He can tell that Grian assumes the choice is obviousāthat no one in their right mind would choose plain, uninspired grass over the wonders of a mushroom forest. He agrees, in a way. Thereās certainly only one easy answer.
āIāll take the grass.ā
Grian makes a sound of disbelief, as much genuinely perplexed as he is disgusted. āAre you kidding? Why?ā
āI like the simplicity. Itās like a blank canvas,ā Scar insists, smiling at Grianās utterly predictable reaction. āBesides that, itās a nice lawn, easy to mowā¦ even better if you get one of those rider-mowers, yāknow? Sit back and let it do the work for you. Nothing better than that. The American dream.ā
āIām pretty sure thatās not the American dream,ā Grian protests.
āWell itās better than some āPrincess and the Frogā mushroom forest situation,ā Scar argues, grinning. āBig mushrooms towering up all over the place, wafting their spores, putting mycelium in the dirt. Nothing appealing about that, if you ask me. Itās the kind of thing that should be outlawed.ā
Grian shakes his head, unconvinced but bemused and Scarās heart squeezes with fond familiarity. This is the Grian he knows. This is the Grian he fell in love with. The one who never cheated on him. Or put an axe through a zombie skull.
āMy turn,ā Scar says as Grian looks up at him, waiting. āA man has wandered into your city and declared himself king. Would you rather join his side as a knight, or fight in the resistance?ā
āIs it too predictable if I choose resistance?ā Grian asks.
āIt is,ā Scar says, chuckling, and Grian groans dramatically in response.
āIdeally Iād just stay out of it, I think. Putting up a resistance these days is harder than it used to be.ā
āIād join the knights,ā Scar says, matter of fact. āThe payās gotta be good working for royalty, right? Imagine the riches!ā
Grian rolls his eyes. āItās always money with you. Say there was a civil war, would you ratherāā
āWar profiteering, easy.ā
āI wasnāt even done the question yet!ā Grian exclaims, shrill, and Scar canāt help the laughter bubbling up in his chest.
Itās easy. Lighthearted, without any high stakes. Scar is grateful for the distraction. Itās a slice of normalcy in whatās been one world-shattering event after another. Walking side by side with Grian, no heaviness between themāScar canāt help but feel nostalgic for a simpler time. He knows it makes him more forgiving than he should be, but he canāt help it. Heās always been a sucker this way.
They play the game for hours, heading north along abandoned roads, avoiding zombies when they see them, and giving corpses a respectful distance when they lay in their way. The sun is barely a finger above the horizon when Grian finally heaves a breath, dredging weariness up from the soles of his feet as he says, āThatās enough for today. We need to hunker down for the night.ā
Itās not as easy as it sounds. Unluckily, there are no empty houses around for them to squat in.
Theyāre in a commercial area entirely made of strip malls, retail outlets, and storage units, with huge sprawls of asphalt parking lots spread out between them. Some of the businesses show signs of forced entry and looting, glass smashed and electronics pulled out of window displays, but they donāt see any signs of zombies, which comes as a relief after hours and miles of avoiding them.
Itās nice to have one less thing to worry about.
āThe storage unit might have a staff room,ā Scar suggests, weighing their options one at a time. āBars on all the windows. Maybe a fridge and running water, if weāre lucky.ā
Grian considers it, rubbing his jaw as he looks at the storage unit, a large stand-alone building with a cinderblock wall running around its perimeter.
āItās not a bad idea,ā he acknowledges, which is as close to a compliment as Scar is ever going to get.
āIf we get bored we can smash some locks. Play āPrice Is Rightā with peopleās treasures and trinkets,ā Scar suggests, attempting to sweeten the pot.
āPeopleās useless tat, more like,ā Grian counters, but itās clear heās convinced and is in favour of Scarās suggestion.
Together, they cross the centre of the abandoned intersection, traffic lights above them changing for no one. The front gate of the building is closed, but with a little brute force courtesy of the axe, they manage to pry it open.
Ultimately, the storage unit doesnāt have much for them to benefit from. When they finally get in, abandoning their attempt to force the lock and simply smashing a window, they find the front office empty and useless. The reception desk has nothing of interest on it, just a computer from the early 2000s and a phone without a dial tone when they lift it off its cradle.
Scar finds the staff room while Grian goes through the shallow drawers of the reception desk. The door opens into a small space with a thin slit of a window high up on one wall. Thereās a sink and a sliver of counter, which is promising. Thereās also an old fridge covered in takeout menus and hand-written betting pools for every sport imaginable in one corner, and a table with four plastic-backed chairs in the other. Thereās no couch to crash on, but there is a door marked as a washroom, and most exciting of allā
āGrian,ā Scar says, careful not to raise his voice as he speaks. āYouāre gonna want to see this.ā
Grianās steps approach quickly, not quite a run but understanding the urgency. Thereās a second where he stands in silence at Scarās side, and then he bursts out with a loud, excited exclamation.
āThis is the best day of my life.ā
Itās a sight for sore eyesāplaced right next to each other against the furthest wall: a fully stocked vending machine, and a self-serve coffee station.
Grian has crossed the room before Scar can get another word out. Thereās a stack of styrofoam cups next to the coffee machine, and Grian puts one in place crouching slightly so he can figure out the buttons.
āScar, if this worksā¦ā Grian trails off in anticipation as the LCD panel flashes green. Something whirs inside the machine, a grinding that doesnāt sound like a malfunction, and a moment later hot coffee is dispensing into the cup.
Grian shouts, and itās hard not to get swept up in his excitement. Thereās always been an infectiousness to Grianās enthusiasm, and itās no different now even with all the new complications between them. When the machine finishes brewing, Scar canāt help but take a step forward as Grian picks up the paper cup.
āWell?ā He asks, apprehension colouring his tone while he watches Grian blow on it and cautiously takes his first sip. āHow is it?ā
āOh,ā Grian sighs, blissful, his eyes fluttering closed. āItās awful.ā He beams at Scar, his smile radiant in a way thatās uniquely his. āAnd itās the best Iāve ever had.ā
They hastily brew Scar a cup of truly mediocre, watery coffee for himself, and together they take a moment to simply enjoy the first warm caffeine theyāve had in days. It feels like a bonding moment, a threshold of endurance theyāve now passed together and get to celebrate. They share their drinks in a silence that feels companionable, grinning at one another between sips.
Eventually, once their cups are empty and the novelty of a warm drink has settled down, they return to assessing the situation with a slightly more clear-headed focus.
Together, they inspect the rest of the building, and ultimately determine that it doesnāt have much to boast for itself. Outside the staff room the hall splitsāone direction leads to the front door and reception, and the other ends in two doorways. The first leads into a small janitor closet that contains only a mop, a bucket, and a vacuum. The other leads to what Scar assumes was the managerās office. Inside sits a desk, several filing cabinets, a stubby potted palm, and a pair of beige armchairs.
āOh my god,ā Grian exclaims, shrugging his backpack off his shoulders and dropping it to the floor, nearly throwing himself on one of the seats, legs tossed up over the stuffed armrests, curling up on his side as he relaxes into the upholstery. āFinally. Something comfortable for a change.ā
Scar doesnāt want the smoke of any hair-splitting. Doesnāt want to point out that up until last night, Grian had been sleeping cozy, curled up in the backseat of his car. The backseat heād cheated with another man in.
The chairs arenāt large enough for either of them to sleep on, but they have cushions that they collect to take back to the staff room. Scar almost reminds Grian not to forget his things, but stops himself as he imagines his sigh and the exaggerated roll of his eyesāthe tone heād use as heād say āIām not five, Scar. Donāt nanny me.ā
Instead, he turns his attention to the window, and with some measure of trepidation, casts a cautious glance through the lowered blinds.
The storage units themselves are outside, constructed out of cinder blocks with orange aluminium roll-up doors in orderly rows, walled in on all sides. Large spotlights mounted to the edge of the building illuminate the lanes running between the lockers. In the growing dark, they cast off-kilter, overlapping shadows that send a shiver down Scarās spine, but from his vantage point there seems to be no sign of movement, neither from the living or the dead. The confirmation that theyāre alone doesnāt necessarily ease the anxious clench pressing into Scarās chest, but it does give him a sliver of reassurance.
The illusion of safety.
With the pillows in their possession Grian returns to the staff room, while Scar hangs back a few minutes longer. He paces the managerās room, inspecting the cluttered surface of the desk and finding nothing remarkable about any of it. He feels like a voyeur, peering into someone else's life. The timetables and schedules of employees heāll never know, the client contracts left unsigned, the sticky notes with phone numbers and lunch orders. Ultimately, heās not sure what he thought heād find. The office is mundane and ordinary in every wayā just another relic of a world that no longer exists. Feeling a touch subdued, he departs, returning to the staff room.
Heās not at all expecting the sight that greets him. Grian sits at the small lunch table, grinning from ear to ear.
In front of him lies nearly the entire contents of the vending machine, spread out in an organised arrangement.
āWhat in the worldā¦ā Scar begins, but Grian cuts him off with a bursting eagerness.
āItās a buffet!ā
He seems incredibly proud of himself, and Scar canāt help but again feel the infectiousness of his enthusiasm, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Setting his share of the couch pillows next to their bags, he allows Grian to draw a chair out for him, sitting at the table as he excitedly shoves a selection of vending machine foods at him.
āLook at this! Ramen, instant oatmeal, apple chips, even miso! Mustāve been a real health-conscious cohort.ā
Theyāve been eating the same gas station fare for days. The same granola bars, beef jerky, and chocolate bars. Itās not that heās unappreciative of having food to eat, but the additional options nearly make his mouth water. The vending machineās contents arenāt all that different, but itās enough distinction to feel like a novelty. Even the different brands of chips strike Scar as exciting, something heās not sure he would have noticed before the end of the world.
āHow did youāhow much did this cost you?ā
āScar,ā Grian chides, rolling his eyes in a light-hearted way that doesnāt feel mean. āI donāt think weāre ever going to have to pay for anything anymore, buddy.ā He holds up a hand, fingers splayed wide. āFive finger discount, right? Well, five fingers and the leg of the chair that I used to smash the glass.ā
That startles a burst of laughter out of Scar, which in turn makes Grian grin bright and wide, eyes twinkling in that mischievous way of his. Scar sees it nowāor, doesnāt see it, rather. The glass that had previously been a part of the vending machine has been broken into large fragments, all of them swept carefully aside into a corner of the room.
āOh! And one more surprise,ā Grian adds, perking up before he proudly slides a proper ceramic mug across the table. āI found it drying in the sink,ā he explains. āI figured youād get a kick out of it.ā
Scar turns it around on the table, revealing the graphic printed on the side. Itās a silhouette outline of Disneyland, the castle crested by a set of large mouse ears. The words ā#1 Bossā are printed on it in the classically recognisable lettering.
Itās impossible not to crack a smile at it, and Scar doesnāt fight the urge, letting his delight show. Itās clearly the reaction Grian was seeking, because he beams, satisfied as he turns back to the food on the table. He picks up a mini sleeve of oreos, opening the bag and dumping them all out in front of them.
āBy the way, I checked the bathroom and thereās no shower, but I at least want to try and scrub off in the sink later. I figured youād probably want to as well.ā He sounds organised and pragmatic, confidently in charge of the moment as he busies himself scraping the icing off each Oreo in an effort to create one large, incredibly thick cookie, which strikes Scar as amusing. Itās like theyāre kids out camping, not adults surviving an apocalyptic scenario.
Working together they find an electric kettle under the sink and boil water, making a cup of instant noodles each. The end result is far too salty and the shrimp flavour is terrible, but after days of potato chips itās still the best thing Scar thinks heās ever tasted. They share in Grianās cookie concoction for dessert, passing on another round of coffee in favour of hot chocolate instead, which the coffee maker produces, tasty but strangely gritty.
After theyāve eaten, they portion off what they can take with them and what they can save for the morning. Satisfied with their preparations, they each take turns in the bathroom, doing their best to wash their hair in the sink with watery hand-soap, and clean off using wads of damp paper towel. Scar watches as the water swirls down the drain with some measure of relief. He doesnāt feel entirely cleanānot in the way a proper shower would allowābut heās no longer covered in dry sweat and dirt, so heāll take it as a win.
He finishes up in the bathroom in time to find Grian padding out their slapdash bed of stolen couch cushions with the few extra items of clothes they have. Itās nothing to write home about, but itās better than sleeping flat on the ground. Grian looks at him as Scar closes the bathroom door, smiling apologetically as he folds his sweater into a makeshift pillow.
āItās not glamorous, but itāll get the job done.ā He sits up on his knees, hands on his hips as he inspects his creation. āI think itāll fit us both with a squeeze,ā he adds, sounding satisfied with his handiwork.
Obviously Grian doesnāt mean anything by it, but the idea of sleeping lying next to him makes Scar feel suddenly ill. He doesnāt know if heās ready for that, even if itās meant strictly for survivalās sake.
āWe should probably still sleep in shifts,ā he manages to say, hoping Grian canāt hear the aversion in his tone.
Itās a foolās hope, because Grianās always been able to read him at a glance. The soft smile on his face immediately turns downwards, an embarrassed flush rising quick to his cheeks, even as he keeps his expression carefully schooled. When Scar doesnāt look away, Grian does, shamefully breaking eye contact.
āRight,ā he manages at last, hands clenching tight in the folded sweater heād been shaping. āThatās smart.ā
Quick and casual, before the moment can spin out into something any more awkward than it needs to be, Scar says, āIāll go first.ā
He can see the subtle twist in Grianās countenance, the twitch of his lips that implies āyou always take the first shift,ā like he does it with some sort of agenda. However, instead of arguing, Grian simply nods in one sharp, jerky motion.
Scar doesnāt press it, taking it for the concession it is.
Theyāre both far too tired to fight. Scar, in particular, can feel the worsening of his usual symptoms, inflamed in the back of his mind. Heās always been an athletic guy, and his diagnosis had never stopped him from pursuing all avenues of exercise still available to him, but heās found that in balancing both his enjoyment and his health, heās got a better grasp of his body than most. His next flare-up is looming, and itās going to be a bad one. He can only hope that theyāre somewhere safe so they can comfortably wait it out when it finally happens.
Not that he supposes theyāll have much say in the matter.
Whatever the case, heās not about to make things worse by worrying. Theyāre both exhaustedāneither of them used to having to travel by foot. Theyāre pushing themselves to the limit for survival, and heās not blind to the reality that this moment of security is a rare gift.
He doesnāt intend to squander it.
While Grian settles down to sleep, Scar drags one of the chairs over to the door, taking his place by it for his watch. Across the room, Grian lays curled up alone on the makeshift bed. Neither of them says goodnight, and the silence wraps awkwardly around them in a way Scar canāt begin to fix.
The light from the spotlights outside filters in through the high window, and in the blue-shadowed gloom Scar watches Grian shift restlessly. He lays first on one side, and then the other, a constant rustle in the dark as he shuffles back and forth.
Itās just over half an hour before Grian finally breaks, sighing out his frustration before he whispers miserably, āItās cold.ā
Heās right. The air conditioner hasnāt yet been affected by the apocalypse, and they can hear the hiss of cool air coming in from the vents overhead.
āI canāt sleep when itās cold,ā Grian adds, miserable.
Scar is intimately familiar with this. Heās spent countless nights sweating in a room kept stifling while Grian slept soundly beside him.
He knows that maintaining his integrity would be the right thing to do here. He should stay true to his conviction. One of them needs to stand watch. One of them is nursing a broken heart. One of them is the one who carelessly broke that heart.
But if heās being honestā¦ heās tired.
Heās bone-deep exhausted. Itās a weariness that crept in that moment he let himself relax, making his eyelids heavy and his mind fuzzy. He could fall asleep in a minute if given the chance.
Across the room comes another shift of Grianās form on the cushions followed by another sigh, and suddenly Scarās mind is made up. His knees protest, a little sore as he gets up and moves forward, and aching worse as he bends down. He braces his hands on the linoleum before he lowers himself into a crouch, and then resting on his elbow, finally settling next to Grian on the ground.
āCāmere, G.ā
It slips out of him naturally, a nickname he hasnāt said in days. He puts his arm out, inviting in the dark, and after a second of hesitation Grian tucks himself into it, pressing inward until his back touches Scarās chest.
It twists something impossibly complicated in Scarās core. The familiarity of it mixing with the necessity, trying to push down how much heās missed this, how much it hurts, and how reluctant he is to fall back into familiar habits.
His arm drapes around Grianās waist, bundled as he is in his extra layers, his body heat already seeping into the small curl of Grianās body.
āBetter?ā he asks, words mumbled into the damp tangle of Grianās hair, still wet from the sink and smelling of cheap lemon hand soap.
It takes a moment for him to get a reply, Grianās hand tentatively settling on his wrist before he pulls Scarās arm tighter around him, nodding, his head remaining tucked under Scarās chin.
They lay there, breathing quiet in the dark. Scar can feel himself drifting, slowly nodding off with Grian warm in his arms. Itās complicated, but heās too tired to think about it too much. Reluctantly he admits that thereās some comfort in the normalcy of itā a familiarity in the face of all the uncertainty surrounding them.
Pressed back into his chest Grian sighs, gentle, his thumb running slowly back and forth along Scarās knuckles.
Heās nearly asleep, limbs heavy and thoughts slow when he feels it, subtle but intentional.
Grianās hips pressing back into the cradle of his pelvis.
Itās not displeasing, but it does take him by surprise, consciousness seeping back into him as Grian breathes out heavy in the dark, pressing back more intentionally, his squirming unmistakable.
Firm, Scar settles a hand on Grianās waist, holding him in place. Heās too tired to make a scene. Not interested in hearing Grianās rationalisation. Not wanting the inevitable fight that would ensue.
āGet some sleep,ā he mumbles into the soft wisps of Grianās hair, arm wrapping tight around him and putting an end to his movements. He can feel the tension in Grianās shoulders, can sense the frustration he feels at his rejection, but Scar is simply too exhausted to care.
In another breath heās drifted off, falling into a heavy, dreamless sleep, leaving Grian to churn over his own restless emotions by himself in the dark.
Notes:
That's all for now! :3 But in case you're still in a reading mood, feel free to check out a Valentine's Day Scarian fic Lock and I posted this week if you haven't already! šš It's an entirely different mood because it's very much got that chill Hermitcraft vibe, but it was a pleasure to write all the same! :D (Definitely a nice exercise in reminding ourselves what Scar and Grian are like without the "Trauma and Angstā¢" HAHA)
Chapter 8
Notes:
Starting with some gorgeous, new fanart from THB! Loving the desert vibes in this, tysm once again! ;w; š
As for the chapter ahead, there's a bit of a CONTENT WARNING necessary for this one!
If you have any common triggers or are a minor, please skip to the end notes before proceeding for spoilers on what to expect.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Grian wakes up alone.
For a moment he enjoys it, wrapped in his blanket, warm. The familiar smell of coffee wafts into the bedroom, along with the clatter of Scar rummaging around in the kitchen. Grian hopes heās making him breakfast in bed. He hopes itās waffles.
He stretches, languid as his spine uncurls, and his feet fall off the end of the mattress.
He frowns, eyes still shut against the morning light. His bedās never been that short. Neither is Scarās.
He doesnāt think itās Bāsā¦
The movement in the kitchen is loud. Far too aggressive to simply be rummaging around for measuring cups and flour. It settles all wrong in his chest, heart pounding as the soft, cozy feelings of a slow morning dissipate in an instant.
His eyes snap open to drop ceiling tiles and lines of tubular fluorescent bulbs overhead.
Heās not at home.
An instinct he doesnāt know keeps him silent. A prickling up the back of his brain telling him to be quiet and stay still. Heās not safe right now.
He knows where he is, at least. Laying on a bed made out of couch cushions on the floor of a staff room in a southern California storage unit. He fell asleep full and safe and clean, with Scarās chest pressed warm against his back. He slept deep and dreamless.
Something outside the room makes a loud banging sound.
Carefully, by inches, he turns his head, looking left towards the door.
Green eyes meet his, dark circles smudged beneath them, making them appear even brighter than normal. Theyāre wide with an emotion Grian immediately recognises.
Fear.
The clattering outside continues, and with a slow motion Scar raises a hand to his lips, laying a finger across them, signalling silence. Heās crouched next to the door, holding the doorknob with his other hand, tension wired tight into every line of his body.
Warily, bit by bit, Grian sits up as Scar continues to motion at him. Their eyes never leave one another. Itās all too clear whatās outside, now. The disorganised, aimless banging, the shuffle of careless movementā¦
Itās a zombie. Maybe more than one.
Internally Grian curses himself, immediately regretting their reckless decision making. Any number of mistakes couldāve led to their current predicamentābreaking the window, not ensuring the gate was locked. They fell asleep together, confident in their seclusion. They practically begged for this, inviting the shambling corpses in with open arms.
Thereās no window in the door, no way to tell whatās outside of itāif itās just the one undead creature thatās wandered in on its own, or if itās part of a large, dispersed horde.
With wary motions, Grian bends his knees and slowly pushes his feet back into his shoes. Then, in that same slow, trepidatious manner, he crawls over to Scar, mirroring his gesture as he holds his finger up to his lips.
Itās a stilted pantomime as they motion out how long the zombie has been there and how many Scar thinks there are. With some fumbling of hand gestures, Grian gathers that the noise has been going on for the better part of twenty minutes, and that itās steady but it seems contained. The actions of an individual, rather than that of a group.
What theyāre going to do about it is another debate, and this one is less clear in its verdict. Their supplies are scattered, carelessly left strewn out, assuming theyād have the luxury of a leisurely morning to get themselves together. His bag is still in the office, where Grian put it down in order to pick up the armchair cushions. He curses internally, upset at his oversight. He let his guard downāhe was supposed to be careful, and heād let the illusion of safety set them up for failure.
Theyāre at an extreme disadvantage if it comes down to a fight. Without a proper weapon, theyāll have to go hand-to-hand with the creature and thatās a risk they simply canāt take.
Their only option is to run for it and hope for the best, but to do that theyāll have to abandon the majority of their suppliesā¦
Grian could start to pack what they have here with them, but thereās no guarantee theyāll be able to do it without alerting the zombie and even then, Grianās not confident the additional baggage wonāt make any attempt to escape too encumbered.
Their best case scenario is if the zombie wanders past the offices and into one of the other rooms down the hallāthat way they could secure their things and make a run around the corner towards the front exit.
He stops himself from thinking about what will come afterāwhat theyāll find outside. He tries not to imagine the parking lot overrun with zombies. His self-flagellation is at an all-time high, bitter about the pointless risk they took, how they smashed the window with impunity, confident they were safe.
Itās difficult not to dwell on how no kind of clever escape will matter if they run headlong into a throng waiting in the parking lot just outside.
The thumping outside the door continues, aimless in its trajectory. The door knob rattles.
Grianās mouth feels dry.
Without a word, Scar gestures for Grian to get his backpack and to load up as much of the supplies as he can. Itāll be hard, but thereās no time to hem and haw over what they want to keep and what they want to toss. Grian methodically chooses the things thatāll keep the longest and are the most filling.
Suddenly the ramen and miso arenāt so exciting anymore.
Grianās hands shake, barely able to breathe as he gathers as much as he can. When heās done with what food he can fit into Scarās pack, he edges towards the bathroom for the few things he left inside when theyād cleaned up the night before. His throat feels thick with emotion. Itās unfair. Itās so f*cking unfair. Heās already lost so much, and to have to give up the little he owns yet again?
He picks through things as fast as he can without making noise. Minutes feel like hours and every soft rustle feels like a siren alarm. Finally, he carefully eases the pack onto his shoulders, returning to Scar, crouched on hands and knees and nodding to signal his readiness.
They wait by the door, listening and gathering their courage.
The shuffling is in the hall, aimlessly pacing and directionless. They have no way to control the situationāno way to goad the zombie and no way to aim its attention. The best they can do is bide their time, concentrating on the sound of thumps and shuffling as they stray close, closer, to the point where the fumbling creature slides across the door, and then itās passed, the sound distinctly disappearing up the bend in the hall.
They donāt know where itās gone.
Grian hopes itās not just around the corner.
Scar looks at him, waiting for his assent, and despite every fibre of Grianās being telling him to not to do itāto wait, even though he knows that itās only inviting the situation to worsen, that inevitably more ghouls will drift in and make what is already difficult, impossibleāGrian nods, quick and tight as he pulls himself into a half-stand.
Scar doesnāt waste time, swinging the door open. Immediately, Grian starts towards the office, hoping to grab the axe at least, but almost instantly Scar throws a hand across his chest, forbidding his movement. Scar points at his ears, mouth clamped shut, and Grian takes a moment to listen. His heart sinks, stomach twisting at the sounds of shuffling in the room where he knows all his possessions lay.
He has no choice but to leave it.
Together, they creep down the hall in the other direction, hunched low, shoulders pressed against the wall as they attempt to stay small and keep silent.
The reception is empty, which floods his body with more relief than Grian knew he could possibly feel at one time. The door remains locked shut, but the broken window shows signs of entry, tattered strips of cloth and shreds of viscera clinging to the jagged edges of glass where the ghoul had hauled itself in. Yet again, Grian chastises himself for his oversight. He shouldāve been more careful. If something had happened to themāhad happened to Scarā
They donāt have time for apologies now. Scar checks over his shoulder as Grian scrambles with the deadbolts, yanking the door open once he twists it free, the pair rushing out into the too-bright California morning.
The light is overwhelming after the dark of the staff room, and the halo of glare blinds Grian as his eyes struggle to adjust. It forces him to squint, hand instinctively reaching out to find Scarās, the other raising to shield his eyes.
āGrian,ā Scar says, clippedāurgentāand thatās all Grian needs to hear to start sprinting, blindly following Scar as he waits for his eyesight to return.
Together, they run.
Dimly, Grian can tell theyāre skirting the edge of the building, heading away from the entrance gate theyād originally come through. He doesnāt stop to ask questions; doesnāt hesitate to trust Scarās judgement. Rows of storage lockers line the driveway to their left, single-lane avenues between them barely wide enough for a trailer to pass through. Scar mutters something Grian canāt hear, and they duck into one, Grian following suit as Scar presses his shoulders flush back against the stippled concrete wall.
āThere were four,ā Scar pants, drawing in quick, deep breaths after their mad-dash. āAt the gate. We canāt get out that way.ā
āMaybe thereās a back exit,ā Grian suggests, shoulders prickling with pain where theyāve chafed from impact on the textured concrete behind him. The adrenaline from the fear and the pain makes him feel light and clear-headed, like heās never been more alive. āLike an alley gate, yāknow?ā
Scar looks at him, considering, then draws in a deep breath and nods his head.
āStay close,ā he instructs, and Grian doesnāt need to be told twice. Thereās an easy synchronicity to their movements, like somehow this is how theyāve always been, working together and trusting each otherās actions. Swept up in the high of his endorphins, Grian thinks they make a pretty good team.
They creep along the wall, risking a glance down the avenue before they make another rush towards it, heading deeper into the rows of storage units.
Thereās no noises, no guttural groans or growling to alert them, but that doesnāt mean theyāre safe. Grianās hands twitch as he thinks yearningly of the axe left propped up by his backpack in the office. He presses himself close to Scar, the two of them heading towards the back of the lot on silent feet, hoping for an exit; a door, a dumpster they can climb over, an escape of any kind.
Instead, theyāre met with a seven foot high brick wall with a loop of barbed wire running along the top.
āWhatāll we do?ā Panic creeps into the edge of Grianās voice, an anxiety he canāt simply push aside.
Scar stares hard at the wall, expression inscrutable before he turns, quick, to face Grian.
āWhatāve you got in your pockets?ā
The question catches Grian entirely off guard, prickling instinctive guilt up along his spineāthe product of one too many close calls in the life they lived before all this, the secrets he kept hidden away on purpose, for no other reason than because he knew he could.
He pushes his shoulders up, immediately defensive. āWhat are you talking about?ā
āYour pockets, Grian,ā Scar repeats, firm, like heās making a demand. āWhatāve you got? Empty them.ā
Grian canāt help but feel like heās being reprimanded. Caught doing something he wasnāt supposed to be doing. His cheeks flush hot as he glares at Scar, uncomprehending. It feels like Scarās expecting him to have catnip for zombies in his pockets. He doesnāt know what heās on about.
āBobby pins,ā Scar snaps, clearly losing his patience. āPaperclips, a ballpoint pen. Come on, Grian! I saw you rifling through the desks, you definitely took something.ā
āOh, so itās alright when you take things.ā Grian bristles, prickly as he feels himself unfairly pushed into a corner. He didnāt do anything wrong. Not when it comes to this, anyhow. āYour āborrowingā is different, I guess?ā
āGrian.ā Scar is keeping his voice down, but his agitation is palpable, brokering no argument as he continues to press. āPockets. Now.ā
āFine!ā Grianās louder than he needs to be, unable to help his frustration from boiling over. Heās bitter as he yanks the backpack over his shoulder, unzipping a side pouch and pulling out the things heād taken from the reception desk. A pocket mirror, three pens, some elastic bands and paperclips, and a small emergency first-aid kit. It feels stupid and trivialising, like heās a child being scolded.
āShall I go put it back?ā He asks, livid. āWould that make it better? If I get bit while Iām doing it will that make you happy?ā
If Scar is listening to him he doesnāt show it, pawing through what Grianās taken out of his bag.
Heās acting as if Grian isnāt there, which only twists his frustration tighter.
āOkay,ā Scar whispers under breath, both absent and focused at the same time. He takes the paper clips and then begins scanning the storage units, moving from one door to another, crouching down to check each of the heavy looking locks.
āWhat the hell are you doing?ā Grian snaps. It comes out as angry as it could possibly sound, and he means it.
āStorage lockers, right?ā Scar says, impervious to Grianās tone. āSomeone here has a shovel or a baseball bat or some golf clubs. We just need to find one of the flimsier, unsecure styles ofāā He cuts off abruptly, turning one of the padlocks up in his hand and inspecting the keyhole. āOkay. Okay,ā he repeats to himself, unbending one of the paperclips. āThis can work.ā
āScar.ā The fight drains from Grian all at once, like water through the bottom of a broken glass. He suddenly canāt keep the exhaustion out of his tone, weariness and frustration blending together. āWhat are you doing?ā
āCub and I used to watch these videosālock picking ones,ā Scar explains, his tone distracted. āSometimes weād practise, yāknow? Just something to do.ā
With one eye squinted, he slips the long end of the paper clip into the lock, angling it like he has an idea what heās doing.
āCub was always better than me at it, butā¦ā he trails off, his words running out of steam as he works on the lock, jiggling it slowly.
They donāt have time for this. Grian can feel the mounting pressure, gripping him like a vice. Heās skeptical of Scarās expertise, here. Something shambling and not quite alive is about to turn around the far corner any second and theyāll be defenceless and trapped, all on a foolās errand.
āScarāā
āI need something thinner,ā Scar mutters, brow furrowed as he focuses on the lock. āDo we have a sewing kit?ā
They donāt, but Grian finds himself thinking back to the first aid box and snatching it up anyways. He opens it despite his misgivings, rifling through bandages and gauze until he finds two long needles; one straight, one curved.
āWe need to get out of hereānot waste precious seconds on petty thievery,ā he insists, petulant as he nevertheless hands Scar the straight needle.
If Scar hears him he doesnāt acknowledge it and Grian bites the inside of his cheek, anxious as he crosses his arms. He doesnāt even know what Scar is doingāwhat good will a weapon be if theyāre overrun? It feels stupid, wasting valuable time on a whim for something Scar has never done before and likely wonāt even workā
āGot it.ā Scarās breath leaves him in a rush, twisting the padlock as it springs open.
Grian gapes, gobsmacked.
For a moment, they both forget their situation as Scar looks up at him from his crouch, beaming with pride.
āI told Cub itād be worth it, one day. I told him.ā
It takes Scar a second to get up, hand braced against the unit door for leverage. Grian canāt deny that heās impressed. In fact, the display of competence sends a misplaced wave of affection through him, making him smile sidelong at Scar. Enjoying the thrill of success, Scar grins back at him with a rakish pride. Then, refocusing, he kneels down and grabs the handle on the sliding garage door, pulling it up in one fluid motion.
Itās the loudest sound Grianās ever heard.
Metal scraping on metal, unoiled wheels grating along a rusted track.
A sound like aluminum screaming.
āScar!ā The shout is out of Grian before he can even pause to rethink it. The two gawk at each other, frozen stiff, recognizing in an instant the beacon theyāve just made of themselves.
āHurry,ā Scar urges. āQuick.ā
They duck inside and it takes a moment for their eyes to adjust to the shadows within the locker. Grianās anticipating an overflowing bounty of supplies, a hidden cache, like a treasure trove left in place expressly for them. Anything to make it worth the time theyāve squandered, and the risk theyāve taken by making so much noise.
He looks around expectantly, dark shadows still blooming in the corners of his vision.
Theyāre sh*t out of luck.
Inside the storage unit are several wood pallets stacked with bags of mulch and grass seed. Several rakes and shovels, leaning against a corner. A coil of garden hose, and a single push mower.
Gardening supplies.
āScar,ā Grian starts, and the acerbic anger in his tone is so strong he can taste it. āYouāā
āIāll try another one,ā Scar responds, quick, like they havenāt already run out of time. āGrab a shovel.ā
āAnd do what? Dig our own graves?!ā The words are out of him fast, biting, but Scar is already on the move, checking the lock of the next storage unit and then the one after that. He carries himself like heās browsing the produce selection at the grocery store, albeit browsing in a bit of a rush. Nothing about him looks like heās trying to avoid being cornered by hobbling undead corpses.
Bitterly, Grian stalks deeper into the locker. He doesnāt want to admit Scarās right, doesnāt want to accept that a rake in his hand is better than nothing at all. His own failure still stings, the sole weapon they had now left behind thanks to his carelessness.
He shakes away those thoughts and focuses on testing the heft of the tools available, albeit admittedly not sure what heās looking for. He can hear Scar approaching from behind him, and turns to offer him the shovel as he reaches for the rake.
Itās only a millisecond of warningāa slight prickling of the hairs along the back of his neckābut something makes him hesitate, has him turning quick, raising the shovel he had previously been about to offer above his head and slamming it down.
The zombieānot Scar; not Scar at allālurches forward, some glottal, inarticulate sound choked in its throat as it reaches for Grian with grasping, fumbling hands. Grian strikes out, turning the flat blade of the shovel into a bludgeon as he attempts to swing at the zombieās head. He misses, connecting to its shoulder with a wet noise that makes his stomach turn and sends a sharp shock rattling up his arm.
The zombie doesnāt notice, unbothered by the hit as it takes another swipe at Grian that forces him to stumble back, tripping on the garden hose as his heel slips out from beneath him. He falls awkwardly, tumbling sideways into the pallet of grass seed.
He wants to yell, to alert Scar of his predicament at the very least, but he canāt make a sound, fear silencing him entirely. The corpse lunges at him and Grian has no choice but to let instinct take over, heart pounding in his throat as he lifts up the shovel and jams it forward with a grunt.
The sharp edge of the blade finds the bottom of the zombieās ribcage, pushing in, in, until he feels tissue split apart with the pliability of a wet paper bag. Something like blood, but not, slops in a wet gush down the zombieās stomach. Coagulated, Grian thinks, dimly wondering where he learned that word in the first place.
It should be enough. For a human being it would be more than enough. The thing in front of him, however, endures the assault, snapping and snarling. Grian twists the shovel and feels resistance, stomach and entrails impeding his blow. He pulls the shovel out, guts falling out after it, slopping out in thick coils as the creature drools from its open maw, clawing at him desperately.
Heāll only have one more shot at this, so bracing himself, Grian levels the shovel properly, swinging it down violently, using the side of the blade this time and ensuring that it meets the skull. The decaying cranium parts like an egg, and Grian cleaves down, once, twice, until the corpse pitches sideways and falls.
Dead.
Properly dead.
Heās left breathing hard in deep, rasping gasps, his hands shaking. He thinks he may be in shock, ears ringing in a way that fills up his head. He doesnāt know whatās happened, doesnāt know what heās done. Did he kill it? Is he safe?
Thereās no time to process, no time to calm down.
Another infected corpse appears, silhouetted in the doorway.
Thereās something wrong about it, worse than the first. Its right arm and leg bend at crooked angles, like theyāve been folded wrong and pinched in. It dawns on Grian suddenly that what heās looking at is a body thatās been mangled in a car accident. That either this person survived one only to be attacked, or that they turned, horrifically, while they were driving, and in so doing were wrecked almost beyond recognition.
Now they jerk towards him, uncoordinated and horrific, and try as he might, Grian canāt pull the shovel free from the skull of the zombie he just struck down.
He pushes himself up, reaching for another makeshift weapon, and blindly grabs the handle of a garden hoe. Itāll be less effective than the shovel by every metric, but itās all he has. He turns around and swings wildly, hoping that, if nothing else, itāll push the zombie back and leave an opening he can escape through.
The end of the hoe connects to the zombie with a wet sound of splitting flesh that makes Grian feel ill, but either the tool was made flimsy, or Grian has misunderstood his own strength his entire life, because the handle splinters in his hand, snapping in two midway down the shaft, sending both pieces clattering to the ground. Blindly, Grian grabs for the nearest pieceāhis hands landing on the length with the hoe blade still attachedāboth he and the zombie stumble back from the force of the impact.
Itās not elegant. Heād feel ridiculous defending himself with gardening tools if he wasnāt mindless with fear and adrenaline. By sheer luck he manages to manoeuvre their positions around, putting his back towards the open locker door as he sends the zombie toppling over the same coil of hose he himself had stumbled on. The creature shrieks and snaps on the floor, mangled body twitching and twisting as it attempts to right itself on broken limbs.
Itās the extra second of time Grian needs to retreat, ripping his gaze away from the ghoul and reaching up as high as he can in order to grab the handle of the garage door. He pulls it down with all the force he can muster, breath caught in his chest. The unoiled metal screeches, loud, but blessedly the door rattles down, slamming securely into place.
Almost immediately he can hear hands scraping futilely from inside the locker, banging against it in an attempt to get out. The metal barrier stays in place, separating them, and he feels the flush of overwhelming relief welling up so large in his chest that he trembles with it.
Thereās no time for him to appreciate his accomplishment. Heās panicking, pulling in shallow gasping breaths as he looks around wildly for Scar.
The alley is bare.
Grian canāt see him, canāt see any trace of him. The sunlight beats down, hot and unforgiving overhead, leaving no shadow of doubt that Scar has left him here. The reality of it flares terrifying in his mind. Grian manages one unsteady step forward, not sure which direction he should run without a partner by his side, when suddenly something grotesque grabs him from behind.
Itās the backpack that saves him, the bulk of it meaning that the bite aimed for the vulnerable curved part in the crook of his shoulder falls short. Rancid spittle lands on his cheek, gnashing jaws making Grianās gut twist. His assailant is larger than him and incredibly strong, its rotting arm grasping to seize him around his middle in an attempt to pull him back closer so it can get a proper bite.
Grian doesnāt think to yell out. Canāt form a thought at all. Thereās no calm serenity or placid acceptance of his fateāall he feels is fear so strong that he chokes on it as heās pulled back, backā
A voice cuts in, loud over the rasped groaning in his ear.
āGrian! Down!ā
He doesnāt hesitate, legs buckling as he drops himself to the ground. Uncoordinated undead fingers grasp at him clumsily, but arenāt able to get a secure hold. He doesnāt have time to brace himself. Has no idea whatās coming.
A millisecond later his eardrums reverberate with the loudest sound heās ever heard.
It takes a moment to collect himself, his body shaking, pushed to its limits as he struggles to open his eyes.
The first thing he sees is the body of the ghoul, collapsed on bent knees next to him.
Itās been shot once. Clean between the eyes.
A large hand, warm and strong, wraps around his bicep, pulling him to his feet. Panicked, familiar green eyes look him over quickly.
āDid it get you?!ā
He canāt answer the question. Canāt process it quick enough in his daze to even know what heās being asked in the first place.
āAre you bit?!ā Scar presses, his grip firm and grounding as Grianās focus slowly returns.
Inch by inch he processes, managing to shake his head, slow. His words are like a slurry, tongue thick as he husks out a single, āNo.ā
Scar looks at him, expression broken, pupils only pin pricks, body constricted tight with fear, and surges forward all at once, a desperate hand fisting in the shoulder of Grianās jacket as he yanks him close and kisses him hard.
Itās not gentle and itās not romantic. Scarās lips are chapped and bruising against his own, and by the time Grian registers that itās even happening, itās already over. Scar leans back, hand brushing through Grianās hair in a tender, devoted gesture before his eyes refocus on something over Grianās shoulder and he says, firm, āWe have to go.ā
Only when Scar steps back does Grian see it, the rifle gripped tight in his free hand. Stunned, his eyes scan the bank of storage units and see the two other doors Scar had managed to open while Grian was preoccupied fending off his attackers. One of them is entirely empty, but the other is piled with shelves, mattresses, bed frames andātucked against the foot of a sofaāa gun safe, the door thrown open with its contents strewn across the paved floor.
āScar,ā Grian whispers, relieved and confused and awed all at once. āHow did youāā
āLater,ā Scar replies, hand wrapping around Grianās wrist as he pulls him forward, leading him back towards the entrance gate they first came through. āWe dealt with three of themāI only saw four by the gate to begin with. If weāre lucky, it went the other way around the main building and hasnāt caught on to us, yet. We can sneak out and shut it in.ā
Distantly, Grian knows Scarās explanation makes sense, but in the heat of the moment he canāt make heads or tails of it. Neither of them says what theyāre both thinking. That maybe thereās more than the handful of zombies theyād originally seen. That maybe thereās no safe exit now.
Scar jogs ahead, hugging the side of the long line of storage units, the rifle clutched easy in his hand. Grian follows after him, chest tight and ribs aching as he pushes through his short breaths of panic. Everything hurts and he feels scaredāmore scared than heās ever been in his life. Possibly more scared than he knew he had the capacity to be.
Carefully but with haste they make their way to the front of the lot, rounding the small parking lot near the reception door that they first came out through. The gate is only a few metres away, clearly visible to them, but itās what they hearāa low, agonising sound, pulled through clotted lungsāthat gives them pause, ducking low against the brick and hoping to stay out of sight.
āI canāt tell how many there are,ā Scar says, words whispered, his shoulders pressed flush to the wall. āOn the count of three you run, okay? Donāt stop, donāt look back. Make it through the gate and shut it behind you, no matter what.ā
āWhat about you?ā Grian asks, the fear of being separated, even for a minute, near strangling him.
āCome on,ā Scar says, either not hearing him or refusing to acknowledge him, too preoccupied as he leans forward just enough to risk a glance around the edge of the building. āOn threeāone. Two.ā
Grian wants to fight, wants to argue, wants to insist they take time to properly think about this and for Scar to fill him in on whatever he has planned so that Grian knows heāll be okay, but Scar is already counting up, numbers hissed in a whisper until he snaps, āThree!ā and then theyāre both up and running.
Grian moves as fast as he can across the asphalt, hoping he doesnāt trip and hoping even harder that nothing latches on to him. Heās through the gate before he knows it, grabbing the bars, looking around wildly for Scar when a shot reverberates around him, exploding loud in the relative silence. Through the gate he sees Scar, shooting the corpses that are chasing after themāmore, much more, than theyād originally accounted for. Scar seems undeterred, firing once, twice, each shot hitting its target. Two bodies drop heavy to the ground and then Scar is shouldering through the gate and Grian is slamming it shut andāwith forethought Grian didnāt even know he hadā Scar is securing it with one of the padlocks he took off a storage unit door.
Grian only has a second to admire the accuracy of Scarās aimāthe two zombies laid out, shot with neat, pin-point accuracyābefore Scar is pulling his arm again and they both break into a sprint. There are more of themāzombiesātrickling out into the parking lots of the adjacent shopping plazas, no doubt drawn by the sound of Scarās shots. Grian feels a sick twist in his gut as he wonders if they were there the whole time, hidden in the quiet while he and Scar had slept the night away, unprotected.
āWe can outrun them.ā Scar shouts as they run, jarring him from his thoughts, sounding much more confident than Grian is. āLook, theyāre slow.ā
Itās true, they are. Theyāre not like the zombies from their first encounter, the one that ran towards Grianās car, arms outstretched. Even alerted to their presence, the best these undead things can do is trudge forward at an amble. If he and Scar can keep up a jog theyāll be able to get away, easy.
Grianās not at his most athletic, however. He hasnāt trained for anything since he left secondary school behind. His lungs already hurt from the panic he felt earlier, and each inhale sears the inside of his chest like a brand. Not to mention the prior exhaustion he was already feeling from having walked for miles the day before.
Not for the first time, and definitely not for the last, he thinks about how much he misses his car. How much easier this would be if he could just foot the gas and go.
They run until they canāt anymore. Maybe half a mile. Maybe less. Then they walk, checking over their shoulders at every opportunity. The zombies seem unable to maintain a pursuit, which comes as a small blessing, but as one threat fades, others rise up in their place, like eager weeds ready to choke their precious garden. Nowhere seems safe. Every building they investigate, every storefront they peer into, something grasping and shambling reaches out to greet them.
Whatever it was that had kept the zombies from rising up towards them throughout their journey thus far, itās decidedly gone now. They encounter them repeatedly, around corners and on open streets. Thereās not a moment to rest, every narrow escape pushing bile up into Grianās throat, anxiety claw him like something feral and alive. They have no water and very few supplies, almost all their things left behind in the mad dash of the morning.
The day passes in a haze of adrenaline and fear as they push on and on and on in a desperate bid for safety.
Grian tries not to grant too much space to his growing negativity, knowing that once it takes hold it wonāt easily tamper back down. Instead, he tries to take charge and control the things he can. He scours the map book they picked from their last rest stop and had luckily crammed into the backpack they had brought, deliberating over the best possible routes. He takes them away from major intersections and choke-holds of infection, pulling them through the suburbs, heading towards the undeveloped mountains he sees in the distance.
It takes hours.
They trade the backpack back and forth between one another, taking turns sharing the burden. Not that it amounts to muchāneither of them brings up how much lighter it is, how much they were forced to leave behind. Grian tries not to dwell on the hoard of food heād pulled out of the vending machine, the treats heād had to leave behind because they only had one bag to stuff it all into. He tries his best not to grieve the loss of the watery, flavourless coffee, reminding himself heās always been more of a tea person anyway.
It doesnāt help much, but at least he can pretend.
As they walk, they look across sun-baked lawns and wide empty driveways. Each house is tempting; the potential of a safe bed, a roof over their head, cupboards full of food, and running waterā¦ but theyāve both agreed itās not worth the risk. Beyond the undead already milling about in yards and on patios, they canāt take the risk of walking into a home and finding it harbouring the remnants of a family.
Or worse.
As they walk, Scar keeps suggesting that there may be survivors; that itās too soon to give up hope on others having made it out or holed up alive. He says, conversational, but desperate for it to be true, that it would make sense for anyone still living to board themselves up in their homes, stocked with food and supplies in an attempt to wait things out.
Grian is unconvinced. If there are survivors, theyāve yet to see any sign of them, and even if there are people locked up in these houses they pass, itās not like any of them would happily welcome the two of them in with open arms.
Grian knows he wouldnāt.
No. Letting their guards down and setting up in any of these suburban homes, only to find themselves swarmed in the night, either by shambling corpses or other desperate survivors following their trail, is not in Grianās game plan. He brushes Scarās suggestions to go door-to-door seeking refuge aside, ignoring the look Scar gives him, and they push on, shadows lengthening as the day leans over from afternoon into evening.
