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birrdies · 2 months

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“when I say you are killing me” (desert duo one-shot, 2.6k)

Every inch of his climb is agony. White-hot and endless, it ricochets through Scar’s body as if it bought an expressway pass through his veins like a highway. Would it have killed Grian to get an apartment on the first floor? Hell, Scar would even take something on the third or fourth-floor if he had to. Anything would be better than dragging himself, slowly and painfully, up twelve flights of rickety metal stairs. In the snow. In the middle of the night. Bleeding.

Scar’s having a bad night.

Blood dribbles between the gaps of his fingers. It’s slower than it had been, but each heave up another flight of stairs blinds him with pain and sends a few more fresh droplets of blood sliding down his middle. His shirt (whatever tatters remain of it anyway) and pants are wet and tacky, sticking to his skin like a perpetually wet bathing suit as he tries to climb the rest of the way up to Grian’s apartment.

The fire escape is an old decrepit fixture of rusting metal mounted to the brick siding with nothing more than a few loose bolts and a dream. It groans beneath his weight, the barest shake of wind causing the metal to ripple and shudder. The metal saps the warmth from his already cold, pale fingertips. He’d had gloves, but had to get rid of them as they were soaked in blood and not all-that conducive for climbing-under-the-influence (of blood loss). Scar’s not afraid of much, least of all heights, but he chooses each step up the fire escape carefully, muscle memory a crutch as he drags himself past open windows with the lights still on. Last thing he needs is another broadcast claiming HotGuy is nothing but a petty creep with a penchant for B&Es.

By the time he reaches the twelfth floor he’s shaking from head-to-to. Each breath sears through him, rivaling the sharp-edged pain of lightning, setting him alight. It burns through him, the aftershocks never ending as he pulls himself upright and grasps onto the edges of Grian’s windowsill. A pained whine catches between his teeth; he refuses to let it out.

Curled up at Grian’s windowsill as he peeks through the drawn curtains at the warm lamplight cascading through the glass, Scar finds the painful climb was well worth each and every second of agony. No better minded than a moth drawn to a flame Scar leans in to rest his forehead against the glass, the warm, golden glow from within Grian’s apartment beckoning him forward. Inside, Grian’s sitting at his desk around a cluster of books and papers strewn around as if a bomb had gone off. His hair is fuzzy and curled at the tips, as it always is whenever Grian lets it air dry after a shower. His shoulders are hunched and the sides of his face are illuminated by the blue glow of his laptop screen. Even through the glass Scar can hear the incessant clacking of his keys as he furiously types away at whatever assignment he’s working on.

It takes Scar more than one try to build up the courage to disturb him. He looks peaceful (or about as peaceful as someone working on a lab report can be), and Scar knows that peace will shatter the second he knocks, the second he barges in, yet again, on Grian’s evening and sweeps him up in his vigilante shenanigans.

Scar’s bloodied hands grasp onto the windowsill, red streaks staining the chipping white paint like a crime scene out of some gruesome horror movie Grian would have him watch. He winces at the sight; it’ll be a nightmare to scrub out. He’ll have to remember to buy Grian dinner one of these days to make it up to him and hope that Grian will have the heart, eventually, to forgive him.

“Grian,” he mumbles, startled to find his voice nothing more than a gravelly rasp. He reaches to knock, but his arms are as stiff as uncooked spaghetti noodles and don’t listen to a word he has to say. With a huff of frustration, Scar pitches his weight forward and thumps his head twice against the glass. The dull ache through his forehead is nothing compared to the feverish burning tearing through his chest and stomach.

Inside, a shadow bolts across the floor. Grian’s cat, Maui. In his chair Grian twists around at the sound. He’s wearing his glasses— Scar’s heart drops low in his stomach at the sight— and squints through the darkness to see Scar sheepishly waving at him through the glass, his breath fogging it up just enough to be seen.

He unfurls himself from his chair and comes to pry the window open. Scar comes face-to-face with his heart-patterned pajama pants, two sizes too big and pooling around his ankles. Wait, are those Scar’s?

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Grian is asking before Scar manages to start dragging himself in through the open window. It’s only for the briefest millisecond, in Grian’s ignorance, that Scar can be grateful for the starless, moonless night. The dark shields him not only from the prying eyes of neighbors, but from Grian’s scrutiny. In this dark he can’t see the blood, can’t see the tears in his shirt. In the dark, he might just look a little ruffled, no worse for wear than he usually is after a busy night patrolling. In the dark, he and Grian can pretend, albeit for only a second, that everything is normal.

But as the pain and dark corners throbbing in his periphery are keen on reminding him, everything is very much not normal.

“I seemed to have lost my watch,” Scar says as he pulls himself in through the open window. Every movement is measured, half-withheld, ginger— everything that Scar isn’t, and he’d be a fool to think Grian wouldn’t notice. He does immediately, because he’s Grian, and he’s never been truly ignorant when it comes to Scar, despite Scar’s best intentions.

Grian steps back with wide eyes. The color drains from his face as Scar holds his weight against the wall with one blood-slicked hand and struggles to stand at his full height. Every inch he tries to stand taller, the more the swelling edges of the wound start to pull and ache.

“Scar?” Grian’s face, usually so warm and vivid, especially under the light of his desk lamp, pales to a near lifeless color. He staggers toward him, hands held out in front of him as if to catch Scar. “Scar, what happened? Are you okay?”

“Right as rain, G,” Scar says, managing a wry smile. “Honest.”