Eventually, even the suburban neighbourhoods come to an end, the mountains that had seemed so far away earlier in the day now looming up, blue-purple above them, the road theyāve been following winding in a lazy serpentine up the first hill, the slope gradual enough that it doesnāt intimidate them.
They come across the shooting range by chance, passing large plywood signs posted in the brush on either side of the road, directing them to a members-only gun club less than a mile ahead.
āItāll either be overrun or deserted.ā Scar says, speaking with an authority that catches Grian by surprise. Heās still not used to the idea of Scar being someone who knows how to handle a firearm. It runs against the affable, easy-going charmer heās grown accustomed to. A side of Scar he wasnāt prepared to see.
āWe should check it out, regardless,ā Grian huffs, the slight incline as they trek upwards making him sound more than a little winded. āIf itās bad weāll keep walking, but we need somewhere to stay the night.ā
He doesnāt want to sleep outdoors for a multitude of reasons, but most of all he just doesnāt know if heāll be able to do it without the protective insulation of a tent to cover him. Some animal instinct part of his brain loathes the idea, so if thereās somewhere safe, somewhere provisionedāsomewhere with ammunitionātheyād be fools not to at least take a look at it from a distance.
The walk stretches longer than it has any right to. Grian glances at Scar repeatedly, trying to gauge how heās fairing under the stress, but while he doesnāt look comfortable by any means, his expression stays in that same stateāa weary but resolved determination.
By the time they make it to the shooting range gates, Grian is hot, tired, thirsty, and more than willing to risk another attack if it means he gets to sit and rest for fifteen minutes. The sun is hot on the back of his neck, his feet ache, and the sight of the driveway veering left gives him a visceral sense of relief.
āFinally,ā he sighs, shoulders sagging. āI thought weād never make it.ā
Scar, on the other hand, is not so careless. The lane bends into an empty parking lot, but that doesnāt seem to mean anything to him as he cautiously slings the rifle off his shoulder, walking with it held steady in his hands as they approach the seemingly abandoned building.
The club is laid out like a compound, with three long, flat-roofed buildings covered by aluminium siding forming a U around the shooting range itself. They approach cautiously, checking the perimeter of each building, but the grounds seem entirely empty. No lurching creatures shamble out to greet them. No warning shots are fired to keep them at a distance.
They try the door of the first building and find it set up like a garage, with several ATVs up on blocks, their tires removed in the midst of refurbishing. The second building holds even less than the firstāmostly just plywood sheets and some siding. There are targets, decoys, and clay pigeon throwers arranged on some shelves; but itās all things to shoot at, nothing to shoot with.
The third building is the least shed-like and clearly the most used of the establishment. Inside they find something like a clubhouse, with worn brown leather couches and sun-faded upholstery arranged around a single large room. Hunting trophies made of taxidermied deer heads and award plaques for marksmanship are mounted on the walls. Thereās a bar in one corner, which strikes Grian as a ridiculous addition to a place teeming with guns; both dangerous and risky. It has a self-serve, honour system menu written on a whiteboard propped up against it, liquor bottles lined up against the wall.
āThereāll be an ammo room,ā Scar explains, matter-of-fact as they stand in the doorway. There are large windows and sliding glass doors leading out to the shooting range. It looks nice, almost inviting.
Grian has never been somewhere more alien.
āHow do you know?ā He asks, and Scar gives him a look, eyebrow raised as if it isnāt obvious.
āI had other hobbies before I met you,ā he says, as if that clarifies anything at all.
Grianās not sure what to make of it. Not sure whether he should feel jilted by the statement, or guilty for not having learned more about Scar in all the years theyād been together.
He settles on a dim neutral, pushing the exchange out of mind, trying not to get bent out of shape about their distant history, especially when the far more recent memory of Scarās hand on his cheek and lips pressed to his are now so recent. A port in the storm, making him feel like they might not be as over as he had once thought.
Scar himself seems unconcerned, passing through the lounge and down a short hall. Thereās a single door at its end and Grian watches as he tries the handle, finding it locked. Without stopping to consider, Scar puts his shoulder to it and shoves once, twice, until the cheap plywood splits and the door swings inward.
Grian tries not to stare. Tries to hide the flutter Scarās strength ignites, warm and liquid in his belly.
Through the door is a small room lined with cheap wire racks and simple shelves. Sets of ear protection and glasses hang off hooks next to half a dozen reflective vests. There are no gun safes, thereās no firearms at all.
What they do find, however, are boxes of ammunition, stacked in orderly, organised rows.
Scar moves without hesitation, acting with the confidence of a man who knows exactly what heās looking for. It sends a buzz creeping up Grianās spine, seeing him so competent. However, itās not the time nor the place, so he instead focuses on looking over the rest of the room, hoping to find something they can use to resupply.
āA lot of these are useless,ā Scar says, putting aside boxes he deems of no value. āWrong calibre, wrong model. It looks like this place dealt mostly with pistols and handguns.ā
Grian hums in acknowledgement, getting the general gist of it despite not being a gun person himself. As he listens, he pulls an empty shoulder bag off of a shelf. Itās meant to sit snug across the chestānot as good as a backpack, and unable to hold much, but absolutely better than nothing.
āWeāre gonna take everything worthwhile, though,ā Scar adds, picking up his final selections of ammunition and putting the boxes into their backpack. āLetās just hope this mess blows over before we go through it.ā
Unable to help himself, Grian asks, āHow long do you think this is gonna last?ā
Scar goes quiet. When Grian looks at him their eyes catch, speaking a million words that neither of them dare say out loud. The last of the setting sunlight slants in from the hall, casting a warm tint on Scarās face. His mouth pulls tired around the corners, circles worn deep under his eyes.
āI think itāll be over right before the ammunition runs out,ā he says, simple.
Grian chooses not to press it, nodding like he agrees.
It only takes them a little while longer to finish sorting through the tiny room, but by then the sun has set, the last dredges of light fading from the sky from a sunset that appears to have been magnificent. They decide to stay for the night, because it feels like they have no other choice. There are no street lights, nothing to light their way. They donāt know whatās out in the dark, and neither of them wants to risk it. The club might not be safe for long, but itās safe for now, and thatās all that they can ask for.
Still, there are windows on all sides of the lounge, and nothing to cover them with. The doors are flimsy, and they have nothing to secure them. Their last encounter weighs heavy on both their minds, but their choices are slim.
Itās a crappy hand. All they can do is play it and hope their luck lasts the night.
āBeer nuts,ā Grian announces from where heās standing behind the bar, trying to brighten his tone and keep the mood between them upbeat. āAnd pretzels. Some M&Ms and those awful pre-packed brownies. Man, they really said āyou can, in fact, shoot guns on an empty stomachā didnāt they?ā
āI donāt think they meant for their off-grid shooting range to include five-star dining,ā Scar snorts, affable. Heās sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him, yet again too tall to sleep comfortably on any of the couches. Though itās dark out, they havenāt risked turning a light on, relying instead on the dim glow shed by the open bar fridge.
Grian scoffs at that, picking out what interests him most from the meagre offering of snacks before he nudges the door shut with his elbow, plunging them into a darkness brightened only just slightly by the light of the moon. āWeāll just have to enjoy the best this mini-fridge has to offer, and I promise not to complain too much.ā
Scar makes a noise in the back of his throat, bemused, tilting his head back to look at Grian as he steps carefully in order to avoid being silhouetted in any of the windows he passes by.
āYouāre in a good mood,ā he remarks idly.
Grian sits down heavy on the sofa Scar is leaning back against, pulling his legs up under him as he places the snacks in his lap.
āWell yeah.ā He canāt hide the small tug of a smile, a flush rising to his cheeks that heās glad the darkness will cover. āWe have a place to stay, weāre about to eat some potentially stale cheetosā¦ā he pauses, taking a breath before he adds, āAnd you kissed me today.ā
For a moment Scar sits silent, his face in profile to Grian, expression unreadable.
Grian doesnāt know if he overstepped. Doesnāt know which direction their conversation is about to take.
āI thought I was going to lose you,ā Scar says at last, admitting it carefully. āI donāt knowā¦ I guess I panicked. And then I was so relieved when you were alright, I just...ā
He trails off and a quiet settles between them. Theyāre on the precipice of something that feels enormous, something that puts Grian's heartbeat up in his throat. A part of him wonders if itās too soon to push, when Scarās clearly only just begun to forgive himā¦ but another part canāt resist. He misses Scar. He misses everything.
The worn leather of the couch cushions squeak as Grian slides off them, food abandoned in favour of something more appealing. He settles himself on the floor next to Scar, looking at him intently in the dark.
āScarā¦ā he whispers, soft, laying his hand against his cheek and turning his head to look at him. He canāt see the fine details of Scarās face in the dark, canāt guess what heās thinking.
He takes a risk, hoping itās the right thing to do.
The kiss is slow and gentle, Grian leaning forward to press his lips against Scarās. For a long moment nothing happens, and nothing is reciprocated. Scar is still, like Grianās not even there. Itās enough to make a knot of anxiety twist in Grianās chest, one that nearly forces him into a shameful, red-faced retreat.
Then, finally, Scar kisses him back.
He takes his time, feeling almost distant, hands still in his lap even as Grian slides his fingers up and back, running them through Scarās hair.
Thereās nothing desperate between them, not the same passion Grian felt when the adrenaline was humming in him like a livewire and his ears were ringing from the gunshots. Grian kisses Scar, determined, and Scar kisses him, and slowly he opens up in a way he hasnāt sinceā¦ well, since before.
Before.
Grian really has missed him. Missed this. He knows theyāre not ready to pick things up where they left offāthat thereās still too much left unresolved between them. But he knows, despite everything, that his feelings are still there. That he still wants Scar just the same.
He never stopped, really. Not even when he strayed.
It was justā¦
Complicated.
Heās shifting forward, raising his knee to straddle across Scarās lap when Scar stalls him, hand heavy on his thigh. Grian makes a questioning noise, confused, and Scar slowly, carefully places a kiss on his cheek.
His voice is quiet in the dark as he asks, āCan we lay down instead? My legs are killing me.ā
Relief blooms like a rose in his chest, petals fanning out to fill him eager and warm. A part of Grian that he didnāt even know was grieving feels unburdened all at once. Heād hoped Scar would eventually want this again, but he didnāt dare dream that it would be so soon. And the fact that Scar is initiating itā¦ the emotions swell up in him, all overlapping, nearly swamping him with their vigor.
He nods eagerly and lets himself be manoeuvred in place, Scar laying him down on the makeshift bed heās made of cushions and hunting jackets heād found in a closet. He tucks Grianās back against his chest, hands warm and familiar on his body. When he settles and stills, Grian canāt stem by the tide of his excitementāhis yearning for the same closeness they used to have. Now that it's within reach, he doesn't want to wait a second longer, even if he knows this must seem abrupt when Scar is easing into it so slowly. A pleading noise that works its way out of Grian's throat, wanting Scar to touch him, touch himāheās pushing his hips, not sure whether to rock forward or nudge backwards, wanting to feel more, feel something.
āGrian,ā Scar sighs into the nape of his neck, and something in him sounds lost.
āScar,ā Grian replies, pushing back into the bulk of his chest, almost desperate for the contact. āDonāt make me beg...ā
The moment stretches, curling into something close to painful, but finally Scar gets the message, and though his hands are hesitant at first, he still manages to work Grianās jeans open without complaint. Grian's entire body aches from how much heās wanted this, how much heās needed the familiarity and security of Scarās touch. Heād tried his best to keep it all locked away, but now, with Scar offering, he feels lost in itāintoxicated by the way it feels when Scar holds him, small and protected and secure against his body.
Grian doesnāt know if he should make a noise or be quiet, but when Scarās hand slips under the waistband of his trunks and works him free, he finds he canāt keep silent, muffling a small moan out into the dark. Scarās fingers curl around him, calloused and familiar as he strokes him once, slow, like he has to remember how Grian feels. Itās a stupid thing to get worked up over, but Grian feels like heās falling apart already. So content, so relieved.
Itās good. Itās exactly what he needs. Scar gets him to the edge of release embarrassingly quick, hand stroking him steady as he pulls the slick of Grianās pre down his length, helping the slide of his hand, which almost completely encompassing him.
āScarā¦ā A soft sigh slips from between his lips as Grian hitches his hips forward, chasing the feeling of Scarās palm wrapped around him. He repositions himself, pushing his shoulders back, wanting to feel Scarāwanting to be enveloped by him entirely. He feels crazed with it, like a starving man presented with a feast. He missed this so much, god, he missed it.
He can feel Scarās breath, hot against his neck, even, in and out, pressing soft kisses to his nape as his hand moves faster, faster, picking up until Grian is gasping with every breath, feeling the knot wind tight in the pit of his belly, flaring out into his pelvis.
āScar,ā his pitch rises, the hiss of his whisper breaking as he feels his body crest. āScarāScar, ohāā He comes in a rush, barely having a chance to catch it, his hips pushing forward in a few desperate ruts as his f*cks into the curl of Scarās fingers, his mess splattering onto the floor and dripping down the ridge of Scarās knuckles.
He relaxes almost immediately, breath leaving him in a moan that mixes out into a sigh as satisfaction floods into every pore of his body. He feels good, loose and gummy around the edges as he hears himself giggle, distant, like heās not fully present within himself. Slowly, he feels Scarās hold on him loosen up, moving to wipe Grianās mess onto the lining of one of the hunting jackets theyāve stolen.
Thereās a residual thought in Grianās head, the reminder that itās Scarās turn now. Sluggishly he starts to turn over, hand pressing uncoordinated against the front of Scarās trousers.
Heās not expecting to find Scar soft, no hard line presenting itself to the searching pressure of his touch. Heās not sure whatās happened. Did Scar already finish?
āG,ā Scar says, hushed in the dark. āItās okay, donāt worry about it.ā
He feels Scarās kiss, lips pressed gently against his forehead, then again to his temple.
āJust lay back. Relax.ā
A part of Grian isn't sure, something unsettled creeping at the fringe of his consciousness. However, so much more of him is buried under the warm comfort of his org*sm, sleepiness settling into the marrow of his bones, that he lets his concern slowly ebb away.
Wordlessly, Scar helps tuck him back into his pants, buttoning his jeans and drawing up some of the jackets, tucking them around Grian like a blanket. He feels another kiss pressed against his cheek.
He wants Scar to kiss him properly. Wants words of adoration and assurance, the way he used to, but suddenly heās not certain he knows how to ask.
āIām going to take the first watch,ā Scar explains, low in his ear.
Grian doesnāt want him to go; doesnāt want the moment to slip away. However, for the first time in days he feels secure and comfortable, like an inch of common ground has finally been reestablished between them.
He doesnāt fight, laying still as Scar slowly stands up, footsteps retreating across the floor as he goes to take up watch where he can see out the majority of the windows.
Sleepily, Grian wants to say thank you. Wants to say heās glad that Scar still cares. That heās glad Scar chose to forgive him.
Instead, he lets himself drift off, falling asleep heavy and dreamless, thinking about the comfort of Scarās strong hands.
Notes:
(Click to reveal.)[ SPOILERS ]
This chapter contains sexual content--the fic is already rated E, but if you're still reading along despite being sex repulsed, a minor, or otherwise uncomfortable with scenes of that nature, please skip the following section at the end of the chapter: stop reading from, "He nods eagerly" and continuing reading after, "Wordlessly". If you've read fics by us before, then you'll know that we love us some Plot Relevant Smutā¢ and, as such, there are some small nuances/details that might be missed on skipping that portion of the fic. To mitigate that, we've provided a short summary below that you can read if you're curious about the general details.
[ SUMMARY ]
After they kiss, Grian misinterprets Scar wanting to lay down as Scar wanting to take things further. Not wanting to waste the forgiveness he thinks Scar is presenting him with, Grian takes the risk (not entirely realising that it's a risk at all) and presses in close to Scar, relaying his desires with everything but words. After a moment of consideration, Scar reaches out for him and gives him what he wants. There is no penetration and Scar uses only his hands. Grian is thankful and relieved through it all, really thinking this means they've made progress together and that Scar isn't as upset with him anymore. Once Grian finishes, he turns over to do the same for Scar, but Scar gently turns him down, telling him not to worry about it and giving him two soft kisses to reassure him. Grian is confused, but too caught up in the post-release high to push the matter.
Finally got a lil HotGuy action in this chapter heheh š«š¹
Chapter 9
Notes:
More fanart from THB, this time in the form of a truly gorgeous comic of Chapter 8! š« THB also made us this kickass playlist for TAMN, and it's been a ton of fun giving it a listen while writing! š¶
Give both fanworks some love and please enjoy the chapter! :D
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Scar wakes up to a hand gently shaking his shoulder and a voice whispering in his ear, calling for him by name. He frowns, trying to tuck his face deeper into his pillow, unwilling to let go of the serenity of sleep just yet, his body resisting wakefulness every step of the way.
āItās morning,ā Grian murmurs, low, and Scar supposes that by some definition it is. Thereās sunlight on the horizon, a sliver of pink-orange pushing the deep indigo back. It canāt be any later than six. Too early for himāheās never been a morning bird.
He sits up slowly, feeling grimy and stale in the clothes he fell asleep in. Heās been wearing the same thing since before the end of the world. The same blue gingham button-up, the same reliable pair of jeans. Thereās nothing to do about it at this point, but he still wishes heād had time to wash them at the storage unit. Or had time to look around through the boxes of other peoplesā lives to find something else he could change into.
Heās getting used to wishing for things that can simply never be.
Grian is crouched on his knees beside him, his features picked out in the warm light of the rising sun. Thereās a small but earnest smile on his face, looking pleased and reasonably well rested. He angles himself in, leaning forward for a kiss.
Scar leans back on instinct, his heart pulsing up into his throat.
An expression he canāt place moves quickly across Grianās face, resolving after an instant with an understanding smile. He rocks back, settling his wait on the balls of his feet as he affectionately squeezes Scarās shoulder.
āDonāt worry, I have pretty bad morning breath, too.ā
Scar doesnāt know what to do with that statement. Doesnāt know what to say. Instead, he wordlessly looks away, letting it sit strange between them as he instead works his hands into the sore tendons behind his knees.
āWe should get going,ā Grian finally interjects, breaking up the quiet as he pushes himself to his feet. āIām going to pack up as many of the water bottles as we can carry. Thereās some energy drinks if you want them, but theyāre not exactly my favourite flavour.ā
Heās cheerful and downright chatty as he paces around, getting their things together. Itās a side of Grian that Scar hasnāt seen in a long time, even before the world spun off its axis. Each time Grian passes next to him, he touches Scarāa brush against his wrist, a hand on his shoulderāsmiling and enthusiastic. Itās like theyāre on a romantic weekend getaway together, and not trying to outrun the collapse of society as they know it.
Scar tries not to let it get to him. Tries not to let it make his skin crawl. Something about it feels like heās relapsing, that heās let himself slide into something he should have tried harder to avoid.
He pushes himself to his feet and makes himself busy, trying to distract his uncomfortable wandering thoughts. He packs away the meagre supplies they have and double-checks his pack to make sure everything of value is still within it. His breakfast is a protein bar, which he eats, perfunctory and barely tasting it as he heads towards the fridge to pick out the aforementioned energy drinks.
Upon opening the door, he starts, blinking at the change from last night.
āThe lightās gone.ā
āMm?ā Grian hums from where heās sorting through food and water.
āThe fridge light,ā Scar repeats, āLast night, it was still on. Did you unplug it, orā¦?ā
āOh,ā Grian says, light and dismissive. āWe lost power. It happened during my watch, I guess about an hour before you woke up.ā
A trickle of irritation crawls up Scarās spine. He tries his best to keep any antagonism out of his tone, leveling on the non-hostile side of humour. āAnd you didnāt think that was important information to share with the team?ā
Grian shrugs, nonchalant. āIt was bound to happen at some point, right? Canāt exactly manage the upkeep of electricity when thereās no one left to do it. He scoffs a bit, unperturbed as he resumes packing M&Ms and pretzels into his bag. āRemember when you and Pearl watched all those disaster documentaries last year, and you got all paranoid? You were saying power would give out after a day or two. We had almost a week of it. Shows how little those prepper nerds knew, eh?ā
Scarās stomach turns. If theyāve lost power, then what does that mean for their survival when winter is only just around the corner? Their plan is to head north, away from the temperate safety theyāve grown accustomed to over the years. What will they do for heat? And light? As of now, theyāve got one sh*tty keychain flashlight between the two of them. How long will the batteries last when theyāre forced to use it every night while setting up camp in empty, powerless buildings?
Has Grian thought about that? Is he keeping it to himself, to protect Scar from his anxiety, or is he truly just indifferent to it all, too lost in his own thoughts?
āCāmon,ā Grian calls with a smile. Heās busy trying the long sleeves of his overshirt around his waist, leaving him in his somewhat dingy looking undershirt. āWe have a long day ahead of us, canāt be dawdling.ā
Scar shuts the fridge door, no longer in the mood for drinks. He knows this pernicious positivity and upbeat mood of Grianās is his own doing. He knows he coaxed this into being. A direct result of how last night went. A thousand poor decisions made in the heat of the moment and acted on as exhaustion made it impossible to think straight.
He regrets it.
He wishes he could go back and undo it all.
It had just been so easy to fall back into old patterns and familiar habits. He hadnāt wanted to rebuff Grian and fight, hadnāt wanted to lie about how much he was missing him, so instead heād let their intimacy come as a security. It had been worth it, at the time, to allow the moment to unfold naturally and not shatter it by picking at the tender scab that had formed between them.
Much of it had been prompted out of fearāthe terror from the near miss with the zombies back at the storage unit still looming large on his mind. The nightmarish possibility that maybe, just maybe, he had been about to lose Grian in that attack.
Even after theyād escaped, it had remained a white-hot impression, seared on the forefront of his mind for the rest of the day. He hadnāt stopped checking the entire way, looking at Grian, ensuring he was there at his side. The anger that had been simmering in his chest, the betrayal lingering in his gut, the rotten feel of rejection and deceit, had all suddenly seemed so inconsequential. Heād just been glad to hold Grian in his arms again, solid and real. Unharmed and alive. It had come as such a reassurance, those moments when they kissed, when heād held Grianās hand again, that had Scar thought maybeā¦ maybe securing their closeness could be something he wanted.
It was only when Grian fell apart under the touch of his hand, gasping and writhing, shoulders pushed back into Scarās chest, that Scar had realised heād pushed himself too far. He wasnāt ready. Their intimacy had felt wrong and disjointedāwith none of the pleasure heād come to expect from it.
Heād made a mistake, and now he doesnāt know how to walk it back.
Grian smiles at him as he puts on an ill-fitting hunting jacket he took from a closet, the size far too large, long sleeves bunching up at his wrists. The sandy coloured camo looks ridiculous on him and somehow suitable at the same time. It feels like something Scarās seen him in before, but he canāt place it.
Itās better than gore stains, at least. Itās better than blood.
āReady?ā he asks, oblivious to the storm raging in Scarās head.
Scar manages a smile of his own, forced and fake. āYeah. Letās get going.ā
He checks over his gun and adjusts it into a carry on his backpack while Grian explains the route theyāre taking. Heās found maps in one of the bookshelves by the entranceāthey detail ATV trails and little-known side roads that cut through the shallowest slopes of the mountains, rejoining the major highways on the other side. From how Grian describes it, the path shouldnāt be too longāa couple hours of hard hiking, but certainly something that they can manage.
Scar isnāt so sure he agrees.
As they set out, he can feel the reluctance in his jointsāan ache that tells him heās already pushed himself, and forcing his limits is only going to leave him worse for wear in the long run. He misses his cane, misses his chair, misses the times when even taking transit seemed too daunting, and Pearl would offer him her spare helmet and give him a ride home on the back of her motorcycle. He doesnāt regret setting Grianās car on fireāthe bitter catharsis it gave him was worth every aching stepābut he does wish he had something to make the distance they have to travel easier.
Itās not that he canāt do this, he just doesnāt know how long he can keep it up for.
He doesnāt have infinite time. Sooner or later heās going to have to stop.
The road leading out from the gun club is forested on both sides. Dense, hardy trees growing up out of the arid soil. The ground slopes up, steeper than Scar would like, but at least itās shaded. The air is shrill with the sound of the morning chorus, a multitude of songbirds chirping loud in the grey light of early morning.
Grianās cheerful, humming to himself like theyāre on a casual stroll. He repeatedly tries to catch Scarās hand to hold, undeterred when Scar resists him every time.
Scar doesnāt know how he can make his feelings more obvious without turning things into a confrontation, so he doesnāt say a thing at all.
Eventually, Grian slips ahead, easygoing as he follows the road. It turns sandier the further they go, concrete replaced with hard-packed gravel, which eventually thins out into dirt rutted only by ATV tires and the occasional crescent print of a horse hoof.
The morning is turning to afternoon when Scarās legs finally become too much of a pain to ignore. They stop at a bend in the road, the remaining third of the shallow mountain rising up in front of them, daunting in its own right. The trees are scrubby around them, stout growth with rough branches and bristly bushes made to weather the dryness and the heat. Scar knows that this is transient scenery. That the route theyāre taking will lead them down into the Mojave on the other side, returning them to the desert vistas that they had become so familiar with on their journey.
Grian is sitting down as he finishes a bottle of water, resting on a boulder that was likely heaved out of the way back when the road was being put in. He looks fresh-faced and pleased with himself, enjoying the exercise on a bright sunny day. Heās clearly on the cusp of saying something carelessly casual when Scar cuts him off first.
āAre you using that?ā
It takes Grian a moment to notice where Scarās gaze has fixed on the broken garden hoe heās strapped to his bag. He swallows the last of his water, twisting the plastic cap back on the bottle as he says, āWhy do you ask?ā
āCan I borrow it?ā
Grianās already loosening the belt heād used to hold the handle of the hoe in place, handing it over without any reservation.
āGonna do some gardening?ā He asks, the corners of his mouth lifting in a grin.
Scar snorts, turning it over so the broken end of the handle is set on the ground, tapping it a few times to test its balance. Itās not better than his cane, and a far sight from his chair, but itāll do.
āJust acclimating,ā he says, gripping the handle near the trowel blade and nodding towards the road. āCāmon, aināt no flies on us.ā
Grian eyes him mutely, then bends down, lifting up one of his shoes and yanking on the laces.
āJust give me a second,ā he says. āThese damn laces are way too tight.ā
Their break ends up dragging on as Grian muddles with seemingly every element of his outfit, allowing Scar some extra time to recoup, and Scar wonders if thatās his way of apologising for not noticing his struggle before now. Regardless, itās another hour of hard hiking before they reach the ridge that forms the crest of the mountain.
Itās not a challenging landscape; more a gentle bend that buckles up and then descends down gradually in the other direction. Itās mostly dry and grassy, pocked in places with short, weathered trees, their branches bent from years of growing in the lee of the wind.
Picturesque, people might say.
Thereās a sense of pride in Scarās chest for having dragged himself up here, despite the exhaustion thatās settled into his bones. He looks to Grian, a small grin on his face, ready to wheedle a compliment out of him for reaching the summit, but all he finds is Grian looking back the way they came with a grim expression locked on his face. Frowning, Scar turns around, leaning heavily on his makeshift walking stick.
A mute kind of shock wedges itself in his throat, freezing him.
The city stretches out below them, wrapped tight to the base of the mountain and stretching out until it disappears into its own haze. Scarās seen a city sprawl before, but heās never seen anything like this. Parts of it are blackened, still smouldering from uncontained fires run amok. Other parts look cratered, homes, buildings, and entire blocks having crumbled back on top of themselves, leaving concrete skeletons standing in their absence. Smoke trickles up towards the sky in thready columns, signs of occupation or encampments, maybe, or just society continuing to collapse in on itself.
It looks like a war zone.
He feels sick.
āThis isnāt a small hiccup, is it?ā Grian asks as they both stare, his voice flattened and low. āThis isnāt just going to blow over in a week.ā
āI donāt know.ā Itās not a lie, but deep in his gut Scar feels the permanence of their situation making itself clear. An irreparable shift in the way the world works.
They continue staring in silence, just the two of them, alone on the edge of the wreckage of what used to be. Mourning, not for the first time, and not for the last.
āHave you noticed there are no planes?ā Grian asks after what feels like hours, though has only been a handful of minutes, at most. āNo highway sounds, no industry, no sirens. Itās so quiet.ā
Itās true. Their last days have been crushingly devoid of sound, all the usual background clamour of their lives absent. Scar has tried not to dwell on it much.
It scares him.
āWe should keep going,ā he says instead, even though every one of his limbs protests at the thought. āThe hard partās over, right? All downhill from here.ā
āRight,ā Grian says, slowly tearing his eyes away from the scene spread before him. āHard partās over.ā
Heās not wrong, really. The opposite side of the mountain slopes down, laced by the wide, lazy zig-zag of the dirt road. The path it makes stretches out before them, almost completely visible from where they stand. Its end is overlapped by a highway and what looks to be an average sized town beyond. This side of the mountain has no forests, the ground dry and arid as the terrain gives way to desert. They pass scrubby bushes fit to endure the climate, and patches of yellowed, wind-swept grass. The few trees they spot, clinging to the soil, look more like shrubs.
āThereās a service road,ā Grian explains as they walk side by side. āI saw it on the map. It runs north east, along the highway. We can follow it and maybe avoid anyā¦ you know, googlies.ā
Itās a practical plan but Scar doesnāt know how realistic it is. His body aches more than heās willing to admit. Another hike is going to push him well past his limits, and he doesnāt think he can simply force himself through this one.
āWe might have to find somewhere to hole up,ā he says as diplomatically as possible.
Grian brushes his words aside, dismissive. āOnce weāre far enough out of town, we will.ā
Scar knows Grian hasnāt truly heard him. Hasnāt understood the implication behind his suggestion. However he canāt spare the energy to argue, so he simply tightens his jaw and continues walking.
Together they descend the mountain, following the road. With less vegetation to cover the sandy soil, the slope is littered with stones of various sizes. Years of peopleāon foot or on ATVsāhave stopped to make piles out of the flat rocks that litter the ground. Some of them have names scratched on them, celebrating graduations or marked in memorial. A large boulder at a switch-back on their descent has the initials āM.E. + W.S.ā encircled by a large heart painted on it in purple. Grian stops to admire it, casting his glance back at Scar with a smile.
āToo bad we donāt have anything to write our names with,ā he teases, unaware of how his casual flirtations stick like a stone in Scarās shoe.
Without answering, Scar keeps moving. He steps carefully, more grateful than ever for his makeshift walking stick. The peak of the day has passed, and their shadows begin to lengthen out as they near the base of the mountain. The rutted trail empties into a flattened area that was clearly used by locals as a parking lot, splintered off from a rarely used service road.
There are no cars left to greet them.
As usual, there is no one.
āWe should sit for a minute,ā Grian proposes, and even he looks tired, red splotches spread along his cheeks and brow from too much sun. He winces as he crouches down to rub the meat of his calves.
Scar doesnāt want to sit. He knows too well what resting now will mean.
āGrian,ā he says, keeping his tone a careful neutral. āWe canāt stop yet.ā
āI just need a minute, Scar,ā Grian replies, dismissive as he continues rubbing his leg, working the tendons of his thigh.
āGrian,ā Scar repeats, hoping not to scare him, knowing what this admission is going to do to him. āIf I sit down, Iām not going to be able to get back up again.ā He pauses, taking a deep breath. āFor a while.ā
Grian looks at him as if seeing him clearly for the first time. Scar feels the direct point of his gaze as he asks, careful, āWhat are you getting at?ā
āYou know what Iām āgetting at,āā Scar sighs, leaning heavy on his walking stick. āGrianā¦ we need to find a place to stay. Somewhere safe. With doors and a roof.ā
He sees the panic settling into Grianās expressionāthe instant anxiety and the realisation that theyāre about to become much, much more vulnerable.
āYou canāt be serious,ā he says insistently, standing up, body tense as he bargains, like itās something they can deliberate on. āScarāā
āGrian,ā Scar repeats for what feels like the hundredth time. āIām tired.ā
āWhat are you asking us to do?ā Grian stresses, shoulders stiff, his good mood abandoned. āWhat are you even saying?ā
āIām saying weāre going to find a place with a proper bed,ā Scar says, laying it out as impartially as he can. āA bathroom, a kitchen, and a front door that we can barricade and lock.ā He pauses to ground himself, bracing for Grianās outburst. āAnd then weāre going to wait.ā
āFor how long?!ā
It feels like heās bartering. Like thereās some part of this situation that Grian thinks he can haggle down if he negotiates well enough. Itās as frustrating as it is predictable, and Scar struggles to suppress a sigh.
āWe should get going,ā he says, trying to put an end to the dispute instead, scratching the end of his walking hoe into the dry, sandy dirt. āItās gonna get late if we dither around for much longer.ā
āScar, I donāt know if youāve noticed, but every place weāve stopped has been overrun with things that want to eat us alive!ā Grian says, snapping like the apocalypse is something Scar is at fault for. āAnd weāre about to enter another no doubt infested town! We canāt just decide toāto settle down and plant roots andāā
āGrian,ā Scar snaps, and for the first time since their conversation began, his voice comes out sharp, shutting down any continued argument. āI know you donāt want to hear this, but Iām gonna need you to stop acting like Iām making a choice here and listen to me when I tell you that we have a finite window to get somewhere safe before I lock up completely, and it is rapidly closing.ā
That, at least, gets through to Grian, a shock of embarrassment passing over his features before he squares up and nods tightly.
āOkay,ā he relents, understanding at last. āYouāre right. IāIām sorry. We should get going, then.ā
āWe should,ā Scar agrees, exhausted from diverting the little energy he had left towards a squabble.
They resume walking, Grianās pace far outmatching Scar as the urgency pushes him ahead.
The edge of the town is marked by the highway they saw from the mountain. Two lanes in each direction, piled with backed up, abandoned cars. The outskirts are the same as any highway-adjacent cityāgas stations, auto repair shops, drive-thrus, and convenience stores. Even from a distance they can see them, thoughā wandering corpses, shambling as they wander aimlessly. There are dozens of them, littering the streets and sidewalk curbs.
They canāt make a base here. They have to pass on through as best they can.
Scar can feel the mounting pressure every time Grian looks over his shoulder at him. He can tell that heās judging his pace against the setting sun, casting his gaze around constantly to keep track of the movement of the ghouls around them, knowing thereāll be no sprinting to escape if they get ambushed.
Itās exhausting.
Eventually, Grian pauses at an intersection, the traffic lights dead above them, not even blinking on emergency power. He crouches down, hiding behind a series of abandoned cars that conveniently block them from the zombies ambling along the cross street, groaning tonelessly. He holds up a hand, indicating for Scar to wait in place, and together they hold their breath and wait as the creatures move past them.
āI need you to wait here,ā Grian says once theyāre gone, breaking the silence theyāve maintained since their argument at the foot of the mountain. āI have an idea. You just need to sit tight for a minute.ā
Scar wants to push back, but his joints are in agony, searing pain running the full length of his legs and leeching up into his spine. Just having stopped here makes him never want to move again. This is as far as he realistically can go. Heās beat.
āHow long will you be?ā He asks, but Grian responds to his genuine question with a cynical raised eyebrow and a roll of his eyes.
āVery funny.ā
Without any further explanation he unclips his shoulder bag from across his chest, holding it out to Scar.
āJust trust me, okay?ā
Scar wants to say thatās impossible. He wants to ask on what planet does Grian think he gets to be sensitive about Scar asking how long heāll be, and then turn around and ask for his trust? After lying to Scar over and over, after cancelling plans, delaying dates, being late because he was in bed with someone else, how can he look Scar in the eye and think he can ask for any faith at all? Grian made short work of Scar ever trusting him again.
But he canāt afford a fight right now.
He knows theyāre already stinging; that it would make that cut fester if he were to pick at it any further. He knows that it wouldnāt gain him anything other than further loneliness and isolation if he were to.
So instead of saying anything at all, Scar simply accepts the bag from Grian without complaint.
He wonders if Grian means it like collateralāa promise that heāll return, if not for Scar then at least for his belongings. Itās a grim thing to think, that Grian might only be using him as a glorified coat rack, but he canāt put it past him. Sighing, Scar hooks the straps over his right shoulder and casts his eyes around, looking for somewhere to wait that isnāt out in the open but is still within a reasonable walking distance for his weary body.
āYeah, fine,ā he says, flat. āIāll wait.ā
Heās distracted, trying to decide if he can make it to the glassed-in bus stop across the street, when he feels Grianās hand on his forearm. He has only a second to prepare before Grian is rocking up on tiptoes and kissing his cheek, far too close to the corner of his mouth.
āIāll be quick,ā he whispers, an assurance almost entirely lost on Scar, who finds himself blindsided by the gesture.
Before he can even form a reaction, Grian is off, crouched low as he jogs up the street, avoiding the direction the few zombies had straggled off in. At a distance he looks small and vulnerable in a way that has Scarās heart twisting, a strange mix of emotions clogging his ventricles.
The anxiety of being left by himself sets in fast.
He hates being alone.
Forcing himself to turn away, Scar pushes the last few feet to the bus stop heād been looking at. In terms of shelter, itās in no way secureāa simple bench surrounded by glass on three sidesābut beggars canāt be choosers. He sits down heavily, tucking himself against the poster-ad plastered to one side, advertising a probiotic brand of yogurt, and tries to plan what heāll do if a zombie lurches towards him.
Heās relatively safe, visually speaking at least. Heās lower to the ground, and the pile-up of vehicles just ahead keeps the bus stop out of view of the creatures wandering just past them. Still, that doesnāt mean he can lower his guard and relax. He checks his six often, followed by his open sides, all while going through escape routes in his head. He could use his gun but the sound would absolutely draw every other zombie in the area. In such close quarters, the best bet would be to run, but he doesnāt know if his body is even capable of that at this point.
Beyond that, the thought of potentially losing track of Grian puts a terror in him that he doesnāt have a name for. Itās a wretched sort of vulnerability, a kind heās never felt prior to this. Heās clinging by his fingertips to the edge of the world and hoping he doesnāt have to find out how far it takes to fall.
Itās fifteen, maybe twenty minutes before Grian comes back. The time since heās left has passed for Scar in a tense anxiety that ratched up one minute at a time, knowing itās when not if heād be discovered. Heād started to stew in a darkening cloud of certainty that heād been left behind, cast aside and abandoned, when he catches sight of Grianās form pedaling towards him on a bicycle, its tires thick and its frame bright orange.
Seeing him again stirs up both relief and dread, the two emotions curled together, tumultuous in his gut.
āThereās no way I can pedal that,ā he blurts before Grian even has a chance to come to a complete stop. Itās a nice bike, itās practical, but Scarās limbs feel like leadāthereās just no way he can manage to ride it.
Thereās a second of disappointment on Grianās face, and Scar gets the feeling he was expecting a heroās welcome. A part of him feels bad for robbing him of that, but they donāt have time for the trappings of civility, not sitting out in the open, unguarded as they are with the snarling of the undead roving just outside their tentative hideaway.
āNo one said you have to pedal,ā Grian mutters, propping out the kick stand as he hops off the bike. He moves with quick efficiency, holding out his hand for his bag and strapping it back across his shoulder once Scar returns it to him. āI worked it out. Itās got one of those flat top bike rack thingies, see? You just sit on the back, Iāll take care of it.ā
Scar is doubtful.
āGrian, Iām not exactly a small guy. How on earth are we supposed to squeeze onto this thing together?ā
āIf you keep your legs bent and your arms around me while we ride, itāll work,ā Grian insists, āLook, I know itās not the best method and it wonāt exactly be comfortable, but we canāt hole up here where thereās dozensāmaybe hundredsāof corpses walking about.ā
Scar is still hesitant, too many memories of a childhood spent falling off of bikes in front of the neighbourhood kids cluttering his mind. āWill you really be able to pedal with the weight of two people to push, though?ā
Grian looks affronted, genuinely, and Scar gets the sense heās touched a vulnerability he didnāt even know Grian had.
āIām stronger than I look.ā
Itās ridiculous. Thereās every chance that this will only blow up in their faces, leaving them worse off than they started, butā¦ with the way Grian looks at him, eyes bright and determined, Scar canāt help but relent.
He sighs and hefts himself up off the bus stop bench, leaning heavily on the hoe to manage it. Itās not the easiest thing heās ever done, but itās manageable. It has to be. He shakes himself out a bitāletting his body adjust to the pins and needles feeling of standing upābefore he nods his acceptance to Grian.
āLetās go, then.ā
With a beaming smile, Grian immediately gets into position, sitting ready on the seat and waiting for him. It takes some effort, but Scar manages to leverage himself up onto the bike rack. Surprisingly, that part is easier than figuring out how to fit his legs into a position that doesnāt snag the bike chain or drag his feet along the street. When heās too tall for Grianās earlier suggestion, he ends up awkwardly adjusting so that heās sitting sideways, backpack worn across his chest and gun at his back in order to distribute the weight better. His feet just barely miss the pavement as he wraps an arm around Grianās middle and tucks his face against his shoulder.
Thereās a sharp intake of breath from Grian, something surprised and pleased, but Scar doesnāt dwell on it, interrupting the moment with a question. āWhereād you even find this thing?ā
āLucky us, the bike store up the street was having a sale,ā Grian laughs, sarcastic. āThat five-finger discountās really come through for us lately.ā
āShouldāve gotten a tandem bike then,ā Scar remarks. āThat wouldāve worked a lot better for us.ā
Grian snorts, amused. āAll sold out, Iām afraid. Slim pickings at the end of the world.ā
It takes them a bit to get going, a few false starts with Scar sliding off the rack and having to readjust how he sits. Grian grunts with the effort as he finally gets the bike moving, the initial startup requiring the most force from his pedaling. Once theyāve gotten moving however, their arrangement works remarkably well. They round back towards the highway, turning away from the rest of the town.
The direction catches Scar off guard, assuming they only had a few minutes to travel before they were going to find a place to lay up.
He taps Grianās side to alert him. āWrong way.ā
Grian shakes his head, pushing the pedals faster as they merge onto the deserted highway, easily skirting the few abandoned vehicles clogging the on-ramp. Scar tries not to stare at them, their windows smashed, rust-red viscera smeared across the hoods and dashboards.
āLotta googlies back there,ā Grian explains, grim. āNot Scar safe.ā
The anxiety nestled deep in Scarās chest ratchets up, choking him on his own nerves. All at once, delayed fear for Grian wraps like a vice around him. He thinks of himself, left to sit idly by with a gun in his hands, kicking his feet at a bus stop for what felt like hours. He thinks of Grian, alone without their only means of defence, peering through windows and checking car doors in an attempt to find them some form of transportation. He knows the 'bike storeā is just a bitāthat Grian was likely heading into backyards and other dangerous places he couldāve easily been cornered.
He couldāve gotten swarmed out there. Grian couldāve been surrounded, with no one to help him, mauled and ripped apart and Scar wouldāve never even known. All because he ventured out in hopes of finding something for Scar.
āWe donāt split up again,ā he says suddenly, firm.
Grianās response is merely silence, though Scar gets the impression he wants to glance back. Instead, Grian concentrates on keeping them moving, panting from the exertion. They follow the line of the highway, past a road sign that lists the nearest town as just over twenty-five miles away.
Scar doesnāt bother to ask how far Grian thinks he can cycle for.
For three hours they travel alone along the highway, Grian focused and Scar sitting silent behind him. The highway is a straight shot, flat, and relatively rut-free, but that doesnāt mean their progress is easy. Grian labours, breathing hard, his hair sticking to his forehead from sweat that he repeatedly wipes away from his eyes. They stop a few times for him to catch his breath and drink some water. Their supply is already getting low, but Scar doesnāt mention it, too worried that Grian will simply stop taking breaks and push himself to pedal for longer periods without respite in order to preserve what they have left.
The journey is bleak. Desert stretches out around them in every direction. Dry, sandy soil, pocked in places with clumps of agave and cacti, and nurturing very little else. It wouldnāt be an interesting drive in a car, and itās even less compelling from the back of a bike, staring out at the darkening horizon that only seems to creep by.
They come across just one delay. A collision of cars, with a miasma of traffic radiating out from in both directions. Thereās a handful of undead milling about, distant enough to avoid, but thereās no way to easily cycle around the pile up. They only slow down long enough to sidle the bike between gaps in the cars, but thatās enough to draw the attention of a lone zombie they hadnāt noticed, which pulls its head up out of the crumpled trunk it had been awkwardly slumped in. It makes a guttural, too-human noise that has them both alarmed, considering for just a brief instance that it might be an injured person in need of help.
Their concerns are dismissed when the zombie catches its own arm on the jagged edge of a car door as it lurches towards them, tearing muscle and sinew that peel off from the bone, clotted and gangrenous from days of sun exposure. It stumbles, struggling to pull itself free, leaving most of its forearm behind.
No living person would behave that way. Not a soul.
Scar raises his rifle, aiming down the barrel, finger resting careful on the trigger, but Grian elbows him gently, shaking his head. All it will do is alert the others in the area. Thereās no need to waste the shot.
āI feel bad for it,ā Scar says as he lowers the gun, voice quiet, meant only for Grian to hear.
āYou shouldnāt,ā Grian dismisses, simply. āI donāt.ā
They resume their progress, pushing the bike through the last of the mangled vehicles before they continue on. Behind them, the ghoul follows with slow, stumbled steps. Scar watches it silently over his shoulder until it dips out of sight, his arm tightening slightly around Grian, forehead turning to press between his shoulder blades.
By the time they reach their destination, itās late. The day is long shadowed by evening, the sky a bruised blue-purple above them as it withers with the last of the sunlight.
It would be boastful to call the place a town. A gas station standing directly off the highway, with a meagre mainstreet of sun-faded businesses running a couple blocks behind it. Thereās a sign declaring the presence of a space museum in the area and Scar nudges Grian with a grin, only to be met with a tired glower.
The town is small enough that, without even trying, they immediately slip into what stands for the residential area. Simple homes, single-wide trailers and tract housing, all spaced evenly apart on gravel lots with minimal gardens. Every window they pass is dark, every driveway empty. The place is eerily quietāeither evacuated, deserted, or devoured.
Itās a sea of options for shelter though, which is why it confuses Scar when Grian doesnāt stop.
āWhat are you looking for?ā He questions after they pass the dozenth viable house without so much as slowing down. The night is fully around them now. The darkness unsettling, an unease burying bone deep in his chest, pulling out the animal instinct to find somewhere safe to hide. āAny of these will work fine.ā
āIāll know it when I see it,ā Grian replies.
Heās winded; exhausted, breath laboured and shoulders heavy. Scar doesnāt know why heās pushing himself like this, what he could possibly have to prove. Heās never understood Grianās tenacity, nor his inability to compromise once his mind is made up.
Theyāre near the end of the cul-de-sac street when Scar spots it, the only house in the neighbourhood with a second storey. It must be one of the original homes from when the town was first established, weathered construction thatās stood the test of time, with a larger lot and a detached garage set apart on the end of its forked driveway.
āI could see it from a distance,ā Grian explains, breathing hard as he brings the bike to a stop at the curb. āI always wanted a big family house like this. Lots of space to grow into.ā
Scar tries to ignore the way that stingsāGrianās making a joke, heās sure, but it still hurts to hear. Getting a cat together had been too much commitment for him, and here he is talking about notions of family.
He forces the feeling down. He doesnāt want to know if this had been a long standing dream. Doesnāt want to wonder if Grian had always wanted those things, just not with him.