“Don’t give me that.” Grian rushes forward, grabbing Scar around the shoulders and steering him towards the futon in the middle of the room. The second Grian touches him some of Scar’s pain fades, if not just because he has somewhere else to pitch his weight, to take some of the strain off his bloodied, torn middle.

The pair of them hobble to the futon, Grian whispering mumbled nothings as he lowers Scar onto the edge and forces him to sit back with firm hands on his shoulders. Scar allows himself the smallest mercy of relaxing into the cushions, his arms and legs limp at his sides as his head lulls back to rest against the back of the futon. It’s as if every string tying his marionette up, stringing him along, has been cut all at once. It’s somehow blissful and terrifying all at the same time. He’s not sure he’s ever been this roughed up, this exhausted.

And in front of Grian of all people?

Grian, whose face is drawn tight, whose shoulders and jaw are rigid as if he’s been made out of wood. Grian, who anxiously flutters at Scar’s side for a second before disappearing in a flurry toward the kitchen. Scar’s head is too heavy for him to lift, but he hears Grian rummaging and cursing under his breath before he returns just as quickly as he left. In his arms he balances a handful of small dishtowels, a first-aid kit, and a box of blue rubber gloves.

“I can’t believe this,” he says, to himself more than to Scar, as he sits on his knees on the cushion beside Scar and leans over to assess the wounds.

Gingerly he pulls the tattered shreds of his black shirt away from the wound-bed (as much as he can with some of the fabric stuck to his body with blood like glue) and winces at the gory sight. Scar’s skin is torn in jagged ridges, three gouge marks clawed from just under his ribs and down across his right abdomen. Thankfully, the worst of the bleeding seems to have stopped, dark, thick globules of blood already starting to stitch together like wads of hot glue around the wound, crusting on the skin.

Grian examines it all with a crease between his brow that Scar, after all this time, has come to know means he’s irritated. He’s always looked especially cute when he’s angry (part of the reason it’s just too easy for Scar to give into the temptation to push his buttons whenever possible), but the downturn of his lips, the whites of his eyes, reveals something far more serious. Worry. Grian’s worried about him, and maybe it’s the blood loss starting to get to Scar in earnest, but Scar finds he far prefers this sight. He can’t help but smile back at him, even though he knows it’ll likely earn him a punch when he’s no longer bleeding out on Grian’s couch.

“Scar.” Grian says his name as if he’s been saying it for a while, but Scar’s only just now hearing it. “This is bad. Like, really bad.”

Scar blinks down his nose at him, brow furrowed. “You should see the other guy,” he says with a weak huff of laughter. “Stuck him so full of arrows you could call him a porcupine.”

“Scar, this is serious,” Grian admonishes, snapping on a pair of gloves and brushing his hair from his eyes.

“But you’re gonna fix me right up, ain’t you, Doc?” Sar teases, lifting his head just enough to catch Grian’s scowl as he flicks open the first-aid kit and fishes out a small brown bottle.

“I need you to tell me what happened,” Grian says, and there he goes again— detached, analytical, dawning his ‘I’m calm and collected’ persona. He pulls a pair of scissors out of the first-aid kit and tests the snap of them. “This doesn’t look like it was from some kind of a knife—”

“Ravager,” Scar says, gritting his teeth in anticipation. “Jerk got too close.”

Grian raises an eyebrow. “Sounds more like you got too cocky.”

Again, Scar finds himself fighting (and failing) to conceal a smug little smile. “You’re worried about me, just say it.”

“I’m pissed off is what I am,” Grian snaps. He peels up one edge of Scar’s shirt and begins cutting away as much of the fabric as he can without disturbing the edges of Scar’s wounds. He winces only when the shirt tugs too sharply on the red, puffy edges of the wound. And Grian, to Scar’s surprise, nearly flinches every time he does.

“Sorry, sorry,” Grian whispers each time, sounding so unlike himself. His face is pale, and if Scar isn’t mistaken there’s the faintest tremble to his hand.

“It’s okay,” Scar says, just as hushed, as if the slightest movement or raise in his voice will spook Grian. “Do what you gotta do. I’m tough, I’m strong. I can take it.”

Grian scoffs and peels a foil lid from the bottle’s cap, dumping a bit of it onto a folded dishrag. “Yeah, okay. We’ll see how tough and strong you are once I start cleaning this.”

“Give me your worst, Doc.” Scar lets his head loll back to stare at the ceiling, taking as deep a breath as his tense, wounded chest will allow. The twinge of pain reminds him to stay awake, has his fingers curling into the fabric of the futon beneath him.

Grian doesn’t give Scar a warning, which he appreciates. The anticipation is the worst part. He grits his teeth and bares it as Grian firmly, but not violently, uses the alcohol-soaked rag to wash away the blood from his torn skin. Scar scrunches his eyes shut and breathes through it, the pain an unrelenting impulse racing through his veins like faulty circuitry gone haywire.

And as soon as it starts, it’s over. Grian sits back on his heels and tosses the now blood-soaked rag to the floor. He wipes at the sweat blistering across his forehead with his arm, taking a shaky breath in as he examines his handiwork.

“It’s not too deep,” he says, sounding the slightest bit relieved. He twists to reach for the first-aid kit again. “You’re lucky I swiped this stuff from the lab. Though I won’t begin to guess why you came here instead of a hospital. This needs stitches, probably.”

“Eh, I’m not worried about another scar,” Scar dismisses, ignoring the small beads of sweat starting to gather on his own brow. He can’t handle Grian thinking he’s caused him any more pain; the only thing worse than suffering as he is now is to watch Grian torture himself over things he can’t control. Like Scar. “Besides, I can’t exactly keep up the whole secret identity thing if I go to a hospital half in costume, now can I?”