Whatever the truth is, they donāt have time to unpack it now. Donāt have time for any of Grianās nonsense. Scarās body is an overlapping twist of searing pains as he carefully eases himself off the back of the bike. He wobbles as he pushes his backpack and gun back to their appropriate places. He can barely walkāin fact, itās a miracle he can stand. The hours sat hunched over hanging tight to Grian have sapped what little was left of his reserves.
āGrian,ā he says, voice tight, and automatically Grian moves to his side, Scar resting his arm heavy across Grianās shoulders as he leans all of his weight against him.
Up close the house is dark; looming, and intimidating. Unbidden, the memories of the ambush at the storage locker, and the encounter with the zombie that wandered out of the pantry in the farmhouse, loom up in Scarās mind, nagging at him. They donāt know what waits for them insideāif the former residents are pacing the rooms, mindless, ravenous, just waiting for someone to crack the door open before they springāand Scar knows he doesnāt have the fortitude to fend off an attack.
āWeāll sleep in the garage,ā Grian says, innately picking up on his concern. āFigure the rest out in the morning.ā
Itās as good an idea as any, both of them too tired and, in Scarās case, in too much pain to dither about it. Together, Grian helps Scar limp the short distance up the driveway, the simple counterweight garage door swinging up when Grian bends down to pull on it. Inside the space is almost comically vacant, a dusty cement floor with a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Thereās a door to the side and in the far corner: an empty tool bench with nothing but a stack of water-damaged magazines on top of it, the paper buckled and covers rolled back.
It feels stupid to rest here when they both know thereās a bed less than twenty feet away, but Grian reassures Scar that itās fine. He helps Scar down until heās sitting, legs stretched out long in front him, back resting against the unfinished plywood wall.
āThere,ā Grian says, smile strained with exhaustion as he sits down heavy beside him. āOur five-star suite.ā
Scar canāt joke, canāt even bring himself to offer a smile in return. With careful movements he eases the backpack off his shoulders, settling the rifle next to his thigh. His body feels heavily, his movements impossibly slow, like heās dragging them around on puppet strings from a great distance. Next to him Grian is talking, but Scar canāt hear, canāt focus beyond his pain and the relief to be somewhere he can relax. Somewhere safe.
Theyāve left the garage door open for now, moonlight offering what little light it can in the otherwise total darkness of the room. Theyāll have to shut it before long, lest it attract the wrong type of attention, but for now Scar lets himself breathe in the night air, steady breaths that fill his lungs before he exhales. He closes his eyes, listening to Grian talk until even he, eventually, quiets. Scar doesnāt quite fall asleep, but he does let go of himself in an out-of-body sort of way, forcing himself to untense, letting each limb drop loose. In doing so, his whole body throbs in an almost satisfying wayāthe kind that hurts but is a relief to feel all at once.
He doesnāt know how long he sits there, but by the time heās finally cognizant enough to open his eyes again, Grian has laid out provisions for the night and is looking at the water-logged magazines theyād spotted earlier. Scar peers at the protein bar, chips, and bottle of water with blankness. Heās hungry, but in an absent wayālike his body doesnāt consider it a priority next to everything else itās currently dealing with. Never-the-less, he takes a deep breath and inches himself up and forward, reaching out towards the rations.
Itās as heās unwrapping the protein bar that he hears a foot scuff outside, heel dragging slow across the ground.
Scar wrenches his gaze towards Grian, and Grianās eyes snap to his, wide.
Silently, Scar reaches for the gun propped beside him.
Suddenly it seems monumentally short-sighted for them to have left the garage door pulled up, leaving them entirely exposed. The noise draws nearer still, careless shuffling. The telltale, aimless approach theyāve both become familiar with.
Scar fits the rifle against his shoulder, aiming it at the moonlit opening. Neither he nor Grian breathe, dead silent.
They wait, tense, but itās not the open garage that gets them.
Abruptly, without warning, the side doorāthe one leading towards the houseāswings open. Nearest to it, Grian jumps, a startled yelp escaping him at the unexpected motion.
On pure instinct Scar spins around, ignition catching with a bang thatās ear-splitting as he aims and pulls the trigger.
Notes:
Annnd that cliffhanger brings us to the end of the first arc of this fic! >:D š„š«
I've mentioned this over on tumblr a bit but, essentially, each arc focuses on mainly one character, with the other's POV popping up a few times in between. So, the next arc will be heavily Grian POV, with a scattering of Scar POV here and there to supplement it, in a reverse of what we've had so far! We'll ease into it with a couple of Scar chapters though, so there's plenty of our favourite boy to come ;)
Very excited to share the next portion of adventure it with y'all! Anxiously hoping you'll enjoy it hahaha! š
Chapter 10
Notes:
HELLO ALL! There is Great News, Good News, and Bad News.
The Great News is!! THB came through with some more fanart! :D This time of Grian in Chapter 9 looking sooo, so good š
The bad news is--there won't be a new chapter next week š Think of it as us taking a mini-vacation on our end! A week off and then posting should go back to normal after that :3 The good news is: this current chapter is twice as long as a regular chapter in order to make up for it >:D So hopefully you'll have plenty to keep you occupied while we rest up!
All that said, this chapter was an exciting one to write--we really hope you'll enjoy it! š«
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
On a good day, Scar is an expert marksman. Years of practice, dedication, and a love for the skill have paid off for him. Of course, the edge of having a knack for it helps as well. He can hit a moving target at a distance, he can nail a bullseyeā¦
On a good day, he doesnāt miss.
On a bad day, the pain in his joints and the strain on his muscles makes his hands unsteady, unable to follow the sights of a rifle or accurately gauge the movement of a target. On a bad day, it means his shots are off-centre, listing to the right as he pulls up to favour the aches in his arms. Itās why he gave up shooting in the first placeāitās no good being unreliable when youāve got a gun in your hands.
All things considered though, Scarās lucky that today is a bad day.
The ignition fires but the barrel pulls to the side, missing his mark entirely. The sound of the rifle firing deafens him for a moment, Scar wincing as he suffers through the ringing in his ears. In the doorway, another figure winces as well. A young man, barely into his twenties. His brown hair hangs, unwashed and tousled, in front of his eyes. Heās dressed in an over-large floral knit sweater under a khaki overcoat, feet shoved into leather boots with dangling, untied laces. Blotchy, sunburnt skin; chipped nail polish; breathing. Alive.
Alive.
āOh,ā the stranger says, voice brighter than it has any right to be. āYouāre people.ā
āOh my god.ā The revelation hits Scar all at once, the surprise and delight at meeting another personāsomeone else; not just him and Grian, but another survivorāupended by the fact that heād instinctively tried to kill him. āI almost shot you.ā
A laugh bubbles up out of the stranger, high and delighted, almost manic.
āHoly sh*t,ā he gasps, voice edged in disbelief. āYou almost shot me.ā
They look at one another, Scar laid out on the floor, back resting against the plywood wall, rifle still held tight in his hands, and the stranger, hands fidgeting at his sides, rocking his weight from one foot to the other.
At almost the exact same time, they both dissolve into relieved, jittery laughter.
āYou couldāve killed me,ā the stranger adds, like the revelation is still settling in. āI couldāve died.ā
Itās a nerve-wracking thing to consider. In all their reckless slaughter of the wandering corpses lurching out at them from the dark, Scar had forgotten he still had the potential to kill real people. If heās being honest, a part of him had already lost hope that there were any real people left.
āDamn, and here I was, coming in all co*cksure and confident because I thought I heard a noise! Didnāt stop to think about someone packing heat.ā The stranger lifts his foot, about to move further into the garage when a cry from behind him catches his attention. His gaze hooks back over his shoulder, turning to greet the two panicked voices that shout out, overlapping one another.
āWe heard a gunshot!ā
āAre you okay?!ā
āIām fine,ā the stranger shushes, reassuring. āI was just making a friend.ā
āDid you take it out?ā One of the voices asks, the lowest timbre of the three. āHow the f*ck did one figure out how to shoot a gun?ā
The stranger giggles with the same high, infectious laugh as he gestures into the garage, stepping in as he waves the two outside to join him.
āNot a zomboid,ā he says, as two tentative sets of footsteps approach, scuffed soles dragging on the gravel. āCheck it outāwe got guests.ā
Warrily, two new faces join the stranger, both matching him in age, fresh and out of place in the new grimness of the world. Theyāre both shorter than their companionāthe shortest has a beanie crammed down over shoulder-length black hair, and the other boasts a ragged wolf cut, bangs held back by a bandanna. They wear the same mishmash of layers as their friend, one of them in a Nevada U sweatshirt, while the other sports a white shirt over a dark hoodie with fire designs snaking up the sleeves.
āā¦ They gotta go.ā
The statement comes from the boy in the flame-sleeved sweater, turning to face the other two after only a moment spent studying Scar and Grian.
Beside him, Grian bristles, and Scar rests a cautioning on his forearm, quieting him with a motion. Thereās no point in playing their cards early if they want something out of this exchange. Better to wait and see where things stand.
A brief discussion breaks out between the three strangers, their backs turning to Grian and Scar, apparently unthreatened by them, despite the reverb of Scarās shot still ringing in their ears.
āDonāt be like that,ā the tallest says, face squinting with distaste at his companionās knee-jerk reaction. āThey only just got here. Howās that for hospitality? Think of the Yelp review...ā
āKarl, we donāt have time to dick around. Itās getting late. We gotta get them out of here, now.ā
āAnd thatās exactly why we canāt make them leave. Cāmon Sap, donāt be heartless.ā
āIām not being heartless. Iām being realistic.ā The speakerāSap; with the flamesātilts his head forward, giving the one Scar nearly shot a serious expression. āCāmon, Karl. Think about this.ā
Thereās something loaded in that sentence. It piques Scarās interest, listening intently for further clarity on their situation.
Unfortunately, despite his cautioning, Grian refuses to remain silent.
āWe can hear you, you know,ā his voice sounds out, irritable.
āOf course you can,ā Karl says, looking at them with a grin. Itās a sweet smile, boyish and naĆÆve, lips parted wide, like theyāre not in the middle of a tense negotiation. āAnd thatās why weāre gonna ask you to spend the night with usāplatonically, of course.ā
Scar can feel Grian coiling. Heās on the defense, which brings out the hair-trigger in him. While normally Grian is humorous and jovial, with a mischievous touch that made Scar fall for him in the first place, all of that is absent when he feels like heās been backed into a corner. Like this, heās a lit fuse. A stick of dynamite primed to go off at any moment. Because whatās more threatening than encountering a too-sweet stranger in the middle of the apocalypse?
Scar can easily imagine the multitude of ways Grian is likely to lash out and ruin this for all of them, all too familiar with his barked words and cutting insults. He knows he has to think quicklyāthat his window of opportunity is closing fast, and that Grian is liable to shoot them both in the foot if he feels himself being back-talked in the slightest.
He canāt let Grian blow this for them, but thereās no time to step aside and form a plan.
So he takes a breath and goes for it.
āWell shucks, weād love to,ā he supplies, quick, before Grian has a chance to speak. He matches Karlās smile with a radiant one of his own, the kind he knows reads as affable and charming; the one that says ātrust me, Iām a good guy.ā āYou know, I was just saying to Grian that folks āround here are known far and wide for their generous hospitality? You boys are certainly living up to the reputation.ā
āWeāre not from around here,ā the smallest of the three mutters, shoulders pulled up defensively as he subtly leans into Sapās personal space.
āMust be the local air rubbing off on you,ā Scar counters, effortlessly moving with the conversation. āHonestly speaking, itās gotten to me as well. Put me in a real sharing mood! Maybe we could all pass around our names while weāre feeling so givingāmineās Scar.ā Before Grian can speak, he sets a large hand on his shoulder, patting him fondly. āAnd this is my sidekick, Grian.ā
The tallest of the three smiles brightly at that, stepping forward as he holds out his hand. āIām Karl,ā he offers, without a shred of hesitation.
Scarās expression tightens at the corners as he sits still, unable to rise and meet his hand. āKarl! Great nameāso glad I didnāt shoot you before I had the chance to learn it,ā he says with a smile. āYouāll forgive me for not getting up. Weāve had a long day.ā
Without hesitation, Karl bends his knees and sits down affably on the ground next to him. He meets Scar at his level as he eagerly takes his hand and shakes it. Still crouched beside him, Grian makes no motion to offer the same gesture, and Scar is relieved when Karl doesnāt even try.
āBelieve me, man, weāve all been there,ā Karl confesses, like he has decades of experience to draw from. āAnyway, Pandas hereāI mean, this is Sapnap. And thatās Quackity.ā
Uneasily, Sapnap kneels down beside Karl, not willing to sit, but getting near enough to give Scar an acknowledging nod. Quackity doesnāt move at all, arms folded tight across his chest, expression pinched with distrust and concern.
āQuackity, eh?ā Scar offers, sensing his reticence to join them. āNever heard that one before. You get it from your mallardās side?ā
Karl bites down on a quick laugh, but Quackity doesnāt see the humour in it, bristling in a way that Scar is all too familiar with.
āNone of your business where I f*cking got it from,ā he snaps, shutting the conversation down before he shifts his attention to his companions. āCāmon, letās get out of here,ā he mutters, blunt and tense.
āWell I thinkāā Scar begins, but is interrupted by Grianās hand grabbing his shoulder.
He mock-whispers, just loud enough for all to hear. āJust let them go, Scar. We donāt know what their angle isāwe canāt trust them.ā
āHey f*ck you, pal,ā Quackity bites, hackles raised. āItās you we canāt trust.ā
āQās got a point, Karl,ā Sapnap cautions, words civil but the spark in his eyes no less dangerous than Quackityās. āWeāre not exactly in a position to take risks right now.ā
āSee?ā Grian says, uncrossing his arms to gesture emphatically, taking their rejection as a triumph. āNone of us like each other, so itās just best to go our separate ways, and since we got here firstāā
āLike hell you did!ā Quackity snaps, his voice raising up against Grianās, the two of them talking over one another in a way thatās already getting hectic. āWeāve been here for days, pal. You canāt justāā
āNow hang on a second, gentlemen,ā Scar reasons, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture. āAll this getting up in arms and thereās simply no need. We can make this work! Theyāve always said thereās safety in numbers, right? So what say we huddle together for warmth tonight, and weāll go our separate ways in the morning.ā
He uses his most charming voice, the kind thatās gotten him out of multiple sticky situations before. Heās good at talking his way out of things; much like shooting, heās got a knack for it. However, just like shooting, sometimes he misses, and Scar gets to enjoy only a beat of silence before three voices speak out at onceāGrian, Quackity and Sapnap making a din in their rush to object.
āAbsolutely not, no.ā
āAre you out of your f*cking mind?ā
āWe donāt even know you.ā
āScar,ā Grian calls, springing to his feet at last. He dusts his knees off before he presses his toe into Scarās thigh. āItās time for them to go.ā
With an incredulous snort, Quackity laughs, āTime for you to go.ā
āNo offence,ā Sapnap adds, softer in demeanour than Quackity, but still firmly refusing to budge. āWe just canāt riskāā
āRisk what, exactly?ā Grian snaps. āI told you: we got here first.ā
The cacophony builds, Grian raising his voice to argue and Quackity raising his in turn. The sound of shouting is a beacon to attract any wandering ghouls, if the gun shot hadnāt alerted them already. The tension is high, and Scar remains stuck in place, joints stiff, his heart up in his throat as he watches their first chance to catch a break spiral down the drain.
He speaks up, adding his voice to the din as he tries to negotiate. āOkay, okay, so maybe we need to workshop our terms, but you boys canāt tell me thereās not a glimmer of a good idea in there.ā
If the other three hear him they donāt let up, arguing back and forth until all at once theyāre interrupted by the sound of two hands clapping together, just once, followed by Karlās voice, loud above it all.
āEnough.ā
Like a switch has been thrown, both Quackity and Sapnap fall silent, leaving Grianās voice to ring out alone, alarmingly loud in the now quiet space. He immediately pauses, abruptly self conscious by his volume as his eyes dart around to the others in the room.
āWow.ā Scar breathes out a huff of surprise, admiration in his tone. āHow did you get them to do that?ā
Karl glances at him, eyebrow quirked and a grin pulling at his lips. āDo what?ā
āListen to you.ā
Karlās laugh is tittering and delighted. It trails off into a giggle as he rocks to his right, pitching his shoulder into Sapnap as he leans heavily against him.
āThatās just how we work,ā he explains, easygoing, like the words explain themselves. Thereās a momentary pause, and Scar watches as Karl looks him over, shrewd, before taking a quick glance at Grian as well. Whatever he sees, it makes him hum. āYou knowā¦ā he adds, eyes narrowing with a conspiratory smirk. āBecause weāre in love.ā
Scar blinks at that, not quite taken aback but somewhat confused. He waits, wondering if itās the lead up to some joke and the punchline is about to be delivered, but when only silence follows, he reassesses.
Slow and careful, he takes in the way Karl leans into Sapnapās space, looking for all the world like he belongs there. At the same time, Sapnap crouches just in front of Quackity, blocking him in a way thatās decidedly protective. The admittance must be a jokeāScar canāt fathom three people in a real relationship like that, when just two together makes such a complicated mess. But itās hard to see it as anything but truthful when Karl conveys it with all the enthusiasm of someone newly engaged, heart full with all the beauty of the world and eager to let everyone around him know it.
āAh,ā Scar laughs, a weird bittersweetness settling over him. Being in love would explain it, of course. Respecting and listening to each otherā¦ heād almost forgotten how it worked for most people. āWell, that would explain it, I suppose.ā
The strangeness of his reaction doesnāt seem to register to Karl, who abruptly leverages himself back up, adopting a practical position as he says, matter-of-fact, āSeriously, though. I think Mr. Scar here has a point. Thereās safety in numbers and, no offence, thereās strength in it too.ā
He pauses, giving Scar and Grian time to do the quick math heās implying. His three to their two. Beside him, Grian takes a breath to speak, but Karl simply continues, talking over him with an easy confidence.
āAnd instead of taking that as a threat, maybe you could just let us give you a hand.ā
Thereās a pause, expectant as he waits for them to react.
āDo we look that bad?ā Scar asks at last, smiling despite himself.
āYou look like car crash victims,ā Karl explains bluntly. āAnd, Iām gonna be honest, thereās no point any of us sleeping out here when thereās beds and a shower inside.ā His voice softens, genuine as he adds, āI promise weāre not bad people, man. We could help each other.ā
Itās enough to sway Scarāelbow nudging into Grian as he needles persuasively. āA bed and a shower, Grian.ā
He can see Grianās reluctance, the petulant set of his expression and the stubborn way he bites his bottom lip. For all his attitude, heās sharpāmuch sharper than he lets on. Itās clear to Scar that he doesnāt trust these people as far as he could throw them, and Scar knows how unlikely it will be for him to budge. Grian would sooner sleep outside on the dirt, confident of his distrust, than accept the suspiciously convenient charity of a helping hand. Itās a survivorās instinct, and while it often benefits them, Scar knows he needs them to take a risk right now.
āPlease,ā he whispers, pulling Grian down gently by the arm and lowering his voice to keep it just between the two of them. He tips his hand, leaning on a soft diminutive. āG. I need this.ā
Grian stares at him, frowning, the chewing on his lip becoming more aggressive until finally he sighs.
He heaves his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, long-suffering. āFine.ā
āAwesome!ā Karl crows, effortlessly getting to his feet with Sapnap following suit right behind him. āAnd youāre just in time for dinner, too.ā
He looks down expectantly, hands on his hips as he waits for Scar and Grian to join them.
Itās a sudden and unexpectedly tricky situation. While Scarās happy to have some new company, heās not about to become an open book. He doesnāt want them to know any more than they need to, and that includes his current inability to stand.
āWeāll catch up in a minute, if itās all the same to you,ā he says diplomatically, praying it doesnāt sound as suspicious as it feels. āPack our things up. Make sure all that shouting and gunfire didnāt draw over any unmentionables.ā
His words have a curious effect, Quackity stiffening up immediately. Scar catches Sapnap glance at him, hand twitching at his side like he wants to reach out. Karl, however, only smiles.
āHey, no rush,ā he says, calm, elbowing Sapnap and Quackity as he shares a grin between them. āThatāll give us a minute to make the place decent. Canāt remember the last time we had guests that werenāt dead-eyed and slobbering.ā
āWeāve never had guests at all,ā Sapnap corrects plainly, but still lets himself be lead as Karl links elbows with him and moves towards the door. The only one of the three to hang back is Quackity, sharing the same distrustful expression on his face that Grian wears plainly on his own. After a tense second, he snorts, muttering something under his breath before he turns to leave.
The door closes, leaving Scar and Grian alone, a lingering tension rolling loose and unformed between them. Scar waits a moment for the trio to clear away from the doorway, then he turns Grian with a grimace.
āI need you to help me get up.ā
Thereās no hesitation as Grian pulls his knees under him, shifting into a crouch before he easily slings Scarās arm over his shoulder, helping him to his feet with practised familiarity.
āWhat the hell are you thinking?ā he hisses, sour and upset.
Scar shrugs easily, not letting go of Grianās support. He wonāt be steady on his feet without it, and he needs all the leverage he can get before he has to pretend in front of their new friends.
āIām thinking we need a win,ā he answers, succinct.
āAnd if they kill us in our sleep?ā
āGrian,ā Scar sighs, barely stopping himself from rolling his eyes. āTheyāre three scared kids. The tallest one canāt be older than twenty-three. I donāt think theyāre the threats youāre mistaking them for.ā
Grian doesnāt look convinced but to his credit, he drops it. Together, they move towards the door, Scar keeping his arm around Grianās shoulders and propping himself up with the rifle when he dips too low. Itās not exactly proper handling of a firearm, but itās not like anyoneās around to write him up for it.
āBesides,ā he teases, unable to help himself as they make their way out of the garage and move towards the house. āWeāve been taking risks this whole time. Whatās one more?ā
The front door has been left cracked open, a risk Grian would never approve of in a million years. The moment they step inside itās clear that the trio have been squatting there for a while. All of the windows have been covered up from the inside with sheets and blankets, barricaded in place with the majority of the homeās furniture. There are board games and puzzles piled on the floor, and candles arranged on almost every surface.
It looks less like a survival situation, and more like a sleepover with insurance.
The trio greet them with a relaxed familiarity as Grian nudges the door open and helps Scar in. Itās clear theyāre as tired as Grian and Scar are, because the conversation that follows is perfunctory at best, Sapnap explaining that heāll take the first watch as he volunteers Grian to join him, and Karl saying heāll take the second shift with Scar. Neither Grian nor Scar feel in a position to disagree, so itās declared settled.
Once the minutiae are sorted, Karl makes a grand sweeping gesture and offers to show them to their room. He heads up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and Scar feels Grianās hand spreading against the small of his back, getting ready to support him.
Itās to Scarās detriment that he forces himself, walking steady, gripping the handrail so tightly he worries his knuckles are going to split. At the top of the stairs, Karl points towards a closed door, indicating it as the bathroom with the aforementioned shower. While the idea of getting clean sounds heavenly, Scar grits his teeth as his body threatens to teeter. It feels like far too long before Karl brings them to an open doorway, ushering them into what mightāve once been a guest room. The windows are curtained, but not heavily barricaded. The bed looks large and luxurious, with fresh sheets and an abundance of pillows. It looks like an invitation, and every inch of Scar longs to succumb to it.
Karl asks if theyāre hungry, and Scar's smile wavers, his joints echoing with pain. He doesnāt know what to say that wonāt immediately give him away.
āWe want to settle in first,ā Grian says, tactfully avoiding Karlās question. āIāll come down in time for our watch, I promise.ā
āWasnāt doubting you,ā Karl says, effortlessly quick on the reply, and seemingly unbothered. āGet comfy, and, heyāā he pauses, hand resting on the doorframe, idly scratching his thumbnail into the wood grain before he speaks. āWeāre glad youāre here.ā
Itās a vulnerability or a ruse, but blessedly Grian doesnāt reply in time to question it. Karlās feet thump loud as he heads back downstairs, and Grian closes the door behind them, letting his breath out the moment theyāre in private.
Like a battery on empty, Scar feels his energy drain, whatever adrenaline that was keeping him going well and truly shot. He only has a second to mumble Grianās name in warning before he stumbles into bed, exhausted beyond belief. Without hesitation, Grian remains at his side, saying familiar reassurances as he helps Scar out of his jacket and shoes. Scar nods along mutely, just wanting to curl up and pass out. Now that he's completely let the tension in his muscles go, he feels more exhausted than ever. Grian mumbles something about going to talk to the boys as he pulls the covers up over Scar's body. Scar thinks he manages a nod, but he can't be sure of it, sleep already edging in on the fringes of his consciousness. He watches Grian leave the room with blearily eyes, and that's all he can recall before, with minimal tossing and turning, he gives in to sleep.
Itās another deep, dreamless night, and Scar doesnāt realise heās slept through his watch until Grian is waking him up, hand gentle but insistent on his shoulder as he shakes him awake.
Itās a nice feeling, being woken up by him while laying in a bedāa real bed, with sheets and pillows and a comforter tucked up around his ears. They spent the night in a room, safe, with a bedroom door that shuts. Thereās the familiar sounds of pots and pans bustling in the kitchen and the smell of food cooking in the air.
Scar never knew he could miss something so much.
He never knew he could sleep so heavily.
āScar.ā Itās not the first time Grianās whispered his name, but itās the first time it properly catches his attention, inhaling deep before he slowly twists around to lay on his back.
āHey,ā he mumbles, sleep-slurred, only just barely cracking his eyes open, unwilling to fully commit to being awake just yet.
āTheyāre making breakfast,ā Grian says, soft. Heās dressed and looks clean, probably having spent the better part of an hour in the shower adjacent to the room Karl, Quackity and Sapnap had set them up in. Scar foggily remembers Karl pointing it out last night, though heād been too tired to follow up about it. Grian has cleaned up nice though; he always does. Heās properly shaven for the first time in weeks, hair brushed back, looking like the Grian Scar remembers before it all went wrong.
A part of Scar that he wishes he could squash down wants to compliment Grianāwants to drag him close and kiss him. Wants to languish in the afterimage of what used to be.
Instead, Scar clears his throat, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyelids to stop himself from thinking about it anymore.
āWhatās on the menu?ā
āWaffles.ā Grian grins, a genuine thread of excitement in his tone. āReal waffles. Theyāve got a waffle iron and a mix.ā
Scar chuckles, canāt help himself, having to admire how the universe once again dips in Grianās favour.
āSounds like I should get up, then.ā
Itās a gamble and they both know it. Scar can feel Grianās eyes on him, watching intently, trying not to add any additional pressure but failing. That ship sailed the second Scar discovered that, despite Grian insisting he didnāt care if Scar couldnāt physically do certain things, he only said it because he was turning around and fulfilling those desires with someone else.
He just canāt help but think heās letting Grian down if he doesnāt push himself now. It wraps around his chest wrong, and logically he knows itās stupid to blame himself for something he canāt control; that the cheating was Grianās fault and not his, but he canāt help himself. He continues pushing anyway, for a man heās broken up with.
Taking a deep breath, Scar throws the covers back and leverages himself up, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress. His joints donāt feel as bad as yesterday, just the persistent ache thatās always thereāsomething heās long since gotten used to. Emboldened, he clenches his jaw, bracing himself as he puts his weight on his feet.
Slowly, carefully, he stands up.
Thereās pain, but itās not significant. He feels the soreness heād expect from a long day spent walking, throbbing muscles and stiff joints, but itās nothing he canāt handle.
He takes a step forward and behind him Grian lets out the breath heād been holding.
āGood day today,ā Grian says, relief evident in his tone.
āDonāt get ahead of yourself,ā Scar deflects, attempting to shift the tightness out of his shoulders with a stretch as he moves towards the bedroom door.
The noise filtering up from the kitchen is warm and inviting. Thereās a deep comfort in the sound of casual voices caught deep in conversation, punctuated by the occasional high giggling laughālaughter that Scar now knows is Karlās. He can smell their cooking from up the stairs, something he hasnāt been able to enjoy since the world fell to pieces. He misses warm food. He misses breakfast. He misses companionship.
āGimmie a hand,ā he says, extending his arm out to Grian, who helps him without question as together they make their way down the stairs, taking it slow and easy as he lowers himself down every step.
The scene that greets them in the kitchen makes Scarās heart pang. A nice, tender squeeze in his chest. The room is dim, even in daylight, the windows blocked out with cardboard and bedsheets. The kitchen looks visibly picked apart, thoroughly rummaged through for supplies, the majority of the cupboards thrown open and the contents of the pantry pulled up onto the countertops and piled haphazardly on the floor. Itās a mess, plates and dishes everywhere, and Scar canāt help but remember how his kitchen in a similar state used to have Pearl heaving a long-suffering sigh before sheād roll up her sleeves and start tidying.
Around the table is something much softer. Quackity, in a baggy t-shirt with his hair hanging over his eyes, is sitting with his shoulder tucked into Karlās chest. Karlās arm is lazily looped around him, the two are in conversation with Sapnap, who stands at the stove next to a messy, cast-iron waffle iron. The iron is the old-fashioned, non-electric kind that Scar had only ever seen his grandparents use. Quite a find at the end of the world, and it looks like Sapnap is making good use of it. He looks relaxed and open, his attention split between his companions and the breakfast heās cooking on the gas stove.
The three of them together paint a domestic picture, though Scarās still uncertain how itās meant to work between three partners.
All the same, heās missed seeing people look so happy.
Itās Quackity who notices them first, the easy smile on his face vanishing, eyes fixing on them as tension wires through his body. His sudden stiffness alerts Karl, who looks towards the door with a smile.
āHey, look whoās awake.ā
Karlās on his feet easily, drawing a chair out from the table as he motions Scar and Grian in, inviting them to join. āWe were just taking bets on how long youād sleep.ā
Scar smiles. He canāt help himself, enamoured by the genuine hospitality from a stranger. Taking the chair Karl offers him, he sits down with relief, glad he doesnāt have to waste his limited capacity calculating how best to hide his disability. It sits uncomfortably on him to have to do it at all, butāmuch like travelling with Grianāthe end of the world has forced him to make compromises with himself.
Leaning back, Scar pats the seat next to him, motioning for Grian to join them. After a pause Grian does, but itās clear heās reluctant, sitting perched on the edge of the chair, as if ready to take flight at a momentās notice.
āAnd so? Which of you called it?ā Scar asks, driving the conversation forward.
āIt was Q. Right darlinā?ā Sapnap says, nodding towards Quackity. It seems like heās had a change of heart over the night, his attitude towards them much more easygoing in the newness of the morning. Heās tied his dark hair up in a bun at the top of his head, and it makes him look sweet. Like the kind of guy youād tip generously at a coffee shop.
Quackity nods carefully. Thereās still an uncertainty in him. It doesnāt feel like distrust, but Scar canāt put his finger on what else it might be. His behaviour reminds Scar of Grian, in a lot of ways. Constantly on guard. An open book until heās not.
āI hope you put money on it.ā Scar jokes, and Quackity offers him a thin smile but not much else.
āWaffles will be ready in a minute,ā Sapnap says, nearly apologetic as he flips the waffle iron over. āThereās a learning curve on this thing. No wonder we buy Eggos.ā
Karl retakes his seat as Scar chuckles, planting his elbows on the table and propping his chin up in his palms. āSo,ā he says, cheerful like a talk show host. āTwo guys on a bike in the middle of nowhere. Pretty far from home, I bet.ā He winks. āWhere were you when the zombies attacked?ā
Itās blunt, but Karl seems extremely casual as he says it. Still, Scarās smile falters, and he can feel Grian tense up beside him.
Karl doesnāt mean anything by it, obviously. Itās a normal thing to be curious about, and Scar knows heās just as curious about Karlās answer.
Thereās no way he knows what a sensitive topic it is. How little Scar and Grian themselves have thought about itāthe reason they were together when all hell broke loose.
āScarās apartment,ā Grian says, clipped, offering the answer before Scar can.
Itās the exact thing Scar wouldāve said, but it bristles against his nerves anyhowālike somehow Grian cut him off, getting his answer in ahead because he couldnāt trust Scar not to immediately air out their dirty laundry.
Not to be beat, Scar leans back in his seat, looking Grian in the eyes with a bright smile as he adds, āWe were just doing a little spring cleaning together. Getting rid of things we didnāt need anymore.ā
Scar can see the flash of betrayal in Grianās eyes before he smooths his expression over. Itās a stupid and petty to say, especially when things have been generally civil between them for the last few days, but somehow Scar feels less sorry for saying it than maybe he should.
āI knew it!ā Sapnap crows from where heās plating the first round of fresh waffles, the smell of them wafting in a way that makes Scarās stomach audibly growl.
Grian frowns, confused. āSorry?ā
Thereās a bit of shared laughter from the trio, exchanging grins and glances before Karl finally explains, āLike, itās obvious that you two havenāt just met along the way. The way you act around each otherāyou have history, clearly. Only, Pandas here took that one step further. Heās sure that you two are together, you know?ā
The silence that follows is potent.
Itās awkward in a tangible way, Karl waiting for an enthusiastic confirmation that will never come. The laughter has died down, and unless one of them speaks, Scar knows this is about to become a bigger deal than it needs to be.
āOh. No, weāre not together.ā Scar doesnāt dare look in Grianās direction as he says it, afraid itāll make him lose his nerve. āBut! We have known each other for a long time, so points for that at least!ā
āNo f*ckinā way,ā Sapnap slaps the countertop, shaking his head. āSo whatās with the crazy vibes between you two, then? Just apocalypse UST or what?ā
āSapnap!ā Karl gasps, covering his mouth with a hand, eyes twinkling with very obvious amusem*nt.
āC'mon, you see it too, don't you?ā Sapnap crows, and itās clear heās having fun, like theyāre playing some sort of game. Scarās never been ribbed like this. It makes him feel like heās sitting at the kidās table at a family event.
Face crawling with heat, he fights to keep his voice from cracking in embarrassment. He carefully keeps his gaze fixed ahead, trying not to read too much into Grianās silence. His heart pounds incriminatingly loud in his chest, the idea of sexual tensionāmemories of Grian warm against him, moaning, calling his name as he finished in his handāvivid in his head.
āDefinitely nothing like that,ā he lies.
āSo,ā Quackity says with the glint of an opportunist, eyes catching Scarās from across the breakfast table as a smirk quirks at the edges of his mouth. āYouāre saying youāre single?ā
The reaction is immediate and loud. Karl bursts out laughing, kicking back his chair as he clutches his stomach. Sapnap sighs loudly, melodramatic as he mutters āhere we go againā while plating another two waffles before he sets them on the table. Quackity rolls his eyes, smiling as he gestures with his hands, attempting to explain himself, but neither of the other two give him a moment to speak, shouting and yelling, all with wide grins on their faces.
Scar feels entirely out of the loop.
āSorry,ā Sapnap says as the mayhem dies down, a wry grin on his face. āQās got a thing for handsome older men.ā
If Scar felt embarrassed before, it was nothing like how he feels now, warmth flooding his cheeks and turning everything from the tips of his ears to the skin of his neck red. Beside him, Grian shifts in his chair, and Scar tries not to think about itātries to pretend Grian isnāt here at all. Itās easier than imagining the fight thatāll no doubt come of this after.
āShut the f*ck up, Sapnap,ā Quackity snaps, and his tone would be intimidating if not for the way heās hiding behind his hands in mortification. āWhat the hell is wrong with you, oh my god?ā
āAm I wrong?ā Sapnap presses, clearly enjoying himself as he prods at Quackity.
Gleefully, Karl answers, āYouāre not, your honour!ā He turns towards Scar, mock-whispering, loud and conspiratory, āBetween that and his boner for politics, we canāt watch the news around him at allāheād run off with the first barrel-chested politician he saw on screen.ā
āThatās not even close to true. What the f*ck Karl, youāre supposed to be on my side,ā Quackity cries, glowering but unable to wipe the guilty smile off his face.
āPlus, Q has a typeātall and broad,ā Sapnap teases, finishing off the last of the waffles and leaning in to press a kiss to the side of Quackityās temple. āTell Scar what you said to us last night about how he checks all your boxes.ā
āYou guys are such dicks,ā Quackity groans, but doesnāt resist when Karl scoots in close and wraps his arms around him, pressing a kiss to his other temple, mirroring Sapnapās affections.
āWell, weāve really enjoyed our breakfast, thank you,ā Grian interrupts, using the curt, forced-polite tone he uses when dealing with the bank or his landlord. Itās entirely at odds with the mood of the moment, and the trio abruptly stop what theyāre doing to listen to him.
āWe really need to get going, though,ā Grian continues, clipped. āDonāt we, Scar?ā
Itās a rhetorical question, Scar can hear it plainly in the way Grian speaks. He turns to face his companion at last and hates the twist in his heart when he sees how closed off Grianās expression is. It shouldnāt matter to him anymore that his jealous, insecure feelings are hurt. It shouldnāt.
And yet a part of him wants to console and reassure Grian all the same.
āWhatās the rush?ā Karl asks, clearly trying to read the energy of the room and keep things up-beat. āScar hasnāt even had his waffles yet.ā
At that, Sapnap slides the syrup Scarās way and, despite Grianās bristling, Scar canāt help but be excited. He digs in immediately, sighing aloud at the first forkful, grateful for the hot meal.
Itās impossible not to notice Grianās pointed glare out the corner of his eye, though. Something he needs to acknowledge, at least.
He defers slightly, shrugging a shoulder as he speaks around a mouthful of waffle. āI wouldnāt say weāre in a rush.ā
Heās ambiguous on purpose. While he doesnāt want to incense Grian any further, heās not yet ready to part ways from the only other living company theyāve had in weeks. Theyāre a welcome buffer. Even if all they seem to have done is piss Grian off, itās still nice to be around other people. Comforting to know theyāre not the only two people left in the world.
āYou got a destination in mind?ā Karl asks, co*cking his head to the side as he turns to Grian with his smile as bright and enthusiastic as ever.
āNorth,ā Grian replies, guarded for no good reason. āBefore all the radios went out thatās where the emergency broadcasts were saying to go. Supposedly itās better up there.ā He pauses, and Scar knows him well enough to anticipate it comingāa calculating jab. āBut I'm sure you knew as much?ā
āWe didnāt!ā Karl says, Grianās words sluicing off him like water off a duckās back. He claps his hands together, nodding confidently. āSounds like we have a plan now, though. We can get our stuff together pretty quickly, canāt we, boys? Weāve been saying we need a reason to pull up these roots, and I donāt know about you two, but the three of us agree weād really like the company.ā
Itās presented like the best possible option and an extremely logical conclusion, but Scar can feel the desperation in it. Behind Karlās easy smile and Sapnapās gentle affection he can see their apprehension.
'Donāt leave us, please,' it says.
āWell itās certainly an idea,ā Grian allows, dragging the word out in a slow drawl. āWhat do you think, Scar?ā
Itās clear what answer Grian wants to hear, his attention pinned on Scar. Grian would rather continue without them. For whatever reason, he canāt seem to stand having them around.
Itās an issue they should probably pick apart later, but absolutely not something they can dissect right now.
That doesnāt mean Scarās about to fold, though.
āI think it wouldnāt be a long, perilous journey into the frigid north through a zombie infested wasteland without you three,ā Scar quips, ever magnanimous. He winks at the three younger men, and the instant relief from them is palpable. Tensions Scar hadnāt even realised theyād been holding relax right in front of his eyes as they exchange quick looks and small, private nods.
āI justā¦ I donāt know,ā Grian interrupts, the only note of dissent at the table. āWe hadnāt really planned our route to accommodate fiveā¦ā
āThen why even ask me if youāve already decided, Grian?ā Scar asks, sharp. His frustration bubbles up fast, catching even him off guard, fork clattering down onto his plate as he lets it drop. This isnāt something Scar wants to air in front of strangers, but itās not a situation where he can back down, either. āKind of feels like a jerk move when youāve already made up your mind.ā
Thereās a sting in his words and it lands, Grianās brows pinching together as he frowns.
āNo offence,ā Grian says, surprising Scar by choosing to speak to the trio rather than address him at all.
āSome taken,ā Karl cracks, and itād be funny if the tension around them wasnāt wound so tight.
Grian blows out his breath in a frustrated sigh. āThe thing is, we just met. Thereās googlāthereās zombies outside. The worldās gone to hell. Itās a big ask when we donāt know you at all.ā
āFunny,ā Karl replies smoothly, tone mild but aloof with the confidence of youth. āāCause we donāt know you at all, and yet, we still invited you in, gave you a bed, and shared our food.ā
Itās a checkmate and Grian clearly knows it. He folds his arms across his chest tightly and looks away, jaw held clenched.
āWhere exactly were you planning on heading anyway?ā Itās the first words Sapnap has spoken in awhile, clearly attempting to broker peace between them before things can fracture further. Itās obvious heās not used to negotiating, words coming out slow between pauses for thought.
Scar canāt help but find it endearing.
āYou said you had a route in mind,ā Sapnap continues. āWe might not even want to go in the same direction.ā
Grian says nothing, and Scar wonders if heās been shamed into silence by the simple rationality heās been presented. Whatever it is, Scar can practically feel him stewing.
āGrian,ā he needles at last, when it becomes clear the conversation wonāt continue on its own. āGo get the maps.ā
Itās another mark against him, Scar knows. Their camaraderie is tenuous at best and Scar shouldnāt be pushing it, but heās not willing to give up on the chance of company. Not yet.
Luckily, Grian doesnāt argue or bite back, simply shoving his chair aside as he stands, feet thumping in heavy steps as he heads back up the stairs.
āIām sorry about him,ā Scar says, quick while they have the minute, his voice low. āHeāsāā
āHey,ā Karl interrupts, smiling soft and understanding. āDonāt worry about it. Itās the end of the world, dude. Nobodyās at their best right now.ā
An unkind part of Scarāthe part still hurting from the betrayal that forced their break upāwants to say something callous. Wants to explain that Grian wasnāt at his best before the world fell off the rails. That heās been cruel and selfish and only looking out for himself for seemingly years. But Scar pushes that down, simply smiling and nodding instead, appreciating the sympathy for what it is.
It only takes a few minutes for Grian to return with the maps and, to his credit, he brandishes them without a fuss. Karl and Quackity quickly clear the table of their plates, breakfast polished off and minds set towards what comes next. Officiously, Grian unfolds the maps and lay them out, and then they listen intently as Grian lays out the tentative route he and Scar plan to follow.
āWe donāt want to go too far west,ā Quackity corrects after Grian is finished explaining. Heās standing so he can lean over the table and properly study the map, his eyes calculating and keen. āThereās a lot of big cities that way. We have to avoid them as much as we can.ā
āWhy?ā Grian snipes without hesitation. Itās the kind of hostility that reads like it carries a personal grudge. Unbidden, Scar thinks back to the teasing flirtation over breakfast and hopes against hope thatās not the reason why Grianās decided to put up a fight. āIs there something youāre trying to hide?ā
āHide?ā Sapnap echoes, incredulous. āWeāre not trying to hide anything, what the hell are you talking about?ā
āThe cities are infected wastelands, asshole,ā Quackity explains brusquely.
āTheyāre also the only places weāre going to find shelter and supplies,ā Grian counters, like heās played some sort of masterstroke.
āDude, have you never seen a zombie movie in your life? You know that when those things bite you, you turn into one, right?ā Sapnap argues, brushing a hand back through his hair in frustration. āYou die and youā¦ you come back different.ā
āYou come back worse,ā Quackity says, curt, drawing looks from both Karl and Sapnap. āI donāt care what your reason is; supplies or not, youāre crazy if you think walking directly into a hotspot makes any sense at all.ā
āItās not that bad,ā Grian dismisses breezily. āWe were in Anaheim and got through it fine.ā
Theyāre met with a stunned, incredulous sort of silence.
āYou were in Anaheim during a zombie apocalypse?ā Sapnap says at last. āWhy the f*ckā¦?ā
Sheepish, Scar chuckles. āIād never been to Disney and we were already in the area, soā¦ā
āOh I love you, dude,ā Karl cackles, delighted. āHoly sh*t, youāre amazing. Did you, like, climb the Matterhorn? Orāā
āPoint being,ā Grian interrupts. āThe zombies we encountered were slow, mostly uninterested, and kept their distance. Iām not saying it was easy, butāā
āFor now,ā Quackity interrupts, quiet.
āExcuse me?ā
A strange mood descends over the group in an instant. Scar doesnāt know what it is, but whatever Quackityās about to say has Karl and Sapnap exchanging significant glances. Quackity doesnāt look in either of their directions, gaze fixed on Grian, mouth set seriously and expression knit.
āItās been, what? A week since things went to sh*t? Give or take a couple days, depending on how fast it spread in your area.ā Quackityās voice is level and strong, engaging in a way that has Scar hooked on his every word. Absently, Scar wonders if heād done a lot of public speaking before this mess; heās a natural at it. āThe infected humans are all degraded to their base instincts: eat and spread. Right now, all weāre encountering are creatures that are well-fed and satiated. Theyāve had their fill of the people that werenāt fast or smart or lucky enough to find somewhere to hideātheyāre f*cking full. So why the hell would they go against their instincts and put themselves at risk by going after dessert carrying a shotgun?ā
Grianās expression is carefully neutral. The room remains completely silent, all of them gripped by Quackityās words.
āIn a week or two, when theyāre hungry and have no easy prey left to pick offā¦ when theyāre desperate and starving and single-mindedly trying to fuel their decaying bodiesāitās not going to be so easy anymore.ā Quackityās eyes flash, agitated. āYouāre a f*cking idiot if you think things wonāt changeāthat this is as bad as itās gonna get.ā
The silence persists, mood darker than itās been since Scar and Grian first arrived. Scar doesnāt pretend he gets all the implications of whatās being said, but he processes enough to feel that Quackityās making several extremely valid points. He looks over in Grianās direction, hoping to find the same acknowledgement in his eyes, but all he finds is a blank look of indifference.
āAnd youāre a biological expert on these things, I suppose?ā Grian asks, only managing to draw a minorly irritated sigh from Karl.
āLook, if itās supplies youāre worried about, we have them,ā Karl reasons. He reaches out, pressing his finger down on the map, pointing to a thin line heading north. āWe were gonna head this way originally. Thereās loads of old ghost towns from the gold rush along this route. Not a lot of people, a clear road, and empty places to crash for the night when we have to.ā He pauses for a moment, carefully considering Scar and Grian before he continues earnestly. āI wonāt speak for these two, but this wholeā¦ everything has been hardāreally hard. Weāre not getting down on one knee to propose here, but it would be nice to have some company for a while.ā
Unconvinced, Grian huffs a breath, making a little noise to Scarās left, tetchy and unconvinced.
āWhen this road meets the interstate heading into Oregon you can tell us to f*ck off,ā Karl adds persuasively. āJust a little temporary partnership, yāknow?ā
Itās increasingly obvious that no matter what Karl says, Grian is not going to bend. His mind set on splitting up here and now, despite the obvious benefits being part of a larger group would be. Itās cruel to make them continue begging for something that would be of mutual benefit for them all.
So Scar abruptly puts an end to it, making a unilateral decision.
āGentlemen, weād be honoured.ā He extends his hand in a flourish, ignoring the way Grian hisses his name at his side. With clear relief, Karl reaches out and shakes his hand, wrapping long fingers tipped in chipped nail polish around Scarās palm, that now-familiar giggle of his working its way out of his throat.
āYou wonāt regret this,ā he says, like a kid whoās just gotten his first full time job. āI promise you, weāre a hoot.ā
āGuess we should get packing then,ā Quackity murmurs from the side.
Scar gives him a wide grin, hand still gripped by Karlās, ignoring Grian to the best of his ability. āGuess you should.ā
The trio immediately get started, divvying tasks with their usual play-shouting and bantering. It amuses Scar, and he watches them while Grian gathers up the maps from the table. Heās holding himself stiff, mouth shut in a way that suggests clenched teeth.