“Secret identity,” Grian parrots mockingly, unraveling a bundle of bandages and starting to tack them down around Scar’s middle. “You nearly got gutted, and that’s what you’re worried about. Of course.”

He’s angry. Scar would be an idiot to not be able to see it, and maybe it shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does. But it’s not the anger that catches Scar off guard. It’s what lingers beneath it: Grian’s gloved, trembling hands, the way he can’t look Scar in the eye more than a second before having to look away, burying himself in sorting through the first-aid kit for the fourth time as if looking for something to help and, just like every other time, coming up empty-handed.

Grian’s scared.

Scar’s known Grian for years now, and over that time he’s been a lot of things. Angry, judgmental, infectiously funny, bright. But afraid has never been a word Scar has used to describe him.

“Grian…”

“Of course I’m worried,” Grian says, catching Scar off guard. His voice is so quiet, so hushed that Scar wonders if he imagined it. Because something so vulnerable and soft sounding couldn’t come from someone as headstrong and impervious as Grian. It simply isn’t possible. “How could I not be? Have you looked at yourself?”

“Hey.” Scar can’t dream of sitting up, but he manages to leverage himself up just enough to reach for Grian’s wrist. He’ll feel bad about staining Grian’s sleeves with blood later. For now he needs to grab hold of him, pull him in close. To reassure him. “I’m fine. I’m still here, aren’t I? I’m in good hands, yeah?”

“Scar,” Grian says, sounding like he’s about to start crying. He curls his fingers into a weak fist, as if to pull from Scar’s grasp, but he doesn’t try it. He only holds it there, waiting. “I’m not exactly qualified. I’m a bio student, not a—”

“You’re doing fine,” Scar insists, caressing the inner aspect of Grian’s wrist with his thumb. There, he can feel the furious pace Grian’s heart takes on at the touch, like his pulse is ready to leap out from beneath the thin layer of skin. He flashes a smile, just to prove it to Grian. “I’ve bounced back from a lot worse than this. I’m just glad I don’t have to do it alone this time.”

#desert duo #desert duo fic #scarian #<- just in case #hermitcraft #hermitcraft fic #goodtimeswithscar #grian #birdie writes #sometimes I forget I am a writer and forget to post the things I’ve been writing like a madman #blame fishbloc for making me post this one

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canarydarity · 1 year

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40 for the hurt/comfort dialogue prompt muahahahahhahaa >:)

A cornered animal was a dead animal; when Scar heard that phrase for the first time, still infected with the literal nature of children, he’d imagined an actual corner. Two walls on perpendicular paths, collusion course already set. He’d pictured the animal, cowering, and the predator, towering, and the fear of that image permeated straight through his mind and made a home deep somewhere inside of him.

He’d learned later on that wasn’t even the correct phrasing—it was actually two phrases wrongly mashed together. A wounded animal was a dead animal, and corner an animal in a dead-end, and it will turn around and bite.

By that time, it was too late; the sentiment had already stuck. The anxiety didn’t care that the phrase it was founded in had been wrong (no, that would’ve been too rational). It knew only fester, grow, latch onto whatever was to be found and then die—and to die was to decay, and to decay was to poison further; this would repeat uncontested—and, to Scar, unawares—until a corner was, as he thought, the worst place to be.

It wasn’t claustrophobia, because claustrophobia implied an enclosed area absent of malicious intent; a tight space that was frightening for that reason alone—its confinement. A corner was purposeful entrapment; it was the deliberateness of the affair—a typical having been led there by someone or something—that spoke to its terrifying nature.

Scar was quite often almost cornered, and it was in this that he’d learned a lot—mainly, that walls didn’t need to be involved at all. A corner could be a lot of things; a building with only one exit, a deep valley too steep to climb your way out of—a flimsy lie in an uneven deal during an already imbalanced conversation.

Scar had become an expert at spotting corners—even better at evading them. People were frequently trying to corral him, and he more often than not managed to get away; the trick was not running, the illusion of compliance—like a dog playing with something that was certainly not a toy, watching its owner creep closer and closer trying to steal it back, patient and still, before darting away at the last second like all was but a game.

Fear was a good motivator—amusement a worthy prize. But all his worry didn’t stop him from falling into these kinds of situations again and again, and in this, Scar had learned that exposure therapy was not for him. The high of each escape would fade, the excitement would grow dim, and the spiral of almost almost almost almost beat in him in time with his heart.

Though he had to admit, out of all the corners he’d been backed into, this one was by far the prettiest.

With each heave of his chest, Scar dragged in another lungful of clean, fresh air—the kind that smelled like the scenery looked; water vapor evaporating slowly off the surface of the pond mingling with the pollen carried on the breeze. It sounded like nothing, the pleasant kind; quietness so still that, if Scar tried enough, he could drown out the pounding of his heart by focusing purely on the trickle and trill of the water as it resettled around them.

The mud below cushioned his knees and the water cooled his exertion-hot skin and the warmth of the sun provided a blanket of comfort. He caught his next breath in before it could rush back out and put in actual effort to slow down, to relax. He’d hate to ruin the scenery—Scar loved a good view.

The trees reached around the small pond like a fence, and he couldn’t see it but behind him he knew the rise of the mountain was steep, mossy, and overgrown from the moisture of the water in the air and below. Green was green in a way it only ever was when nature was left on its own to do as it knew how, and the water, though clear, absorbed some of that in its reflection until it sparkled a little green too.

Picturesque, that was the word for it—he could only hope he didn’t ruin it.