Scar is ready for the fallout thatās guaranteed the moment theyāre alone. Itās not his first rodeo.
Sure enough, they're barely back in their room before Grian is snapping at him.
āWhatās the matter with you?ā
Heās madāas mad as Scarās ever seen him. He used to find Grianās temper endearing in its own way, the way heād bend himself out of shape over every minor inconvenience. Nowadays he just finds it exhausting.
āWhatās the matter with me?ā Scar asks, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed, his legs already aching from going up and down the stairs. Heās on the edge of a bad flare-up, and fighting with Grian is the last thing he wants to be doing. āWhatās the matter with you?ā
āI donāt want to stick with them,ā Grian retorts, blunt. āTheyāre a liability, canāt you see that?ā
āGrian, theyāre a bunch of scared kids.ā
āNot kidsānot even close.ā
āYoung adults then, whatever. You know what I mean,ā Scar sighs, rolling his eyes as they split this hair. āWeāve got a decade on them, Grian. Theyāre kids to me, and I canāt in good conscience leave them here to fend for themselves when theyāre begging us to help them just because one of them looked at you funny.ā
āItās not how they look at me,ā Grian spits, pacing the floor. āItās how they look at you.ā
The confession, the sheer unbelievable audacity of it, shocks Scar to his core. It shouldnāt, maybeānot after years of Scar defending his friendship with Cub against Grianās constant criticism. Itās funny, looking back at it now. Because when it comes down to it, despite Scar being ātoo friendly,ā heās not the one who ended up cheating.
He sighs, wearier than heās ever felt. āTheyāre not a threat to you, Grian.ā
That, at least, gets Grian to stop his pacing, looking at Scar with a mixture of emotions on his face that Scar canāt even begin to pull apart. It frustrates him. He hates their fragility. He hates his instinct to comfort and reassure Grian, even now. Feeling like he yet again has to cover for the people in his life.
āBesides,ā he continues, stubbornly rising to his feet despite the ache in his legs, wanting the height advantage when he speaks, redrawing the line between them yet again. āYou need to remember that there is no us to feel threatened about.ā
He doesnāt look at Grian as he says it, not interested in what kind of expression heāll make. Scarās always been soft at heartāespecially when it comes to Grian. If heās being entirely honest, itās taking a lot of effort to keep his distance. All Grian would have to do is look hurt for Scarās insides to twist in guilt and for him to cave in some degree, so he avoids facing that reality at all, instead focusing on getting their meagre belongings together.
It doesnāt take him very long. He manages it in silence while Grian silently watches him in the background until finally he hauls the pack with all their worldly possessions up onto his back and slings the strap of the rifle over his arm.
āGet your things together,ā he says as he moves towards the bedroom door, still not looking Grianās way. āIām going to take a shower, and then we're out of here. I'm not keeping them waiting any longer than we have to.ā
He puts his things next to the bathroom door and heads in. It's dark, the only light coming from a window covered by thin, sheer curtains. It's enough visibility for him to work by, so he doesn't bother with moving the coverings aside. He strips down quickly and steps into the shower, preparing himself for the blast of cold before it hits him. Even so, he yelps as the first bits of spray hits his warm body. Working quick, Scar washes himself in the chill, making use of the soap and shampoo that the either the boys or the prior owners of this home have left behind.
It feels good to get clean. Feels even better to focus on nothing but wiping himself down, letting his mind go blank. He wishes he could stay inside longer, but the cold water makes it near impossible to linger, his teeth slowly beginning to chatter. He rinses off the soap and shampoo in a few passes, hurriedly shutting off the water and stepping wet onto the shower mat outside the stall. He grabs the towel laying on the rod, still slightly damp from when Grian used it last. Drying off, he sighs forlornly as he stares at his dirty clothes.
A shame to have to get back into those when the rest of him feels so clean. Nevertheless, Scar does what he has to, dressing back up and heading out of the bathroom. His things are still where he left them, and he grabs them up as he makes his way down the stairs, taking it slow and keeping a firm grip on the railing. Once heās at the bottom, he heads straight for where he hears the loud voices of the trio presumably packing their things. They smile at Scar as he enters the room, and for the first time in a long time, Scar feels welcome.
It takes them the better part of an hour to sift through the things the trio have amassed to determine what to take. Grian joins them partway through, and when Scar meets his gaze he sees nothing but an intent focus on the task at hand. Together, they pack up bed rolls and blankets along with canned foods, matches, and candles. Itās with great reluctance that they set the perishables aside, mourning them almost overdramatically. Thereās a mood the three carry between them, like theyāre preparing to go campingātheyāre excitable and enthusiastic, laughing and joking amongst each other with a levity Scar hadnāt expected but finds himself enjoying.
They donāt have any firearms, but each has a weapon of their own. A machete, a tire iron, and a crow bar. Additionally, Sapnap keeps a hunting knife strapped to his hip and shin guards on his legs. Of the three of them, Quackity travels the lightest, either on purpose or out of ignorance. Heās got the fewest layers and the lightest pack, his sleeves partially rolled up, exposing his unprotected forearms.
Still, he remains organized and practical, keeping Sapnap on track with their gear while Karl and Scar sit aside and plan their route.
Karl again touches on what Quackity warned, citing it as the reason why they need to leave their current base as soon as possible. He relays to Scar that they'd scoped out the nearby neighbourhoods when they'd first arrived, and it's heavily infested. Together the trio has looted what they can, but thereās an understanding lingering that they need to be gone, and soon, because the corpses wandering around are bound to grow hungry any day now. While this particular house may be safe, if they wait any longer, the zombies are going to spread out from where they've been loitering. And by the time they come looking for them, itāll be too late to leave.
They both agree that the best thing they can do is split up and rendezvous at the same destination, daisy-chaining their way north. Since Scar and Grian have a bike, it simply doesnāt make sense for them to slow down for the other three. Instead, they can scout ahead to find safe places to stop, while the trio follow behind on foot.
Their first day goal is an abandoned outpost town a three hour walk away. Theyāre anticipating something abandonedāold trailer homes and shacks left to rot in the desert. No zombies. No survivors. No one around for miles.
Itās nearly noon by the time theyāre ready to go, standing inside the front door of the house with packs strapped to their backs. Scarās own is heavy with supplies for the first time since they were forced to strike out together. Itās reassuring for their odds of survival, but he worries about his legs.
āHere.ā Sapnap reaches out to him, holding a walkie talkie in his hand. āWe tested it and itās got a range of about seven miles. Itās not ideal, butā¦ā He trails off, shaking the walkie impatiently as he waits for Scar to take it. āIf you check in every half hour or so, at least weāll know when weāre getting near and what to expect.ā
āDonāt take any stupid risks,ā Karl says, cautioning them both. āWeāve stopped at a few of these kinds of places and havenāt had any trouble yet, but you never know when that luckās about to run out.ā
āWeāre a bad omen, we get it,ā Grian sighs, making a show of rolling his eyes.
āWeāll assess things from a safe distance,ā Scar promises, speaking over Grianās dramatics. āIf thereās any googlies, weāll wait for your arrival to set āem straight.ā
Karlās eyes light up, delighted. āWait, what wasādo you call them googlies?ā
āAhāoh. Well, Grian started it,ā Scar says, seeing the opportunity and wanting to encourage camaraderie. Even now, broken up and with Grian at his worst, a part of Scar canāt help but want others to see Grian the way he does. The way he used to. Grian is resourceful, intelligent, witty, and so, so funny. He doesnāt know if calling attention to it will help, but itās worth a shot.
āI canāt believe you two were wandering around Anaheim,ā Sapnap marvels, shaking his head. āItās a miracle the zombos didnāt tear you up just for calling āem that.ā
āYeah, well, Iām sure when they caught sight of those guns, they thought twice,ā Quackity teases, elbowing Sapnap as he grins in Scarās direction.
āIāve only got the one,ā Scar explains, pleasant.
Karl canāt hide his smile, shaking his head fondly. āHe wasnāt talking about your rifle, dude.ā
Sapnap gets a good laugh out of it, and Quackity giggles as Karl loops an arm around him and mutters ādown, boyā in a way thatās clearly fond. Scar feels the heat rising in his cheeks. He knows itās a joke, but itās been a while since heās been appreciated for his appearance. Even when he had Grian were dating, Grianās compliments had grown scarcer in the months leading to their breakup.
Maybe that shouldāve been a sign.
They split up with little fanfare, quieter out in the open where they could draw attention. The trio hang back for a moment, something about Karl wanting to say goodbye to the house, which Grian ignores as he goes to collect their bike. They set off together, Scarās seated behind Grian with his backpack in his lap and rifle on his back. He keeps the walkie talkie in hand, counting down the minutes before he can use it. They ride quietly for a while, with nothing but the sounds of wheels on concrete and the pattern of Grianās breathing to keep them company.
Once Scar estimates that theyāve travelled about five miles, he holds the device up to his mouth and presses down on the push-to-talk button.
āPandas, Pandas, this is Sparrow, come in, over.ā
He hears Grian sigh heavilyācan imagine him rolling his eyesābut it does nothing to dim his excitement. A moment passes, and then another, until Scar begins to worry that maybe theyāve overshot the seven mile leeway they had.
But then, crackling over the speakerā
āUh, hey ScarāI meanā¦ Sparrow.ā Sapnapās voice comes, crackly through the radio, laughter apparent even in his choppy tone. āWhatās up?ā
āSay again? Pandas, is that you, over?ā
Another pause, followed by a rush of static and then, firmer than the last time: āRoger that, Sparrow. This is Pandas, over.ā
Scar grins wide, chuckling to himself as he presses down on the button again. āReading you loud and clear now, Pandas. Just wanted to inform you boys that itās been smooth sailingāor biking, as it were. Not a googlie in sight. Over.ā
āRoger that, Sparrow. When will you be checking in next, over?ā
āLetās say at around 1300 hours, Pandas. Do you copy, over?ā
āErr, thatās like... one oāclock, right?ā Comes the uncertain response, breaking off before starting again, only to add, āOver.ā
Scar bites back a laugh. āAffirmative, Pandas. Over.ā
āAlright, Sparrow. Weāll stand by for an update when youāre ready. Over.ā
āRoger wilco,ā Scar agrees. āThis is Sparrow, over and out.ā
He takes his thumb off the PTT, the walkie cutting off into silence as he takes in a deep breath, enjoying the fresh air. Above them, the sun is at its zenith, not a cloud to block it as it shines down on them, lighting the desert in bright tans and oranges that reflect the lift in Scarās mood.
āWell that was fun,ā he says, prompting conversation, wanting Grian to have enjoyed it even just a fraction as much as he did.
Grian replies with a tiny grunt of acknowledgement and nothing else.
Grin faltering for a second, Scar tries again, making a couple light observations about the scenery around them. This time, Grian doesnāt reply at all. Ultimately, Scar gives up, resolving to enjoy the ride simply out of spite alone. Let Grian peddle out his frustration in silence.
Itās another half-mile before Scar gets bored of the flat and the silence. Trying not to jostle Grian, he digs his phone out to pass the time, powering it up and trying not to look too closely at the already greatly depleted battery life. Out of habit, he pokes into his social media apps, unsurprised when nothing connects to the internet. Itās what he expected, but it still feels wrong in a way heās not used to.
He looks into his photo album next, going through snapshots of various cats from his walks, landscape inspiration, and meme after ridiculous meme he saved for a chuckle. The nostalgia gets a few grins out of him, but the humour is quickly lost when he hits the first few selfies of himself with Grian. A snapshot of the two of them lazing around in bed on a weekend, Grian pressing a kiss to his cheek sleepily. Another where Grian is holding the phone up at an angle to catch himself in the photo, laughing hard as he frames Scar in the background, absolutely soaked from an escalating series of pranks theyād been playing back and forth for nearly two weeks.
The memories curl up into a knot in his stomach, and Scar finds himself flicking through the pictures with Grian as quick as he can, trying not to see them but lingering all the same. His anxiety spikes even further as he stumbles onto the first selfie of him and Cub. His best friendās never been a picture guy, but heād made an exception for when Scar had thrown him a surprise party for securing his newest grant. In the photo, Scarās arm is around Cub, pumping his fist in the air and cheering, all while his friend sips casually on a drink and looks to the side. Thereās a small smile on his face, hidden behind his glass, and itās so Cub that it makes Scarās chest hurt.
On automatic, he switches over to Cubās text messages, staring hard at the unanswered messages and feeling the guilt that comes from having missed his last calls. He hesitates, disquieted, sending another, āI hope youāre doing alright,ā into the list of unanswered texts. Trying not to dwell on it, he flicks screens to his texts with Pearl, with the intention of sending a similar message. Itās there that his heart nearly stops.
There are no replies, no reactions, no responseānothing as remarkable as thatābutā¦ beneath his last message to her, the grey text has changed from āDeliveredā to āRead.ā
It should make him feel hopeful, but it doesnātāall Scar can think of is what it means. Is it a glitch? Has something gone wrong? Or did Pearl actually open the message and then simply never bother to reply? That doesnāt seem right. Neither Cub nor Pearl would leave him on read like that; especially in such a dire situation. So thenā¦ what? What had kept Pearl from responding?
Scar knows that the likeliest outcome is that his messages have gone glitchyāitās the end of the world, the power grid is down, itās not like they have proper service. Hell, he doubts that his messages are even going through anymore. And yetā¦
The possibilities, good, bad and worse, all stick like burrs inside his head.
Anxious and restless, Scar looks to Grian, hoping to share his concerns, or at the very least his discovery, but the memory of Grian's bad mood makes him close his mouth again. Heart heavy, he powers down the phone and tucks it away, pushing down the gnawing unrest of the mystery and focusing on the problem at hand instead.
Grian has held out a lot longer than Scar expected him to. Their destination isnāt far now, and the entirety of the journey has passed with his determined silence. In truth, Scar had thought theyād spend the majority of the ride bickering, and in the rising tension of the absence of an argument leaves him feeling like something between them is about to snap.
āCan we talk?ā he prods.
Blessedly, Grian doesnāt ignore him this time.
āKind of a captive audience right now,ā he huffs, hands flexing on the handlebars. āDonāt think I can really stop you.ā
Thatās fair enough.
āWhatās your problem with them?ā Scar asks. āReally. Not just āI donāt like it when they look at you.āā
āJust going straight for the kill,ā Grian mutters, incredulous. Scar would give him a winning smile, but the mood isnāt right, and itās not like Grian can see his expression anyway.
Grian continues pedaling, fixing his voice into that scolding tone he uses sometimes, like heās pointing out something astoundingly obvious. āYou donāt think itās suspicious? Like, why were they just there? Hanging out and waiting for us?ā
āI wouldnāt say they were waiting for us,ā Scar argues, trying to keep an open mind. āIt was one of those coincidences. Honestly, it was weirder that we hadnāt seen anyone up until we met them, yāknow?ā
āThatās just it though, isnāt it?ā Grian huffs. āIf we didnāt come across anyone before because they were all turned or dead, how come those three werenāt? Why were they just wandering out in the open like that?ā
āWe were also just wandering out in the open.ā Scar points out.
āThatās different,ā Grian insists, undeterred. āWeāre heading north. Thatās been our plan from the very first day. But they had no clue where to go until we gave them a direction!ā
Scar closes his eyes, resisting the urge to drop his forehead against Grianās bag. āThatās nothing, Grian. All that tells us is that they were lost and confused, just like anyone their age would be when thrown into a survival situation.ā
āSo whatās all the secrecy about, then?ā
Scar canāt help himself, giving into the impulse to roll his eyes at Grianās paranoia.
āWhat secrecy?ā
āYou canāt be serious,ā Grian says, huffing a laugh with no humour in it. Heās speaking through gritted teeth, pedaling harder, making the gears creak. āAll those little glances they exchange with one another? Donāt tell me you havenāt noticed. Or what about all the information they have on how zombies act and behave. Where did they learn all that?ā
āWhat are you implying?ā Scar challenges, frustrated with Grianās obstinance. āAre you saying theyāre double agents? Working on the side of the zombies?ā
āI donāt know,ā Grian counters. āIām just saying itās suspicious, thatās all!ā
āListen to yourself, Grian.ā
āI am listening!ā Grian retorts, twisting his head to the side so he can throw a quick glare at Scar over his shoulder. āAnd you asked! So Iām telling you: I just donāt like them, Scar. But itās fine. Weāre doing it your way, so thatāsāyou know. It is what it is.ā
The accusation stings. The implication that Scar has somehow strong-armed Grian into something wholly unreasonable when Scar genuinely believes being grouped up like this is nothing but an asset to them both. Heās trying to help. Heād never willingly put Grian in harmās way. Never.
āI donāt like this side of you,ā he mutters, words low in his chest. āYouāreāā
āNot the man you married,ā Grian bites, bitter and viciously sharp.
The words connect with Scar like a slap across the face. He jerks himself back, almost offsetting the balance of the bikeāand maybe thatās what does it.
Maybe the disorientation, the shifting of gravity, is the final nail in the coffin. Maybe itās Grianās rough pedaling, his heavy handling of delicate parts, or even just the strain of having to accommodate the weight of two people and their gear when the bike was only ever built for one.
Whatever it is, itās still a surprise when the gear chain snaps, the resulting swerve of the bike sending Scar tumbling off the back.
āScar!ā Grian shouts, distressed, turning sharply around on instinct.
The bikeās tires screech on the patchy pavement as Grian comes to a stop. However, he barely has the time to cast the bike aside before Scar is gathering himself up off the ground, trying not to appear winded. Grian moves to crouch by his side, telling him to take it slow and reaching out to help him, but Scar jerks away from his touch, rejecting his aid, and Grian pulls his hands back like heās been burned. Scar doesnāt know why, doesnāt know what makes him so petty, all he knows is that after their argument mere moments before, the last thing he wants is Grianās immediate pity.
It takes longer than he would like, but eventually, Scar manages to get upright on his own, head still swimming from vertigo. He sits on the ground as he assesses the rifle, checking it over to make sure nothingās broken or jammed from the fall. He counts himself lucky it didnāt misfire when he hit the ground, trying not to think about who or what an errant shot might have alerted, or how bad the distant sound might have worried the boys.
The rest of his things are within arms reach, the backpack too heavy to have fallen far, and the walkie talkie jammed uncomfortably into his hip.
If his body was aching before, itās worse now, pain shooting through Scarās joints as he attempts to stand.
Grian hovers next to him, hand held loose in front of his body like he wants to reach out and steady him but is afraid of being rebuffed again. Scar pretends he doesnāt notice, leveraging himself to his feet on his own. He walks shakily past Grian, picking up his backpack and hefting it back onto his shoulders before he grabs the walkie talkie from where it skidded out from under him, immediately holding down the push-to-talk button.
āPandas, this is Sparrow,ā he says, curt. All trace of his earlier excitement is gone, giving his message a purely perfunctory air. āThe roadās clear. Iāll hail again once weāve reached the destination, over.ā
The walkie talkie crackles moments later, Sapnapās voice concerned over the line.
āHey Sparrow, this is Pandasāthat's good but, uh, you sound a little rough. We got some static a couple minutes ago, gave us a bit of a scare, is everything okay? Um. Over.ā
āAffirmative,ā Scar responds, short and to the point. āThis is Sparrow, over and out.ā
He lets go of the PTT, gripping the walkie tight in his hand as he takes a deep, long breath and then blows it all out, trying to vent his frustration without losing his cool. Pain ricochets up his leg as he continues to stand, but he ignores that too. The only thing he canāt ignoreāno matter how much he triesāis Grian, watching him with worry creasing the bridge between his brows.
āScar, are you alrā?ā
āI still care about you,ā Scar interrupts, struggling to keep his voice even. He takes another breath, deep and even, trying to settle his riotous thoughts. āYou know that, right? You know I still care. You know that this is hard for me.ā
Grianās expression immediately shutters, his hands tightening into fists at his sides, knuckles white. He looks resolutely towards the horizon, jaw fixed.
He remains silent.
Of course he does.
āWhat do you want me to do?ā Scar asks, begs, pressing a palm flat against his chest. āBecause I have no other options right now, Grian. Itās you and me, or itās no one and Iām alone, and we both know how far Iāll make it by myself so justāput yourself in my shoes, alright? Try.ā
Seconds pass in uncomfortable silence, Scarās heart aching in his chest, racing too fast, feeling too many emotions all at once.
Still, Grian doesnāt speak.
Scar wishes it didnāt have to be this way, struggling with the reality of the hand heās been dealt. If he couldāve chosen to be with anyone during the fallout of something so horrible, it wouldnāt have been with the man that had just broken his trust and torn his heart to pieces.
What he needs is distance. What he needs is time to grieve and recover. But the universe has opted to grant him neither, so in the absence of all of that, Scar is doing the best he can.
Is it too much to ask for Grian to do the same?
āGrian,ā Scar pleads, āIām not asking the world here. All I want is a civil forty-eight hours with some strangers. We can tell āem to take a hike afterwards. Itās not forever. But for now letās make the best of it, because they need us and, god damn it, we need them too. Grian. Please.ā
Thereās a familiar tension in the air, the kind that Scarās grown used to in the months leading up to their breakup. He presses harder, intentionally picking at scabs, hitting where he knows itāll hurt.
āYouāve already shown me what hitting rock bottom feels like, so why donāt we try something else for a change, huh?ā
Itās a cheap shot, but it works.
āFine,ā Grian spits at last, choking the word like itās some sort of surrender.
As if that in any way settles things, Grian turns away from him, heading back towards the bike.
Scar uses the time Grian spends trying to salvage the chain to rub the soreness around his knees. They have the broken hoe at least. It's strapped to the side of Grianās bag, a makeshift walking stick coming back into play.
Cursing from Grian draws Scarās attention, the other man standing back from the bike with a grim expression on his face.
āWe canāt fix the chain. Not without the right tools. Weāre gonna have to go the rest of the way on foot.ā He looks like he wants to say something more, his expression flickering as he eyes where Scar is massaging his thighs. āShouldnāt be much left, at least. We were almost there.ā
Grian moves the bike to the side, pushing it off the edge of the road and letting it fall over onto a clump of dry, brittle weeds. He hesitates as he adjusts his pack across his shoulder, glancing at Scar again before he wordlessly tugs the hoe free. He hands it over to Scar before he starts off towards their destination.
The idea of walking the rest of the way is daunting, but Scar knows thereās nothing left for it. Heāll walk until he canāt anymore. Thatās their only option.
Brushing the dust and dirt off his clothes, Scar straightens up as best he can under the weight of his bag, adjusting his grip on the garden hoe. And then, with a final, parting glance at the bikeālying broken on the side of the road, useless and lonelyāhe follows after Grian.
Notes:
To nip any confusion in the bud--yes, the Life Series peeps will be in this fic. There's just a very specific part we want them to appear during, so until we get to that part, our choices essentially were: 1) Have Scar and Grian continue to travel alone for longer and risk making the future chapters boring/repetitive 2) Make OCs for them to interact with along the way 3) Do cameos from other MCYT and otherwise related media. We chose to do the last one, simply because it seemed like the most fun :3
If you don't know these characters, you're safe to treat them as OCs since, within the text, Scar and Grian are also meeting them for the first time. Any necessary information will be traded between the characters within the fic itself, so you won't be missing much ;) If you DO know these characters, then I hope you'll enjoy a temporary little crossover! :D For us, Karlnapity was what got us into MCYT, so it was exciting and nostalgic to revisit them :')
Thanks again for reading and supporting our fic! š Reminder once more that there won't be a new chapter next week, but we'll get right back to it after our break! :3 Love y'all--see you two weeks from now!
Chapter 11
Notes:
Hi hi everyone! Let's get into it with some sweet, new fanart!
We've got this gorgeous, monotone piece of Scarian at the gun range in Chapter 8 by roseandmaple!
As well as a heart-wrenching, soft work of the boys together by mishori-o!
And finally this incredible piece that looks just like a book cover by caroline-bunny!
Thank you all so much!! Your styles are so lovely, we literally can't get enough of fawning over your work ;w; š
Hope all of you reading had a nice spring break if you had one--and a nice week overall if you didn't! Glad to be back with another new chapter!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Itās mid-afternoon when they finally spot their destinationāa clustered shanty of what once was a building crouched on the otherwise flat, featureless desert.
Itās generous to call the place anything more than an outpost. A single weathered trailerhome on a cinder block foundation standing next to a trio of ramshackle sheds left to fade into obscurity. Nothing has the look of permanence. A place patched together for years, lingering over the bones of something that held value to someone once, now left wholly abandoned.
The tension between Scar and Grian hasnāt faded, and as they do a cursory look around the area to check for any potential zombies, they do it wordlessly. Once the area is secure and Scar has radioed in to let the trio know theyāve made it, the two of them settle down to rest, pulling out water bottles and taking long, deep drinks. They sit in the shade of one of the broken down sheds, Grian perched on the rusted out drum from an old washing machine, and Scar resting on a stack of wood pallets left to rot into the sand.
Itās quiet, with not even a stir of wind to keep them company. The sky is clear above them, sun shining bright without a cloud in its path. Despite the sunlight, the November chill is apparent, and though itās not exactly cold, Scar canāt help but wonder how theyāll fare when itās later in the month and theyāre far further up north.
Fifteen minutes pass, and then fifteen more. Scar is beginning to doze off when he finally hears the approach of Karl, Sapnap, and Quackity. He can tell itās them by the sound of their laughter; a cacophony of overlapping calls and chattering. It takes him a moment of hard thought to remember the last time he had a chance to enjoy himself like that.
The sentimentalist in him wants it to have been with Grian, but reluctantly heās almost positive that it was with Pearl.
He tries not to overthink itādoesnāt want to spend his time wrestling with the bag of cats that are his feelings for Grian. It doesnāt matter, he tells himself. Despite it all, Scar would rather have Grian with him than be alone without him. Even if it comes at the cost of the laughter and light-hearted banter that he so desperately wishes he could share with him again.
He co*cks his head to the side, listening as they approach. Karl is giggling, giddy and loud, and Sapnap and Quackity are bantering back and forth, words indiscernible from a distance, but recognizable from their pitch and tones. Itās funny to hear them when they think no one else is around. Understandably, Quackity and Sapnap have both remained carefully subdued in their presenceāa caution that Karl seems to have forgoneābut at a distance, Scar can hear them as they normally are. Boisterous, talking easily over top of one another, shouting and laughing in a casual, comfortable exchange.
āTheyāre certainly loud enough, arenāt they?ā Grian criticizes, busying himself with putting away the snacks they had out during their break, cleaning up the area. āTheyāre lucky thereās no googlies around. Theyād be calling them in for miles.ā
āI think itās nice,ā Scar remarks, almost without thinking, speaking before he has a chance to consider how Grian will react. āIām glad they can still be happy.ā
He can see the way his words dig into Grianās skin, poorly timed at best. Grianās expression immediately shutters, dipping into something terse as he turns his torso away, focusing on packing his bag. Scar wants to apologise, not wanting to push their fragile truce into something argumentative. He feels the words building up in the back of his throat, but before he can say anything, Karlās shaggy head peers around the corner of the trailer, face lighting up as he sees them.
āWell arenāt you a sight for sore eyes!ā Karl crows, sounding genuinely glad to see them. He tilts his attention back over his shoulder, calling out a āthis way, fellasā before he ambles over to where Scar and Grian are sitting. Oblivious to their tension, he sits down between them, legs stretched out on the sandy soil, his shoulders pressing back against the rusted aluminium siding of the trailer as he heaves a relieved sigh.
He looks heated from the exertion of his walk, but not overly tired, bangs slicked down to his forehead with a sheen of sweat. Several of his layers have been discarded from when Scar saw him last, now wearing a loose shirt unbuttoned almost to his navel, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
āGot any water on ya, big guy?ā Karl asks, and without hesitating Scar digs into his backpack for one of the water bottles heād packed.
Taking the offered water and drinking deeply, Karl is preoccupied when Sapnap and Quackity catch up, smiling just as brightly as Karl had when they round the side of the trailer. Predictably, Sapnap takes a seat beside Karl, shouldering off his backpack with a sigh of relief but, curiously, Quackity opts to settle next to Scar, legs nearly touching as he sits on the stack of pallets.
They're both in the same easygoing mood Scar had heard as they approached, but itās clear theyāre back to acting guarded around the two of them, the trust of familiarity not yet earned.
āSo?ā Karl asks, after having drained a third of the water bottle. āWas it as good for you as it was for us? It seems like you made pretty good time.ā
āThe bike chain snapped,ā Grian says without preamble, not surprising Scar in the slightest as he focuses on the negative. āSo that was a pretty big bust for us.ā
āAw, well, welcome to the On Foot gang,ā Karl chuckles, handing his water bottle to Sapnap.
āIām not pleased about it,ā Grian mutters, getting to his feet and dusting himself off before he clips his pack back across his chest. āBut letās get going.ā
āWhoa,ā Sapnap says, Quackity giving into a laugh of disbelief.
āSo, we just got here,ā Karl smiles, delicate but firm. āYouāre gonna need to give us a minute to catch our breath.ā
Grian stands silent as he looks down at Karl. Grianās never called himself a leader per say, but heās got the personality of someone who expects to be listened to when he speaks, and people have always tended to follow his direction as a result. At the moment, his expression alone speaks a thousand words, clearly not used to being talked back to, and even less used to being told what to do himselfāespecially by someone so much younger than him.
āHis face,ā Quackity snickers, quiet, so only Scar can hear.
Itās not that heās picking sides, but Scar canāt help but smile. Itās nice to feel in on something, especially when itās versus Grian. After so long without contact from anyone else, itās freeing to be able to enjoy a moment with someone entirely unrelated to him and Grian and the history theyāre burdened by.
āWe saw a kangaroo rat,ā Sapnap interjects, butting into the tension between Karl and Grian with almost endearingly inoffensive smalltalk.
āWe wanted to see some wild horses,ā Karl adds, instantly relaxing as he leans against the broad slant of Sapnapās shoulder. āImagine if we got our hands on some horses, right? Weād be made in the shade.ā
āHave you been on the bike since the outbreak started?ā Quackity asks, looking to Scar with a curious, conversational smile.
It strikes Scar, not for the first time, just how young the three of them are. Easily a decade younger than him, barely into their twenties. The way Quackity speaks to him has the polite deference of a student to a teacher, or an employee to their boss. Scar wants to tell him to relax, that Quackity doesnāt have to treat him like a distant uncle heās unfamiliar with, but he doesnāt know how to say the words in a way that wonāt come off as insulting or condescending.
āIāve never been good with kids,ā is the joke he wants to make, but he knows it wouldnāt go over well. Not yet, anyway.
āWe had a car,ā he shares, opting to just speak to Quackity like heād speak to any adult peer of his. āBut we had to put her down.ā
āSounds like thereās a story there,ā Quackity encourages, his smile turning a little more genuine.
āHe set her on fire,ā Grian interrupts, arms crossed, still standing.
āOh sh*t,ā Sapnap pipes up, and thereās awe in his tone that Scar knows Grian wonāt appreciate. āThatās so badass.ā
āYou see, baby?ā Karl hums with a smile, speaking to Quackity and clearly picking up a well-worn subject. āI told you, thereās no rules anymore. We can do whatever we want, now.ā
Intrigued, Scar sits up a little straighter, his grin turning rakish, like heās some sort of expert on the subject. āAre you saying youāve been nurturing a craving for arson?ā
Karl laughs, almost a chortle, shaking his head before he pushes his tousled hair back with an absent flick of his wrist.
āI want us to get married. The three of us.ā
He says it simply, like itās very matter-of-fact, but his words catch both Scar and Grian in a similar way, both their eyebrows shooting up in unison as they react to his declaration.
āWe couldnātāyāknow, it didnāt work like that before. Three people and all,ā Karl continues, hand dropping to his side as he seeks out Sapnapās, threading their fingers together in a fond, familiar way. āBut if nothing matters anymore, whatās to say we canāt just do it now? Make our own rules.ā
Itās wholesome. A sweet, romantic, remarkably mature sentiment from someone Scar had been thinking of as basically children just moments ago. Scar canāt help but wonder about the logistics of it. Marriage, so early on in their years? In the wreck of the world? How could they trust that it would last? How would they even go about it? Did all of them share the fantasy, or was this just Karlās dream?
A part of Scar wants to question them, but another part worries that maybe this is just the way normal people are when they fall in love these days and heās the one whoās been turned cynical by years of half-hearted efforts from his own flagging partner.
He can feel Grian watching him, focused and incredibly intense, but chooses to ignore it in favour of finding out more, motivated by genuine curiosity, and a tiny bit of spite.
āHave you been together that long?ā
The question makes Grianās shoulders tense up, stiff, as he finally, reluctantly sits back down. The two of them hadnāt ever really discussed marriage themselves. The few times it had come up itād been brushed away with a joke or a distraction. Scar had always wanted it, desperately, but Grian would only quip that he was allergic to rings, and didnāt know whenāif everāheād be ready to settle down.
It had been funny enough at the time. Jokes from friends occasionally teasing about proposals, admiring engagement rings in storefront windows, looking at vacation destinations and wondering if they would work for a honeymoon. The entire time laughing at Grainās complaints of rushing into things, of the stress and inconvenience of wedding planning, of the ridiculousness of the expectation.
And then discovering that Grian didnāt just need more time. That he was truly allergic to any kind of commitment at all.
āWe havenāt been together long, no,ā Karl admits, and laughs at the expression Scar canāt keep off his face. āI mean, me and Sap, yeah. Weāve been together for years. But as far as the three of us go, weāve all been friends for a while, but Q wasā¦ā
āI was both of their Other Man,ā Quackity teases, unaware of how Scarās mouth instantly goes dry, the air becoming loaded in a way he knows the trio wonāt understandāwonāt recognise at all. āI third wheeled them for ages. I didnāt know what the f*ck I was doing.ā
āYou were in love with us,ā Karl says, soft. He reaches a hand towards Quackity, who brushes his fingertips against Karlās fondly before he lets Karl hook their pinkies together. āAnd we were in love with you. It just took us all a little while to sync up.ā
āWhat happened?ā Scar canāt help but ask. Heās always been a romantic, and heāll admit that the idea of three people togetherāwithout jealousy or angerāis entirely foreign to him. It touches a frayed part of his aching soul, something pained and spiteful, but his interest outweighs it, curiosity getting the better of him. āWhat got you all on the same page?ā
A look passes between the three, quick and deliberate. Itās the kind of glance that Grian had been upset about earlier, but Scar canāt find it in himself to be suspicious. Itās clear that itās the kind of wordless communication that can exist between three individuals entirely in tune with one another. Theyāre just being careful. Willing to share, but acknowledging that thereās a level of trust being unlocked in order to reveal this information.
āIt was the zombies,ā Karl offers at last.
āWe hadā¦ a pretty bad scare that first day when it all went to sh*t,ā Sapnap adds, hand reaching out to find Karlās, fingers intertwining naturally before he puts his other hand out to Quackity, whoās gone completely silent but moves his hand towards Sapnapās from across the gap anyhow. āIt put a lot of things into perspective for us. Showed us how much time we were all wasting beingā¦ I dunno, dumb and shy and stupid.ā
āIt sounds crazy,ā Karl jokes, smiling and honest. āThe zombies were the best thing that couldāve happened to us.ā
Sitting there beside the three of them, hearing them tell their story, marveling at how this catastrophe brought them cohesion and not whatever he and Grian are currently putting themselves throughā¦
It hurts.
Of all the people to meet in the apocalypse, itās ironic that they ended up crossing paths like this. Three people who came together so strongly in the chaos, overcoming hurdles that Scar had never even known about, while simultaneously he and Grian had fallen so disastrously apart.
A part of Scar is happy for themāoverjoyed that they could find such joy in the face of a world turned on its head.
Another part of him nurses his own heartache bitterly. Resenting the idea that three people could navigate something so complex as this and not fall victim to cheating and lies the way Grian had.
It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.
Scarās heart aches in his chest, longing for the opportunity to have approached Grianās infidelity from another angle. To have had the chance to broach things differently. To be open. To share.
He doesnāt know if he could have done what the trio have doneādoesnāt know if his love was meant to split into thirds that way. But the fact that he was never even given the chance to try leaves him feeling robbed. An added insult to injury, like a fresh bruise on an already deep and painful ache.
As polite as he can be in the midst of his own turmoil, Scar manages to speak.
āIt sounds like it all worked out for the best.ā
āWeāve genuinely never been happier,ā Karl replies, looking at Quackity as he says it, who returns the confession with a blush and a smile.
Abruptly, Grian stands up, fists clenched tight at his sides.
Scar couldāve seen this coming from a mile away. It astounds him, sometimes, how Grian can take everything as a personal attack on his characterāeven when the people involved know absolutely nothing about him or the skeletons in his closet. A stray thought in his head tells him he's being unkind, reading too much into Grian's reaction when he likely doesn't intend it that way. And yet, Scar can't shake himself of the negativity.
Leave it to Grian to get insecure about another personās happiness.
āExcuse me,ā Grian mutters, stiff as he cuts across their circle, moving to put himself at a distance from the group.
It makes Scarās heart sink. Makes him tired. Itās not unexpected, but itās still disappointing. If anyone should need to get some distance, itās Scar. And yet, he knows perfectly well that there would be no place for such actions, that it would be childish and petty to do anything other than politely listen to the trio.
āWas it something I said?ā Karl asks, light, a rhetorical joke that has Sapnap chuckling half-heartedly at his side.
āDonāt worry about it. Heās justā¦ā Scar sighs, trailing off, flexing a hand on his knee as he prepares to get up and follow after Grian. Surprisingly, Quackity hops to his feet first, motioning for Scar to stay where he is.
āIāll go,ā he suggests, easy, like heās done it a hundred times. āJust keep him company, right? No problem.ā
Scar hesitates, but itās a good call. Grianās no doubt prepared for Scar to follow himāready to pick an easy, predictable, guilt-riddled fight. Quackity going instead will force Grian onto his back foot, and hopefully off centre him enough that the sore spot will blow over without any larger issue. Scar wonders if Quackity sees it like thatāadmiring his maturity for the suggestion either way.
Maybe he judged him by his age too quickly.
āThanks,ā Scar says, and means it. He sits back heavily, like a puppet with its strings cut, letting his breath out in a rush. It takes him a moment, lingering on the words and rolling them over on his tongue, before he adds, āGrianās not a bad person. Weāre justā¦ in a rough spot right now.ā
āBeen there, done that,ā Quackity says, huffing a small laugh. Heās casual about it when he speaks, expression serious but holding no judgement. āNo worries, man. What are friends for, right?ā
Scar tilts his head to the side, considering him carefullyāitās an odd idea, to be friends already. The idea isnāt unwelcome, but it still feels strange and a little premature. Tough, like under-ripe fruit. Heās not about to rebuff Quackity for it, though. He likes him well enough, and Scarās never been opposed to making as many connections as possible.
āYouāre a good guy, Q-bert,ā he says, and means it.
Quackity grins at that, tugging his beanie back into place before he turns to follow the direction Grian had stormed off in. He walks a few paces before he seems to remember something, turning and blowing two comically large kisses back towards his partners. Karl and Sapnap both mime catching them, and place them to their heart and mouth respectively. Itās clearly a familiar practice theyāve played out dozens of times before and itās achingly sweet to observe. Scar finds himself smiling, nothing in him capable of feeling resentful for such a warm display.
āSoā¦ how long have you and Grian known each other?ā Sapnap pipes up once Quackity disappears from view around the corner of the trailer. Scar tries not to respond with how much he doesnāt want to think about Grian right now, closing his eyes and letting himself think about it
āWell, thatās a bit of a complicated question,ā he muses after a pause, absently scratching at his chin. āGrian and I had a lot of mutual friends before we formally met one another, so Iād heard about him and knew of him for maybe five or six years? We didnāt get, uhā¦ close, until about a year after that, though.ā
Karl and Sapnap exchange a look, but Scar doesnāt mind. Frankly, heās okay with the trio finding out that he and Grian have dated and then broken up, even finding a bit of catharsis in being the one to share the story. Heās not about to divulge too many details, but he doesnāt see the harm in it. He has nothing to hide. He didnāt cheat on anyone.
Neither of them pursue the topic any further however, Sapnap simply taking a swig from the water bottle Karl had handed him earlier before wiping his mouth on his wrist. āMe and Karl have you beat,ā he says, almost bragging in a way that comes across as oddly endearing. āWeāve known each other since halfway through middle schoolāwell, known of each other.ā
Karl grins fondly, like heās reminiscing on something decades in the past and not a handful of years ago at best. āI saw your dumbass hanging out on the bleachers attempting to look cool with your asshole friends a total of three times before I got pulled out.ā
āPulled out?ā Scar asks, mildly amused by the idea. āWhat were you, a couple of bad boys?ā
Karl shakes his head, smiling. āNah, man. Puberty had me all f*cked up. I could not stay awake and my grades were a disaster, so eventually everyone decided Iād try homeschooling for a year to see if that could help me out.ā He jerks his chin in Sapnapās direction, smiling fondly. āSap ended up coming over to my place a lot ācause one of his dads was my tutor andāā Karl stops suddenly. His eyes dart to Sapnap, and Scar follows his glance.
Sapnapās expression has gone closed, mouth tight around the corners.
āGod,ā Karl breathes, the words tumbling out in a rush. āIām sorry baby, I forgot. I didnāt meanāā
āItās okay,ā Sapnap interrupts, shoulders tense but voice even. āTheyāre fine. I know they are.ā
Karl leans close to him, and Sapnap leans in, clearly glad for it, their hands finding each other. After Sapnap catches a breath, he looks back at Scar and explains.
āMe and Karl went out of state for college. My dads were really supportive, but they both cried a lot when I left, andāā his words stutter, faltering. āI shouldāve called them more, I shouldāve gone home to see them. I shouldāve...ā
āSap, if anyoneās still out there, itās your dads,ā Karl reassures, squeezing Sapnapās hand in his.
Sapnap manages a small smile, nodding his head, clinging to the hope Karl provides him. Scar had been so caught up in his own trauma that he'd entirely forgotten people had whole families they must be worried about. Feeling chagrinned, Scar awkwardly reaches out to give Sapnap a bracing clap on the shoulder, taking the small huff of laughter that comes out of him as a victory.
Itās a raw, choked-up moment, vulnerable and fragile between the three of them, when suddenly Quackity and Grian return.
Theyāre not coming back good-natured and laughing, but then Scar didnāt expect them to. Itās enough to see Grianās expression somewhat less twisted up. Not smiling but not outright scowling either.
It also helps that Quackity flashes him two thumbs-up and a quick grin.
āAre we ready to go?ā Grian asks the moment heās back by Scarās side, arms folded tight across his chest, impatient.
āMm,ā Karl hums, āI think weāve rested enough to keep pushingāwhat do you think boys?ā
āItās probably best to go while weāve still got light,ā Sapnap offers, peering up at the sun and gauging its distance from the horizon. Beside him Quackity nods in agreement, hooking his thumbs under his backpack straps before he nods towards the direction they were heading in.
āWe continue,ā Karl says, chipper, and Scar manages a low chuckle as he gets back on his feet.
They file out of the pitstop in a loose cluster, the trio sticking more or less together, naturally pulled into each othersā gravity. Unsurprisingly, Scar ends up walking beside Grian, who keeps step beside him, attention focused on the ground immediately in front of his feet. He wonders if he should ask if Grianās okay, but ultimately he just puts an arm around Grianās shouldersāa sort of half-hug that lasts for only a second before he breaks away. He can feel Grian watching him as he drifts off to join Karl, Sapnap and Quackity taking the lead, leaving Grian awash in the middle, walking on his own.
Logically, Scar knows itās petty to keep his distance, but he doesnāt want to deal with the weird, antagonistic way Grian gets when heās feeling guilty with nowhere else to put it. Heās still not used to this version of Grian; the one whoās hot and cold and needy and distant all at once. He longs for Grian he fell for, all embarrassed flushes and earnest apologies when he spilled a drink or broke a cup at Scarās. The Grian who laughed at silly jokes and stupid pranks, uniquely fond in secret, private ways; stolen moments kept just between the two of them.
His nostalgia barely has a chance to breathe before it curdles, memories of missed meals and curt texts flashing through his head instead, sitting wrong in his stomach. He wants so badly to treasure the Grian he had, but at the moment all he can dwell on is how he canāt remember the last time Grian apologised to him and meant it.
Time passes faster while traveling in a group, Scar finds. Itās easier having people to talk to, exchanging stories, and getting to know one another. They trade off positions from time to time, so Scar gets the opportunity to talk to the entirety of the trio as they advance across the seemingly endless desert. Itās nice to be able to connect with them, especially Sapnap and Quackity since, thus far, he's mostly been conversing with Karl. He already finds himself mourning their loss, dreading the return to silence after Grian insists on parting ways once theyāre through the next town.
Itās silly, because Scar knows Grian would love these three if heād just give them a chance. Especially Quackity, who seems to have grown incredibly fond of Scar. Heās got the calculation and intelligence hidden behind easy words that reminds Scar so much of when he had first met Grian.
Theyāre alike in so many ways, right down to the slightly abrasive edge to their personality that doesn't come out until you're on their bad side, and Scar just wishes he could convey that to Grian without making him bristle up defensively.
Unfortunately, Grian makes his thoughts on travelling with the trio clear, keeping himself several steps away at all times, rarely participating in conversation or the games they play to pass the time. The boys exchange significant looks with one another each time Grian snubs them, which they make no effort to hide from Scar, but if they hold any ill-will towards him for it they donāt say it out loud. Instead, without any formal signal, they simply tone down the number of times they ask Grian to join in, until eventually theyāre making no effort to include him at all.
It hurts Scarās heart to see Grian isolated like this, and the part of him that still cares, still desperately wants them to see Grian the way he knows he can be, has to hold himself back from interfering. Instead, he keeps a smile on his face, laughing and chatting as the sun dips lower in the sky, their shadows lengthening beneath their feet as the air around them starts to cool off.
Theyāve been walking for several hoursāfollowing the straight line of the highway as it cuts across the desert, keeping the distant range of mountains to their leftāwhen they see the zombies coming.
Thereās maybe half a dozen of themāeight at mostāfollowing the road, with no obvious sight of origin.
Scar knows they mustāve come from an accident or roadside rest-stop somewhere up ahead, but itās hard not to imagine them clawing their way wretchedly up from out of the dry dusty earth, like the Hollywood horrors heās familiar with.
Somehow that would be preferable, he thinks. It would be a damn sight better than this.
Theyāre far enough away from the horde that they havenāt yet been spotted. Sapnap, who up until now has been leading them at a brisk pace, slows down. Thereās a winding tension between the five, all of them chewing an uncertainty about how to address this obstacle.
āAlright,ā Sapnap says eventually. His voice is low and calm, expression serious, attention fixed on the zombies as he speaks. āThey havenāt seen us. If we give them enough room, we can just walk around and give āem a wide berth. No stupid risks. Itās just not worth it.ā
The suggestion comes with the air of experience, and Scarās inclined to agree with it. It doesnāt benefit any of them to put themselves at risk of an errant bite or scratch when the whole situation could be easily avoided. Plus, he canāt deny the relief he feels about not being tasked to put any additional stress or fatigue on his body which, despite the welcome distraction of the trioās company, is crying out in desperate need of a rest. Already a weariness is clawing at the edges of his consciousness, calling at him to doze.
Heās opening his mouth to agree when Grian shoulders up to him, yanking the hoe that Scar had been carrying strapped next to the rifle free with a single, rough gesture.
Thereās no discussion, no additional conversation. Without a word Grian rushes towards the zombies, raising his voice in a shout to draw their meandering, unfocused attention. Beside him, Karl says something loud and unrepeatable, but Scar doesnāt have time to acknowledge it, heart up in his throat as all eight of the creatures turn their gazes on Grian in unison, locked on him like a target.
Thereās no pause to think, just a single, automatic reaction. Without hesitating, Scar is already unhooking the rifle from across his back and raising it to his shoulder, focusing down its sight as beside him, the trio shout and scramble for their weapons.
He exhales, controlled, and squeezes the trigger, the recoil butting up hard against his shoulder. His first shot takes out one of the two zombies converging on Grian easily. At the same time, Grian dodges to one side, knocking the feet out from under the second with the broken handle of the hoe. When it stumbles and falls, he cleaves clean through its head, burying the sharp edge of the hoe into its skull before he jerks it back, violent, as he focuses on the next.
Scar lines up a second shot as another swing from Grianās hoe cleaves into a skull. Together, he and Grian have taken out half the ghouls before Karl and Quackity even have a chance to get their weapons at the ready and catch up. Sapnap at least, had been walking with his crowbar swinging idle in his hand, and is able to sprint and join Grian. He yells something loud and fierce as he brings the blunt end of his tool down once, twice, three times, on a zombie that looks to have once been a man old enough to be his father.
Despite the fear, despite the panicāthereās a thrill to it all that Scar doesnāt yet understand.
Itās exhilarating, the way he can tell from a distance what Grian is about to do; where heāll step next, when heāll flex and get ready to heft his weapon up once more. Scar can aim easily to aid him, taking out a zombie that stumbles too close as Grian is busy with his back half-turned. By the time Karl and Quackity catch up, thereās only one left, and they work in easy unison to put it down, Quackity going so far as to raise his leg to kick it roughly in the mid-section, throwing it backwards as Karl dispatches it with rough, aggressive hacks from his machete.
Quick, efficient, and the zombies are dispatched of. Every last one.
The aftermath of the violence is swallowed by an almost eerie silence, each of them breathing hard as the adrenaline catches up with them. After a long enough wait to ensure the zombies are all truly down, Scar kicks the end of the rifle off his shoulder, lowering the sight as he thumbs the safety back in place.
āSmarter to deal with them now when we have light, instead risking them sneaking up on us in the dark later,ā Grian says, smug in the way Scar is all too familiar with as he taps the blade end of the hoe against the sole of his shoe, knocking off the clinging viscera. āYouāre welcome.ā
Karl, Sapnap, and Quackity exchange a look, but neither of them speaks up to argue. Stepping over the prone corpse of a zombie, Karl puts his arm out to Quackity, murmuring something quiet to him before Quackity nods, mumbling something that sounds like āIām fineā before he crouches down. Focused, he uses a handful of sand to scour the gore off his tire iron, face set in a carefully neutral expression, taking a deep breath as he finishes before he stands back up, slinging the tire iron over his shoulder.
āWow,ā he crows, and Scar gets the impression that heās putting on a brave face, forcing normalcy to prevent himself from breaking down. āTall, handsome, and a good shot. Are you sure youāre not single?ā Quackity smiles at him, waiting for the perfect comedic pause before he concludes, āāCause Iām not.ā
Scar manages a chuckle, but itās half-hearted at best.
Together, they resume walking, but they keep their weapons in-hand, glancing around warily, on alert for any stragglers. Almost instinctively, the trio cluster together, a closed circle that Scar is not included in. Reading their need for some distance and privacy, he finds himself walking with Grian, offering the three what space he can.
āI made the right call,ā Grian insists, words low under his breath. āYou know I did.ā
āIām not mad at you,ā Scar replies, calm.
āI didnāt say you were.ā
āGrian,ā Scar tries. āWe were all thinking it. But Sapnap decidedāā
āAnd heās the leader now? When did we decide that?ā Grian snaps.
Scar sighs, rubbing at his eyes before he drags his palm down over the scruff of his jaw, tired. āItās not about anyone being the leader. Itās about jumping headfirst into a group of zombies without any plan or any backup.ā
āI wasnāt in danger,ā Grian dismisses.
āYou couldāve been overtaken. You couldāve gotten bit.ā Scar wants his words to have heft to them, he wants Grian to take this as seriously as he needs to.
Instead, Grian tilts his head back, aloof as he brags.
āI wasnāt worried. I knew youād have my back.ā
Scar snaps his mouth shut, heart thudding against his sternum. He wets dry lips, cracked from the desert air. He doesnāt know how to feel, doesnāt know what he wants. Itās clear from the way Grian speaks that heād felt it tooāthe rush as theyād synched up so perfectly, working together in an effortless unison.
He doesnāt know if he wants that, though. Already feeling the fear of failing to meet Grianās standards.
āI just donāt want you taking risks,ā he settles for at last, voice quiet.
āScar,ā Grian huffs, covering up his nerves with bluster in a way thatās incredibly familiar. āIt wasnāt a risk! You had a gun and I knew youād cover me. Besides, since when have you been risk-averse? Youāve always been a shoot first, ask later sort of guy.ā
Heās not wrong. For all that Scar likes to plan, heās always been easily pulled towards chaos. Thereās a freedom in doing things off the cuff and on impulse; an excitement with dealing with life as it comes.
But then again, heās beginning to see that there are many moments in his life where he couldāve saved himself the hurt and anxiety if heād just taken a moment to think things through.
āMaybe Iāve changed,ā he says after a pause. āMaybe we both have.ā
Grian clamps his mouth shut, eyes reading stung.
They donāt talk after that, walking side-by-side with their gazes fixed ahead.
The sun sets behind the distant line of mountains, the sky smeared gaudy orange and fuchsia before it fades into indigo darkness. Ahead of them, Karl and Sapnap pull out flashlights and the group cluster together, following the jittering beam of their lights across the cracked asphalt.
Progress is slow. Slower than theyād anticipated when picking their destination on the map that morning, but none of them feel comfortable camping out in the open for the night. Despite having dealt with the zombies, the bruise of their presence lingers. Theyāre overly-cautious as they continuously scan ahead, looking up the road as far as possible in the gloom and trying to pick out any grotesque, shambling shapes in the milk-dark distance.
Itās past nine when they see itānot a gang of zombies, but a road sign marking the outskirts of a town.
Itās weathered and tilted to one side where one of the support posts has been knocked out. The aluminum is pock-marked from years of passers by taking shots at it with bullets and paintball pellets. The name of the town itself has been worn away by time, only the A and L left legible, but the āWelcomes youā printed beneath it remains, as well as āPopulation: 221.ā
Itās the first sign of civilization theyāve seen since they left their rundown rest stop hours ago, and the relief they feel as they cast their flashlight beams over it is palpable.
Behind it, the road forksāasphalt turning to rough grit and sand that leads off the main highway, softer under their feet as they take to the right. It feels surreal, in the dark of night, as their flashlights pick out chicken wire fences and squat, red-brick walls. Property markers, clearly delineated; places where homes and buildings used to be but arenāt anymore.
Thereās no signs of life. No lights in windows, no presence whatsoever. The feeling of itāthe sense of trespassing somewhere theyāre not meant to disturbācrawls eerie up the back of Scarās neck, making his hair stand on end.
As they continue walking, their flashlights start to outline the shapes of homes. Empty windows stare out to greet them. Broken glass, doors left hanging on busted hinges, half-hearted graffiti scrawled across weathered siding left to rot in the desert for decades, all speaking one fact clear and out loud.
Nobody lived here before the outbreak. Nobody lingers here now.
A ghost town.
āThis place gives me the creeps,ā Karl whispers, loud enough for the group to hear, doing them the favour of saying what theyāre all thinking.
āI donāt think we should separate,ā Sapnap advises, voice low despite the feeling of almost crushing isolation. āLetās pick a place, secure it for the night, and assess stuff properly tomorrow morning when we can see sh*t.ā
A ripple of agreement passes between them, and after some hesitant decision making, they head towards the house with the most windows left intactāa flat bungalow, much like all the others; its car-port roof fallen in and sagging to one side like a sleepy-eyelid.
They pass hesitantly in through the front door, moving quiet and careful. Thereās dirt and sand tracked in on the floor, bits of masonry having fallen down from the ceiling, and empty beer cans pushed into corners, all signs of trespassers who have come and gone over the years.
There are a few pieces of furnitureāa ragged recliner and a battered looking table with three chairs pushed up against a wallābut nothing that looks like it was meant for the place. Maybe theyāre items dragged in by squatters drifting through the area, or maybe the work of curfew-breaking teens. Tentatively, they inspect all the rooms, as meticulous as they can be with their limited lighting. Thereās a bathroom with several bike tires piled into the tub, a den with a pullout couch propped up by plastic egg crates, a main bedroom, and an empty hall cupboard.
Thereās no bed-frame in the bedroom, only a threadbare mattress placed on pallets on the floor. However, the moment Scar sees it he feels his body give out, every muscle tightening as he instinctively reaches to grip Grianās shoulder for support.
Itās only their years of familiarityāof Grian seeing Scar at his weakest and most vulnerable, and knowing how to assist him in those momentsāthat saves him from being left to fall to his knees. Quickly, Grian slings Scarās arm around his shoulder, hugging his own arm around his waist as he takes on the job of supporting his weight. It gives Scar a moment to reorient himself, pushing the last vestiges of his strength to its limits. He hppes the darkness will hide how it looks well enough for the trio to ignore.
āWeāre taking this room,ā Grian announces, declaring it firm and matter-of-fact.
Quackity immediately bristles at the assumption. āAre you out of your f*cking mind?ā
āYou three take the pullout. Itās bigger.ā
Grianās not wrong, the pullout is bigger, but thereās no denying that the bedroom is the better of the two options.
āLike hell are you gonna decide for us, like youāre the boss now,ā Quackity snaps. āYou think just because you got lucky murdering those zombies back there that suddenly youāre in charge?ā
āItās not murder,ā Grian counters, tense. āTheyāre not people.ā
āDonāt fight about it, Q,ā Karl sighs, putting his arm in front of Quackity, embodying the exhaustion they all feel. āWeāll take the pullout. We can figure it out in the morningāhell, we can pick our own place in the morning. Okay?ā
He presses his forehead to Quackityās temple, murmuring something Scar canāt hear. Whatever it is, it works to defuse Quackityās tension, who turns abruptly to stomp out of the room, his shoulder bumping into Sapnapās as he says, āCāmon, Sap. Help me barricade the front door with that table.ā
Sapnap hesitates for a moment, staring hard at Grian for a moment before he turns to join Quackity. Their departure leaves Karl alone with them, the mood low and untenable.
āYouāll take first watch, then,ā Karl says neutrally, and his tone brokers no argument.
Scar can feel his legs weakening, his window rapidly closing. He's been ignoring it all day, the shooting pains in his limbs. But now that there's clear respite available, it's like his body refuses to pretend anymore, all of Scar's exhaustion catching up to him at once. And for all that heās grown to trust the trio, he doesnāt want the spectacle of collapsing in front of any of themādoesnāt want the burden of explaining, and the weight of their pity when heās already pushing himself to him limits.
His fingertips dig into Grianās shoulder, biting, painful, beggingābeggingāhim to swallow his pride and agree.
āThat goes without saying,ā Grian replies, shrugging a shoulder as if the fact is plain and simple.
Karl takes a moment, studying them both before he nods. āIām glad thatās settled.ā
He hesitates at the doorway, turning back to face them, and itās only the darkness that masks the strain on Scarās face at being forced to stand a moment longer.
āIt was the right move, taking those zombies out,ā Karl confesses, and itās a clear peace offering, meant to bleed out the tension Grian has created. āBut youāre killing us with your inability to be a team-player, dude. I told youāweāre not your enemies. Weāre good guys, I swear. I know times are tough, but if you stop treating us like a bother and give us a chance, we could really be an asset to you.ā
Thereās a pause after he speaks, and Scar can feel the way Grian works his shoulder back, straightening his spine.
His tone is carefully blank of sentiment when he speaks.
āIāll sleep on it.ā
The expression on Karlās face is wry, evident even in the darkness. āGuess thatās all I can ask for.ā
And then heās gone, shutting the door behind him.
The moment theyāre alone, Grian springs into motion, helping lower Scar down to the mattress. Scar hisses, wincing as he sits and then immediately lays back. Heās worn down to the bone, exhausted from maintaining a smile and keeping up pleasantries despite feeling these aches and pains all throughout their walk. Itās a relief like no other to bare it plainly now, to be able to air his ailment to someone who already knows the intricacies of it.
Grian helps him undress enough to relax in place before whispering that heāll take both their watches. Scar is too tired to fight it, taking the offering for what it is and thanking Grian with a nod. He thinks Grian smiles at that, or at least squeezes his hand in affirmation. Itās hard to remember exactly as weariness clouds over him and sleep edges in from the corners of his mind. He barely hears it as Grian leaves the room, and it doesn't take much longer before he's falling asleep.
He rests deeply, waking only briefly as Grian slips into bed beside him, likely hours later. He throws an arm around Scarās middle and presses close to his back. In a distant, sleepy way, it feels nice, and Scar wishes he had the physical energy to turn around and put his arms around Grian properly, pressing a kiss to his head.
Something about that thought feels wrong, but it doesnāt seem important when heās so disconnected and dreamy. He sighs, placing a hand over Grianās and running his thumb softly across his knuckles.
āGānna need māchair tomorrow,ā he mumbles, words heavy as he drifts back asleep. āHelp me with it, please. Dunno where I put it.ā
āOkay, Scar,ā Grian replies after a lengthy pause, so soft that Scar barely hears it. He wonders why Grian sounds so different, so sadāitās just his wheelchair, the one heās used a hundred times before. But that line of questioning doesnāt have time to take root, Scar pulled back into sleep in the warmth in Grianās embrace.
Itās nice, he thinks.
He missed this.
Heās happy to sink into it.
Notes:
In our absence last week, we've since hit 200+ kudos, 100+ subscriptions, and 80+ bookmarks of this fic! šš Thank you all so, so much for your love!
And if you're interested in reading some more, we wrote a silly little Ghost Hunter Scarian oneshot set in Phasmophobia, very much inspired by the GIGS streams! Please check it out if you're in the mood for something steamy that doesn't take itself too seriously ;)
Catch you next week! š«
Chapter 12
Notes:
Hellooo everyone! We're finally making a switch to Grian POV for the arc! >:D
A bit of a CONTENT WARNING for this chapter!
Please skip to the end notes for spoilers if you are a minor or feel it might apply to you! Stay safe :3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Grian wakes up with sun on his face, Scar breathing slow and deep at his side, and the muffled sounds of giggled laughter and voices filtering in through the wall. He canāt place where he is, confused and disoriented as he lays in a bed that isnāt his, wearing clothes that feel stale, and arms aching like he had a strenuous workout. It takes him a minute of laying still, thoughts sluggish, before he finally remembers where he is.
Not at home, not in his bed, not safe.
Not with Scar.
Not in any way that matters, at least.
For a while he lays in silence, staring up at the crumbly popcorn ceiling above him. Heās not yet ready to commit to being awake, still tired from the previous day, and all the previous days that came before that. Heās not really thinking of anything at all, which comes as a relief, a reprieve from the tangled knot thatās made a mess in his head lately.
Through the wall, the muffled voices eventually taper off into quiet, and then, tellingly, the lull gives way to soft sighs, and the occasional unmistakable moan.
Heat floods Grian cheeks, even as a scowl works its way onto his face. He wishes he had a pillow to ball up and shove over his head, or even just earplugs to block out the noise. A part of him wants to bang his fist on the wall and tell them to knock it off. There's no way the trio don't know they'll be overheard, and the audacity of such a thing digs into him.
Another part of Grian remembers being the same way onceāa time that feels so long ago, now.
Lately, he feels like heās become a stranger to the him that exists in his memories. Like heās someone looking in on a person that no longer exists, cataloguing the things that used to make him laugh, make him happy, made him smirk all sly and confident as he pulled the person he loved into a room and ran his hands reverently over each and every one of his scars.
Heās an observer to who he was in the past; the Grian that would giggle through kisses and grin against Scarās mouth and moan aloud when touched. In a way, he envies the trio and their naĆÆve loveātoo young and too foolhardy to realise how much harder things get as life goes on.
And yet, as the voices murmur and sigh pleasantly just feet away, Grian finds himself wondering if there isnāt some mollusk shell left from their history that they can make a new home in. A do-over, with the person he is nowāthe person who made a mistake, the person who still wants what he once had, the person who doesnāt want to be aloneāat the centre. It's an urge he can relate to without feeling like an outsider in his own skin.
He knows itās not entirely right. He knows there would be more than one person from Scarās old life that would frown at this. He knows theyāre not together-together.
But Scarās been nice to him lately. Nicer. Still keeping him at an emotional distance, and still stung when their past is brought up, but theyāre laying next to one another right now, arenāt they? Scar shifted over in bed to make room for him last night, and Scar was there with his rifle ready when Grian needed him to have his back. They're a team, for better or worse. And besides...
Scar kissed him back at the storage lockers.
He'd initiated that himself.
Scar had kissed him again at the gun range, holding him close and touching him the way he liked.
People hook up with their exes all the time. It doesn't have to be weird. It's reassurance and companionship and a reminder that they still care about one another, even if circ*mstances have changed. It's a way to speak without saying any words at all, something Grian finds easier to do when everything else around them is overwhelming.
If Scar rebuffs him, he'll back off. It'll be embarrassing but...
The worst he can do is try, right?
Itās almost too easy for Grian to turn onto his side, pressing a kiss, tender, against Scarās shoulder.
It doesnāt wake him, doesnāt even cause Scar to stir, but it gives Grian the confidence to lean in closer and kiss him again. He follows the line of Scarās collarbone towards his throat. Slowly, Scar lets out a breath, shifting onto his back as he relaxes under Grianās gentle kisses. Grian can feel him waking up, entering the syrupy warm state that follows a deep sleep. He wants to keep him here, to hold him in that fuzzy liminal space, tender and pleasant and not yet anchored in reality.
āGood morning,ā he whispers, soft against Scarās neck, feeling scratchy stubble against his cheek and nose. Itās familiar in a way that tugs at his heart, and Grian burrows himself closer to Scar to feel it itch, raw.
Scar doesnāt speak, simply humming something low in his throat as Grianās hands trace across his chest. He feels softness and muscle in equal measures, warm beneath his palms. He continues to trace his fingertips along Scar's body, wondering at his next step in between slow, fleeting kisses. He's not sure what else to do to make his intentions clear without alarming Scar and ruining the soft, haziness of their morning.
As it turns out, he needn't do anything elseāScarās shifts their positions in a move that surprises Grian, wrapping his arms around Grianās middle and pulling him up onto his chest.
Their bodies slot flush together, Grianās legs settling between Scarās thighs.
Grian doesnāt question it, doesnāt stop to think. He doesnāt want to let this miraculous moment go. He recalls the sounds of the trio that disrupted him, and with a fierce pang he finds himself as determined to mark his territory as the others seemed to be to mark theirs. He lets Scar sleepily pull him closer, muscles flexing, a gentle press up that Grian responds yo by rolling his hips down. The awakening thrill from the contact goes through him like a live wire. They shift together, sleep-warm and slow, and Grian canāt help the way he feels, vulnerable from how much heās missed this.
āScarā¦ā he whispers, a quiet whine slipping between his teeth as he pushes his hips down again, rolling them against Scarās. In response, Scarās right hand settles on the curve of his rear, squeezing firmly, fingers flexing as he grinds up with his slowly growing arousal.
Itās nice. It feels nice. The comfortable, easy motions, the relaxed familiarity of it. At some point, Scar moves his hand, angling his wrist to slide his palm under the waistband on the back of Grianās jeans. The warmth of his palm spreads across Grianās skin, kneading and squeezing him the way Grian likes, the firm warmth of their dicks frotting together through too many layers of denim until Grian finally whispers, āI have lube.ā
Itās a risky confession, one that might ruin the moment. Itās tentative, what they have here. Fragile like glass. Grian is half-surprised that Scarās allowed things to get as far as they have, but maybe the sounds of the trio outside have gotten to him, tooāmaybe their open affections have dug just as deep under his skin.
Maybe he misses Grian in the same way Grian misses him, even if he wonāt admit it out loud.
Still, bringing up something that has no business being in his possession right now could put an end to this if Scar thinks too deeply on it. The lube is something Grian kept tucked in the backseat of his car, just in case. And after everything thatās happened, he and Scar both know that ājust in caseā wasnāt meant for the two of them.
Grian had fished it out surreptitiously when they were picking out their supplies, right before Scar dropped his lighter and set it all ablaze. He'd kept it in his back pocket ever since, and when theyād met up with the trio, heād snuck it into his new pack. Another choice for 'just in case'.
A moment of silence settles between them, one that has Grianās heart up in his throat, wondering if Scar is trying to piece together why Grian has the offending item in the first place. He doesnāt want to ruin the tranquil mood theyāve garnered here; doesnāt want to lose Scarās hands warm on his hips. As the seconds stretch, a low anxiety begins to bubble up inside of himāa regret for pushing. He shouldnāt have suggested it so soon. He should've waited until Scar had warmed up a little more. He shouldāve been happy with what they had.
He tries not to think about how that's a running theme.
But then Scar exhales, heavy, and pulls Grian tighter against him, mumbling a quiet, āGet it.ā
Itās exhilarating, giddiness going through Grianās chest like an electric shock. He leans over eagerly, sprawling across Scarās chest and fumbling for his pack, digging into one of the side pockets, uncoordinated and eager. He doesnāt know if itās the sun warm on their faces, the bed sagging but soft beneath them, or some actual effort at reconciliation that has made Scar so willing, but heās not about to squander the moment.
Tube in hands, Grian settles back into place comfortably against Scar. Stubble scratches his cheek as they press together, somewhat hurried from anticipation but relaxed in that slow, familiar, sleepy morning way. Grian presses the lube into Scarās hand, and muffles a noise into his throat as Scar thumbs open his jeans.
Disappointingly, his hands slip away after a moment, gone too soon, leaving Grian oddly bereft. He squirms his hips, managing to push his pants low enough to give Scar room to work with. Heās not going to strip downāitās too soon to dive in head-first like that. Heāll be patient; let things evolve in their own time.
The click of the lube uncapping makes his chest tighten with anticipation, fiery and eager. Scarās palm returns to his rear in short order, edging his thighs apart as far as the legs of his jeans will allow before, at last, a slick, calloused finger is pressing gently up against his hole.
The noise Grian makes is shameless, he can hear it as it escapes his throat, making Scar chuckle, a low rumble beneath him. Scar lets his touch circle him slowly, idle with the confidence of experience. He takes his time to tease, enjoying it, before he lets the pad of his middle finger slowly press in.
Grian sucks in a breath, canāt help himself after so long without. He lets it out a moment later in a soft moan, and Scar continues easing in slow, slow, taking his dear sweet time.
Iāve missed this, Grian thinks but doesnāt say, awash with an emotion he canāt find a name for. Itās true that they havenāt spent a moment apart in days, but Grian has missed the closeness they used to share. How they used to lay together like this on lazy mornings, Scar making him feel grounded and safe and wanted all at once.
āOhh,ā Grian murmurs, breathing out in a rush, forehead pressed into Scarās chest as Scar fingers him, unhurried and steady. Grian can feel his own dick, achingly hard, still trapped by the thin cotton of his pants. He fumbles his hand down, and it feels good when he presses the heel of his palm against the shape of his erection. It feels better when he pulls his arousal free. He tucks the elastic of his waistband low, circling his thumb over the sticky head of his co*ck, and smears his pre down his length.
Itās an easy rhythm, stroking himself in response to the movement of Scarās hand. It feels goodānormal, even. Like memories of mornings long since passed, laying in until noon, talking and touching, and kissing and laughing. Theyād enjoy each other, and Grian would indulge himself, letting Scar spoil him as he fell to pieces under his guiding hands.
āLove it when you sound like thatā¦ā
Scarās words cut through the heady cloud of Grianās nostalgia, pulling him back into the moment. He hadnāt realised heād gotten so loud, hadnāt realised heād been making any sounds at all. He whimpers in response, pushing his forehead into the crook of Scarās neck as he continues to touch himself. He feels full with the thickness of Scarās middle and ring finger, eagerly anticipating the pleasant stretch of his third.
āScar,ā Grian whines, hand speeding up as he pleasures himself. His body parts easily under the patience of Scarās hand, and he grinds himself forward, shameless, rutting against the swell of Scarās arousal, mind full of nothing but the pleasure Scar is giving him, and his eager willingness to take more.
āf*ck,ā Scar groans, guttural and low. His free hand shifts from where it had been settled on Grianās hip, and then Grian hears the rattle of Scarās belt, Scar undoing his jeans with ease and pulling his dick free. He curls his fist around it, touching himself to the sounds that Grian is making.
Itās the closest theyāve been in ages. The most in-sync theyāve felt in awhile, even counting before everything fell to pieces. Grian gasps, choking on words he barely hears himself, and Scar shushes him tenderly, his cheek pressed to the prickling sweat on Grianās forehead as he holds him close and f*cks him full with his fingers.
āIāve got you,ā Scar whispers into the mat of Grianās hair, coated in desert dust, like itās a promise he intends to keep. āI wonāt let you go.ā
His words touch something vulnerable and desperate in Grian, something he didnāt know he was starving for until he hears it, and all at once his body tenses, a moan catching in his throat as his org*sm sweeps over him. Itās unexpected and overwhelming, his hand working in quick, greedy strokes on his dick as he ruts against the exposed sliver of Scarās stomach. His mouth is open and noises shameless as he comes, hard, into the curl of his fist.
It takes Grian a moment to collect himself, taking greedy, gasping breaths, hot and humid against Scarās chest. He turns, collapsing boneless against Scar, hiding his face against his shoulder to muffle his laughter, flooded with relief that they can still have this after all, that itās not all lostāthat things havenāt been broken irreparably forever.
Itās only when Grian gathers his knees underneath himself, wobbly but determined to show Scar his appreciation, that the fragility of the moment reveals itself.
A knock, loud and determined sounds itself against the bedroom door, followed by a voice, barely containing a laugh of its own.
āHey, you two awake in there?ā
Itās Sapnap, smothering his giddy mirth at catching them at their most vulnerable. He plays oblivious, voice light in a clearly mocking manner. āUp and at āem! Weāre gonna have breakfast and take a look around.ā
Like the turning of something immense and irreversible, Grian feels Scar still beneath him, muscles stiffening in a way that speaks to immediate discomfort.
āWeāre awake,ā Grian says at last, raising his voice enough to be heard, impatience colouring his tone. āWeāll be out in a minute. Just getting up.ā
āI bet you are,ā comes a second voiceāQuackityāsāand itās barely spoken before he and Sapnap bite down on barely stifled laughter.
āTake your time,ā Sapnap rushes, and thereās a sound of bodies moving just outside the door, the tousle of the two playfully pushing at one another. āItās pretty hard to get out of bed.ā
That tips them both over, the two cackling aloud like hyenas.
Grian grits his teeth, ready to tell them to piss off when Karlās voice calls out from somewhere further in the house.
āBoys? Cāmere.ā
Itās a casually called instruction, but the direction is firm. Quackity and Sapnap can be heard retreating down the hall, still laughing in a way that sets Grian on edge. Their departure leaves him and Scar on their own once more, and Grian takes a moment of embarrassed silence to collect himself, breathing in deep before he returns his attention to Scar.
āWhere were we?ā
Itās meant to sound cuteāa coy segue back into the moment theyād been enjoying. He has visions of falling back into Scarās warm arms, tugging his legs free from his jeans and straddling Scarās hips, taking him inside himself and helping him feel as good as Scar just made him feel. But when Grian moves to slip his hand down and cup Scarās arousal, Scar redirects his motion with a nudge of his arm.
He glances down at him, questioning, and finds himself met by Scarās green eyes, their brightness dimmed by the deep circles worn beneath them. He looks just as exhausted as he did before they fell asleep.
Grian can tell at a glance that the moment is gone. Whatever had unfurled between them, familiar and warm and magical, is now over.
He shifts, his gaze slanting further down as Scar eases him off his chest, hands busying to re-buckle his jeans. Itās with a twist of something that feels like rejection that he notices Scarās already gone soft. Itās an oddly fragile hurt, to see that he could be passed on so quickly.
An insecure part of him wants to twist up, smallāfeels ridiculous for letting himself get caught up in the excitement that this was something they could return to.
Silly to think it was a good idea to hook up with his ex.
Stupid.
It takes him a second to pull himself together, jostling his layers back in place as he marinates in his feelings, shame and foolishness sinking deep in through his skin. Heās so wrapped up in his own awkward misery that he doesnāt realise Scar is speaking to him until he sees that way heās staring at him, expectant.
āWhat?ā His question comes off boorish, and itās clearly the wrong thing to say judging by the way Scar frowns, looking humiliated more than anything else as he repeats himself.
āI asked if you could give me a hand.ā Itās a vulnerable request, repeated stand-offishly, and Grian immediately feels bad for making him repeat himself. āThis bedās too low. Iāā The word sticks in Scarās throat, forced out with a cough as he clears it. āI canāt.ā
Grian doesnāt hesitate, standing up and offering both hands out immediately, his own fragility at Scarās rejection pushed aside as he lets Scar grip his wrists for leverage while he does the same in turn. With a strong pull, Scar hauls himself up, making it halfway before something twinges and he flinches. Grian struggles to help him back down, taking most of his weight as he eases him down onto the mattress again, Scar hissing a breath as his weight settles.
āScarā¦ā Grian looks at him and trails off, not wanting to say anything that might be taken as pitying. He canāt help but worry, though, remembering with a start the way Scar had sleepily asked for his wheelchair last night, clearly lost in-between dreams. He hovers anxiously as Scar works his hands into the muscles of his legs. Scar's breathing is measured and slow as he works through whatever spasm heās feeling, keeping his expression schooled, not allowing Grian the ability to read him.
āI need a minute,ā he says neutrally and Grian nods, moving to sit down next to him before Scar shakes his head. āGo on and meet up with the trio. Theyāll get suspicious if both of us stay holed up in here.ā
āWith what Sapnap and Quackity overheard, I donāt think thereās much left to hide,ā Grian tries to joke, offering Scar a smile.
Scar doesnāt return the expression. If anything, it almost seems as if he gets tenser.
āGrian,ā he mutters, quiet. āPlease. Iāll catch up with you in a minute, okay?ā
Itās with lingering hesitation that Grian turns away, murmuring a āsee you soonā over his shoulder that Scar doesnāt reply to.
When he walks through the door and it clicks shut behind him, somehow it feels lonelier than he expected.
He finds the main room of the house empty, but itās clear from the general din he can hear that the trio are outsideāor rather, theyāre in the collapsed section of what used to be the carport. He steps out the front door and finds them talking easily in the morning sun, grins bright and hands animatedly moving about as they chatter. They quieten down in unison when they spot him and Sapnap smirks, canines sharp against his lower lip.
āWell, good morning,ā he purrs, all insinuation and tooth. āScar still getting dressed?ā
āSomething like that,ā Grian replies, light, squinting as he waits for his eyes to adjust to the sunlight.
Heās on his best behaviour, trying not to ruffle any feathers. Grianās well aware of the precarious position he left them in last night and how even Karl got short with him towards the end. In fact, even now, despite Karl and Quackityās snickering, Sapnap watches Grian from a distance, something calculated and impatient behind his eyes. Grian doesnāt pick at itāknows he needs to maintain civility for Scarās sake. It would be stupid to stoke a fire now, when they can afford it the least. After the previous day sulking and stonewalling them, he knows he needs to extend the olive branch and be nice.
āWhatās on the schedule for today, then?ā he asks, ignoring the way Quackity elbows Karl, copying his voice with a terrible accent as he repeats the way he pronounces āschedule,ā to Karl's clear delight.
āWe were thinking of checking out the rest of the place once you two were up, right boys?ā Karl says, tilting his head back and crossing his arms behind his head as he makes a large display of stretching out his spine. āSee what there is to see; the shopping, the sights, the shows.ā
At the mention of venturing out, Sapnapās smile slips, his expression settling into something more serious.
āThatās right. Weāve got enough supplies for now, but itās best to scope out and find whatever we can. Plus, even if it is a ghost town, we need to make sure there arenāt any zombies hanging around just waiting to sneak up on us.ā
āCanāt let our guard down,ā Grian agrees.
Thereās a laugh at that, and Grian turns his gaze over, finding Quackityās delighted, incredulous expression looking back at him.
āWhat, no bullsh*t today? No drama-queen push-back about who gets to lead or some sh*t?ā
āQāā Karl starts, but Grian interrupts with a tight smile and an even tone.
āIām only looking out for our best interests.ā
āYou mean your best interests,ā Sapnap corrects, and itās clear that Grianās efforts to maintain the peace arenāt going over as well as heād hoped. Futilely, he wishes for Scar to sweep in, wanting his big charming personality to diffuse the situation. Heās not good at this on his own, not blessed with the same way with words Scar so effortlessly makes games of. āYou gave us attitude all day, you were a huge bitch last night, you sleep, and now you come out here with your post-nut clarity like weāre all buddy-buddy and weāre lucky to be in your presence?ā
Itās clear whatever briefing Karl had previously given Sapnap has fallen through, Sapnapās impatience showing itself in abundance, his amiable mood abandoned.
āWhat is your problem, anyway? Scar says youāre a decent guy, but weāve yet to see it. You know we were fine without you, right? You know itās our supplies in your backpacks right now.ā
āScar said thatā¦?ā Grian asks, focusing on the wrong words, immediately distracted by the idea of Scar defending him against these strangers that Grian was so sure he'd leave him for.
āSapnap. Fellas, come on,ā Karl sighs, and thereās a familiarity to his weariness, like this isnāt new behaviour. āItās too early for this. Letās just cool our heads and take a walk, alright? Scout the place, like we planned.ā
Thereās a pause, tension still thick in the air. Sapnap and Quackity exchange glances with one another, but ultimately keep quiet. Quackity in particular makes a show of sighing aloud, shoulders dropping in an affected manner, going casual with purpose.
Karl smiles at the display, fondness etched on every inch of him, turning back to the task at hand as he addresses Grian.
āHow are we splitting teams?ā
āI want to be with Scar,ā Quackity pipes up, which has Grian quickly looking in his direction, unable to hide his reaction.
Karl chortles, amused. āI think Grian will probably want to be on the same team as Scar, Big Q.ā
āIām okay with that,ā Quackity says, grinning, sending Grian a sly smile. āSo long as Grian doesnāt mind sharing.ā
Grian tries not to visibly bristle, well aware heās being toyed with.
āScar and I work better as a duo,ā he maintains, forcing himself to sound more calm than he feels.
āWell, why donāt I go ask him?ā Quackity teases, āIām sure I could convince him to change his mind. I can be very persuasive.ā
Irritation claws its way up Grianās spine, the way heās being spoken to annoying him like nails on a chalkboard. Jealousy, insecurity, and the fear that the trio might discover whatās wrong before Scar is ready to share tug at him, threatening his earlier promise to be polite and agreeable. He tries to shake it off, forcing a thin smile to his face.
āTell you what,ā Grian counters. āWhy donāt you three get ready, and Iāll go ask Scar. Then Iāll come back and let you know what he says.ā
If heās met with protest, Grian doesnāt hear it, turning around and making his way back into the house, stepping over bits of broken plaster littered across the already dirty floors.
When he enters the room, Scar is still sitting in bed, exactly where Grian left him.
He doesnāt look good.
āThe trioās ready to check out the townā¦ā Grian says, words carefully neutral as he stands with his back to the door. āAre you comingā¦?ā
Scar is quiet for a long time, clearly working through something. His face is conflicted, and all Grian wants to do is reach out and reassure him but, despite their morning together, he doesnāt know if his consolation would be well received.
āGrian,ā he says at last, the inflection of his words delicate. āWe shouldnāt haveā¦ā he trails off before clearing his throat uncomfortably, his words sticking funny. āWe need to talk later,ā he finishes, but the implication is clear. This morning was a mistake.
Grian stands still and silent, experiencing too many emotions at once to truly feel any of them at all.
Eventually, Scar continues, low, āI donāt think I can join you four. I canāt make myself move right now. Itās beyond me.ā
The tension of their relationship and the bruise of Scarās rejection blinks away in an instant. It's replaced by a panic that blooms, high and anxious, in Grianās chest. He bites down on his lip to keep himself silent, knowing an outburst wonāt add anything to this moment. Heās well aware of how hard this is for Scar to admit. He knows thereās no way to simply 'push though' when heās in the middle of a flare-upāthat Scarās only saying this because he has no other options.
He swallows the fear bubbling up in his throat, nodding, tight.
āOkay,ā he says, voice clipped into something forced-calm. āThatās alright. We can work around that.ā
He can feel the unspoken element looming large in the room. The what if?
What if itās a bad flare-up? What if it lingers? What if Scar canāt move for weeks?
āYou should get some rest then, right?ā Grian adds, clinging to words that sound normal. āIāll handle things with the guys, donāt worry.ā
Scar looks up at him finally, making eye contact in a vulnerably direct way. Thereās a look on his face like he wants to say something moreābut ultimately he turns away again, motioning towards the corner of the room instead.
āPass me my rifle before you go? If youāre all heading out, I want to be able to defend myself just in case.ā
Hesitant, Grian grabs the gun and gives it to Scar, passing the butt to him like heās casually offering over a kitchen knife. āI could stay, if you want?ā
Scar only shakes his head, gripping the rifle in a practiced manner and giving Grian a wry, half-smile. āJust hurry back.ā
It feels wrong, but thereās some relief in getting a moment apart, if only so that Grian can feel his own emotions without passing the pressure on to Scar. With a final parting glance, he picks up his pack from the floor on his side of the mattress and leaves the room. Outside the door he takes a moment to settle his nerves, and only once heās certain his expression wonāt give anything away does he head back to where the trio are waiting.
Sapnap is up and pacing, but Karl still seems relaxed and under control. Quackity alone remains impervious to scrutinyāa nut Grian canāt crack at a glance.
āSo? What did āScarā say?ā Sapnap asks, making finger quotes around Scarās name as if doubting Grian spoke to him at all.
Grian ignores the slight, forcing an indifferent smile onto his face. āHeās gonna stay here and hold down the fort,ā he explains simply. āWeāve got too much stuff here to just leave it unattended.ā
Sapnap raises an eyebrow, critical. āYou think heāll be okay on his own?ā
Grianās not sure. The fear is so palpable that he can feel it lodged thick in his throat. He and Scar havenāt been apart since the apocalypse started, and even if this is a ghost town, the idea of overlooking a monster that might sneak up on Scar while Grianās away terrifies him to his core.
A part of him knows that heās hurt Scar enough. He canāt be responsible for letting him get hurt more.
āScar can handle himself.ā he shrugs, acting disinterested.
The trio exchange a glance, significant in a way Grian canāt miss, but quite frankly, he doesnāt care. Theyāre probably tallying another strike against him, another stupid notion that heās untrustworthy, or only looking out for himself. None of that matters to him. All he needs is to do right by Scarāeveryone else is expendable.
āGood luck, baby duck,ā Sapnap laughs, clapping a hand on Quackityās shoulder hard enough to make him yelp.
āI always get the short end of the f*cking stickā¦ā Quackity grumbles, taking the hint and trudging over to Grian, fists shoved deep into his pockets.
āI can go on my own,ā Grian insists, āYou three do your thing, we can meet back here in a few hours.ā
Karl gives him a sideways glance, ever-present smile soft on his face. āThereās no shot, dude. Weāre gonna buddy up whether you like it or not. Besides, what would we tell Scar if something happened to you?ā
Grian bites back the urge to tell them that Scar would probably be relieved more than anything. That he cares about Scar far more than Scar cares about him, and how the way Scar looks at him these days makes Grian wish he could shrink into the floor.
Whatever.
Thatās not something the trio need to know about.
āFine,ā he says, wishing he could sound more aloof and not just petulant. āBut why am I paired up withāā
āBecause we played rock-paper-scissors for the pleasure of your company while you were inside wasting time,ā Sapnap says, rushing the words out with impatience. āNow can we please get a move on before we lose the entire day?ā
The division is made and they leave the sagging carport together with weapons in hand. At the end of the driveway, he and Quackity go left while Karl and Sapnap head right. They plan to circle the perimeter of the ghost town, while Grian and Quackity opt to pick through the interior.
Not that thereās much to look atāmost of the buildings are too dilapidated to be worth investigating, and the others are visibly empty just from looking in off the street.
Grian tries not to read too deeply into it; tries not to think about it how it feels like theyāve been given the easier portion of the task. He doesnāt know if itās in deference to him, for Quackityās sake, or because Karl and Sapnap feel that oneāor bothāof them arenāt fit for a proper reconnaissance.
Together they walk in silence, leading the way as they cross from one point of interest to the next. Wordlessly, they peer through the broken windows of several abandoned homes before Quackity takes it upon himself to interrupt the peace.
āSo,ā he says, having clearly psyched himself up to begin the conversation. āGrianās a pretty cool name. Did you pick it yourself?ā
Grian doesnāt know what to make of the question, weirdly baffled by it.
āWhy would I have done that?ā he asks, prickly but curious.
āNo reason, I guess.ā Quackity shrugs, oblivious to Grianās bristling as he swings his weapon at a dry, scraggly clump of desert grass. āQuackityās not my, like, government name,ā he adds, as if it clarifies as anything.
āWell Grian is mine,ā Grian dismisses, which only manages to pull a bemused laugh from Quackity.
āYouāre not really a small talk kind of guy, huh?ā
The accusation strikes Grian sideways, effectively disarming him entirely. He doesnāt want to confirm or deny it. Doesnāt want to be caught saying anything that might make its way back to Scar like a poor performance review. It already stings the way the trio has caught Scarās attention, making him smile and laugh and chatter away like a fun new hobby Grian doesnāt see the point of.
He wishes for the days when they were alone, just the two of them, so that even if Scar was mad, at least Grian didnāt have to share him.
He takes a breath and levels himself. Asks, flat, āWell, what do you want to talk about?ā
For whatever reason, Quackity perks up at that, eyes glinting as his mouth tugs up in a grin.
āWhat was your life like? Yāknow, before all this.ā
Itās an aggressively inoffensive question, but Grian side-eyes Quackity anyway. He doesnāt want to share the facets of his life with a near stranger. Talk about the dreams he had and the people he lost. He doesnāt want to invite a new person into his life just to be judged by him.
āI worked in marketing,ā he eventually replies, something true, but separate enough to the real details of his life. His words are stilted, like heās at a family dinner explaining himself to relatives he doesnāt want to be around. āBranding, consulting. Sales. That kind of thing.ā
āWere you good at it?ā
Itās a genuine question, backed by an actual interest in getting to know more about him, but all it does is make Grian tense and uncomfortable. He doesnāt want to do thisādoesnāt want to shoot the sh*t and team-build like heās on some sort of corporate excursion. Especially with Quackity, who seems particularly skilled at picking at his vulnerabilities.
āI donāt know. It didnāt matter,ā he dismisses, shrugging a shoulder. āIt wasnāt my passion. I wasnāt planning on doing it forever.ā
Grian wishes heād lied and said he worked as a private investigator. He wishes heād said he was a masked vigilante, or a train conductor. He wishes heād said he used to pitch elaborate game shows to television. He wishes heād said anything else at all, because the reality of his life prior to the apocalypse makes him feel bitter and sour.
He remembers his ambitionsāhis grand plans to return to school and change career paths entirely. How heād had Scarās unfailing support as heād dragged his feet on making any real steps towards change, even as Scar himself had been able to work less and less, reprioritizing his own life in order to accommodate his declining health.
He remembers Scar brushing all the negatives off, simply winking at him and saying that his time off just gave him more time to be there for Grian.
Unfailing support; unconditional and endlessāScar had been so patient and understanding that it had made Grian sick.
āWhat about you?ā he cuts in, turning the topic away from himself, needing a break from the introspection clawing ugly at the inside of his chest.
āI was at school,ā Quackity declares with an air of pride. āHotel and casino management. Las Vegas boy, yāknow?ā He rolls his shoulders, casually stretching his arms up above his head for a second before he adds, āI had a part time thing at a club, but Iād barely started before it allāyou know.ā
Grian nods, not really contributing, and in his silence Quackity easily fills the void.
āThatās how I met Karl and Sap. Kinda. We kept bumping into each other on campusāKarl was studying creative writing, and Sapnap was majoring in Having Rich Dads And A Hot Boyfriend.ā He laughs, smiling in Grianās direction like theyāre both in on the same joke. Grianās aware of Quackityās eyes on him, waiting for a reply, but he keeps his gaze focused ahead, acting intent on scouting for things of use.
In the lull, they lapse back into silence.
Itās not that he hates Quackity. He justā¦
Thereās something about him that rubs Grian the wrong way. Heās not sure if itās the constant chest-puffing, the way he talks like heās everyoneās best friend, the little glances he exchanges with the others, or if itās just the way Scar will look at him sometimes, nostalgic and fond in a way that makes Grian desperate to know what heās thinking.
In any other world, heās sure he couldāve managed to enjoy Quackity's company, despite the obnoxious self-assurance that his youth has given him.
In this world however, letting Quackity endear himself to him is not a risk heās willing to take.
He lengthens his stride and they move forward together, rounding a short cinder block wall to find a yard filled with rusted-out, abandoned cars. There are dozens of them, arranged in disorganised rows, most stripped for partsāmissing windows, hoods, doors, or entire engine blocks. There are a few that look remarkably intact, hauled up on blocks and missing only their tires. All of them are well aged, coated in sand and patchy with rust.
Thereās a chain-link gate hemming the cars in, and Grian drags it open without a thought. The hinges wail in protest and barely budge, but Quackity steps in to help, pulling with Grian in tandem. With a little force they manage to yank the gate open, standing together at the entrance to the yard.
Itās eerie.
A feeling Grian doesnāt enjoy prickles uncomfortably up the back of his neck, like theyāre trespassing in a cemetery. At the far back of the yard is a garage, half the structure fallen in from age, but enough in-tact that they move forward to check it out.
Grian doesnāt know what they hope to find at this point. Itās clear that no oneās been here for years, maybe decades. Theyāre not going to find a life saving cure-all. No cache of secret supplies. Theyāll be lucky if they find anything there at all.
āSo how long have you and Scar been together?ā Quackity asks as he picks through the garage, bending down to peer in through the smashed windshield of a car.
The question twists an insecurity inside Grian, vulnerable in a way he doesnāt want to admit to. The only benefit of the apocalypse happening mere moments after Scar broke up with him is that he hasnāt had to tell anyone the embarrassing truth yet. It stings, and in the face of Quackityās perpetual honeymoon happiness with his two boyfriends, Grian really doesnāt want to talk about it.
āWeāre not,ā he answers simply, resisting the urge to put his weapon through one of the remaining car windows.
āf*ck off, you liar,ā Quackity laughs, but when Grian simply shrugs, his expression scrunches up.Thereās a clear confusion on his face, the kind Grian wishes he could take pride in. He can almost hear Quackityās mind racing, hearing the question before Quackity even asks it. āWhat was this morning about, then?ā
āIt wasnāt about anything,ā Grian snaps, prior to forcefully changing the subject. āThereās nothing but scrap metal and junk here,ā he announces. āI donāt think there's any point in hanging around.ā
Quackity wavers, expression pinched like heās about to say something. They stand in undecided silence for a moment, Grianās lack of patience wrapping like barbed wire around his chest. He doesnāt know what theyāre doing here. He doesnāt know what the point of any of this is. Heās wasting time combing through a ghost town while Scar is alone and confined to a dirty mattress on the floor. He hates being apart from him. He hates it in every way imaginable.