Grian certainly didn’t (then again, Scar would never admit it if had). His breathing was no more under control than Scars was, but while Scar had taken the time to take in their surroundings, Grians eyes never moved once from Scar.

His hair was a wreck and his face streaked with dirt and a bit of blood that was probably not his own, but picturesque was the word Scar had chosen, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t sticking with it. His cheeks had odd patches and tracks of cleanliness working their way downward, but Scar would never accuse Grian of crying, and so he just smiled softly to himself at the understanding that he was loved.

The sword he held in his hands was low, pointed down into the water where it was out of each of their lines of sight but not nearly as far away as to be out of mind; it couldn't be, not when the sunlight refracting off of it spread a prism just above Grian’s cheek, highlighting his eyes and the fact that they were red.

The smile was a trigger, ruining the still-life they had created by hesitating in this singular moment—and before Scar could successfully commit every detail to memory to the degree he had wished. He had smiled, and Grian had blinked and returned to shaking his head.

“No,” he pushed out between grit teeth, and, coming from Grian, it was both an answer to what Scar had said and a declaration in the direction of their circumstance—protestation for the way that things had gone and the place they’d ended up. He shook his head more obstinately, “I can’t—I literally can’t.”

He could—the sword was in his hand. His grip was loose and the blade lowered but his ability to complete the task wasn’t of question—it was his willingness. Scar understood this as well as he could when he wasn’t the one holding a weapon, but they were also out of options, and, more regrettably, out of time.

Scar was calm, firm. “You can.”

The sword dipped lower as Grian bent more, and Scar was struck by the weirdness of the role reversal they’d found themselves in. Grian, shorter than him but more commanding, telling Scar what was to be done next and Scar leaning in to haggle for his own demands—this was what they had known. What they’d come to now was Grian towering over Scar, body language nothing short of pleading as he pitched forward to beg Scar to change his mind.

“Scar, no, I—”

Unlike Grian, Scar could not be persuaded; compromise wasn’t something they could afford.

He didn’t want to hear whatever Grian was going to say next. There was no version of this conversation in which Scar would be the least deserving party of the fate to which they discussed. The problem was not that Grian didn’t agree with this, it was that he did, and that agreement scared him.

If Scar was going to die, he was going to do it without allowing Grian to perjure himself and pretend that it wasn’t warranted when they both knew that it was.

He delivered his interruption with a nod and a slow blink—the kind of dismissal that was factual and informed, not apathetic or uncaring. He was leaving no room for disagreement, for posturing, but he was not negligent.

“I deserve it.”

There was not a player in this game that wasn’t aware that, without Grian, Scar would not have made it nearly as far as he had. It wasn’t even about lives—it was about monopoly mountain, about everything. Scar was an idea man, what he lacked—what Grian gave him—was direction. Scar himself was a notion better left on paper.

We shall prevail Scar had said, arms thrown wide, beckoning Grian to take in the desert before them—the desert that was going to be theirs. The scrunch to Grian’s nose said he didn’t agree, the glance he sent over his shoulder said there were other things he wanted to be doing. Scar didn’t care, because he’d looked out over the endless expanse of sand and cacti and had seen opportunity; Rome wasn’t built in a day, but the idea of what it was to become had to exist before construction could take place, didn’t it? The empty desert was their golden city, their empire. He’d been sure Grian would come around—Scar could be very persuasive.

(He hadn’t; he’d owed Scar a debt, and those weren’t the same thing. But he had been the one to turn that idea into reality. All Scar had done was lose another life less than a week later, and with no one at fault but himself.)

Still, Scar had been right, in a way—they did prevail; however briefly their victory lasted, victory was what it was. They and they alone ruled for 5 glorious minutes; and then they remembered that victory, here, was a word in the singular. Last man standing was not a title for two.

5 minutes—sand through an hourglass, or reclaiming their recently abandoned home. Scar thought he understood now why desert was the root of the word deserted.

“You don’t,” it was half a whisper and fully a lie, which was probably why it came out sounding like it did; breathy and unmoored—the balloon that split away from the bunch and floated off, its string just too far off the ground to reach, even if you jumped.

Now that he had cooled down, the water didn’t feel soothing anymore; breath under control and temperature back to normal, it wasn’t anything but cold; the shade no longer refreshing but chilling. This sensation mixed with the quality of Grian’s voice—something fragile about it in a way he has never heard—made Scar shiver.

He moved slowly, not because he thought Grian might startle but because if this was a still-life, he’d like to think the artist wasn’t finished yet, their portrait still being painted—and their story couldn’t end until it was done. Scar would be okay with it if this was the way he was remembered, kneeling, so long as it was Grian he was kneeling before.

His hand around the flat of Grian’s blade, Scar carefully drew it out of the water and placed the tip against his neck; it, too, was cold. He hesitated, holding it there for a minute as he tracked the way Grian swallowed and closed his eyes. Scar only let go when he was sure Grian would keep it there.

He waited until Grian opened his eyes before speaking again.

“Yes, I do.”

It was a statement as much as it was also a prayer. Scar was never a religious man—if he was going to put blind faith in something it was going to be himself—but of what he understood, their current position was a preface, and he knew no devotion more holy than the kind that Grian had given him. It was a shame that religions needed to be founded upon a following of more than one person, because this was worship he wasn’t willing to share.

“And you deserve to win.”

For all his protest before, Grian had nothing immediately to say to this one; Scar was pleased that this, at least, they both weren’t pretending wasn’t true. Of course, this left a self-evident truth that if nothing else firmed Scar in his decision; with mutual understanding that Grian deserved to win came the knowledge that Grian was not keeping him alive out of any hesitation to kill him not grounded in his own want not to. What a worthy cause to die for, Scar thought Grian was.

“Can’t—” the sword still kissed the line of Scar's throat, but Grian’s voice broke as if he was the one afraid of speaking for fear he’d rub against a blade. “Can’t we just win together?”

And that was how Scar was almost certain he was going to win—not the game, but the conversation. Because what a last-ditch effort it was to rely on the outlandish idea of changing the rules of a game they hadn’t any control over. There would be no denying that Grian deserved to win, and for him to have no other argument than this meant—

Scar didn’t answer, because Grian wasn’t really asking; they both knew better than to waste any time on the notion of shared victory—not when they were being watched. Not with their audience of closest friends and worst enemies alike, the very same that had died for them to arrive at this moment.

Scar felt the sword tremble as Grian did, and took a moment to close his eyes and send out one final plea; let it end here—he did not want to see what came next should it not.

But when he opened them again, the blade dropped completely from Grian’s hand, and he gasped out, “no, I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Scar watched the sword float to the bottom of the pond, drifting until it lodged in the mud as well. He stared, feeling none of the relief one should at a weapon having been dropped from their vicinity, and instead, all of the grief that came with the frightened dread that things were going to go from bad to worse.

Grian dropped too, the water splashing up again, but Scar stood from his own knees just as Grian's found land. He rose on command, he felt, rather than his own volition; a man in court about to receive his sentence from a judge. This decision of Grian’s, it wasn’t salvation—it was just a different brand of condemned.

The thing about prayer that Scar had never liked—the thing that had always stopped him from taking to it—was that it wasn’t a promise; no one was obligated to answer. And no one answered Scar that day.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t I—I’m sorry,” Grian’s eyes were closed, his head bowed. He blindly reached out a hand in Scar’s direction, latching onto his forearm when he found it. Scar looked away as Grian kept up his onslaught of delivering apologies and repentance; all the vigor of a man making confession, but no past transgression to prove he’d needed to. Scar certainly wasnt pious enough to offer forgiveness—not the omniscient kind this line of thought demanded—for he knew whatever sins Grian committed, what Scar was going to be made to do next was worse.

He wanted to be angry, but there was no world in which he wished Grian had loved him just a little less, even if it meant he’d gone through with it; not angry, but he was regretful. This did not mean that Scar was going to live, this meant Scar was going to have to get more creative. He wanted Grian to choose to kill him, he wanted to save them the dishonor of having to deceive him into doing it instead. It wasn’t fair; maybe after Grian lived, he’d have the hindsight to offer Scar forgiveness.

Scar looked back down at Grian, could feel him shaking from where he still gripped Scars arm. He’d give him a minute, and then they’d have to go. The sand pooled rapidly at the bottom of the hourglass; it blew heavily in the wind and piled into the crater where their home once stood. Circumstances may have changed, but their ending felt too pre-determined to change with them. There was a certainty in the air about what came next, a lack of exits in this quickly burning building, a train barreling down the tracks he was tied to—cornered didn’t even begin to describe it; but even so, Scar couldn’t find it in himself to care.

This cornered animal, this broken and pathetic thing—it wasn’t going to turn around and bite; there was no fight to be found, not in him, not for this. It turned out the phrase as he knew it rang true all along; a cornered animal was a dead animal. He brushed a piece of hair off of Grian’s forehead. Scar didn’t find that he felt afraid, though, for there was more peace to be found here than his wildest and worst imaginings had predicted.

Besides, every good religion needed a martyr.

#hey :)#if youd prefer to read it on the doc text me ill send you the link #worm writes #desert duo #desert duo fic #gtws #grian #third life #third life fic #goodtimeswithscar #dialogue prompt

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blondeling · 1 year

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A 4.5k word one shot of Life Series Grian angst :)

TW: panic attacks, self harm/punishment, unhealthy coping mechanisms, minor/implied suicidal thoughts

Desc:

At a certain point, Grian realized the games had become a form of self-harm. He didn’t know when it happened, he just knew that he was punishing himself, hurting himself, and dealing with it in the unhealthiest way possible. He didn’t expect to have any genuine repercussions from the game other than a few jibes here and there once it was all over, and he sure as hell didn’t expect to be the sole member to recall anything that happened once the game came to completion.

The victors remember the game they won and any game that came after.

Grian deals with this in ways no therapist would recommend.

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here-there-be-drag0ns · 1 year

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it only took a year but i finally fleshed out an idea i had

#3rd life #3rd life smp #3rd life desertduo #desert duo #desertduo #grian #goodtimeswithscar #desert duo fic #3rd life fanfic #winged grian #avian grian #life series #life smp #third life smp #dragons hoard

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voidratwrites · 1 year

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home is somewhere distant in the desert

MCYT Febuwhump 2023 Day 2 - Flinching

Scar wondered what Grian saw when he looked at him.

It couldn’t be Scar, right? He just could not be the thing Grian saw when he looked at him, not the thing that made Grian recoil, flinch away. It couldn’t be him.

or; Grian won’t look at Scar during DoubleLife. Scar misses how things were in the desert.

cws and fic under the cut

cws: discussions of death, complicated and unhealthy relationships. Stay safe

When Scar looked at Grian, that was what he saw. Grian, his soulmate, nothing more and nothing less. He saw gold-spun hair and sun-kissed skin, dark eyes and light feathers. He saw days spent pranking, trapping, killing and avoiding being killed. He saw loyalty, sometimes, mischief more often than not. He saw Grian.

Scar wondered what Grian saw when he looked at him.