āLetās try the next place,ā Quackity suggests at last, offering the option like an olive branchāas if wasting more time is what Grian wants to do.
Itās not like he can turn Quackity down, though. Heās already on thin ice with the groupāhe doesnāt want to be the one to insist they head back to camp only to have Quackity say he wanted to explore more but Grian said no.
They turn back towards the gate together, leaving the rest of the yard unexplored.
āYou won the apocalypse lottery getting stuck with him then,ā Quackity says, picking up the conversation again once theyāve made their way back out through the fence. He carries on like itās just a regular day, far too relaxed for the end of the world. āThat guyās the real deal.ā
Grian ignores him, walking ahead so Quackity canāt see his face.
āTall, broad and handsome. Sweet and funny. Plus, he can shoot?ā Quackity whistles appreciatively. āThatās the complete package.ā
Grian grits his teeth to keep from saying anything heāll regret, fists tight to his sides.
āYou already have two boyfriends,ā he rebukes, curt.
āI donāt see your name on him,ā Quackity replies, rapid-fast and grinning bright, like theyāre discussing good weather or playing a fun game.
Jealousy hits Grian like a freight train, the magnitude of it so strong he feels like he might be sick. Logically he knows Quackity is just messing with him, trying to smoke out a confession about the nature of their relationship by pressing all of Grianās buttons at once. Heās in his twentiesāitās practically in his nature to be a dick. But then Grian thinks back to Scarās frigidity when he told him they were though, how heād raised his eyebrows in interest when the trio had explained the multiplicity of their partnership, and the fear of being abandoned digs deep into his gut.
He fights his urge to lash out, burying his insecurity and trying to answer like he would if he werenāt Scarās ex.
If he werenāt anyone to Scar at all.
āYouāve only got two hands. Which one are you gonna trade out for him?ā
Quackity laughs uproariously, like the question is the funniest thing heās ever heard. āDude, thatās so f*cked up. Theyāre not PokĆ©mon cards, what do you mean ātrade outā?ā
Grian manages an enormous shrug, flustered to be called out for how little he understands their arrangement. He wants to move on, desperately, but Quackity seems delighted by what heās uncovered, pressing in with a wide, wolfish smile.
āWait, do you really think thatās how it works? Oh my god, dude. Come on.ā
He laughs, clapping his hands together.
āDoes that mean youād trade Scar for one of us?ā
The notion is absurd, but Quackity persists, clarifying, āCāmon, have fun with it, you asshole. Pretend you had to pick one, which would it be? Who's your favourite?ā
Grian feels like heās boiling, the idea of choosing someone else over Scar hitting far too close to home.
āIām not an asshole,ā he defends, obstinately.
In response Quackity throws his head back, laughing loud.
āDude, youāve been frowning since we met you! Your whole vibe is just āf*ck off, donāt speak to me.ā Literally the only reason I have to believe there must be more to you is that Scar said you two have known each other for years, and he doesnāt seem like the type of guy to hang out with irredeemable lost causes. No offense.ā
āYou canāt just stick āno offenseā at the end of something objectively offensive and call it a day,ā Grian snaps, exasperated.
Undaunted, Quackity continues to grin at him. āAm I wrong though?ā
Itās true that Grianās been incredibly closed off since he met the trioāitās true that in a perfect world he would normally be more inviting than that.
He just doesnāt feel inclined to be gracious with his back up against a wall.
With a sigh, exasperated, gestures at the desert around them, barren and lifeless. āTake a look at where weāre at, and think about the situation weāre in,ā he explains, bitterly. āItās not exactly the kind of environment where the kindness of strangers thrives.ā
āWhy not?ā Quackity immediately presses, and Grian feels his gut twist, hating the gleam of optimism in his eyes. Itās too much like how he himself used to be, wishing for the best and believing in the inherent good of those around him. It's how Scar still is, unlike Grian, who let his own apathy sink in and swamp himāworn down by the monotony of the world, too big to change, and too overwhelming to challenge. Just day after day of the same, the same, the same.
āBecause itās dangerous,ā he says at last. āIf I trusted you from the outset and youād smothered us in our sleep, where would that have left me? Where would that have left Scar? Iām only an āassholeā because I need to be, because thatās how itās going to be from now on.ā
āI donāt agree,ā Quackity argues back, his humour fading into something more determined and passionate. āWe have a chance right now to change all those old assumptions. We can choose to be better than we used to be.ā
Itās naĆÆve, and Grian canāt stand it. Foolhardy in a way that will ultimately only end in people getting killed.
āThe world is life and death, now,ā he dismisses. āWe donāt get to be ambiguous like we were before. Lowering your guard in order to be kind is going to have you out there with the googlies, and if thatās where you end up, then frankly, you deserve it.ā
āIām not saying itās easyāf*ck, Iām not even saying itās smart,ā Quackity insists, stubborn beyond Grianās understanding. āIām just saying, it doesnāt have to be that black and white.ā
Grian stares at him, uncomprehending. āWhy are you so hung up on this?ā he presses, and that, at least, seems to knock Quackity off the subject.
He averts his gaze, muttering a rough ānevermindā under his breath before he scuffs his shoes against the ground and walks faster, pressing ahead of Grian and leaving him behind.
It should relieve him to be done with the conversation, but something about it nags at him. With a sigh, Grian jogs after Quackity until theyāre keeping pace again, walking side by side.
āLook, youāre young. Youāre idealistic. I get it.ā As Grian speaks, Quackity looks over at him, expression guarded. āBut what youāre asking for isnāt as simple as it sounds.ā
He gets no response, Quackity snorting in a way that has Grian feeling too much like a parent dealing with a moody teenager.
He tries to put himself in Quackityās shoesāstill in college, falling in love for the first time; by all accounts just barely starting to establish himself when suddenly something beyond his control snatched it all away.
He sighs, resisting the urge to run a hand tiredly down his face.
āIām not saying the only way to prosper is to be a dick. Iām not saying nice guys finish last. Iām just asking you to take a good hard look at the world around you, think about what you care about, and understand nothingās ever going to be as easy as you think. Thisāthis disease, this desertā¦ the world is starving, Quackity. Itās ravenous.ā He pauses, letting his words sink in. He has Quackityās full attention, now, both of them no longer walking as Grian looks directly into his eyes. Dark and focused and so much like his own.
āYou can give all your smiles and sweet words, but what this is gonna take is more than a pleasant idea. Itās gonna take the sweat of you toiling and the tears running down your face. If you really want to do better by whatever comes next, and leave some sort of legacy behind after youāre gone, youāre going to have to work for it. Otherwise, this world will swallow you up whole." They stare at each other, dark eyes intense. "Kindness is not, and will never be, enough.ā
Silence stills between them, Quackity letting his words sink in as Grian wishes, desperately, for this moment to end.
āA legacy, huh?ā he whispers at length, and the way his eyes flash sends a shiver down Grianās spine.
He has to break eye contact, his heart beating fast against his ribs. He hates that he recognises the look in Quackityās eyes.
Hates that heās seen it so often in his own.
Without another word, Quackity resumes walking, and Grian falls into step right behind him, wordless now that theyāve both said what was needed. Their conversation resonates between them as they pick through the remaining areas on their way back. Unlike earlier, itās a reasonably comfortable silence despite the loaded discussion, and the two of them make quick work of the last few homes. There's something that's been forged between themānot companionship exactly, but something more than the polite strangers they'd been when they'd set off together.
By the time Sapnap reaches out to them, voice crackling through the walkie-talkie, theyāre already done with their sweep of the interior. Grian gives Quackity his space as he chats with his boyfriend over the radio, half for his own comfort. It tugs something awful in him just to hear them flirt, however casual it may be, and he's in no mood to sour their fragile alliance by getting his back-up over something that would be negligible to anyone else.
āSapnap says he and Karl havenāt found much either,ā Quackity relays to Grian once he makes his way back out to him, stepping through what might have once been a storage shed.
āShall we head back then?ā he asks.
āMight as well. Sap says they just have one final place they wanna check out.ā
Grian nods, and the two of them turn back towards their homebase. Thereās an anxiousness in his chest at the thought of returning; not because he thinks anythingās happened, but because he hopes that Scar has somehow recovered in the time theyāve been away, however unlikely it may be. He doesnāt know how much longer they can hide things from the trio, but still doesn't trust them enough to want to share their vulnerability either. It stews inside of him, boiling over in a way he's not sure he can control.
āHey,ā Quackity says, and Grian resists the urge to jump, startled out of his thoughts.
āYeah?ā
āYou never did answer.ā Quackity presses, his smiles mild. āWhich one of us is your favourite?ā
Grian doesnāt have to answer. He can brush it aside and it would be perfectly within the personality heās crafted for himself in front of these strangers. He could roll his eyes and scoff, turn away from Quackity without another word and it would be entirely expected. There would be no remarkable story here for Quackity to share with the others, just the same, cranky, cold Grian.
But... he canāt help but think of dark eyes, a mouth set with stubborn determination, and a fire sparking in every word.
'Which one of us is your favourite?'
āKarl,ā Grian lies, and the taste of it sits bittersweet on his tongue.
Notes:
(Click to reveal.)[ SPOILERS ]
This chapter contains sexual content, so if you're a minor or would otherwise like to skip that section, please stop reading from, "Scar doesnāt speak" and continuing reading after, "It takes him a second". Like last time, we've provided a short summary below that you can read in order to keep up with any plot details that might be relevant.
[ SUMMARY ]
Grian kisses Scar awake, slow and soft. He's not sure how to make his desires known beyond just touching Scar, but is pleasantly surprised when Scar understands him and reciprocates by moving Grian onto his lap. The two of them rock against each other for a bit before Grian confesses that he has lube, indicating he wants to take things further, and deliberately skipping over that it was lube he kept in his car specifically to use while cheating. After a bit of a tense silence, Scar agrees to proceeding. Scar uses the lube to ease the way for fingering, and both Grian and Scar mutually masturbat* while he does so. During, Scar speaks softly to Grian, like he used to, and emotional weight of it all sends Grian over the edge into a rapid org*sm. They are then interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by jeering from Sapnap and Quackity, which derails the remainder of their shared intimacy. Once the boys are gone, Grian tries to get Scar back in the mood, but is hurt to find that Scar's already gone soft. Scar bats away Grian's hands and rebuckles his jeans, effectively ending the coupling, and all of it makes Grian feel small and stupid for ever having tried in the first place.
Man, in the Phasmo fic Lock and I posted last week, I had Grian say (paraphased) "It's not like I keep lube in my back pocket." as a cheeky reference to this chapter because I totally forgot it hadn't even been posted yet š So a little trivia for y'all I guessāthat was meant to be a callback to the start of this chapter HAHA! Hope you guys enjoyed it! See you next week! :3
Chapter 13
Notes:
Every new chapter I get nervous like "Okay listen, I know this makes Grian look bad, BUT--" š
Here's yet another promise that our boy gets better! ...he just... has to get worse first ;) Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
When Grian and Quackity return to the house, Scar is waiting for them.
Itās a relief to see him up, even if he doesnāt look much better. He presents a good front, the way he leans heavily against the doorframe barely noticeable to anyone whoās not explicitly looking for it.
āMissed me so much youāre back already?ā he asks, smiling with his teeth.
Grian opens his mouth to respond, but Quackity beats him to it laughing easily. āYou caught me,ā he teases. āIām obsessed with you, canāt get you off myāā he stops, pausing to squint dramatically as he shields his eyes with the side of his hand before he chuckles and shakes his head. āOh, sorry, I thought you were Karl and Sapnap.ā
Scar gasps at that, placing a hand on his heart and acting wounded. Itās silly and playfulāthe way Scar used to act with Grian. Quackity jogs up to the front door to meet up with Scar, sliding away from Grian as heās drawn into Scarās orbit by conversation alone.
Grian watches them like an outsider, on the fringes of their solar system.
He takes off his pack on his own, trying to ignore how it makes it feel. It sits petty in Grianās stomach how the scene looks. Scar open and smiling and Quackity bantering alongside him, the two talking like theyāre old friends. Their conversation flows naturally and it makes Grianās chest hurt, well aware of all heās lost in the schism thatās grown between him and Scar. A small part of him even manages to feel betrayed by Quackity, though logically he knows thatās not fairāthat one scouting mission together doesnāt mean heās earned Quackityās exclusive loyalty.
By the time Sapnap and Karl return, the two of them are still chatting, Grian sitting quietly off to the side on his own.
āThis place is a bust,ā Sapnap announces, words edged in frustration as he pushes the door open, his hair slicked down with sweat at his temples. He looks beat, depositing a satchel onto the floor without fanfare before he sits down heavily in the only other chair.
āI know we figured as much, but it doesnāt look like anyoneās lived here for years. Decades even,ā Karl explains, trailing in after Sapnap. He looks equally worn out from his time in the sun, flushed across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. āWe found a few camps at the far end of the streetāthere were ATV tracks, but they looked old. We swiped some cans and stuff. I think most of itās expired by a year, but itās better than nothing.ā
He sits down on the floor, shrugging his arms out of his jacket sleeves before he reaches down and hauls up the hem of his sweater, pulling it off over his head. It leaves him clad only in a t-shirt; one thatās definitely seen cleaner days.
āWe did have one good find, though. Show āem, Sap.ā
Sapnap perks up a bit at the reminder, at least some of his good mood returning as he opens the satchel, rooting around until he produces their find: a solar powered camping lantern.
āCheck this out,ā he enthuses, placing it on the table and switching it on. The light is sterileāthe kind of chill white glow youād expect from an LED bulbābut itās bright, and even Grian can admit itās a good find.
āHow ābout you two lovebirds?ā Karl asks, and the question startles a shocked laugh from Grian and an amused grin from Quackity.
āThereās a car graveyard at the far end of town,ā Quackity explains, folding his arms across his chest. āNothing there, though. Everythingās rusted out.ā
āQuackity wanted to check out a few other places nearby,ā Grian adds, āBut we didnāt find anything salvageable.ā
āWhy do you think this place is abandoned?ā Sapnap asks. Itās obvious heās trying not to sound too concerned, but heās unable to hide the edge from his voice. He turns towards Karl, as if to share his worry, but Karlās brow is smooth, his posture calm. He only hums low and shrugs.
āI think there are hundreds of places like this. People die, kids grow up and move away, nobody moves inā¦ā
āItās the highways,ā Scar explains, and Grian canāt help a small, bemused grin. Of course Scar is up-to-date on the history of run-down little towns. Itās just like him to have these bits of obscure knowledge tucked away. āWhen they built all the interstates back in the 60s, people stopped needing these little side roads and winders. Communities got cut off, and they didnāt have any industry to sustain them, so they slowly died out.ā
āYouāre telling me thereās a million more of these sh*tty little dead-end ghost towns in our way?ā Quackity groans, rubbing at his face in frustration. āThatās gonna suck for us. Thereās nothing we can scavenge. Weāre just gonna waste time and supplies.ā
āItās fine, we can avoid them once weāre back on the interstate,ā Sapnap says, reassuring and confident. āWhichāwe should figure out where to go next from here. Especially if we wanna move before we start losing daylight.ā
Immediately, Grian looks in Scarās direction. He finds Scar meeting his gaze over top of Quackityās head, the same dread in his eyes that Grian feels in his bones. The trio donāt notice, still chatting about how quickly they'll need to pack and if they have time for a proper lunch before the next trek onwards.
āIām sure we can leave the catering in your capable hands,ā Scar says, bright and enthusiastic as he claps his hands together. āMeanwhile, Grian! Can I trouble you for a moment of your time?ā
It sparks a note of selfish satisfaction in Grian that Scar would make a point of asking for him and him alone. Itās sillyāof course Scar would choose him right nowābut it still feels nice to be invited by name.
āIāll allow it,ā Karl jokes, none-the-less taking the hint and leveraging himself to his feet. He nudges Sapnap with the toe of his boot and gestures for Quackity to join them, motioning towards the door as they walk over together. āWeāll be right outside if you need us.ā
āKeep your hands where I can see āem though. And leave room for the lord. No funny business,ā Quackity teases. The other two laugh as they leave, oblivious to the tension that settles into the room on their departure.
The second the door shuts behind the trio, Scar is shifting in his seat, the wince in his expression obvious. Something worrisome grips tight around Grianās heart, and he resists the urge to gravitate to Scarās side and fuss.
āGrian,ā Scar says, serious.
āHow bad?ā
Scar looks towards the door, expression inscrutable before he breathes out, slow and even. āBad.ā
Silence settles between them, the air suddenly thick and stuffy, heavy with the implication.
āI need you to help me get back to the bedroom.ā
The reality of what Scar is saying unfolds in Grianās chest like something dreadful and rancid. The worst case scenario of Scar pushing himself too hard for too many days.
āOkay.ā Grianās numb as he says it, stepping forward on autopilot as he slings Scarās arm across his shoulder and helps leverage him to his feet. Scarās expression is tight, determined to look strong even in a vulnerable moment. He lets a short breath in and out through his nose before he nods and they move with slow, careful steps down the hall.
Theyāre lucky they have a bed. For a moment, Grian tries to imagine what would have happened had Scar seized up in the open desert, but the horror of the hypothetical compresses the question into an impenetrable knot in his mind.
Working together, Grian helps Scar lay down on the mattress, expression creased as he focuses and tries not to panic. Once safely down, Scar closes his eyes and tilts his head back, exposing the long column of his throat as he heaves a long, pained sigh.
Hesitant, Grian deliberates for a moment before he asks, āWhat do we tell them?ā
āI donāt want them to panic.ā Scar replies, eyes still closed.
āI donāt want them to know,ā Grian stresses, determined.
Scar chuckles, a forced, pained sound that devolves into a sort of wheeze. Slowly, he opens his eyes, staring up at the patchy popcorn ceiling.
āAt this point, I donāt know if thatās really an option.ā
āDo you think youāll feel better after you sleep?ā Grian rushes, words tumbling out of him all at once. Even as he speaks, he knows this isnāt something he can barter their way around, knows it isnāt fair. āMaybe tomorrowāā
He stops himself, forcibly closing his mouth. Scar watches him from the mattress with tired eyes, and guiltily, Grian looks away. He knows how much Scar hates when people explain his own limitations to him. Of all things, Scar doesnāt need Grian attempting to negotiate with him about his health.
āIāll take care of it,ā he states instead, simple, broaching no argument.
āYouāll take care of it?ā
Thereās something skeptical in Scarās tone, but Grian merely nods, not sure how heās going to follow through but refusing to let it show on his face.
Scar continues to look him over, as if unsure of Grianās conviction. In the end, he offers a weary smile of acceptance, more tired than grateful.
āOkay, Gri,ā he says, and the use of his long-abandoned nickname momentarily takes Grianās breath away. Leaves him feeling light-headed, with his pulse racing, already desperate to hear it said againāin praise instead of in surrender.
For a moment Grian lingers, unwilling to leave Scarās side. It takes everything to pry himself away, and he exits the room with his heart pounding as he tries to calculate the next step to take.
While heās good at thinking on his feet, heās got no practical experience with a situation like this, and he knows that persuading people is more Scarās forte. Grian can lie just as well as Scar, but thereās a charm to Scarās method that wins people over far easier than Grian could ever dream of.
Karl and Quackity are sitting on the front step of the house when Grian opens the front door. Sapnap is standing in front of them, arms crossed, and squinting unhappily in the sunlight. They all look at him expectantly as he appears.
He takes a bracing breath.
āWeāre going to stay here another night,ā he explains, as simple as fact.
Three sets of eyebrows rise in response in almost comedic unity.
āSays who?ā Sapnap asks, shoulders bristling.
āSays me,ā Grian says, firm. āWe have good shelter here, weāve got enough provisions for nowāthereās no reason to go running right back into the fray when we have a chance to spend a few days in peace and quiet without a single soul around.ā
āWe canāt just dawdle,ā Sapnap argues, vehement in a way Grian hadnāt quite expected. Heās been fairly quiet and polite after getting over his initial mistrust of Grian and Scar right at the start, but now his temper rises seemingly out of nowhere. It puts Grianās back up a bit to have the younger man in his face, angrier than he had any reason to be. āHow many of those things did we just see wandering out on the road on our way up here? You think weāre safe right now? Weāre not.ā
āWeāre in the middle of the desert,ā Grian refutes, glad that Karl and Quackity are silent at least, their eyes darting back and forth between them. āWeād be able to see anyone or anything coming for miles.ā
āBut why the f*ck would we wait for them at all?! Thereās literally no place to restock on supplies or water in this dust bowl, and you wanna stay here longer?ā
Something about the situation reads wrong to Grian. Has him on his back foot, defending what doesnāt feel like a big ask.
He talks around it, slow and even, watching Sapnapās face for a reaction. āWeāll leave tomorrow morning and be back on the interstate by afternoon, if itās so important to you.ā
Sure enough, Sapnapās expression wavers, his eyes flicking in the direction of Quackity and Karl. Paranoia sinks into Grianās gut, even as Sapnap draws back, retreating out of Grianās space.
āThis is such f*cking bullsh*t.ā
āI donāt see how wanting to rest one more night is such a big deal,ā Grian needles. āWe left a bad spot, walked for hours to get here, and now that weāre safe you want us to just push on? Seems reckless to me.ā
āLike it isnāt reckless to stay here and whittle our down resources to nothing?ā
The frustration rolling off of Sapnap is evident, his arms crossed tight over his chest and anger creasing his expression. Again, his gaze shifts in the direction of the other two in his party, and this time Grian manages to glance their way as well. Quackity has his mouth set in a firm line, and Karlās expression is carefully neutral. All of it has Grianās back up.
Thereās something more to this. There has to be.
āItās one night, Sapnap,ā he insists, determined.
āItās a big f*cking waste of our time is what it is.ā
Grian laughs, sharp and without humour. āIf itās that much of a waste of time then, by all means, you three can leave without us.ā
āWhatās up with Scar?ā Quackity interrupts, precise in a way that catches Grian completely off guard.
The question cuts through him like a knife, the epicentre of his vulnerability suddenly exposed and pulled out into the open. Abruptly, all the tension turns on him, the trio exchanging glances with one another before looking at Grian. It puts him on the spot in a viscerally uncomfortable way, and he finds himself crossing his arms in a defensive mirror to Sapnapās pose and posture.
āWhat are you talking about? Nothingās up with Scar.ā
Thereās a reluctance in Quackityās eyes, an uncertainty Grian canāt quite place.
āNothingās up with Scar, but when Sapnap suggests moving on, suddenly he has to talk to you alone and then without warning youāre saying weāre staying put for another night?ā
A chill runs down Grianās spine, followed by the cold sweat of being caught acting careless. Heād been so busy seething in his own distrust and dislike of the trio that heās failed to keep his motives subtle. In his haste, heās now put Scar in danger.
He feels ill.
āIs he sick?ā Quackity asks when Grian remains silent, careful as he voices the question. A tense quiet spreads between them, breaths held as three sets of eyes bore into Grian. When no reply is offered, Quackity presses, insistent. āDid he get bit?ā
The question snaps like the breaking of a dam, and suddenly itās too hot, too much, too loud, and Grian is angry, livid at the accusation that he and Scar would ever harbour a secret like that. He draws in a breath, sharp, squaring his shoulders as he gets ready to lash out. OnlyāKarl intervenes.
He rises up off the front stoop in a smooth, fluid gesture, brushing sand and grit off his hands before he says, calm, āCome on, Big Q, donāt be ridiculous.ā
It takes the wind out of Grianās sails, shoulders untensing. The idea that he has an ally on his side knocking the temper right out of him.
āWhen would Scar have gotten bit?ā Karl asks, more rational than Grian wouldāve given him credit for. āWeāve had eyes on him since we ran into him. If he was bitten before we met, he wouldāve turned by now. Weāve seen enough to know that.ā
āHe didnāt get close to the googlies on the road,ā Grian adds, insistent. āIf anyone, Sapnapāā
āI didnāt get f*cking bit,ā Sapnap snarls, bristling. āYou got close to them too, by the way. In fact, you were the first one to rush into them.ā
āAnd I didnāt get bit, did I?ā Grian argues, voice rising slightly. āSo if I didnāt, then Scar definitely didnāt.ā
āBoys,ā Karl interrupts again, level and firm. āWeāve all made our points. Nobody got bit, nobodyās turning into a zombie.ā He stares at each of them in turn before his eyes rest on Quackity, who stares back at him, guilty and indignant at the same time. Itās a look Grian knows well, having worn it plenty of times himself. Karl sighs, more patient than he has any need to be, āLetās not jump to conclusions.ā
With Sapnap and Quackityās accusation defanged, Grian doesnāt know what to do with the adrenaline rushing through his system. Itās almost a relief when Karl turns to him, using the same no-nonsense toneāso different from the way he normally presents himself.
āGrianāyouāre saying you want to take a rest day? Stay here just for another night?ā
Itās weird being spoken to in such a way by someone almost a decade younger than him, but Grian takes the hit to his pride with as much grace as he can manage. He nods, not trusting himself to speak and start up the argument once more.
Karl nods back, decided. āThat settles it, then. Weāll stay the night and head out in the morning.ā
āKarlā¦ā Sapnap starts, clearly unhappy with the decision.
āItās okay, baby,ā Karl promises, āTomorrow, first light: weāre gone. It won't even be a full twenty-four hours from now. Okay?ā
Karl passes the question between both his partners, and they hesitate as if waiting for each otherās agreement. Quackity hesitates, clearly reluctant, but after a moment he nods, and Karl smiles wide, pulling him into a hug. After that Sapnap seems to relent, the stiffness in his posture relaxing.
āIs that it thenā¦?ā Grian asks, cautious. āAre we good?ā
āWeāre good,ā Sapnap says, and Grian chooses to believe him.
He leaves the trio to their business, relieved to get a break from them, heading back inside only to find that Scarās fallen asleep. He could leaveāhe shouldābut instead Grian takes a seat on the floor, resting his back against the wall as he simply watches Scar instead. After the better part of an hour, clattering and scraping noises filter in from the main room but Scar sleeps through it all. Grian tries to picture what they could be doing, the sounds of Karl and Sapnap cursing and Quackityās high laughter bleeding in through the walls.
Their good moods should be a comfort, a sign that everythingās fine, but to Grian theyāre not. Everything catches like a bur on his skin, twisting his mood into a knot of tension he nurses bitterly, like itās something of value he should preserve. Heās envious of them and their laughter, and he hates it.
When Scar eventually stirs, itās late afternoon. He wakes up slow, consciousness filling him up like water poured into a glass, relaxed in a way that makes a private, guarded part of Grian glad. Heās not jerking awake, quick-pulsed and frightened. Heās not pulling out of one nightmare, opening his eyes into another. Heās been resting, deeply, and Grian knows thatās what Scar needs.
āNice nap?ā he asks, pulling his knees up to his chest and circling his arms around them.
Scar nods, yawning large as he sits up, rubbing the heel of his palms against his eyelids.
āDidnāt realise how much I needed it,ā he mutters, clearing his throat to dislodge the growl that curled into it while he was asleep.
āWeāre gonna stay another night,ā Grian explains, answering the question he knows Scarās about to ask. āKarl made the call. If it matters.ā
Scar nods, still sleep-relaxed, yawning again. āGood.ā
āTheyāve been up to something. Kept hearing great big noises, like theyāre chucking things about.ā Grian jerks his chin in the direction of the main room.
āYou didnāt go see?ā Scar asks, tone casual, reminding Grian so much of the morning conversations they used to have on lazy Sundays, sprawled out on Scarās enormous bed.
The question catches Grian sideways, causing him to tense up, guilty, as Scar smiles slow.
āDid you keep guard over me, Grian?ā
His head tilts to the side, genuinely curious. The question feels oddāGrian hadnāt been thinking about it that way, but now that itās asked he canāt exactly deny thatās what it looks like. He feels his cheeks go hot, tightening his arms around his knees, the uncertain shame of whether or not heās about to get in trouble making him reluctant to answer.
āTheyāre not exactly my number one fans right now,ā he says at length. āI didnāt want to third wheel where Iām not wanted.ā
Heās so focused on deflecting Scarās question that he almost misses the fond smile that passes over his face. Heād been so sure that Scar would chastise him that it shocks him to see Scar smothering his grin before it has a chance to manifest further.
āThird wheeling a trioā¦ thatās just a car, isnāt it?ā
āScar,ā Grian snorts, but his relief that heās passed Scarās scrutiny makes him smile despite himself.
Scar chuckles, rubbing the stubble on his jaw for a moment as he thinks. Grian watches him, quiet, wanting to reach out and touch it himself. He knows the way Scarās stubble feelsāagainst his palms, and his cheeks, and the inside of his thighs. Itās difficult to reconcile with the part of him that wonders if heāll ever feel it again.
āDo you think that really works for them?ā Scar asks at last, interrupting Grianās wistful yearning with a carefully neutral voice. āThat three peas in a pod routine?ā
All at once Grian remembers Quackity musing after Scarās availability back at the rusted-out trailer, and the jealousy from that conversation comes rushing back tenfold. Itās stupid and pointless to feel this way, he knows that. He and Scar arenāt together, theyāre not discussing the nature of their relationship. Scar isnāt the one who cheated in the first place.
And yet, Grian canāt help but feel jealous and possessive anyway.
Thereās too much to unpack and not enough time for him to process any of it, so Grian does what he does best and pushes it aside, letting it fall off his priorities to fester unattended in the background. Instead, he lowers his head onto his arms as they rest atop his knees, muttering low and dismissive, āI donāt think it matters.ā
He can feel Scarās eyes on him, even as he keeps his own locked on the far wall of the room. He doesnāt want to know what Scar is thinking, but itās easy to guessāthe obvious āwhat ifā that he knows theyāre both circling around. The idea that in some universe, one where heād made different, more honest choices, maybe Grian couldāve openly had two partners as well. That he could have spared them both the hurt, if heād simply just told Scar the truth.
It wouldnāt have worked like that, Grian is certain.
Itās not what he or Scar wouldāve wanted.
And yetā¦
āDo you think you can stand up?ā he asks, desperate to change the subject before it has the chance to metastasize any further.
Scar shifts on the mattress, testing his knees as he bends his legs before he gives a small nod. āIf you give me a hand.ā
Brushing himself off, Grian stands, making his way over to Scar in a few short steps. Together they get Scar back on his feet, and after a minute of balancing and waiting for him to acclimate after a long day of laying down, they decide to make their way into the main room.
They proceed cautiously towards the sounds of the trioās voices, Scar leaning heavily on Grian and both of them trying not to be obvious about it.
Grian doesnāt know what he was expecting when they enter the living room. Heād heard the three of them moving constantly, presumably dragging things around all afternoon. Heād entertained the idea that maybe they were playing some sort of game or fortifying the windows and doors, but his assumptions leave him surprised at the reality.
Before them lies an almost fully furnished living space.
Itās cobbled together, made of salvaged wood pallets and broken furniture, mostly likely pulled out from the nearby houses. Grian counts seating enough for five, all arranged around the brick fireplace. The plywood that had been wedged up against it to keep out the draft has been removed, a wood pile made from broken chairs and scrap lumber organised semi-neatly beside its hearth. Itās meagre and makeshift, but Grian can see the effort that went into itāa peace offering, maybe, after the accusations hurled at him on the front steps earlier.
āWell, hello there,ā Scar greets, the pleasant surprise in his voice evident as they step further into the room. āMy, my, gentlemen. Now what do we have here?ā
Sapnap stands up first, hands tucking into his pockets as he approaches. He shoots a glance back towards Karl and Quackity, both standing at the table and sorting through the cans he and Karl had pilfered earlier. When he meets Grianās eyes, thereās something apologetic in them.
āWe figuredā¦ since weāre staying another night, we might as well make the place more, yāknowā¦ liveable.ā
Itās a kindness that Grian hadnāt anticipated, and all at once he feels awful for reacting so strongly earlier. He tries to find something to say in response, but then Scar steps away from his side, and his attention immediately turns to follow him. Heās anxious as he waits for him to stumble, but when Scar takes another few steps, as casual and confident as ever, the relief that swells in his chest is palpable.
The seats the trio have made arenāt elaborateāsimple benches more than anythingābut Scar sits without complaint, patting the space beside him as he looks Grianās way. āMaking a house a home, now thatās just genius. I like you boys, youāve got a good style.ā
Before Grian can sit down next to Scar, Quackity is inserting himself into the space, putting his knee on the seat as he shuffles over. āWe like you too, handsome,ā he says, familiar and fond.
It reignites the jealousy Scarās question had sparked back in the bedroom, and Grian tries to tamp it down, tightening his jaw in a way he hopes isnāt noticeable to the others. He knows he canāt afford to turn his nose up at the trioās efforts at reconciliation, but itās hard to remember that when he sees Quackity next to Scar, smiling bright and eager and far too friendly.
Next to Scar, oblivious to Grianās turmoil, Quackity holds up two cans in his hands. āNow, are you canned Alphagetti guys, or Beefaroni?ā
āAnd, totally unrelated,ā Karl pipes up from behind them, still standing at the table sorting supplies. āDo either of you fine gentlemen know how to start a fire?ā
Grian doesnāt want to say itāknows itās petty beyond compareābut the words come out of him anyway.
āWe do. Donāt we, Scar?ā
He looks at Scar pointedly, and thereās only a split second of confusion on his face before recognition sets in. His hand moves absently down to his pocket, where Grian knows the lighter Scar used to set his car alight still resides. Thereās a guilty twist on Scarās features that Grian wishes he could relish, but most of him is anxious about having spoken up at all. Stupid, knee-jerk behaviour. Always acting first and thinking after.
Hesitant, Scar pulls the lighter out of his pocket, turning it over in his hand. He considers something as he looks down at it, expression morphing from upset to resolute.
āYou could say weāre both experts at letting things go up in flames,ā he answers, meeting Grianās eyes.
It hurts more than Grian would like to admit.
Resolute, he steps forward and snatches up the lighter, quick, before he moves over to the empty fireplace. He busies himself to keep from spiraling, rejection curling around his heart. He knows he brought this on himself, knows it mightāve been alright if heād just kept his mouth shut and been nice, but heās never been good under pressure. And watching Scar interact with the trio... with Quackityāsmiling and laughing and happier than heād ever been while travelling with himā¦ it gets under his skin.
It makes it hard to breathe.
Grian stays kneeling as he starts snapping the smallest pieces of wood into kindling. Try as he might to stay focused, he canāt stop his thoughts from wandering. Behind him, Quackity continues chatting Scar up, and Scar replies to him easily. Heās always been friendly. Sometimes more friendly than Grian can stand. People like Scar, drawn in by his natural, easygoing charm. When theyād first gotten together, in those easy days, rife with insecurity, Grian had felt sure he was only a passing interestāa blip in Scarās life that would come and go and hardly be missed.
Now, heās well aware that heās made himself memorable; unforgettable for all the wrong reasons.
Heās spiraling. He knows he is. Balanced on the very edge of a panic attack.
For every piece of kindling he splits, another thought, another worry, another insecurityāall with Quackityās bright, eager laughter running in the background. Itās nothing Grian wants to hearāhis leading questions, his teasing replies, the affable way he keeps Scar engaged, the conversation carrying on and on and on as Grian's kindling piles up until his fingernails hurt and he canāt take it anymore. Canāt take the talking and the laughing and the flirtingā
āWill you knock it off already?ā he snaps, throwing his gaze angrily over his shoulder, twisting around only to be met by Quackityās exaggerated expression of surprise.
Somehow, it only makes Grian angrier.
āFor f*ckās sake, could you be any more annoying about your little crush? Heās clearly not into you, so just give it a rest already.ā
The silence barely has time to settle before Quackity is smiling, wolfish, as he leans forward. His chin nestles in the palm of his hand, elbow planted on his knee, eyes narrowed as his canines peek through the edge of his grin. Heās enjoying this, and Grian seethes.
āJealous much?ā
Karl laughs at that, and Sapnap hoots like theyāre in grade school, mocking and immature. It infuriates Grian, pushing the bitterness coagulating in his chest up into his throat until he feels like heāll choke on it. It feels juvenile. It is juvenile.
He doesnāt want any part of it.
āLight your own fire,ā he snaps, tossing the lighter with excessive force into the soot-black back of the fireplace and getting to his feet as he storms towards the door.
Heās outside before he can take a proper breath, the door slamming loud behind him. He can hear Quackity laughing through the wall, loud and callous, followed by the cheerful voices of Karl and Sapnap encouraging it. Their voices are muffled by the door and the plaster and the plywood, but clear enough that he can tell that theyāre all in on it. A united front.
Itās ridiculous and childish. Heās overreacting and he knows it, but he hates feeling like heās being ganged up on by obnoxious teenagers.
The sand scuffs under his feet, kicking up dust as he paces out into the middle of the gravel yard and stares angrily up at the darkening sky. He wonāt give them the satisfaction of hearing him yell, so he merely compresses his hands into fists until theyāre clenched tight enough he can feel the sting of his nail biting into his palms.
He wishes they didnāt have the power to bother him so much. He wishes he didnāt care.
He wishes they would just leave Scar alone.
āGrian?ā
He turns to find Scar standing on the top stair outside the door, looking reluctant to step down and approach him. He watches Grian with a mix of weariness and concern, one hand steadying himself against the door frame, the other favouring his hip.
Itās humiliating to be followed, but the knowledge that Scar came after him ignites something in Grianās chest.
He couldāve stayed inside but he didnāt.
He came out.
For him.
āI donāt know why you let him talk to you like that. All fawning and cute.ā The words are out of Grian, sharp and possessive, before he can even think to temper them into something less needy. His tone is edged in angerāthe desire for attention and reassurance shot through with how badly he wants to make a scene. The over-reactive boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. It doesnāt matter to him right now. Anything to stake his claim and make his priority clear.
Scar looks at him in the early evening light, not rising to the bait as much as surrendering to it.
āWhy wouldnāt I?ā
His neutrality is incendiary, burning up inside Grianās chest until it hurts.
āBecause I hate it.ā
The words are out of Grian before he can consider them, reckless in a way that has him regretting them the moment they leave his lips. Itās stupid and insecure. So grade school he might as well have been stomping his foot as he said it. Like a toddler throwing a tantrum.
Scar looks at him and says nothing, and Grian feels the pressure of his attention like a weight. It wasnāt the right thing to say and it was the worst way to say it, but he doesnāt want to take it back. The trio donāt know Scar like he does. They havenāt spent years alongside him, through laughter and tears and everything in between. They arenāt friends, they arenāt close.
āTheyāre kids, Grian,ā Scar eventually sighs, something heās already pointed out before.
It isnāt reassuring. Not when Grianās insecurity is running rampant, and certainly not when he keeps catching themāQuackityāexpressing interest in Scar in a way that makes his stomach tie itself in knots.
But he canāt say that, well aware he has no leg to stand on. If anything, pursuing it further will force a painful conversation about intent and boundaries that he doesnāt want to have.
The silence stretches, heavy, no one around to break it for them. Even the trio are quiet inside, no muffled words or laughter trailing out through the door. Grian doesnāt know what to do, vulnerable and on the edge of rejection. He doesnāt want to hear Scar explain that he has no right to feel the way he does, as true as it may be.
āIām going back in,ā Scar says at last, and itās detached in a way that throws Grian off. Heās unsure how to respond, so convinced they were about to have a fight that he feels weirdly robbed now that itās not about to happen. āAre you coming, or do you need a minute?ā
Grian stays silent, looking stubbornly towards the horizon, hands crammed into his pockets.
āAlright,ā Scar says, exhaling the word with a sigh. āSuit yourself.ā
The door closes behind him, and Grian is left outside with the sand and the stars.
He feels the hot pressure of his emotions in his cheeks and the tips of his ears, twisting foolish and short-sighted as he rides out the petulance of his feelings.
Itās not his fault. None of this is his fault. Itās Quackity and his wandering eyes and open appreciation. Itās Karl and Sapnap, who let it happen with fond, besotted smiles. Itās Scar, who laughs politely and doesnāt take it as seriously as he should.
Itās the apocalypseās fault for putting them in this situation in the first place.
He tries to curb his emotions with those empty reassurances, repeating them over and over like a mantra in his head.
It takes him some time to settle back down. Once the initial crest of his jealousy and anger passes, heās left feeling increasingly ridiculousāa grown man throwing a fit that he now has to walk back inside and acknowledge. He presses the heels of his palms against his eyelids with a groan. Already, he can imagine the snide grin mirrored across three smug faces.
When Grian finally pushes his embarrassment far enough away to step back into the house, he finds a domestic scene settled around the fire. Karl, Sapnap, and Quackity are sitting together on one of the pallet benches, their arms wrapped around one another, legs overlapped, and crisscrossed in a comfortable looking tangle. Across from them, Scar has one of his legs propped up on a makeshift footstool, with the air that heās been taken care of.
āOh good,ā Scar says as Grian deadbolts the front door behind him, cheerful in the way he gets when heās putting on a performance for people. āWe got our soap opera dramatics out of the way just in time for dinner.ā
Grian can see Sapnap whisper something to Quackity while looking at him, and it stings in a way that reminds him of secondary school, but rather than pushing back, he simply sits on the edge of the seat thatās been left for him, taking pains to leave everyone in the room at ample distance.
He leans in only far enough forward to see whatās been jammed into the coals of the fire, finding a skillet and a saucepan sitting on the embers. One holds canned spaghetti and sauce, while the other has a slow bubbling white paste that Grian recognizes as grits. Itās not a great looking dinner, but itās the best they have, and heās far from turning his nose up at a hot meal.
āLooks good,ā he says, affecting a tone that sounds polite, a half-hearted attempt to bridge the gap formed after his outburst.
They share the meal in relative civility, sharing cutlery and eating directly out of the pans. After a time the conversation returns, tentative at first, and then relaxing as the truce extends. Karl has no problems speaking whatever thought is on his mind and Scar, as always, is a natural conversationalist. Quackity keeps up easily with his quick wit and sense of humour, and once he gets going he continually elbows Sapnap, egging him into eventually joining in. Their banter is easy and natural, and their brightness and laughter recover almost as if it had never gone away.
If any of them notice that Grian is barely participating, they donāt mention it.
Eventually they finish eating and the conversation tapers off naturally. Quackity starts yawning, and despite his day spent sleeping, Scar echoes each and every one. It prompts Karl to use the rim of the skillet to pull the logs in the fire apart, distributing the flames so that it will burn itself out faster.
āSo whoās on first watch?ā Quackity asks at last, and Grian knows the expectation will be on him to volunteer. Some penance for his little production.
āIāll take it.ā
Surprising him, itās Sapnap who speaks up, stretching his arms above his head as he rises to his feet. He pops the joints in his wrists and shoulders before he shakes them out, shifting his weight from foot to foot and looking around the group. āIām a late-night guy, so I donāt think Iād be able to sleep yet anyhow.ā
āThatās mighty nice of you. Real nice, in fact,ā Scar says, smiling in earnest. Grian can see him schooling his expression, bracing as he prepares to get to his feet. He knows Scar is hoping his legs will take mercy on him and not buckle under the sudden shift in pressure, heās said as much during previous flare-ups. āI know I slept like a log today, but if I can be honest, Iām still beat. You know, all those health experts were right when they said itāall this nice outdoor air really does a number on you. Number two killer, after smoking.ā
Itās a lie, and a pointless one, talking just for the sake of it, to hide any pain he might be feeling.
Grian frowns to himself, wondering what theyāll do in the morning if Scar isnāt feeling any better. His anxiety immediately starts to creep up when his spiral is interrupted by Scar gallantly holding his hand out to him.
āReady to call it a night?ā
The chivalry catches on something soft in Grianās chest, even though knows Scarās only doing it as a disguise for what he really needs. All the same, he reaches out automatically, letting Scar use his hand not to hold, but as the leverage he needs to help get himself back on his feet.
āGānight fellas,ā Karl says with a sleep-soft smile, looking tired himself as he leans into Quackityās side.
Before they turn away, Grian makes eye contact with Quackity, whoās remained quiet as they start to say their goodnights. Thereās no way he can make himself apologise when he still feels the sting of his insecurity, but he doesnāt want to let things fester between them, knowing he needs to be the bigger man.
He takes a breath and does his best. āSleep well, Big Q. Sweet dreams.ā
The corners of Quackityās mouth quirk, his expression carefully schooled but still a little wry. āYeah. Same to you.ā
Grian figures thatās as good as itās going to get for now.
Itās a short walk down the hall, the door closing quiet behind them as they feel their way into bed. They move in silence, maneuvering in the dark until Scar is laying on his side and Grian is spooned into the bend of his legs and the curve of his chest. They donāt talk, no hushed conversation about the day, no low words about Grianās behaviour, and no questions about Scarās pain. The silence stretches, and in its inescapable presence, Grian does the only thing he can think to do.
He eases himself back by centimetres, feigning discomfort as he tries to push for some physical reassurance.
āSmall mattress,ā he mumbles as an excuse, elbow bent to serve as a pillow under his head.
A moment of stillness passes, Grian holding his breath, uncertain. Then, by way of answer, Scar shifts forward, his arm looping around Grianās waist, pulling him back so their bodies fit snug together. The contact is muffled through layers of clothing, neither of them having bothered to get undressed, but theyāre still close enough that it makes Grianās heart race.
Hopefulāand needy despite himselfāGrian lets his spine uncurl, flattening his shoulders out flush to Scarās chest as he presses his hips back into Scarās.
āI had fun this morning,ā he whispers, thinking back to how well the day has started. The softness, the slow indulgenceāit felt so much like they used to be.
He misses it more than ever.
Behind him, Scar catches himself on a sigh, voice low in the dark as he answers, āAnd you were a lot all night.ā
A part of Grian canāt help but fall back into how things used to be, playful as long as heās safe and warm in Scarās arms. He wears a teasing grin as he nudges himself back against Scar.
āCan you blame me?ā
When only silence meets him as a response, Scar unyielding behind him, Grian deflates a little. It takes a few moments before he tries another approach, sighing, intentionally dramatic as he runs his fingertips over Scarās knuckles. He lifts them, pressing his lips against them, just barely short of a kiss, prompting with a whisper, āScarā¦?ā
He doesnāt hear the acknowledging hum, but he feels its implication rumbled through Scarās chest pressed against his spine. Scarās forearm flexes as his arm shifts around him with purpose. His palm presses flat to Grianās abdomen, body moving behind him as he rolls his hips forward with a clear, obvious intent.
The burst of adrenaline that floods Grianās system is like a firecracker lit in every one of his arteries. Glad for the darkness to hide his smile, Grian arches his body fluidly to move with Scar. A selfish, haughty part of him feels vindicatedāthe trio can try all they like, but Scar is still his. He always has been. And as Scar pushes forward again, Grian lets himself moan aloud, clear and intentional in the poorly contained privacy of their room.
Leisurely, Scarās hand shifts, tugging up the layers of Grianās sweatshirt to expose a sliver of his stomach. He strokes his thumb gently along the soft vulnerability of his belly, slow and soothing. It sends a shock through Grian, a tenderness he wasnāt expecting. He feels his body start to respond as Scar grinds against him again, his heat unmistakable.
Heās giddy, ready to take whatever Scar gives him, craving the connection, his body on fire.
He thinks to the trio outside, close enough that they definitely can hear them. He doesnāt care. Let them listen in and understand that even if he and Scar arenāt together anymore, itās still only Grian who shares his bed, only Grian held tight his arms, only Grian who he follows out into the darkness. Not them. Not anyone else.
āThink youāve proved your point?ā Scar mumbles into the back of his neck. āHappy now?ā
The words catch him off guard. Blindsided.