It couldn’t be Scar, right? He just could not be the thing Grian saw when he looked at him, not the thing that made Grian recoil, flinch away. It couldn’t be him.

Sometimes it felt like Grian couldn’t bear to look at him. Whatever he saw, he didn’t like it. He spent all his time trying to outrun it, outrun Scar. Maybe that’s why he pushed Scar away so much, why he belittled him, why he chose to sneak around with BigB. Maybe he just didn’t like the thing he saw when he looked at Scar.

And it wasn’t Scar himself! It wasn’t, it couldn’t be, because Scar was just himself and Grian— well, Grian had loved him as himself before. He had loved him, and sure, they’d sort of avoided each other last game, but here they were together again and surely, surely he hadn’t changed so much that Grian no longer liked being around him.

That wasn’t it, anyways. Grian did like being around him sometimes. Sometimes, when he wasn’t looking at Scar, he was smiling, and they’d joke and banter and be themselves and Scar loved Grian for himself and he hoped Grian loved him for himself. Sometimes it felt like it. It felt the same as it had in the desert, and Scar felt loved like he had then, like Grian might turn to look at him and smile brighter than the hot sun overhead.

When Grian looked at him, though, he didn’t smile. He flinched, looked away, avoided eye contact and avoided Scar.

And Scar didn’t understand! He really didn’t! Grian would go from almost acting the same as he used to and then he’d lock eyes with Scar and it’d all fall apart. Sometimes he looked at Scar with such hatred Scar wondered if Grian would kill him if it didn’t mean Grian dying too. If the soulbond was the only thing keeping him from the rage burning in Grian’s eyes that had long stopped meeting his.

The fear was worse than the anger, though. Scar hated those looks the most. He had seen them in past, in their first life together, when Grian would wake up from nightmares with a look so far away Scar was afraid Grian would never come back. And then he’d turn those empty eyes on Scar, and some part of him would come back, and it’d all be alright.

Now, his eyes would empty when he looked at Scar. That hurt more than the anger, more than any words Grian could say. He’d look at Scar, and he’d look afraid, and Scar could feel himself emptying too.

He wanted to understand. Maybe, maybe then he could fix it, could get Grian to see him and not whatever it was that made him flinch away. Scar could fix it, and they could be true soulmates, they could be each others’ again like they had in their first life, in the desert.

Scar wished they could go back to the desert.

(When Grian looked at Scar, he saw the end. He saw Scar’s betrayal, saw his repentance, saw him offer his life to Grian in a twisted version of what Grian had offered to him at the beginning of it all. He saw his bloody fists and Scar’s broken body. He saw what happened when he loved someone and they loved him. He saw the desert.

Part of Grian never really left the desert.)

Thank you so much for reading! If you wanna leave a comment and kudos, this is crossposted on AO3! my AO3 is VoidBrat

#desert duo #desert duo fic #double life smp #double life fic #febuwhump 2023 #Drabble #grian fanfic #gtws fanfic

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the-speyeral · 1 year

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A Phoenix Rises

18/18 chapters

25712 words

"He needed to survive with Scar.

Grian pleaded with the Watchers.

He would sacrifice anyone he needed to in return for a chance to survive with Scar. "

A fic in which Grian is determined to survive on the last life server with Scar.

#oliander speaks #grian #trafficblr #goodtimeswithscar #gtwscar #desertduo #desert duo #desertduo fic #desert duo fic #gtws #grian fic #life smp #third life #last life #double life

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plasticghostbird · 2 years

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Please give me fic recs!!! preferably desert duo but i’ll take what you got

#bird speaks #fic rec #fanfic rec #desert duo #desert duo fic #hermitcraft

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isjasz · 2 months

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[Day 238]

💤💤💤

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ME WHEN I GET A FULL BLOWN FIC INSPIRED BY MY ART AND MAKE A FULL PAGE COMIC OUT OF IT HOW WE FEELING💥💥💥💥💥

Explodes this still feels like a fever dream hi so @definitelynotshouting this absolutely batshit insane guy wrote "honey it's starting to storm" INSPIRED BY THIS ART FROM CHRISTMAS. I need to yell about it more istg this is the W of the century. Guys please it's so good go read it go read go rea

Emphasis GO READ IT👉

#dddaily4sherin #desert duo #scarian #hermitshipping #<- for tems fic #bc this comic itself can be read platonically too ig LOL #the fic is. def not tho. /pos bro went ham on the love description its so URGRHHRHRHRJRHE #listen i WANTED TO DRAW THE KISSIES BUT IT NEEDED A SECOND PAGE😔#but anyways tem i have not yelled at you enough about this this gen so cool UEJEJKAKHAKAS RAHHHHHDHEHEJ #ENJOY THE ART 💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥#my art

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definitelynotshouting · 5 months

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MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE FINALE OF SECRET LIFE!!!!!

so i sped-wrote this as soon as i learned who the winner was this morning, tried to post it twice, tumblr mobile deleted it BOTH TIMES... but i will not be silenced ive finally gone to desktop /silly

this will go up on my rough draft pseud soon, but until then please enjoy the results of me being EXTREMELY unwell about the secret life finale. WOOOOOO WE ARE POPPING THE BIGGEST OF BOTTLES TODAY FR!!!!!!!!!!!

Grian barricades himself at the top of the highest tower of Tango's citadel the moment he wakes up. It's a calculated move, admittedly. There are a precious few places one might still find him if he truly wants to hide, but the Deep Frost Citadel isn't one of them— and with the second Decked Out coming to a ceremonious close, foot traffic here is perilously low. Dawn is a swift-approaching knife on the horizon, and Grian soars above it all, face numb with chill wind, wings brazen and feathers strewn across an empty sky.