Scarās tone is cold, and the abrupt stillness that falls between them is colder still. Grianās not prepared for the way Scar removes his hand, smoothing his shirt layers back down before all at once his contact is gone. Suddenly, Scar is rolling over to lay on his back, letting his breath out in a long, heavy sigh.
āGoodnight, Grian.ā
Itās final, no room for negotiation.
Grian doesnāt know what to do. Guilt crawls up inside him, feeling like somehow Scar heard his thoughts and was disgusted by the notion. Heās humiliated, body hot with embarrassment. They settle into silence, Grian laying stiff and uncomfortable at Scarās side.
In time, Scarās breathing slows and evens out. He falls asleep, and beside him Grian lays wide awake, staring up at the ceiling in the dark, not knowing what Scar wants, and not knowing what he needs either.
Notes:
If you haven't yet, please check out the art Lock did of what Karlnapity look like in TAMN!
Chapter 14: Chapter 14
Notes:
Hi it's Lock :3 Normally Key posts our chapters and responds to comments, but we agreed that if she were ever to be stolen away by a dragon I should probably learn how to format and queue a chapter just in case, so that's what I'm doing right now! Please be proud of me, I've never properly posted on AO3 before.
We got fanart this week! This moody drawing of a moody grian based on his outburst in chapter 12, drawn by konoisms!
On a personal note: chapter 14 has one of my favourite Vulnerable Grian Momentsā¢ in the entire fic, so I'm really happy I get to post this one!
We hope you enjoy it!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
āYouāre being so f*cking selfish.ā
The words are shouted, angry, Sapnapās expression sour with frustration. He glares at Grian across the makeshift living room, and Grian looks back at him with forced neutrality.
Itās mid-morning, and sunlight is streaming in through the gaps in the barricaded window. Sapnap is standing by the front door, shoulders squared, arms folded tight across his chest while Karl and Quackity sit together on one of the pallet seats, Karl eating a cold pop tart, the foil crinkling in his hand as he takes a cautious bite in the uneasy silence.
āYesterday. Yesterday we said that weād be moving on. And then we stayed another night ācause you threw a f*cking tantrum, and now youāre saying weāre going to be staying a couple more?ā
Sapnap throws his arms out wide before he lets them fall to his sides, fingers curled into loose fists.
āYouāre just declaring this sh*t like youāre the one who gets to call the shots, and itās pissing me off.ā
āSap cāmon,ā Quackity cautions from the sideline, clearly able to hear the anger mounting in his boyfriendās tone. The expression on his face is empathetic, however, mouth twisted in disapproval as he eyes Grian from where he sits. āLetās be chill.ā
āNo, this is bullsh*t!ā Sapnap insists, looking towards Karl for support before he quickly pivots his attention back to Grian. āYouāre not the boss here,ā he adds, forceful, and it rankles Grian just as much as it intimidates him. For all that Sapnap is on the short side, barely a head taller than him, heās still a force to be reckoned with when he gets fired up.
āHe never said he was,ā Karl remarks blandly, keeping his tone aloof and neutral as he takes another bite of his breakfast. āAll the same, it is a pretty strong suggestion youāve made, Grian.ā
Despite presenting himself as almost frustratingly uninvested in the scene Sapnap is causing, Karl has his attention fully on Grian, sleepy eyes belaying an intent focus. Grian can feel himself being slowly pressed into a corner, sinking back one metaphorical step at a time. His statement is being picked apart, the declaration that theyād be staying in the house another few days met with an immediate resistance that heād somewhat anticipated, but hadnāt expected to raise quite so much contention.
Itās not like he has a choice, however.
Scarās symptoms had worsened overnight. To the point where his joints are so badly inflamed that he hadnāt been able to sit up or roll over without wincing through pained breaths when Grian had woken him up.
It had Grianās hands twitching, itching to pass him his medications, hating that he had nothing to offer him. Not for the first time, heād felt sick and guilty about the situation surrounding their departure from Scarās apartment. Maybe, if things had been different, Scar wouldāve had time to properly pack.
Or maybe he wouldāve been one of the first to die.
At this point, Grian doesnāt know which wouldāve been kinder.
Itās that same sense of responsibility and guilt that had Grian volunteering to go speak to the trio on Scarās behalf. Heād assuaged Scarās concerns, assuring him that heād handle it, and then broke the decision to the boys face-to-face. A declarationāno room for debate, no room to argue.
āIām not making a suggestion,ā Grian says flatly, watching as Karl balls up the foil wrapping from his breakfast before he tosses it into the ashy fireplace. āWeāre going to stay another day or two. It doesnāt make sense to move yet.ā
āIt doesnāt make sense to stay here!ā Sapnap exclaims, pressing one hand to his chest, the other spreading wide as he looks angrily at Grian and then pivots towards his two partners. āWeād just be sitting here wasting rations day by day until desperation would drive us out. Iām telling you guys, heās up to something. No f*cking way he really thinks sitting here indefinitely is the right call.ā
Grian scoffs, rolling his eyes. āRight, my insidious plan to keep us in a safe, googlie-free location, with beds to sleep in and a roof over our heads. How dastardly.ā
Despite his dismissal, itās clear Sapnapās tirade has gotten to his companions, both of them looking torn with indecision over the situation. It sets Grian on edge, unsure how much he can keep from disclosing without making things worse.
The last thing he wants to do is reveal that Scar is their weakest link. If nothing else than for the sake of Scarās dignity.
He owes him that much, at least.
āIs there something here?ā Karl asks, addressing Grian in a way that seems genuinely curious. āAre you looking? Is that it?ā
āKarl, thatās not it, cāmon. Thereās nothing in this sh*thole, weāve explored enough to know that much,ā Quackity dismisses, shaking his head as he rejects the question.
For a moment Grian nearly convinces himself that Quackity is on his side. That hope is short-lived however, his stomach dropping as Quackity looks at him and asks, blunt, āWho are you waiting for?ā
The question catches Grian off guard.
Everything about it reeks of distrust and paranoia. How on earth would he and Scar communicate with anyone outside the group without attracting attention? And why the hell would they do it in the first place? The sheer absurdity of it sparks a deeply satisfied, bitter validation in Grianās chestāthe proof he needed to confirm he isn't the only one with apprehensions lurking in the back of his head.
āWho do you think?ā Grian challenges without answering the question.
āIt just seems like you were really pushing for us to get us here as fast as possible, and now youāre in no hurry to move on,ā Quackity deflects in a perfectly level tone, acting like he has the higher moral ground. āPut yourself in our shoesāhow do you think that comes off?ā
āIām in an organ harvesting cult thatās in league with the zombies,ā Grian scoffs, rolling his eyes at the absurdity of it all. āIs that what you want to hear?ā
āYouāre the one saying it,ā Quackity pressures, relentless. āI just asked a question. You started making all these wild leaps.ā
Grian doesnāt have time for this, resenting how heās been pushed so effortlessly onto his back foot by Quackityās clever questioning. The validation of the trioās mistrust doesnāt benefit him, and he still doesnāt want to out Scar to people who could not only be a threat, but have just shown that they don't see them as equals.
āAre we in court?ā Grian snaps. āAm I on trial? Thereās no hidden meeting with some ragtag party of bandits waiting in the wings. Weāre just tired. Itās not a secret. And frankly, Iām sick of you three acting like weāre holding you back. Iāve said it before, but clearly it bears repeatingāyou can leave without us. Go ahead. No oneās going to stop you.ā
Itās a bold ultimatum, one that Grianās sure Scar wouldnāt appreciate, seeing as he's made it abundantly clear they benefit from the strength in numbers.
Quackity gives Karl a look, loaded. He then makes a gesture that communicates something Karl clearly understands, but Grian canāt decipher. It feels damning.
It feels like heās been caught.
Itās a feeling heās been experiencing way too often.
āI think we should talk to Scar,ā Karl says at last, gentle but firm in a way thatās clear he wants to put an end to this argument.
āScarās going to agree with me,ā Grian mutters anyway.
āThen checking in with him shouldnāt be a problem.ā
The words sting. Grian feels their persuasion pressing down on him like a knee on his throat. Itās unfairālike the social rules he used to know and understand no longer apply, and he canāt yet parse the new ones.
He hates that Karl and Quackity seem to have adapted so quickly.
āWeāre not hiding anything,ā he insists, and it sounds guiltier than if he had simply stayed silent.
āIām sure youāre not,ā Karl agrees, and itās painfully clear that he doesnāt believe him.
Sapnap snorts in disbelief, shaking his head and turning away from the group. āIām getting our things ready,ā he tells Karl, his mind clearly made up as he begins to pack up their belongings, gathering the things theyāve strewn across the floor. āWe can head out when youāre done with this bullsh*t.ā
Karl stands up, reaching out to rest a hand on his shoulder before he kisses his cheek, a gesture Sapnap doesnāt return but leans easily into, his forehead momentarily pressing against Karlās. Itās a soft moment that Grian isnāt sure heās supposed to see, and he darts his gaze away before they can turn their eyes on him.
Envy settles atop his chest. He wishes he could share a moment like that with Scar; something tender and gentle, just for them. Hell, he wishes he could just have a chance to speak to him ahead of Karl right now. Just long enough to get ahead of the half-truth he needs Scar to pick up and run with so their cover-up doesnāt fall apart in front of him.
Instead, all he can do is stay a step ahead of Karl, being the first to open the bedroom door. He speaks loudly into the space when itās only an inch ajar, announcing, āWeāve got a visitor, Scar.ā
Luckily, Scar is sitting up when Karl enters, looking less visibly pained than he did when Grian left him.
āMorning, gentlemen,ā he says, cheerful to the point of strain. āMaking quite a din out there! Hard for a man to get his beauty sleep.ā He pauses, smiling as he teases, āYou barging in here to get me to settle where we go for breakfast?ā
Karl looks a little surprised, Scarās affable greeting catching him off guard following his tense exchange with Grian.
āIāve always been a Dennyās guy, myself,ā Scar continues, undaunted. āBut most of the folks I know are pretty passionate about IHOP. Grianās a Waffle House guy though. Arenāt ya, Grian?ā
āScar,ā Karl says at last, speaking carefully, with the tone of a professional mediator. āCan I talk with you about something?ā
Scarās eyebrows raise up but he speaks with an easy smile, nodding as he motions Karl into the room. āOf course, of course. Come right on in.ā
The moment sticks, silence permeating the air. Karl looks between Scar and Grian, his gaze lingering and his intention clear.
āIn private,ā he adds, and it rankles Grian like a scab rubbed wrong.
āIn private, of course,ā Scar echoes, magnanimous.
Scarās clever eyes meet Grianās, communicating volumes in a glance. Grian can read his confidence and he wants to believe in him, wants to place his trust in Scar fully and walk away without concern. Scarās never had a problem with words, never struggled to get his point acrossāto convince people that heās speaking rationally and with the best possible motive. If anyone can hold his own in a conversation, itās him.
Grian still struggles to let go, though. Afraid that leaving him alone even just for a second will cause him to slip and fall without Grian there to catch him.
āWeāll call you back in a minute,ā Scar asserts, and the gentleness of it slices into something resistant in Grian. The strength of his reaction surprising even himself, his spine straightening as he plants his feet firmly in place.
āWeāre not doing this behind-doors bullsh*t, Scar,ā Grian declares, firm, with a resolution that clearly catches Karl off guard. āAnything Karl can say in front of you, he can say in front of me. Thereās nothing to hide.ā
Karlās expression is inscrutable, betrayed only by the way he bites his lower lip for a moment. Thereās obvious consideration on his face, weighing the pros and cons of outing what Grianās already said in front of him on the off-chance that he and Scar arenāt on the same page. Whatever conclusion he comes to, he does so by exhaling heavily, shaking his hands out before he drags his focus back to Scar.
āWe need to talk about where we go from here as a cohort,ā he says, speaking frankly, without his usual lighthearted manner of speech. His words are focused in a way Grian hasnāt heard from him before, eyes unusually sharp. āBecause the problem is: from the way I see itāwe all had a plan we agreed on. It was a good plan, and we liked the plan. But now Iām hearing from Grian that the planās changed. And, listen, Iām not trying to make a scene, but I donāt remember us talking about changing the plan. So you can see why Iām keen to talk this out before we jump to any wild conclusions about secrets and hidden agendas.ā
He pauses, sighing as he pushes a hand back through his hair, sweeping loose curls out of his eyes. āJustā¦ walk a mile in my shoes here, Scar. You can see why this is making an issue for me and my boys, right?ā
To his credit, Scar nods, patient to a fault despite how painfully Karl has trod directly onto the crux of the matter. His smile is self-effacing and relaxed, charming in a way that begs to be trusted and understood.
Grian keeps his arms crossed and mouth shut.
āI understand your frustration, believe me,ā Scar sympathizes, and nothing about his words sound anything less than genuine. āIt was by no means our intention to upset you or your lovely boys, and Iām sure Grian didnāt intend to go out of his way to stomp all over you on my behalf.ā
Grian would snap something in his own defense, but heās immediately distracted by the way Scar pats the edge of the mattress, magnanimously motioning for Karl to come over.
Grianās eyes go wide, mouth dry. Well aware of what Scarās doing. What heās about to admit.
āTake a seat, Karl.ā
Without questioning him, Karl does as requested. He sits down on the bed, landing heavy on the squeaking springs, crossing his legs and settling his hands on his knees. Easy and comfortable.
āAlright,ā Scar approves, nodding. āNow stand up. Can you do that?ā
Karl hesitates, clearly confused by the question, co*cking his head to the side.
Ultimately, he shrugs. āWell, yeah.ā
He rocks forward smoothly, hands moving to push himself up, legs unbending as he gets to his feet without a smidgen of effort.
Scar smiles, earnest as he looks up at Karl. āRight now, I canāt.ā
Karl stands still for a moment, body stiff, face moving through several complicated expressions. By the doorway, Grian bites the inside of his cheek. His hands are pressed tight into fists, hating himself, hating the situation, and hating how Scar has to reveal his vulnerabilities like this. He can see Karl working through the revelation bit by bit and it sits sour in his stomach.
āYou were walking fine yesterday,ā Karl says at last. Quiet, curious.
āItās like that,ā Scar explains. āI get good days and bad. Yesterday wasnāt great, butāā
āThe bikeā¦ā Karl works out, reaching the conclusion faster than Scar has a chance to speak it. He lifts his hand, fingers pushing back through his hair again before he half-turns, sitting down on the edge of the mattress once more. āThe f*cking bike. You alreadyāwhen you met usāā
Scar nods. Thereās a patience to him that Grian has never been able to understand. The ability to calmly explain himself; to not lash out in frustration or irritation when faced with the abled assumptions of everyone around him. Grian knows for a fact that heād never be able to conduct himself in the same way, no matter how hard he tried.
āsh*t,ā Karl breathes at length, tilting his head forward, the heels of his palms pressing against his eyelids. āThat explains Grian, then.ā
He drops his hands into his lap, and despite who the apology is about, Grian might as well not even be there as Karl turns towards Scar and says, sincere, āIām sorry, man. He was trying to protect your privacy andāsh*t, we really assumed the worst, there.ā
Scar laughs half heartedly, shrugging with the easy nonchalance thatās born from years of experience.
āThat doesnāt really sound like Grian,ā he excuses, eyes meeting Grianās briefly, their corners creased with a smile that looks forced. āI donāt think he cares either way.ā
āPff, are you kidding? He cares a lot, dude.ā Karlās reply is quick, sounding more like himself now that thereās an explanation that assuages his doubts. He looks back towards Grian, smiling warm and encouraging, his gaze expectant as he insists, āTell him how crazy you got trying to cover for him.ā
Grian can feel Scar watching him intently, face kept carefully neutral. It makes him feel like heās been caught, pinned in a position he canāt stomach or stand. It reminds him of moments back during their time together as a coupleāloud exclamations from friends and colleagues, encouraging a kiss, a hug, a hand-hold. Demanding physical affection from Grian as if he had something to proveānot to Scar, but to them. Heād hated it then, when he and Scar had meant something to each other. He hates it even more now, when what they have is now only a ghost of what it was.
āIt doesnāt matter,ā he dismisses, cutting his words with impatience. āYou get it now at least, right? He canāt get up, we canāt make him move.ā
āYeah man, I get it,ā Karl soothes, like everythingās easy now. Drama resolved without incident. A part of Grian recoils at itādistressed that all it took was the truth to defuse their situation. Itās an uncomfortable reminder of how his lying got him to where he is today, and how much easier honesty can be.
Unaware of his spiraling thoughts, Karl gets back up from the mattress, smoothing down the creases in his pants. āDonāt worry, Iāll talk to Sap and Q. Theyāll understand when I tell them itās physically impossible.ā
āYou really think that?ā Grian mutters, thick with sarcasm and unable to bite his tongue.
Karl pauses, considering. Thereās determination in the way he squares his shoulders. His tone serious, words pointed as he clarifies, āWeāre not monsters.ā
Something about it rankles Grian, jangling like an alarm inside his head. It tugs at that suspicious part of him that he canāt let go, paranoia creeping up on him. The hairs rise on the back of his neck, his heart setting an anxious pace that makes him want to run.
Instead, he steps out from in front of the door, gesturing towards it impatiently. āGo defuse your bomb, then.ā
The air is thick between them. Then, miraculously, Karl bends.
āTheyāre a lot, but they mean well,ā he admits, chuckling gently. āWe had a rough start when all hell broke loose, and I know that means they can come across pretty strong now. Especially Sapnap. Youāll get used to them though, I promise.ā
Grian doesnāt respond. He has nothing to say in return, wanting to keep the line clear between them segmented and sectioned. No tenderness bridging between them. No attachments.
It isnāt worth the risk of an inevitable betrayal.
Seeing that Grian isnāt interested in conversation, Karl simply shrugs and walks past him, a hand patting his shoulderājust onceābefore he leaves him alone with Scar.
The moment heās gone the room falls silent. Scarās fixed grins falters at last, and he lets out a long, slow breath.
āGrianāā he starts, weary, as though heās preparing for a well-rehearsed but exhausted apology.
Grian cuts Scar off. āHow many supplies do you think we have?ā
Itās silly, he knows. Avoiding talking about the important things this far into the end of the world. Despite having been so desperate to talk to Scar alone, now he repels it like something vile, afraid of how much a little honesty might open a floodgate he wonāt know how to shut.
Instead, he distracts Scar by dragging him into his ponderingāimagining a hypothetical where he can heave Scar up on his feet and carry him far away from these strangers who smile too wide and speak too earnestly and share too enthusiastically.
āSuppliesā¦?ā Scar repeats, breaking his initial surprised silence with careful words, like cautious footsteps on ice too thin to support a personās weight. āFor all five of us?ā
Grian shakes his head, sharp violence in the motion. āJust two.ā
Itās meant to be a thought experimentāa distractionāmore for Grianās sake than Scarās. Obviously Grian knows thereās no way they could leave right now, not with the amount of pain Scar is in. Itās a game, like the would-you-rathers they played earlier during their trek. However, something passes across Scarās face that indicates heās not on the same page; maybe not even on the same chapter. Itās an emotion Grian doesnāt know how to readādeep-rooted, vulnerable, and raw.
āThe waterās gonna run out quick, but the food will last, if you ration it.ā Scar answers, voice dull and lifeless.
āWeāll find water easy,ā Grian reassures, trying to get Scar to warm back up to the idea. āWeāre not that far from civilization.ā
Thereās something wretched and resigned written across Scarās features. Itās a warning sign Grian doesnāt catch, too caught up in his own spiteful, self-righteous machinations. Heās daydreaming, planning out a future that will never come to fruition. No more polite sidelining to a trio he doesnāt like or trust. Just him and Scar. No more extras to worry about. No one heāll need to protect Scar and his overly trusting nature from.
Itās the only kind of escapism that Grian can allow himself in a hellscape like this.
āWhich of them are you leaving with, then?ā
The question strikes Grian like an open-palm slap across the face.
It hits hard and unexpected, tearing into a part of him he hadnāt even known was vulnerably exposed.
Wide eyes meet Scarās and find a hooded expression looking back at him, his face schooled into careful nonchalance. With a pang, Grian wonders if his months of sneaking around and neglect taught Scar to look like that.
āWhat are you saying?ā he hears himself ask, like heās far removed from his own body, unmoored and untethered, yanked out of his own skin by the implication that Scar would assume a lack of loyalty from him. āScarā¦ā
Scarās eyes slant away, fists curled loose in his lap, humiliation burning on his cheeks as he does his best to breathe through the emotions heās struggling with.
āI didnāt really see any of them as your type, but I guess you got closer to them than I thought,ā he says, quiet. āIt wouldnāt be the first time I didnāt notice something like that,ā he adds, sounding more disappointed in himself than anyone else.
The words are a simple acceptance of the reality of the situation as Scar sees it, but they still cut into Grian, deep and accusing. It takes him a moment to collect himself, forced to fully reckon with the depth of the distrust heās laid into Scar. The rot heās infested into their foundation, larger and far more catastrophic than he could have ever imagined when he first slipped into the warmth of a strangerās bed.
āIs that really what you think of me?ā he whispers, words just a breath above silent.
Scar merely shrugs a heavy shoulder.
āTo be honestā¦ nowadays, I feel like I barely know you.ā
Itās a painful realisation, to recognize that Scar no longer feels for him like he used to. The hurt is made even more potent by how much heād been trying to protect Scar only minutes before. He knows he has no one to blame for it but himself, he knows that. But that doesnāt stop it from hurting all the same.
His throat feels tight with emotion, tongue swollen in his mouth, but he canāt let it linger like this. He canāt.
āIām not gonna leave you,ā He saysāpromises, to the best of his ability. āI wouldnātā¦ I wouldnāt do that, Scar.ā
Silence stretches between them, uncomfortable and incriminating.
āOkay,ā Scar replies at last, lackluster.
Thereās so much more Grian wants to say. A confession, an admittance, even something mean and spiteful. However, somehow, he feels like no matter what he says now, it wonāt make a difference. Scarās made up his mind. Maybe fairly, maybe not.
Thatās all there is to it.
āIām not going anywhere,ā he repeats, but his reassurance falls flat when he canāt muster up more than a timid voice to say it with.
This time, Scar says nothing at all.
Together, they descend into silence.
The rest of the morning and much of the afternoon pass, slow and uneventful. With the decision made to stay for at least another day, the tension between the party ebbs.
Instead, the focus shifts to making a more palatable temporary home for the five of them.
Karl spearheads the initiative, enthusiastic and outspoken about his vision for their space. He and Sapnap drift in and out of the house, pulling out the old counters and mildewed shelves from the kitchen and bringing in the few items of interest that they found in the surrounding homes. Thereās no power, so together they clean out the fireplace and scavenge enough scrap wood to stock it for the evening. At one point, Karl carries in a large framed painting of two horses standing in a field that he proudly puts up on the hearth. He and Sapnap laugh about it, daydreaming about another life where they meet as horse ranchers in the midwest.
Quackity is gone the longest. Grian had watched as he smooth-talked Scar into borrowing his rifleāfond eyes belaying a sharp, calculating smile. Scar had handed over his weapon with ease and Grian had had to bite his tongue from saying something about trust and betrayal that he knew Scar wouldnāt appreciate, especially coming from him. Instead, heād stood back and watched Quackity leave with the gun under his arm, and Sapnapās walkie clipped to his belt.
Quackity had checked in regularly over the radio until heād finally returned late in the afternoon, with his shadow stretching out long behind him. Instead of gear or supplies, Quackity comes back carrying a plastic egg crate full of paperback novels and old magazines. These, he proudly dumps onto their pallet benches, which have been dressed with threadbare throw pillows and old curtain fabric that Sapnap and Karl found in the neighbouring homes while he was gone.
The set up looks nice. Cosy. The trio seem proud of itāthey laugh and talk constantly, their enthusiasm and mirth filling the space.
Grian doesnāt contribute to it at all, instead alternating between sitting with Scar in moody silence, and pacing the hallway outside their bedroom door. He feels awkward, not so much unwelcome as he is a non-integral part to the dynamic the trio have going. Karl invites him into their conversation, but more often than not Grian simply canāt keep up with their rapid-fire banter and loud, laughing voices. He feels like heās back in his first years of universityātoo nervous to participate, and too worried about missing something important to completely check out.
Meanwhile, Scar sleeps off and on. Itās not unusual for him to pass the time napping while he waits for the ache in his legs to subside. It had happened often at the start of their relationshipāmostly on bad days, when Scar had forgotten to fill his prescriptions.
It had gotten better once Grian had taken up getting them filled for him, though; more inclined at keeping track of minutiae like that.
Not that it matters now, when thereās not even a bottle of ibuprofen to their name.
If they were back at Scarās apartment there were medications he could be taking. He wouldāve been able to use his caneā¦ his chairā¦
Grian tries not to dwell on it, but he feels powerless not being able to help him.
The afternoon drags on and the sun sets. Sapnap starts a fire, and they discuss rations for the night, eventually agreeing to let Quackity use a bit of their water to make dough out of flour they brought in large ziplock bags. He works industriously, using their skillet to cook unseasoned flatbreadsātoo thick to be proper tortillasāthat they scoop canned chilli onto. Quackity narrates while he cooks, speaking out like heās entertaining a studio audience. Karl and Sapnap play along, cheering him on and making salacious comments that have Quackity laughing through his blush and batting them away with fond affection.
It twists something jealous in Grianās guts, but try as he might he canāt look away, wishing that he had the benefit of youth to keep him that hopeful in the face of everything theyāre up against.
Once the food is prepared, Scar manages to join them in the main room. With Grian and Sapnapās help, and Scarās arms draped across both their shoulders, he lets the two of them help him across the floor before they carefully sit him down. Karl fusses over making his seat comfortable, arranging their blankets around him for support.
Itās clear that the trio are trying their best to make up for the earlier assumptions theyād made and the hostilities that had arisen from it. Theyāre overcompensating to the point of treating Scar like something fragile, which sets Grian on edge. Itās a tendency heās used to seeing from well-meaning strangers that Grian knows Scar doesnāt appreciate, but in this case Scar swallows it down with civility.
There is a moment when Scar catches Grian's attention over the trioās heads, however. Raising his eyebrows at their antics, leaving Grian to try not to read too much into the shared commiseration, despite the way it warms him inside out.
Unfortunately, the heady feeling of sharing a secret look doesnāt last long because Quackity seems determined to win Scar over. Heās been talkative and friendly towards him from the start, but now heās laughing loud at every little thing that Scar says and hanging off his every word.
It shouldnāt make Grian insecure, but it does. Maybe that's why Quackity does it, prodding at Grian's childish outburst from the day before. It doesn't matter why when Grian can't stop himself from feeling the way he does, even when he knows he no longer has any right to. The group sits together on their makeshift seats around the fireplace, eating dinner and chatting, and Grian feels a spike of jealousy that seizes his chest every time Quackity looks over at Scar, every time he offers him another serving, every time he smiles at him.
It makes Grian feel petty and territorial.
It makes him feel alone.
Once they finish eating, they all settle back together to watch the fire burn. Thereās a comfort that runs between the trio, who sit with their arms and legs overlapped on top of each other, leaning shoulder to shoulder to shoulder in a pile. Sapnap had found twist ties in one of the mildewed drawers earlier that day, and Karl had inexpertly turned them into ringsāengagement rings, heād declared proudly. Thereās one on each of their ring fingers now, child-like but profound. Sapnap keeps touching Karlās, over and over, and Karl smiles at him softly each time.
Grian wants to think itās stupid, wants to roll his eyes at the whole performance, but some part of him knows how much it stems from his own longing. Itās not that he and Scar were ever on the road to marriageānot when Grian had waved away every conversation Scar had tried to start about commitmentābut it tugs at a feeling he canāt smother. His desperate desire to have even a fraction of the open, unabashed affection that the trio share so easily between one another.
Heās about to open his mouth and say something heāll regret when Quackity abruptly hops to his feet, crossing the room and gathering up the pile of reading material heād scavenged earlier that day.
He sits back down, this time next to Scar, offering the collection to him like a kid at show and tell, enthusiastic with his prize. The novels arenāt goodādetective mysteries, some suspense thrillers, and a few syrupy romance novels. Plus, the magazines are several years old, some of them torn and crumpled, but the majority intact.
The magazines turn out to all be aimed at women, boasting high fashion, makeup, and modelling. Grian braces himself, preparing for the inevitable dismissive comment from at least one of the trio, but all heās met with is unabashed enthusiasm from Karl, who pulls half the stack into his lap, easily folding back the glossy cover as he begins flipping through the pages.
āI think, out of everything, Iām going to miss dressing up nice most of all,ā Karl remarks wistfully as he looks through spreads of runway highlights from fashion weeks long past. He hums as he flips pages, lingering on sheer, diaphanous evening gowns, cropped bolero jackets, and high-waisted flared corduroys.
āHave you thought about that sh*t yet?ā Quackity asks, elbowing Scar, conspiratorial in his question. āWhat youāre gonna miss most?ā
Itās a macabre question, and Scar raises his eyebrows at it. Yet again, he glances in Grianās direction, as if to confirm theyāre both on the same dreary page.
āI donāt know if weāve thought that far ahead,ā he admits after a pause, choosing his words carefully. Thereās a deep well of sadness theyāre all carefully skirting, one Grian doesnāt think the other three are quite aware of yet. For the first time since their meeting he becomes all too aware of their youth. The naivety of their questions. āKids,ā Scar had called them.
āIām gonna miss bagel bites,ā Sapnap bemoans, arms crossed behind his head. Heās reclining, resting across Karlās lap as Karl continues to leaf through the magazines, one hand absently combing through Sapnapās tangled hair. āHot pockets, pizza rollsā¦ the whole frozen pizza spectrum, really.ā
āThe internet,ā Karl offers, looking up, the expression in his eyes faraway and dreamy. āSpotify. Livestreams. 10 hour long YouTube playlists of people unboxing expensive designer advent calendarsā¦ā
āDude, the internetās not gonna go anywhere,ā Sapnap insists, tilting his head back to look up at Karl.
āAre you crazy? Of course it will,ā Quackity snickers, rolling his eyes in a fond way.
āNo way,ā Sapnap persists, dogged. āNobodyās gonna flip the big ākill the internetā switch right before they turn, dumbass. Itāll just keepā¦ broadcasting, or whatever.ā
āI think people need to be around to keep it running,ā Scar muses, mildly matter-of-fact. āItās not selfā¦ imposedā¦? Self-inferredā¦? Selfāwhatās the word, Grian?ā
āSelf-sustaining,ā Grian supplies easily, innately knowing Scarās intention. āAnd heās right. If itās not down already, it will be soon.ā
āNo way, thatās nuts,ā Sapnap mourns, regret kicking in instantly. āsh*t. How are we gonnaā? Oh my godā¦ f*ck, weāre never gonna see p*rn again.ā
āThatās my boy,ā Karl chuckles, affectionate, dipping his head down as he smooths Sapnapās hair back and kisses his forehead. āOne track mind.ā
āIām serious,ā Sapnap groans. āIf Iād knownāā
āYou wouldāve what? Jerked off more?ā Quackity teases, cackling. āCāmon babe, donāt be like that in front of our new friends. They still have some respect for you.ā
āThis is f*cking ludicrous,ā Sapnap grumbles, huffing despite the small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. āLike burning the Library of Alexandria.ā
Karl shakes his head, overly indulgent in his boyfriendās antics. He continues stroking Sapnapās hair as he finishes one magazine and then reaches for the next, far more engrossed than Grian wouldāve expected from him.
āIām gonna miss nice spa days,ā Karl adds after several minutes of silence have passed. āA long soak in the tub. Lo-fi beats. Doing my nails.ā He turns his hands over, inspecting his fingertips, folding them flat against his palms. His nail polish, alternating bright blue and orange, is chippedāsome of the paint flaked off completely.
Something about it stirs an emotion in Grian; a longing to sympathise without wanting to expose the vulnerability that it would force him into. He looks away without saying a word, instead getting to his feet so he can stoke the fire.
āDid you always paint them?ā The sound of Scarās voice, deep and ponderous, startles Grian.
Thereās genuine curiosity in his question, and though Grian keeps his eyes resolutely on the fire, he can picture Scar leaning forward in his seat, studying Karlās hands with interest.
āMm,ā Karl says, relaxed and at-ease. āWhenever I remembered. Iād forget a lotābut yeah, I loved it. Love it.ā
āHuhā¦ā
Karl laughs, unbothered. āNo shade on you rough-and-tumble lads or anything. I love me a gritty guy, justā¦ mans loves to feel pretty sometimes, yāknow?ā
Grianās mouth feels dry. He keeps his head down, not sure why the conversation is distressing him as much as it is. Something about Karlās openness, the lack of concern in his tone, carefree and unafraid as he speaks. Heās confident as he shows off something Grian has never allowed himself to look at as anything more than a fleeting peek caught in the corner of his eye.
Thereās nothing wrong with it, he justā¦
āI always wanted to try it.ā
Scarās confession wrenches Grianās head around with a twist so strong he feels a pinch in his shoulders. He tries not to look any particular way, but heās sure he must look like a fool, mouth parted in shock. He canāt help himself, riveted at the casual way Scar says the words.
Inclined across the space between their seats, Scar has Karlās hand delicately cradled in his palm, turning his fingertips towards the fire to get a better look.
āWhy didnāt you?ā Karl asks, voicing the question before Grian can.
Scar shrugs a shoulder, letting Karlās hand go as he sits back.
āJust never got around to it,ā he admits. āThought I had all the time in the world. And I meanāI didnāt really know where to get started.ā
I couldāve told you, Grian wants to say. Fragile and sensitive. Another missed connection between them. Something that he no doubt fostered.
Grian thinks about a makeup bag pushed into the back of his bathroom cabinet. He thinks about kitten heels with rhinestones on the toes. He thinks about drag nights at local bars he paid the cover for, but then hovered just outside the entrance, too nervous to step all the way in.
He thinks about a piece of himself he never had the chance to properly explore, and how itās now being brought up between Scar and a man who, just a few days ago, was a complete stranger.
He bites his tongue so hard it hurts.
With the slap of glossy pages flipping shut, Karl sits up. He gets to his feet in a fluid motion, somehow managing not to jostle Sapnap as he moves. Grian turns to watch him leave the room, not knowing whatās happening. He looks to Scar, but Scar merely mirrors his confusion, the two of them simmering in uncertainty until Karl returns a moment later, his backpack held against his chest as he digs into one of its deepest pockets.
āAināt this your lucky night,ā he announces cheerfully.
Without hesitating he sits back down, tucking his backpack against his feet and holding out his hands, several bottles of nail polish cupped in his palms. When heās met with silence, Karl scoots forward, moving to sit cross legged on the floor in front of Scar. He holds up the colours he hasābright blue, purple, orange, pink, and something glossy flecked with glitter.
Grian feels the lump forming in his throat, something choked and asphyxiating as he watches the scene unfold like a pariah lurking in the rafters.
Scar doesnāt try to hide his smile, letting Karl press the bottles into his hands, one by one. Leaning back, Karl yanks one of the cushions off his seat, tucking it under himself before he digs back into his backpack. After a moment of searching, he produces a nail file.
Itās the first time Grian really realises that the trio had time to properly pack. Unlike him and Scar, who left with what Grian had shoved into his backseat, they brought things with themāproper things. Items to make living bearable, beyond the essentials. Little things, nostalgic and warm.
A feeling he canāt explain festers in Grianās chest at the revelation. Another jab to stoke the fires.
āI donāt have black,ā Karl apologises. āI know a lot of guys like to start with itā¦ but I wasnāt thinking Iād be doing manicures in the apocalypse.ā
Scar chuckles, rotating through the colours in his hands, the glass bottles clacking together before he turns one towards Karl.
āOrange is my favourite,ā he explains, pausing before he reconsiders. āOr should I go for blueā¦?ā
āYou can have both,ā Quackity pipes up, semi-absorbed in one of the romance novels heād found. Heās angled himself towards the fire to take better advantage of the light, legs stretched out on the seat. āHot guy perks. Right, Karl?ā
āThatās what people in the industry call it,ā Karl quips in confirmation, taking the bottles back from Scar and setting the orange and blue aside.
He looks gentle, almost reverent, as he takes Scarās right hand in his, smoothing his thumbs over Scarās knuckles, briefly massaging his palm before he flattens Scarās fingers out and begins tending to his nails with the rasp of the file. Karl doesnāt have small hands by any means, heās not diminutive, but Scarās hand dwarfs his all the same.
āThe boys donāt let me paint their nails,ā he says conversationally as he moves from one nail to the next. It must be easier work than he expects, Grian thinks. Scar wasnāt fastidious, but he took care of himself prior to the apocalypse. He has nice handsāor, at least, Grian had always thought so.
If Karl compliments them, he doesnāt know what heāll do.
āI let you! Once,ā Sapnap insists. In Karlās absence, heās spread out on the pallet seat, paging through the magazines himself, laying on his back as he holds it up to catch the firelight.
āFor our very first date,ā Karl confides to Scar like itās tantalising gossip. āAnd heād picked the paint all off by the next time I saw him.ā
āNot a nail polish guy, what can I say?ā Sapnap shrugs, dismissive of the fact.
The trio titter, and Grian finds himself phasing their conversation out as he stares at Scarās bright smile. His enthusiasm for the moment is clear, letting Karl do his work as he patiently watches Karl work. Itās clear that theyāre sharing a good moment, something everyone is enjoying.
Grian doesnāt want to be the wet blanket. He doesnāt want to bring the collective mood down.
He turns to poke another wedge of wood into the fire, wishing he was anywhere else in the world but here, with a stranger painting his boyfriendāsāex-boyfriendās nails.
In another world, this couldāve been something he and Scar shared together. Something Grian could introduce Scar to and teach him about. Instead, the whole situation sits sour in his stomach; hopeless nostalgia for a life that never existed.
As the painting session drags on, Grian triesāagain and againāto involve himself. He opens his mouth, hesitating over a compliment or commiseration, but every time he makes an attempt, he canāt get his voice out. Whatās the use when none of them seem to care that heās been silent all this time? When not even Scar has looked his way once since Karl graced his attention on him.
By the time Scarās nails are dry and itās time for bed, Grian is lost in his own misery. Itās unfair. Itās stupid. He knows the way heās reacting is irrational, and yetā¦
When they finally retire to their room, he makes every effort not to speak. Heās quiet as he shrugs off his sweater and pulls his feet out of his shoes, padding forward in socked feet to their bed and laying down with ample distance between Scar and himself.
If Scar notices, he makes no comment on itāappreciating the amiability of the moment as if everything is fine. Scar lays on his back, one hand resting on his chest, and the other raised as he admires the daubs of colour on his nails in the dim moonlight sifting in through the window. Even Grian can admit that Karl did a good job, the paint neat and even, with nothing spilled over onto Scarās cuticles.
āCanāt believe it took me until the apocalypse to try this,ā Scar muses quietly after a lengthy pause, letting his hand drop to his side and half-chuckling in the dimness.
Grian says nothing, weirdly tangled in his own emotions, caught like a flower petal pressed flat between heavy pages, compressed flat and frozen. He doesnāt know how to fix this. Doesnāt know how to reorient himself so that heās the him he used to be. Or, at least, always wanted to be; the one that Scar fell in love with.
Resolutely he keeps his eyes closed, feigning sleep.
He knows full well Scar wonāt buy it.
āTheyāre nice boys,ā Scar adds, low and conversational, in the deep, rumbling tone Grianās familiar with from a hundred nights of past pillow talk. āWe really lucked out with them, I think.ā
āI still feel like theyāre up to something.ā
Itās a stupid thing to say, after so long in silence, with no grounds except jealousy on which to say it. The words are out of him before he can help himself.
Even as he says them, he knows heās f*cked up.
āYou still want to pick at this?ā Scar asks, sombre in the darkness. āReally?ā
Grian says nothing, knowing any word will incite an argumentāwishing, too late, that heād just kept pretending to sleep.
āDo you honestly think theyāre suspicious, or do you just not like it when I have friends?ā Scar asks after enough silence has passed. āBecause I know what this feels like, and Iām not sure youāll like the answer.ā
The question burns, incriminating and hot on the back of Grianās neck, making him feel wretched. The memory of too many arguments about the amount of time Scar would spend with Cub, and his easy affection for Pearl. The way his openly fond nature would pick at Grian like a scab. How, the more distance Grian had put between them, the more paradoxically possessive heād gotten over Scarās affections. A cover-up for the way heād been going around behind Scarās backāthinking the worst of him because heād been doing the worst himself.
Grian bites his tongue, hands clasped in tight fists, body tense, waiting for the moment to pass.
Eventually Scar sighs, surrendering to the futility of the moment.
āGānight, Grian,ā he relents, curtānot angry, but close enough to it to feel damning.
Without another word, Scar turns over, mattress springs squeaking as he moves to face away from Grian, looking out towards the stained, empty floor of the room.
Sooner than Grian wouldāve guessed, his breathing evens out; slow, steady inhales and deep, heavy exhales. Itās a rhythm Grian is familiar with, but it offers him no comfort when theyāve gone to bed having solved nothing. He stares at the scuffed plaster of the wall in front of him as he lays awake, letting his mind rush through a hundred different scenarios.
On the one hand, he could try for a change. It wouldnāt take much to pretend nothing was wrong. He could embrace the trio and at the very least act like he didnāt believe they were out to stab them in the back. Scar would like that, he thinks. And maybe itād be easier that way, to lie and go about like they were all trusting and happy and normal. To bury his jealousy and will away his possessiveness, hide all of it behind a smile and sweet words.
On the other hand, all it takes is one false move, one tiny mistake in the midst of this apocalypse, to lose everything that matters to him in an instant. Despite how much he knows Scar wants it, he canāt afford to place his trust in the wrong people.
He lies awake until even the boys outside are asleep, Sapnapās snores shaking the thin walls placed between them. He thinks about his options. He thinks about their future. He thinks about Scar, and himself, and the trio that has come between them.
He thinks, hard, about which road to take next.
Notes:
Phew we did it! Hopefully that formatted and posted right aaaaaaaa. Everyone thank Key for all the work she does getting this fic ready to post- I never want to do it again so PLEASE don't get kidnapped by a dragon, bestie. I cannot stress this enough.
xox Lock
Chapter 15
Notes:
HELLO AGAIN! Switching to Scar POV for this chapter, which happens to be one of my three faves for this arc >:D Here's hoping y'all enjoy it! š
Please skip to the end notes for spoiler-y CONTENT WARNINGS related to this chapter if you feel they may apply to you!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It takes another day before Scar is able to stand up and walk with minimal pain, and another before he feels confident enough to venture outside again.
The timing is as right as it is necessary. Though theyāve been careful, the groupās supplies have dwindled. Their water especiallyāwithout any creeks or rainwater basins in the town, thereās been nothing to replenish what theyāve used, and thirst isnāt something they can simply brush off.
Reluctantly, Grian had sat down with Karl, the two working together with his creased bundle of maps to guesstimate their location. As near as they can tell, theyāre about an hour and a half walk from the nearest town. A straight road through open, empty desert.
Scar can tell it makes Grian nervous. As much as theyāve scouted around the dilapidated homes and leaning husks of buildings, theyāve not found anything that could serve them for transportation. No bikes, no ATVs, no secret hidden motorcade. They have no choice but to walk, a decision that they come to reluctantly, everyone uncertain about his endurance.
āI need you to stop treating me like Iām made of glass,ā Scar says in the privacy of his and Grianās room, sitting on the edge of whatās become their bed as he packs the little he has into his bag. āI know my body. I know what Iām capable of. Trust me, Grian. These babies can go for miles.ā He says it with a smile, patting his thigh with ample confidence.
āWhat if you canāt, though?ā Grian asks, arms clutched around himself, saying what he no doubt feels they must both be thinking.
āThen you leave me next to a cactus to die,ā Scar replies, flat. āAnd you hope the next time we meet weāre in a world with magic so I can wizard my legs better with a healing crystal or something.ā
His words catch Grianās attention. A tender curl of hope maybe, nurtured by the past two days of civility theyāve enjoyed.
āYou think weād meet in another life?ā He asks, gentler than Scar wouldāve expected.
Itās a concept Grian wouldāve shrugged off before the apocalypse.
Now Scar finds him clinging to it with curiosity.
Scar gives him a look, caught somewhere between fond and frustrated by Grianās priorities. Instead of answering, he braces his hands on his knees, leveraging himself up with a wince that he manages to almost completely hide.
āLetās get going.ā
Grian moves to join him without complaint, agreeable in the way heās been for the last two days. Scar doesnāt know how or when or why he had a change of heart, but itās been good for the group as a whole so he hasnāt made an effort to question it.
When they exit to find the trio waiting for them outside, thereās no forced smiles or stiff politeness. Karlās smile is bright as his eyes turn to them, and Quackity is quick to step forward to stand at Grianās side, shepherding him in so that he feels like part of the group.
Itās not perfectāit couldnāt be, not in such a short amount of timeābut itās enough to spark hope in Scarās chest. Maybe the worst of their little groupās tensions are behind them.
Heās not naive enough to believe that Grianās fully back to who he used to be, the person he knew before things went so wrong between them. Still, Scar can see that heās trying, and something about that makes his heart ache. He appreciates the gesture, even if he wishes it came sooner.
The trio are still cautious around Grian, and Grian himself has a bit of plastic in his smiles, but itās progress and heās glad for it.
āIām so f*ckinā ready to leave this place, holy sh*t,ā Sapnap crows, stooped just behind Quackity, chest pressed to his back, arms around his waist, resting his chin on Quackityās shoulder as he speaks. āLetās break into a hotel and set up camp there next, get some proper five-star treatment for a change.ā
Quackity snorts, turning his head towards his boyfriend with the raise of a brow before he nuzzles into his cheek. āYou want room service in the apocalypse? My mans is still asleep and dreaming.ā
āIāll show you room service,ā Sapnap insinuates, all promise, grinning wide and pressing a kiss to the edge of Quackityās jaw. It makes him squawk, laughing and cursing as he pushes Sapnap away.
The display puts a smile on Scarās face, warm and happy. Watching them bicker back and forth reminds him of how he and Grian used to be, and he canāt help himself from turning his gaze in Grianās direction. To his surprise, thereās a secret smile on Grianās face too, eyes bright as he watches the pair.
It makes his stomach flip-flop, not sure whether to trust this or second-guess it.
Could it really be that easy? Now that Grian is warming up to the trio, could things resolve that easily? Itās hard to put his faith in Grian when his trust has been mangled by him before, butā¦ for the first time since he stood at the threshold of Grianās front door, hearing incriminating sounds and knowing he could no longer deny what was happening, Scar finds himself wanting to believe in him.
āCāmon fellas,ā Karl calls over his shoulder, heading down the driveway, steps jaunty as he moves to lead them out of the ghost town. āItās gonna be a couple hours of walking if we take breaks in between, so better we get going sooner rather than later.ā
Quackity and Sapnap immediately fall into step, trotting after Karl and leaving Grian alone to hang back with Scar. Thereās a moment of held-breath as Scar carefully descends the front steps, but thereās no splitting ache, no pain in his joints that he canāt handle, and he finds himself casting a reassuring grin in Grianās direction.
āAll good.ā
He grips the head of the hoe, keeping his makeshift walking stick in hand just in case, but as he starts after the trio he finds his pain is truly not that bad.
Itās a relief, to say the least.
āYou never told me you had a side hoe, Scar,ā Quackity quips, looking at him back over his shoulder, both his hands caught in Sapnap and Karlās as he walks between them, their fingers entwined.
āWell, this hoeās been a big support to me,ā Scar teases back.
Beside him Grian groans, making a show of rolling his eyes.
It should hurt that Grian is joining in on the joke rather than remaining locked in guilty silence. Scar wants to pick at it, wants to ask if Grianās decided to absolve himself of the shame of his actions so quickly, but he doesnāt want to be the one to break their peace by risking argument, so he leaves it.
Heās caused them all enough setbacks already.
Itās early enough to still feel the chill of night as they walk, the air cool in his lungs as Scar takes a deep breath. It feels good to be outside again, and even better to be leaving the open grave of the ghost town behind. They pause momentarily at an intersection, Grian and Karl consulting the map Grian keeps tucked into the side pocket of his bag, before together they all head northeast, starting down a long stretch of road that runs until it disappears over the horizon line.
Despite everything, the collective mood is good. Itās fun, Scarās realised, to spend time with people so absolutely smitten with one another. He still doesnāt understand themā doesnāt understand the way they divide their love and affections between one another, but he can tell it works for them. He can tell theyāre happy. Quackity walks between Sapnap and Karl, the three of them giddy with a honeymoon glow that has yet to grow sallow for them. Itās sweet to see the contagious affection they share for one another.
In a weird way, it makes him think more fondly of Grian.
Not that he forgives him. Not that heās not still angry at himābruised and broken hearted. Theyāre nearly two weeks out from when he caught Grian with another man, and maybe itās because heās already strung out from everything else theyāve endured since butā¦ some days, heās not as angry as he should be. He still wishes for distance, wishes for the proper time to rest and grieve and recover, but every moment of joy shared between the trio makes him nostalgic for his own history with Grian. Better times. Kinder times. Moments of shared affection and open, unbridled adoration.
āPenny for your thoughts?ā Grian asks, glancing up at him as they walk side by side, breaking a silence Scar hadnāt realised theyād been enjoying.
āJust thinking,ā Scar supplies, trying to determine how long heād been daydreaming.
āAbout?ā Grian presses, undeterred.
āAbout us.ā
He canāt help but notice the way Grianās face immediately falls.
āOh.ā
āAbout the good times,ā Scar offers, kinder than he has any reason to be.
Thereās a pause at that as Scar turns his gaze back towards the trio leading the way. Itās clear that Grian wants to say something, and Scar is willing to give him the time to say it. Thereās no reason to push, not when theyāve got plenty of time and the relative privacy to discuss it. He waits for Grian while taking in the way Sapnap reaches out to ruffle Quackityās beanie on his head. Quackity shouts something, clearly disparaging, but the blush on his face betrays his real feelings. It makes Scar smile, seeing them be so enamoured with one another.
āDo you remember,ā Grian says at last, hesitant, like heās worried Scar wonāt want to hear it. āThe first time you invited me to your work?ā
Scar does. It was a long time agoāa handful of months before heād had to quit, in fact.
He smiles. āThe Halloween party?ā
āI was so nervous,ā Grian continues, encouraged now that Scar has prompted him further. āWhen you invited me I wasnāt sure I should even come. I didnāt have a costumeā¦ I wasnāt prepared.ā
āI made you one,ā Scar says.
āāMadeā is a strong word,ā Grains scoffs. āPretty sure you just grabbed a tablecloth from catering and cut some holes in it.ā
Scar grins. āI was thinking on my feet! You got to the place and looked like you were gonna be sick because you were the only one dressed normal!ā
āI know,ā Grian laughs. āI thought, yāknow, āwell theyāre all professional adults.ā I was so scared of showing up overdressed. And then you took off your costumeāā
āI was Indiana Jones that year,ā Scar sighs wistfully.
āYes, and you looked very handsome.ā Grian rolls his eyes, light-hearted but still managing to make Scarās heart jump at the compliment. āThe point is: you took off your well thought-out, incredibly put-together costume, grabbed another tablecloth, and then we were both ghosts.ā
āA couple of grim grinning ghosts, one could say,ā Scar teases. Heās pleased when Grian flushes, his cheeks turning pink.
āOne could,ā he allows, āAnd then we stood in the shadows all night, jumping out at people whenever they came close by.ā
āGod, remember when my boss jumped and spilled his punch all over his shirt? That was amazing.ā
āIt was amazing.ā Grian laughs aloud at the memory, eyes glimmering. It makes him look younger, like the man Scar had fallen for in the first place.
They fall silent after that, both reminiscing about the past. Minutes pass before Grian speaks up again, quiet, like heās saying a confession. āMore importantlyā¦ it was a lot of fun. I had a great night with you. By the end of it, I couldnāt remember why Iād been so nervous in the first place.ā
āIām glad,ā Scar hums, meaning it. He should leave it there, he knows he should, but the trip down memory lane twists something melancholy inside of him, and he canāt help the words that slip from between his lips. āBut I wish youād told me that back then.ā
Heās not expecting for Grian to look up at him, eye-to-eye, expression open and honest.
āMe too.ā
Scarās heart skips a beat. Catching on something tender.
Oh.
He looks away before Grian does, turning his attention forward towards the trio. Theyāre oblivious to whatās happening behind them, carrying on with banter that Scar canāt focus enough to hear. His heart is still racing, that perfect moment of Grianās sincerity playing and replaying in front of his eyes.
Ahead of them, Sapnap stops pestering Quackity and instead reaches for his hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to his knuckles with a salacious waggle of his brows. Karl coos and fawns, knocking shoulders with Quackity and pushing him into Sapnapās space. After a bit of token protesting, Quackity finally relents, tangling his fingers with Sapnapās and letting their clasped hands fall between them as they walk.
Scarās palm tingles as he watches them.
Slowly, without turning his face, he reaches out next to him, finding Grianās wrist and wrapping his fingers around it.
āScar, whatāā Grian starts.
āDonāt read into it,ā Scar says, letting his touch slip down, twining their fingers together.
He doesnāt know whatās compelled him to do this. Something about how the trio arenāt just surviving in this chaos. How, despite the wreckage of the world around them, their love is thriving. With nothing else to hang on toānothing they can trustātheyāve chosen to hang on to one another.
They look so happy together.
He needs that, Scar realises. He needs something concrete, something to ground him. And while it still hurts, while he still hasnāt forgiven him, while there are still tensions and tears and arguments and agonies untold in their future, he has to hang on to something.
So he hangs on to Grianās hand. Small and familiar, but strange, too. Rougher, now. Calloused in ways that are new.
Not the same hand he used to hold, but maybe close enough.
For about twenty minutes they walk together, Grianās fingers tangled in his own, holding tight. The banter of the trio drifts back to them, raucous and ridiculous, but next to him Grian stays completely silent, almost as though heās afraid the moment will shatter if he does anything to disturb it.
Eventually the spell is forced to break. Karl tilts his head back, casting his attention over his shoulder as he calls to ask if theyāre ready for a break. When his eyes land on their clasped hands he spins around completely, walking backwards with ease as a smile splits his face in two.
āAnd whatās this?ā he asks, delight evident in his tone.
Breaking his silence, Grian huffs, hand tightening around Scarās in a defensive grip.
āTake a picture, itāll last longer,ā he replies, and Karl laughs, miming raising a camera to his face to snap a photo before spinning back around, arms swinging exaggerated at his sides.
Itās only when theyāve stopped to rest their legs that Scar remembersājostled from one bag to another and now tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket: the disposable camera from the Roswell roadside rest-stop.
He works his hand around the edge of it in his pocket, feeling the smooth corners of the plastic with the pad of his thumb. It feels corny to ask the trio to pose for a photo, so he waits until theyāve resumed walking, when Sapnap pauses to shrug off his backpack, handing it to Karl so he can crouch down and let Quackity hop onto his back, arms hugged around Sapnapās shoulders as Karl laughs and eggs them on. Itās a candid, joyful moment, and without a second thought Scar pulls the camera out of his pocket and snaps a photo of the three, looking small in the lens as the desert stretches out around them on either side.
āDo you want to take one with them?ā Grian asks when he notices what Scarās up to, but Scar shakes his head. He puts the camera away before the trio notice, feeling a little silly now that heās taken it.
What would he tell them if they asked? That heās taking pictures for a future that will never be? He knows the film will never be developed, that thereās no point to it. He justā¦ did it for the sake of it. Some innate part of him wanting to know heād at least tried to preserve these memories in a physical, tactile, medium.
After he puts the camera away, Grian reaches for his hand again. Itās a subtle bumping, one that Scar could ignore, but he doesnāt. He lets their hands clasp once more and smiles to himself when Grian audibly sighs in relief.
By the time they reach their destination itās nearly noon. The chill of morning has evaporated, leaving behind a midday sun that, while bright, isnāt very warm. The town itself isnāt all that impressive, but after the dilapidation theyāve spent their last few days in, the signs of recent habitation make it seem metropolitan and palatial.
The majority of the buildings are clustered around a town square, surrounded on every side by one-way roads. Itās a tiny place, and Scar imagines there had to be less than a thousand people living here. Itās got a community feel to it though, like something nostalgic. Classic Americana preserved in time.
They skirt the area cautiously, wary of a sudden ambush. Behind the town square they can see glimpses of habitation, rows of single storey houses shaded beneath sparse, patchy trees running back on side streets, but it feels too risky to venture in when they donāt yet know if the area is infested or abandoned.
āWe should set up a base camp,ā Sapnap suggests, sounding pragmatic and practical, as they sit at the town limit and assess the area. He nods his head towards a motel they can see a few dozen yards down the road. āIf that place is empty, it could work. Lots of space, proper locks on the doors, plenty of beds if we need to stay for any reason.ā Heās deliberately vague, but his eyes linger on the broken hoe that Scar has been using for a cane all morning.
Scar does his best not to feel singled out. To take it for the kind consideration that it is.
āWell what are we waiting for then, gents?ā He asks, pushing himself forward so as to not seem vulnerable in front of the trio.
He can see the way Grianās jaw is clenched. Knows heās doing everything in his power not to say something in Scarās defence.
Heās grateful for it. In more ways than one.
They approach the motel with caution, keeping quiet as they creep in close. It, like everything else, looks old. Vintage way that catches Scarās attention. The large neon sign set next to the entrance to the parking lot reads The Rancher Motel, the mismatched letters on the marquee beneath it boasting: POOL, LAUNDRY, WIFI.
āSap, you wanted a hotel, right?ā Karl says enthusiastically, jogging up to the sign and gesturing at it with both arms. āTry this on for size. Definitely five stars.ā
The parking lot of the motel is empty, but itās impossible to tell how long itās been like that. A kidney bean shaped pool in the courtyard looks like itās in need of a cleaning, the water scummed over with bits of brush and empty beer cans. The curtains of every window are drawn. Shuttered and quiet.
They creep in together, weapons at the ready.
The door to reception swings in without protest when Sapnap nudges it. Thereās no sound from inside, no sudden rush of grotesque, grasping bodies. The reception itself is small, a single counter with an outdated computer monitor on it. It stands in front of a wall of keys, two brown leather chairs set to the side around a planter with a wilting ficus in it. Thereās a large painting on the wood-panelled wall; two cowboys on horseback surveying a range of grazing cattle, hung next to a door that says āStaff Only.ā
āItās all clear,ā Sapnap announces, returning from his first quick round of checking the rooms.
āNice work,ā Grian praises, and it does Scarās heart good to see him accepting Sapnapās assessment.
From beside him, Karl brandishes the map he and Grian have been relying on. āOur next stop is gonna take at least six hours to get to,ā Karl explains, pointing to their location in the middle of nowhere. āItād be better if we could stay here for the night and head out tomorrow, but in a pinch we could make it there today.ā He grins, winking as he elbows Grian. āYāknow, like if thereās not enough mints on your pillow.ā
āA single pea under my mattress and weāre gone,ā Grian jokes, and Karl laughs brightly.
Scar stares, watching Grian contribute to the conversation, participating without his normal bristling complaint. Heās not sure whatās brought about this change, but it squeezes his ribs with a kind of elation. Finally, finally, Grian is giving them a chance to see his good side.
They agree to split up, testing their walkie-talkies as the trio set off to scout the area surrounding the motel while Scar and Grian secure the rooms.
āThe good news is that if everyoneās already turned, thereās gonna be a lot of sh*t for us to help ourselves to,ā Sapnap says, cheerful to the point of being almost too upbeat at the prospect. Heās taken off his bag, leaving it on one of the sun-faded chairs. Without it he looks limber, stretching his arms above his head like heās getting ready to run a marathon.
āYou sure you two are going to be okay on your own?ā Karl asks, placing a hand on Grianās shoulder that, surprisingly, Grian doesnāt pull away under. Scar watches the exchange with interest, but Grian merely smiles and nods.
āWe know how to handle ourselves,ā he says reassuringly, and Karl accepts it without question, easily deferring to Grianās confidence.
They split up, and Scar and Grian are left standing in the reception office, strangely unmoored as they find themselves alone for the first time in several days.
āIāll get the master key. We can check the rooms and snag the best one for ourselves,ā Grian says immediately, ducking behind the reception desk to face the wall of room numbers and corresponding keys dangling on hooks, nearly all of them hanging in place. Thereās a spring to his step, an enthusiasm there that Scar hasnāt seen in days.
āWhatās gotten into you?ā
The question is asked without malice, but Grian still looks at him askance, an eyebrow quirked and a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
āWhat do you mean?ā
āCāmon, Grian,ā Scar teases, gentle. āYou know what I mean.ā
Thereās something loose unspooling between themāa familiar affection. Scar can feel it, like the ghost heat of Grianās palm pressed against his all morning. A fondness, flirtatious.
I like you this way, Scar wants to say. This is the Grian I know.
āIām certain I donāt know what youāre talking about,ā Grian insists, grabbing the master keyring from its hook on the wall.
Impulsively, Scar has the urge to kiss him. It bubbles up, catching him off guard, but Grianās already out of the reception and walking towards the first of the motel rooms before he can act on it, forcing him to merely trail after him.
āYouāre in a good mood,ā he says as Grian unlocks the first door, not bothering to smother the grin on his face. āYouāre being nice.ā
āIām finding us the best room. And keeping us safe from googlies,ā Grian answers evasively, but thereās a smile in his words as he says them.
The first room they investigate reveals two twin beds with more rancher-themed artwork on the walls. The second is the same, Grian checking the bathroom while Scar hangs back in the doorway. It feels like theyāre playing hide-and-week, unserious in a way that feels funārelaxed, even.
āItās a shame about the pool being in such a state,ā Grian says, matter-of-fact as he uses the master key to unlock a third room. āCouldāve shown off your swimming skills again.ā
They find a queen-sized bed in this one, as well as a TV thatās seen better days standing on a dresser.
Itās as Grian turns around to leave that Scar makes his move.
He closes the door with a hand just as Grian reaches it, effectively trapping Grian between it and his body. Grian makes a confused sound, and Scar canāt help the grin playing on his lips. When he turns around, his expression is bewildered.
Scar wishes he could use the camera to capture it.
āScar, what are youā?ā
āCan I kiss you?ā Scar interrupts.
The way Grian goes still, cheeks immediately flushing with warmth, makes Scarās grin pull even wider. Itās been too long since heās caught Grian off-guard like thisāsince heās wanted to catch Grian off-guard like thisāand it makes his stomach flutter in that same lovestruck way it used to.
He knows that things are different now. Heās not about to forget what Grian did, but at the same time, the nostalgia and his fondness for it is hard to ignore. He fell hard for Grian, and seeing him act so much like the man he remembers has ignited a fire low in his belly that begs to be kindled further.
Boxed in by him, Grianās face goes through several emotions, too fast for Scar to read. He eventually settles on something that seems neutral, but comes off as more than a little hurt.
āAre you having a laugh? Because itās not funny, Scar.ā
āIām not joking,ā Scar insists, taking a step forward. It makes Grian take an instinctive step back, hitting the door behind him. Heās cornered, Scar looming over him in a way that feels loaded. āIād like to kiss you... if thatās alright?ā
Dark eyes flick over his face, Grianās brows furrowed and mouth set. Scar lets him look, confident. Eventually, the redness on Grianās cheeks darkens, his gaze flicking down to Scarās mouth before he drags it back up again.
āIt couldāā Grian starts, before his voice cracks and he has to start again. āIt could be dangerous, Scar. We donāt want to get caught unaware.ā
āYou know weāre okay for now,ā Scar says, quiet. āThereās no gogglers here.ā
āGooglies,ā Grian corrects, still transfixed on Scar, his words getting quieter by the moment.
āMm,ā Scar hums, shrugging his shoulder. āYou know what I meanā¦ā
Grian hesitates, looking away quickly before he lets his gaze dart back. āWhat if the guys come backā¦?ā
Scar slides his hand down the wall, bringing it to a rest on Grianās shoulder. Slowly, carefully, he reaches out to cup his cheek, stroking it with a thumb. Itās something heās done a hundred times before. Itās something he thought heād never want to do again.
āWe donāt have to if you donāt want to, Gri. Just say the word.ā
The tenderness of the moment pulls the nickname out of him and, for once, Scar finds he doesnāt mind. Itās obvious Grianās not brushing it away as easily however, a strangled noise working its way out of his throat. He stares up at Scar in disbelief, tentatively brushing his fingertips along the back of Scarās hand. Thereās an intensity stirring behind his eyes, one that Scar recognises well.
Grian turns his head into Scarās touch, pressing his lips to the curve of his palm. āI never said I didnāt want toā¦ā
Scar dips his head down, leaning closer, and on instinct Grianās eyelids flutter shut. Thereās a choke of emotions in his throat, his excitement and anticipation mixing with his uncertaintyāthe fear that heās rushing into something, that heās about to make yet another mistake, combatting how much he missed this. Wants this. He hesitates, lingering in the apex of the moment a fraction too long, causing Grian to draw a quick breath, lips parting, clearly about to ask if everythingās alright. It threatens the fragility of the moment, poised to crumble awayā¦
Scar closes the distance, kissing him, and it feels like coming home.
Soft, gentle. Nothing like the haze of adrenaline and instinct when he kissed Grian back at the storage locker. Nothing like the times when Grian had pressed in close, playing to Scarās loneliness, convincing him to act on impulses he later regretted.
This time, when Scar kisses Grian, it feels good.
They adjust slowly, Grian finding the familiar angle for the tilt of his head. Small motions nudging into and against one another.
Grian lets out a small sigh and Scar feels his lips part, inviting more. Heās pressed small between the wall and Scarās torso, but itās Scar who feels nervous as he delves deeper, investigating his limits until he feels Grian lean in, arms shifting up to wrap around his shoulders, familiar in a way he never thought heād feel againānever thought heād want to.
A low chuckle works its way out of his chest when he feels the tip of Grianās tongue against his lips. Their kiss deepens, a slow slide, both leading and being lead until at last Scar eases back just far enough to draw a proper breath, forehead pressed against Grianās as he smiles against his lips.
āThat was nice,ā he murmurs, appreciative in a way he wasnāt sure heād be. āThank you.ā
āYou donāt have to thank me,ā Grianās voice is warm with a smile, familiar but nervous, like theyāre on their first date. His fingers lift up, coaxing through tousled hair as he presses a lingering kiss to his cheek. āI wish I could wash this,ā he mourns quietly, pulling at a tangle until it tugs free.
āYou donāt like me all rugged and grubby?ā Scar teases, arm tightening around Grianās waist, nuzzling into him, the roughness of his stubble catching against Grianās own as Grian snickers against him. Thereās a heat growing as he feels Grianās body flex against his, igniting the desire to pursue this more.
His lips seek out Grianās, kissing him again.
The kiss is charged this time, their lips meeting with purpose. His mouth falls open, and Grianās tongue slips against his own. With experience, Scar sucks on it gently, relishing the way it makes Grian moan, hands tightening where theyāre twisted up in his hair.
Thereās a part of him that questions what heās doing, even now. It hasnāt been long enough to bury the hurt, and reconciliation is a far cry from where they stand right now. Itās stupid to be doing this when he and Grian still havenāt so much as talked about what happened.
But Scar is tired of being careful. Heās tired of feeling sorry for himself.
Besidesāpeople hook up with their exes all the time, donāt they?
āScarā¦ā Grian sighs as he draws back from the kiss, his eyes fluttering half open. His lips are kissed red, shiny with spit. It coils something hot and warm low in Scarās belly.
He waits till Grianās eyes are on him, a split second hesitation warring against his good sense, before he asks, āStill got that lube on you?ā
Grianās surprise is palpable in the way his mouth parts and his eyes widen. It makes Scar grin, lazy and self-satisfied, winking as Grian stares at him. Itās fun to watch the way the colour rises in Grianās cheeks, second only to the way Scar can feel him getting hard against his thigh. He pushes his knee up slightly, getting properly between Grianās legs, acknowledging in no uncertain terms that heās felt the interest.
āIāā Grian starts, then pauses, searching Scarās face. Thereās a wariness to him that Scar wishes wasnāt there; not when heās offering himself up so plainly. āAre you sure?ā
āI wouldnāt be here if I wasnāt,ā Scar reassures brightly, ignoring the times before now when heād goaded himself into participating.
Itās not that he hadnāt wanted to participateāitās just. Heād been unable to commit himself to the moment. The first time, back at the shooting range, heād been unable to get hard at all. Despite how heād kissed Grian, the hurt had been too fresh for Scar to shake off. Even beyond the cheating, he hadnāt been able to stop thinking about the people heād lost, and the life heād never be able to return to.
The second time, in the ghost town, heād been caught up in a sleep-warm haze. After the adrenaline of the day before, and struggling through the onset of a flare-up for even longer, crashing into a mattress at night and waking up slow in the morning had felt like a dream, or like heād finally woken from a bad dream. He hadnāt been thinking about what heād lost or where he was. Heād only focused on Grianās mouth on his skin, and the feel of his hands on his body. It had been goodāup until Sapnapās voice had interrupted them and brought reality crashing back down on him. It had been impossible to stay aroused after that, Scarās mind far too aware of their situation.
Now howeverā¦ things are different.
Itās been far enough out from the onset of the apocalypse that heās had time to acclimate, to adjust. Scar doesnāt know if heāll ever truly stop mourning, but heās no longer haunted by the freshness of his grief. Plus, Grianās been nicer. Friendlier. The last few days heās been making an effort, and despite the tension still lingering between them, Scar appreciates it.
And, if heās being entirely honestā¦ heās been lonely. It hasnāt been easy watching the trio be so obviously in love with one another, and only have a hole in his heart where that same devotion used to reside. He doesnāt feel like he should be blamed if Grian acting more like he used to be, before their relationship fell apart, has ignited something in him.
āScarā¦ā Grian says gently, and it works, pulling Scar out of his thoughts, his attention returning to the man in front of him, who smiles at him sweetly.
āSorry,ā Scar mumbles, ducking down again to nose against Grianās cheek, feeling the gentle itch of his stubble, Grianās facial hair so much finer than his own. āJust thinking.ā
āYouāre thinking an awful lot today,ā Grian teases, kissing the side of his nose, his temple. His lips find their way to Scarās ear, and he feels the hairs prickle up along the back of his neck as Grian whispers, āDo you want to do this here? Or would you rather try the bedā¦ā
Itās a good suggestion and itās kind of Grian to offer it. Scarās legs donāt feel bad, but he knows in the future heāll appreciate that he lay down when he had the chance to.
It feels like a lot, though. A certain degree of commitment.
Of trust.
He doesnāt want to think of the other man. He doesnāt want to think about needing special accommodations that someone else might not. Not now, not here.
āIām fine,ā he mumbles, hands working up the hem of Grianās shirt, looking for some bare skin to explore.
āScar,ā Grian presses gently, with the familiarity of someone whoās been through this a hundred times before. āIf itās all the sameā¦ Iād like to lay down with you.ā
Itās the push Scar needs, and he chuckles into the crook of Grianās neck before he pulls away, hand tangled with Grianās as he tugs him towards the bed. The rust-coloured duvet cover is starchy when he sits down on it, stiff in a way he barely notices, too busy with Grianās lips already back against his. Heās greedy now, resting one knee on the mattress as he leans in, intent on angling into Scarās personal space.
It feels cheeky, what theyāre doing. Disobedient. Like theyāve snuck away on a regular afternoon to have some fun. The room is quiet and warm and a little bit stuffy, filtering in the afternoon sunlight that streams through the parted blinds.
It doesnāt feel like the world is dangerous. It doesnāt feel like thereās any risk at all.
Grianās already pulling his flannel overshirt off, leaving himself in the loose button-up he wears underneath. It doesnāt feel like they have enough time to get all the way undressed, but Scar decides heāll take what he can get, fingers working open the first few buttons near Grianās collar before he pulls that shirt off, dragging the thin cotton of his undershirt with it as well.
It takes him a moment to catch his breath when he sees Grian shirtless. The smooth planes of his skin with the smattering of freckles along his collar bones. The sparse patch of chest hair that trails down to his belly. He hasnāt seen Grian like this since before the apocalypseāa familiar, unfamiliar sight.
āWhatās wrong?ā Grian asks, self conscious as Scar eases him towards the centre of the bed, rolling him onto his back and kissing him again as he settles between Grianās legs.
āNothing,ā Scar assures, words caught between kisses, pulse picking up speed at the way Grian shifts and sighs beneath him. āJust admiring the viewā¦ā
A blush scatters down Grianās body, rosy along his neck and shoulders. Itās not like him to be shy like thisāScarās more used to him laughing or rolling his eyes in the face of Scarās relentless affections. Maybe their break-up has changed him. What was it they said about absence and fondness?
āArenāt you going to undress too?ā Grianās voice is hesitant, as if heās afraid to cross a line.
In lieu of responding, Scar leans back and shucks off his jacket, followed by the button down heās wearing underneath. The tension in Grianās shoulders relaxes at that, his hands coming up to rove across Scarās body, hands ghosting above his navel, touching the firm muscle of his abdomen. When he leans down to kiss Grian again, licking easily into his mouth this time, Grianās hands automatically travel up his chest and around to his back, exploring him with his palms.
To Scarās relief, he can feel his jeans filling out as Grian touches him, zipper starting to strain a little. He shifts his legs to make room, spreading Grianās further in the process.
āIn my bag,ā Grian says between kisses, āBack pocket.ā
Reluctantly, Scar pulls back from the kiss, reaching to grab Grianās bag where he dropped it on the bed next to his discarded clothes. It takes a bit of fumbling to open the zip, but he manages with minimal struggle before he pulls the lube out. He brandishes it like a prize, and Grian smiles at him, laughing softly. It tugs at something in Scarās chest, and he tries not to dwell on it as he uncaps the tube.
āYou havenāt even taken my trousers off yet,ā Grian remarks, teasing.
āIām just getting it ready,ā Scar assures, leaving the opened tube off to one side, within easy reach. He returns to his place, settled between Grianās legs, and settles his hands purposefully on either thigh.
He can see the way Grian swallows, but his voice is unwavering as he speaks, āWeāre going to forget you uncapped it, end up rolling onto the bloody thing, and then lube will get everywhere.ā
āThat doesnāt sound like us,ā Scar hums, even though it absolutely does.
āScar.ā
Even in his exasperation thereās a levity to Grianās words; a lightness Scar hasnāt heard for a long, long time. He cuts the rest of their banter off, palms heavy on Grianās thighs as he leans down over him for another kiss, and then another. More pecksāto his lips, to his jaw, down his neck. Scar kisses his way down Grianās chest, all the way to the waistband of his pants, enjoying the way Grianās breathing quickens and how his body warms under him.
Thereās a fumbled enthusiasm as Scar loosens Grianās belt, nipping at the soft skin at his navel as Grian gasps and squirms beneath him. He reaches down, bending Grianās knee to loosen the laces of his boot, undoing them as quickly as he can before tugging it off Grianās foot. Thereās not enough room, not enough time to get Grianās other shoe off, and he laughs as Scar tugs his jeans down, working his right leg free and leaving the rest to catch on his left ankle.
āIn a rush?ā Grian teases, as Scar resettles himself, thumbs rubbing into his hips, near the prominent tent in his briefs.
āYou know we are,ā Scar replies, bending down to press another kiss to his stomach. His thumb dips down, dragging along the length of Grianās arousal, and Grianās hips hitch forward on instinct, a small gasp catching in his throat.
āScar,ā Grian huffs, almost a moan as Scar repeats the gesture, long slow touches along his length, until Grian is slowly rocking his hips up with each motion.
āLetās get these off you,ā Scar mumbles, dragging the elastic waistband down, Grian hissing softly as heās exposed, a strained breath rushing between his teeth.
āScarā¦ā he repeats, like itās the only word he knows.
āI know,ā Scar assures him, freeing Grianās leg again, bending his knee as he gently, carefully spreads him open, the whole of him exposed in a way thatās both beautiful and vulnerable.
āCan youā? Touch me, please,ā Grian asks, a softer request than Scar is used to from him. Thereās a moment of reluctance, a part of Scar wanting to see how long he can make Grian wait. Then Grian looks at him, eyes full and dark and wanting, and Scar surrenders, chest pressing flush to Grianās as he kisses him, letting his tongue fill his mouth as Grianās leg wraps around his waist, hips rolling up, greedy as he grinds the fullness of his arousal against Scarās.
āOkay,ā Scar says, moving steady against him, strong, confident motions as Grian chokes small sounds against his throat. The lube is back in his hand, cold liquid oozing out onto his fingertips, collecting in the crease of his knuckles as he warms it up. āOpen up for me. We donāt have long.ā
Grian relents, no longer rolling his hips and putting his legs back down. He keeps his knees parted, Scar backing up to make room as he lets his hand slip between them, gently grazing his arousal before seeking lower. Gently, he presses a finger to Grianās rim, circling it as he rubs the lube against it, slicking him up before he slowly presses his finger in. Grian hisses instinctively at the stretch, knees quaking a bit before he relaxes in practiced inches, moaning as Scar begins to tease the edge of his rim back and forth with the penetration.
Itās as he inserts the second finger that Grian gasps, face contorting. āC-careful Scar,ā he mumbles, words fuzzy as he speaks. āItās been a while... slower, please.ā
Scar smooths a hand apologetically over Grianās bare knee, pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh.
āMy bad.ā
He tries not to think about what lies at the other end of āa whileā. About who Grianās last time had been with. It isnāt the time for that.
Taking a breath, Scar pushes his stray thoughts out of his mind, focusing on slowing himself down, tiding against the rush of adrenaline that comes naturally with a situation like this. While their time is limited, and his emotions are high, thereās no reason to make something he should be enjoying so perfunctory.
Slowly, easy, he presses his fingers back in, halfway down to the second knuckle. Not a lot, but just enough to get a stretching motion going inside of Grian, flexing the muscles and helping Grian relax. Itās not long before Grian is sighing, relaxing as he melts into the feeling, and itās only then that Scar adds his third finger. He works his digits into Grian bit by bit, watching with a growing desire deep in his belly as Grianās hole takes him up to the second knuckle easily.
āOh,ā Grian moans, āOh, godā¦ā
āReady?ā Scar asks, and his voice comes out huskier than he expects. Before Grian can respond, he pushes his fingers in further, f*cking Grian all the way up to the base of his long digits, watching him arch his back up at the motion.
āYes,ā Grian gasps, already panting. āYes, god. Scar, pleaseāā
The eagerness in Grianās tone has Scar sitting up all at onceāregretting it seconds later when the motion sends an electric jolt through his knees and up into his hips. He must visibly wince, because he catches Grianās features folding in concern, his mouth twisting sideways.
āDo you want me to get on top instead?ā
Itās a thoughtful offer, and it makes Scar sick. Heās trying, really trying, not to think of the series of events that led them here. But itās impossible not to think about Grian cheating with an offer like that. He remembers, too vividly, the condom in the backseat of his car. The implications of itāsex with someone who was able to satisfy him in ways Scar simply couldnāt.
His gut twists but he smiles through it, instead opting to turn on the charm. āJust sat up too fast, you know how it is,ā he reassures, not entirely lying. āLay back, Gri. Let me handle it.ā
Easily, Grian lets himself fall back on the bedspread, and itās such a sight to see him spread out that way. Chest rising and falling with small, panting breaths, dick hard and weeping pre onto his belly. His legs are spread apart around where Scarās fingers are buried inside him, muscles trembling just slightly from the stimulation.
āOkay,ā Scar says, feeling the heady rush as he tugs his belt open with one hand, lifting himself up just enough to get his pants down around his thighs. āOkay.ā
Grianās brows pinch together as Scar slowly withdraws his hand, reapplying a careful amount of lube to his fingersānot wanting to waste itābefore he takes his own erection in hand. It almost feels weird to touch himself and want to, a strange bottleneck in his brain untwisting as his body responds positively to it. Itās niceāfamiliar in a way heād forgotten, and heās careful but eager as he strokes himself before he angles in, spreading Grianās legs an inch further apart.
āReady?ā He barely recognizes himself as he asks, the low husk in his voice so startling unlike how heās sounded lately.
Grian nods, head tilted back, eyes closed as he waits, waits, and then Scar is pushing in, the first nudge as the head of his co*ck breaches his rim, and Grianās mouth is falling open, expression tight as he breathes in, exhales, breathes in again.
āOh, Scarā¦ā
Heās tight. Tighter than Scarās used to. He braces his hand flat against the mattress as he inches himself forward, watching himself press in deeper as Grianās body parts to accommodate him.
They usually talk more during sex, fond and laughing. The silence of gasping breaths and stilted moans is new to them, and Scar finds he doesnāt know what to say, pushing further, taking his time, his own breathing slow and measured as he struggles to pace himself and not take him all at once.
Heās nearly all there, easing back before he rocks forward with a slow thrust, when Grian breaks the silence, voice reedy as he gasps, āYou feel so good. So good, Scar. Oh my god, oh my godāā
Itās enough, Scarās weight shifting forward as he covers Grian with his body. Grianās legs automatically hitch up to hug each side of his hips as Scar thrusts forward, still careful, but deep enough that he can feel Grianās body quake beneath him. They move together, gentle rocking, speeding slowly as they get reacquainted with one another.
āKiss me,ā Grian gasps, a moan pushing up out of his throat as his hands fumble to find Scarās cheeks. āKiss me, Scar. Pleaseāā
He obliges, leaning in for a kiss. Heās quiet as he does it, and it feels so strange. Normally, itās all he can do to keep himself from waxing poetic when theyāre together. A litany of Grianās name mixed with praises and syrupy adoration. It embarrasses him now, to think of how he used to behave. He doesnāt know if itās appropriate anymore.
At least while heās kissing Grian heās preoccupiedāno reason to speak or worry about not speaking. He drinks down Grianās tiny moans, keeping a rhythm going with his thrusts. His co*ck throbs as Grian squeezes around him, and it makes him groan, kissing Grian harder.
Itās only when heās found his rhythm that Scar realises Grian is trembling underneath him.
He stills his hips automatically, pulling back from the kiss.
āAre you alrightā?ā
The question dies on his tongue.
Beneath him, cheeks flushed, Grian is crying.
Not full-on sobsānot anything so worrying as thatābut on his face Scar can see a gentle stream of tears, wetting his skin and warming his cheeks.
āSorry,ā Grian laughs, watery, unwinding an arm from around Scarās neck and wiping his eyes. He clears his throat. āItās justā¦ been a while, you know?ā
āOverwhelmed?ā Scar asks, even though a part of him knows that canāt be it, knows thereās more to it than just too much touch, too much sensation.
Grian stares up at him with something that a kinder man might call longing.
Scarās heart aches at the sight of it.
āYeah,ā he whispers, so soft Scar barely hears it, the single syllable speaking volumes.
Slowly, gently, Scar reaches up to wipe the tears from Grianās face, drying the streaks theyāve left behind. He follows with two soft kisses, one to each eye, Grianās lashes fluttering closed as he leans in. He lingers, for a moment, before brushing his lips against Grianās forehead too. A sweet, chaste kiss.
Grian makes a strangled noise in his throat as Scar pulls away, eyes opening half-way just in time for Scar to smile at him. His throat feels tight, voice too low, too rough, as he asks, āAre you close?ā
Grian nods, still apologetic. āSorry, I know we barely got startedāyouāreā¦ a lot. Youāve always been a lot, and Iāā His voice breaks, and Scar politely ignores it. āIām not used to it anymore, so.ā
His words twist something in Scarās chest, both petty and fond. The instinct to remind Grian that thisāall of thisāis a situation of his own making rises up like a swell in his chest, but Scar rides out the impulse, bending instead to kiss his cheek, his throat, as he resumes rocking into Grian with firm, timed thrusts.
āItās okay,ā he reassures, pressing another kiss to his ear as Grian arches beneath him and whines. āIāve got you.ā
āScar,ā Grian gasps, legs snug to the point of constriction around his waist, hitching his hips up at every thrust, attempting to drag Scar closer, feel him more. āScar, pleaseāā
His dick is straining untouched between them, trapped against the heat of his stomach. It canāt be the most comfortable sensation, with the raw rub against his neglected arousal, so Scar takes pity on him, pinning Grianās co*ck flush between their bodies. Immediately Grian keens beneath him. Itās a wonder to watch him, caught between pressing into Scarās thrusts or attempting to get himself off by rutting into the slickness trapped between them.
āDo you want me to touch you?ā Scar asks, low, and Grian squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head in a quick back and forth.
āIām so close,ā he gasps, both a promise and an apology. āIf you touch me Iām gonnaāā his voice breaks off into a moan as Scar pushes into him at just the right angle, hands flying up on instinct, twisting into the short hairs on the back of his neck. āOh f*ckāScarāā
āThere?ā The word is huffed against Grianās throat, and all Scar can feel is his hasty nod, Grian clinging tight to him as he moans again.
āPlease,ā he pleads as Scar repeats the motion, sweat prickling along his scalp and down his spine as he strikes just the right angle, each thrust tearing a choked cry from Grianās throat. āPlease.ā
Itās not enough to get Scar off, but he can feel the tension winding tight in Grian, his quick, gasping breaths panting against his shoulder as he pulls on Scarās hairātoo tight, almost painfulāand then Scar feels Grianās entire body clench, breath held for a moment before a sudden sticky warmth blooms against his belly.
He stays still for a second, letting Grian melt into his org*sm, enjoying the sudden looseness of his limbs. His dick aches with every minute motion Grian makes, hands flexing against his hips. Grian murmurs something wordless, fingertips caressing circles against Scarās scalp. It only takes a little longer before his legs are tightening around Scarās waist again, encouraging him to proceed.
Scar wastes no time, immediately sinking back into Grian with a deep thrust. Heās hovering over the precipice himself, and Grianās low cries beneath him make the heat spread through his body. Where Scar had lost his words earlier, Grian seems to have gained them, clinging tight to Scar and whispering the kind of filth that turns the tips of his ears red.
āf*ck me, Scar,ā Grian groans, pushing his hips down to meet him. āGod, f*ck me, I love itāyou feel so good inside me.ā
āsh*t,ā Scar curses, shuddering through a breath as he picks up his pace, his climax near. Grianās heels dig into the small of his back, hands clawing at his shoulders like he can somehow drag Scar even further into him. It makes Scar moan, burying his face into the space between Grianās shoulder and neck, kissing the skin beneath his lips fervently.
āI need itāwant you insideāā Grian continues between overstimulated gasps. āIn me, Scar, pleaseāā
Itās like he was waiting for the words, tipping over right after Grian begs him for it. Scar rolls his hips a few last times, finishing with short, staggered thrusts as he rides out his org*sm. Like a man possessed, he presses kisses on Grian everywhere he can reachānipping at his jaw, his lips, the hollow of his throat. Through it all, Grian strokes his back, gentle and slow.
They rest like that for a while, locked together and catching their breaths.
āWish we still had running water,ā Scar mumbles at last, breaking their silence as he speaks into Grianās collar bone.
Beneath him, Grianās shakes with a laugh. āA shower would be nice, yeah.ā
With a sleepily murmur of agreement, Scar rolls off to the side, giving Grian enough space to get comfortable. They donāt separate too far, legs still criss-crossing over one another. Normally, this is the part where Scar would hold Grian or be held in return. Pillow talk, as they wound down from the excitement together.
He used to love it.
Now, he feels a little awkward, not entirely sure what heās meant to say after an encounter like thatāespecially with everything theyāve still left unsaid.
āThanks,ā he settles on after some thought. āThat was fun.ā
I missed this, he wants to say, but is unsure if wants to share that vulnerability.
Grian is quiet, and when Scar turns his head to the side to look at him, heās staring back with a mournful expression on his face. Itās clear that he wants to say something, and Scarās breath catches in his throat, wondering what it could be.
Finally, he parts his lips and Scar braces himself, but in the breath before speaking, Grianās interrupted by the sound of three gunshots firing in the distance.
Theyāre shot rapidly, one immediately after another. Thereās no mistaking the sound, Scar would know it anywhere.
He sits up in a jolt that he immediately regrets, a sharp stab of pain shooting up his pelvis. Next to him, Grian scrambles up as well, propping himself up on his forearms as he looks around the room.
āWhat wasāā
āQuiet,ā Scar interrupts, raising a hand to wave Grian off as he listens intently.
They wait, undressed and warm in the rosy glow of the afternoon, sweat still damp along their hairlines and the curves of their spines, but no further shots are taken.
āThe boys donāt have a gun,ā Grian says at last.
Itās true. They donāt.
Scar waits a moment longer, then shifts towards the edge of the bed, slinging his legs over and resting his feet on the floor.
āWe need toāā he stops as looks back over his shoulder at the picture Grian makes, sitting up on the bedspread; his hair dishevelled, pants tangled around his ankle, the flush of their exertion still bright on his cheeks and across his chest. He looks good, and a part of Scar thatās selfish and small wants nothing more than to fall back in bed with him. To close his eyes against the world, and forget about the horrors unfolding around them.
It doesnāt work like that, though. And pretending itās not happening wonāt make it go away.
āWe need to contact them,ā Scar finishes, hitching his pants back up but leaving them open as he gets to his feet.
He makes his way towards his backpack, rifling through the front pocket and grabbing the walkie talkie before returning to the bed. He takes a seat, near enough for Grian to huddle close, anxiously looking down at the device in his hands.
Scar makes eye contact with him, taking a deep breath when Grian nods. A chorus of static greets him before Scar holds down the PTT, āPandas, this is Sparrow. I repeat: this is Sparrow. Do you copy? Over.ā
They wait.
A minute passes. Then another.
āTry again,ā Grian encourages.
āPandas, this is Sparrow. Do you copy? Over.ā
Again, no response. The silence sits heavy in his gut. An awful dread he canāt push down.
Heās about to reach out a third time when the walkie crackles and pops.
āNot now,ā comes the hiss from the other line, spoken quick and fierce. Immediately after, the static returns, and though Scarās thumb twitches over the PTT, he doesnāt press down on it, heeding the words.
He looks over his shoulder at Grian, whoās mirroring his grim expression with one of his own.
āWhat do we do?ā Grian asks, and itās pressed with the implication that they have options.
Scar looks at him, wondering if this is maybe the immediate consequence of his actions. The cosmic punishment for his good mood. For taking a foolish, short-sighted risk to cling to something he shouldāve instead already let go of.
āWe hope that wasnāt what it sounded like,ā he says at last, controlled. āAnd we wait.ā
Itās clear Grian doesnāt like that answer, and truth be told, Scar doesnāt either. Part of him wants to go looking for the trio, just in case they need backup. Another part knows itās foolish to leave without any more knowledge of the situation. If they go out looking, theyāre just as likely to circle around each other and never meet up again.
For lack of anything else to do, Scar gets up off the bed and heads towards the bathroom.
āIāll get you a towel,ā he says to Grian over his shoulder, flatter than he perhaps intends to sound.
The motel room bathroom is small, scant sunlight making its way through the frosted slit of window above the shower stall. Thankfully the towels are fresh, though without running water theyāre a bit scratchy as he wipes himself off with them.
He makes a point of not looking at himself in the mirror. He doesnāt want to know what he looks like right now.
By the time he returns to the bed, Grian has pulled himself into a kneel and is wrestling his shirts back on. Scar hands him the towel before he carefully approaches the window, leaving the half-drawn blinds still as he peers out through the gap and into the motel courtyard.
Thereās not a soul outsideāsurvivor or otherwise.
Like a sentinel, he continues keeping guard at the window until Grian dresses himself and comes to stand at his side. Cautiously he puts a hand on Scarās shoulder, leaning forward to glance out the window himself.
Despite everything, Scar is comforted by his presence.
āLooks clear,ā Grian mumbles.
āI think, at the very least, we should make our way through the rest of the rooms,ā Scar says. āJust to be sure.ā
After a moment, Grian nods, and together they gather up their gear. It feels like a loss, after the moment of respite theyāve just shared, but Scar canāt think of anything better to do. Heās restless, and itās better to put that energy towards something productive than letting his mind spiral.
āReady?ā Grian asks, standing with his hand on the doorknob, small pack strapped across his chest, the only trace of their actions visible in the mess of his uncombed hair.
With one last look at the motel bedāblankets cast off, sheets in disarray, pillows indentedāScar hums his acknowledgement and, together, they head out.
Notes:
(Click to reveal.)[ SPOILERS ]
This chapter contains sexual content, so if you're a minor or would otherwise like to skip that section, please stop reading from, "His lips seek out" and continuing reading after, "They rest". We've provided a summary below that you can read in order to keep up with any plot details that might be relevant.
[ SUMMARY ]
They kiss again, more charged this time, and Scar grabs onto the impulsive desire, tired of feeling sorry for himself. He internally tries to justify his behaviour, calling it just a "hookup" in his mind. He asks Grian if he's still got lube and, for the first time, Grian is the one who's hesitant. Likely remembering how things ended before, he takes the time to make sure Scar is fully on board and asks him if he's sure he wants to do this. Scar reassures him that he does. He thinks to himself about how, the other two times they got intimate, there were extenuating circ*mstances (ie. losing everyone he cared about, being in pain, etc.) that made it difficult for him to stay aroused, but how this time around things feel better. He's had time to rest and the loss isn't as fresh--most importantly, Grian's been more like he used to be; kind and sweet and all of it makes Scar nostalgic in a lonely way that he wants to deal with.
Grian knocks him out of his thoughts and asks him if he wants to take things to the bed, out of consideration for Scar's disability. It backfires a little, because it makes Scar feel inadequate, bringing back memories of Grian cheating with a person who didn't need special accommodations like he does. He tries to brush it off and insist that he's fine, but Grian gently insists taking things to the bed anyways, and Scar agrees. There's a bit of banter as they undress and a lot of internal conflict for Scar as they kiss and touch and Scar preps Grian. Despite how into this he is, at the same time he can't help but be reminded repeatedly of Grian cheating and the things that lead them here.
This is especially poignant when Grian is ready, and Scar sits up to get into position and winces in pain because he stressed his joints by moving too quickly. Grian looks concerned and immediately offers to get on top in order to make things easier on Scar, but Scar only feels worse about it, yet again thinking about how Grian wouldn't have had to worry about any of this when sleeping with someone else. He doesn't share any of his feelings and instead charms Grian and waves his pain off, insisting that it's nothing to worry about.
They have sex, and it's good--it's almost like it used to be, except Scar is very aware of how little they're talking or laughing during. He feels really quiet, and also feels really embarrassed about how much he used to praise Grian before. It all feels silly and pointless now and he doesn't know how to get over the feeling. Thankfully the pleasure distracts him from his own reproachful thoughts for a bit, and he only stops in the middle once he realised that Grian is emotional beneath him. Scar asks if he's okay and Grian reassures him that he is, he's just a little overwhelmed, it's just been a long time and it's getting to him. Scar bites back the hurt part of him that wants to say it's Grian's fault in the first place, and settles on reassuring him instead.
Grian finishes first and then Scar climaxes shortly after him, finally in a place where he can enjoy himself without overthinking.
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