He doesn't want to be near when Scar wakes. And he doesn't want to be found just yet, either. Oh, Scar will track him down. Of that, he has no doubt— but for now, Grian takes solace in the snow crunching underfoot as he locks himself inside this barren tower.

It's dark here, which suits Grian just fine. He doesn't bother lighting a lantern; instead, he huddles right on the floor, letting the ice seep through him. From here, he can just make out the sky as it lightens, bringing with it the dawn of a new victor. Nausea boils in his throat. With that victory comes a price, and Scar— And Grian— Well. Grian hasn't treated him very well throughout the games, now, has he?

He curls in on himself even further, feathers brushing along the length of his chilled arms. Each hair stands at attention, in some vain effort to pull warmth from the surrounding freeze— when he scrubs a hand along his arm, his fingers shake, and the gooseflesh remains stark and raised against his skin.

There was a sand-drenched point when the concept of warmth was all he could register— scorching wind scraping the cut on his cheek, the scarlet splatter of blood across split knuckles. And like the steady drain of life from a corpse, that warmth has drawn away, poison from a putrid wound— it leaves him compacting this cold, this loneliness, to mold it into four high walls around his heart; a fitting tribute to every grain of trust he's rightfully lost. Grian huffs the barest traces of a bitter laugh as his breath mists in the air. A better man would meet Scar at his base, extend his support, no matter how icily it might be met.

But Grian is selfish, and a coward, and will always be a coward— and so instead he sits, marrow freezing, with only the thin garrotte of paltry sunlight wrapping itself around his tender throat to keep him company.

And there he stays, motionless, for long enough that the chill makes a home in him— the glistening, pale yolk of the sun warns him of the passing time, a watery heat that counts down the seconds to minutes to hours until Scar finds him. Grian curls his wings around himself, a pitiful embrace, and waits.

Two hours later, the whistle of rocket-propelled elytra warn him of incoming company. Grian doesn't bother fleeing; he knows Scar, and Scar knows him, and with this last, missing puzzle piece finally slotting into place between them, he's under no illusions that staying hidden for long is feasible. Grian's eyes skitter to a crack on the far wall as clumsy footsteps scatter the snow outside, scrabbling for balance before the muted click of a cane joins them. Footsteps; another, louder click— the door's latch gives way, and a brief, blinding wave of light crashes over Grian's face, obscuring everything but the outline of a painfully familiar silhouette.

Grian has to look away. The door shuts, and for a small moment, neither of them so much as breathe.

Then Scar's sighs— one great, resigned gust. "Grian...."

He says nothing else. He doesn't have to. Grian draws his legs up to his chest in response anyway, heart a frozen pump bleeding ice into his very veins. What can he say? An apology? They're past apologies, now— if Scar wanted to disavow him forever, take the crumpled remains of their friendship and throw it at his feet, he'd be right to do so.

But Scar doesn't shout; neither does he leave. Instead, his cane taps forward, boots sliding into Grian's line of vision— and, with a grunt of effort, Scar eases himself down, until he's sitting at a safe diagonal from Grian's hunched form.

Neither of them say anything for a while.

Eventually, Grian licks his lips. They're chapped from cold, thin and ready to split. "Hi, Scar," he says softly. It comes out weak, thready— a barely-there declaration. Whatever Scar wants here... he can take it. It's the very least Grian can do at this point.

From the corner of his eye, he watches Scar settle, shifting his weight before he lands on something approximating comfort. He takes his time with it, blind— or uncaring— to the erratic snarl of Grian's pulse. His voice is just as quiet when he responds. "So... that's it, then, huh."

Grian glances over properly before he can stop himself, stomach churning; Scar's gaze has slipped to the cutout acting as a window, middle-distant and lost. Locked on something only he can see. Then Scar shakes himself, an abrupt jerk of his head and shoulders, and that glassy look turns to pin Grian directly to the wall behind him instead. "Just like that?"

Grian's fingers tighten around his knees. "Just like that," he agrees, hollow.

Scar mulls that over for a moment. His sigh is a wisp of white in front of them, crystallizing in the glacial atmosphere. "Jeez," he says finally, scrubbing one hand through the tangled bird's nest of his hair. He must have flown across half the server as soon as he... remembered, Grian realizes with a visceral pang. "I didn't... that's a lot of memories to just, um, gain back on a dime, huh?"

Grian darts a sidelong glance at him. Shifts his wings until their primaries lower, sweeping the ground around his feet like a feathered cat's cradle. "I wouldn't know," he says, a quirk of black humor dancing around the edges of his mouth. He swallows. "Since. Well...."

He trails off. Imagines, briefly, that he is a black hole— a quasar. A neutron star. Something so tight and compact it can string him out, erase him; a ball of grief and misery dense enough that it contains its own event horizon.

Scar hums a little shakily into the blooming silence. "Yeah. I guess that would complicate things, wouldn't it." A pause. "Does it always feel—?"

Grian shrugs. "Don’t know that either, Scar."

"Oh." Scar's still looking at him, the searchlight of his gaze burning pockmarks into Grian's skin. "Cool, okay... so...." He hesitates, teeth worrying his lower lip, before finally forging on: "So what now?"

Grian sucks in his own shuddery breath. "Whatever you want, Scar," he says, blank and dull. Every inch of him frozen stiff, awaiting the tipped scales of Scar’s judgement. "There's no going back, after this." The quicksilver flash of a grimace tugs his lips back to reveal sharp, white teeth. "Welcome to the club, I guess."

"It sure is a warm welcome," Scar says weakly. "Got— uh, got your complimentary balloons, and— and um, a whole gift basket of... of...."

He trails off too, the fragile ley lines of his humor peeling off, cracking at the seams. Impossibly, Grian curls around himself tighter.

An apology is nothing but wasted air now, but it dredges from his throat anyway. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry, Scar. I—" He breaks off, jaw tight. "I'm... I'm not sure what else to say, honestly. I never thought...."

I never thought you'd win. It's a cruel phrase that haunts the air between them, hanging like a smoky pall across their shoulders.

Scar says nothing against it; he only watches.

An uneasy prickle crawls up Grian's spine. "You don't—" He stops himself before he can finish that thought. "Are you— Scar, why are you here?"

"'Cause Pearl's not talking to me yet," Scar says quietly, prompt. "And— and because I remembered. Us."

Grian's throat closes around the word. "Us," he echoes, a rough rasp that ricochets against the deepslate walls surrounding them. The word tears through his ears, distorting with each pass. "Look, alright— I-I don't know if you got the memo, exactly, but— I'm not—"

He breaks off again, lungs jarring, hitching in his chest. Hot prickles sear behind his eyes, but nothing drops— he’s too tired for crying. "I've hurt you a lot, Scar," Grian says at last, lips numb around the words. "I'm not sure if there's much of an 'us' left, at this point."

"I know," Scar says. His eyes reflect the snow-glitter outside.

"And— I wouldn't blame you, if you left right now."

"I know," Scar says again, softer.

"I—” Grian stares at him, helpless. "Okay, then why are you here, Scar?" He gestures between them, an aimless motion that somehow encompasses the breadth of everything that's rotted at their foundations. "If you know all that, then what—?"

Scar regards him with enviable poise. His throat bobs as he speaks. "Maybe, I just— now that I remember— maybe I just want your company, Grian. Is that really so bad?"

Grian stares at him, at a loss. "I don't understand," he says finally, and it comes out plaintive even to his own ears. "I thought you'd be— angry. After everything I've done, after all that's happened.... What's your play here, Scar? If you want to yell at me, be my guest. I think by now I've more than earned it."

But Scar doesn't take the bait. Instead, he shuffles closer— just by an inch. A careful, cautious inch. "Y'know," he says, apropos of nothing, "and correct me if I'm wrong, here— but I seem to remember something about you wanting an alliance before all of... that crazy stuff happened. Is that right?"

Something in Grian's chest spasms. Whatever expression it spreads across his face must spur Scar on, because he scoots closer again, just enough to bring their calves together. The brief shock of warmth explodes through Grian's skin, worming its way underneath the subcutaneous tissue to flood his veins and gnaw at the lingering ice.

After a moment, Scar's lips tilt up— a subtle, fragile smile. "Is it too late to cash in on that?" he asks.

Grian's mind goes blank, white and buzzing, the thin hiss of a creeper drifting through it like smoke. Unfiltered shock threads through his voice. "You want t— what?"

Scar's smile tempers further around its edges, stretching into something softer, knowing. Rounded out. With solemn motions, he reaches into the pocket of his utterly ridiculous safety vest, and delicately pulls something out.

It's a sunflower.

In the frigid gloom of Tango's citadel, Grian gapes, the brilliant yellow petals incongruous with this grim, grit, darkened room. When he looks up, Scar's eyes are overbright, painfully earnest— brimming with a desperate urgency that tucks itself away in the depths of his pupils.

"Can we try again?" Scar says, soft as the new-fallen snow beyond this isolated cell of misery. "Start over? I— I kind of hurt you too, you know. And— for the record, being without you sucks. I don't—" He falters. "I know it's gonna be all weird, y’know, between us… but I don't want to do that anymore. I just... want you here, Grian. That's all. I just want you to stick around."

Grian sucks in a sharp, daggered breath. "You're joking," he breathes, but his heart leaps, tumbling from his throat and onto the floor for Scar to stomp at his leisure. "You're actually— this isn't funny."

"Hey, do you see me laughing?” Scar presses forward once more, a calculated attack, but still slow enough for Grian to track each move, to stop him if he cared enough to. Gently, Scar unwinds one of Grian's hands from his knees, cupping it between his own and brushing the lightest of kisses against his knuckles before turning over Grian’s palm and pressing the flower into it. Grian's fingers curl around it of their own accord, silky petals burning against his fingers.

"So." Scar smiles, tremulous, eyes suspiciously red-rimmed. "Can we still be friends?"

And Grian has always been a raw creature, a tangled wreck of his own selfish greed— he’s craved the honeyed umber of Scar's love since he first cradled it, tentatively, in his palms all that time ago. In the depths of his heart, there will always be that sandstone cliff, the crack of his bones against hard-packed sand, and wings too clipped to fly freely. There will always be that calloused fist around his heart, and beyond his own scrabbling fear, there will always, always be that fervent need to bring Scar close even as he pushes him away.

And where before, Scar had been playing blind, a game with no true rules… now, his eyes trap Grian against the wall, clear as glass— diamond sharp and just as steady. From a winning game, there is no turning back. There’s nothing left to lose here, except this porcelain trust, this shred of hope Scar offers him once more in the form of a flower.

Even after everything, all the memories flooding back— Scar is still here, holding Grian’s heart, and offering up his own in return.

Grian slowly presses it to his chest with trembling, vulnerable motions. "You're sure you want this."

"I'm sure I want you," Scar says, unwavering.

Grian breathes in. Breathes out. Inhale and exhale, both a heavy drag in his lungs. Already, the sun is beginning to strengthen, casting thick rays through the window and splaying them across Grian’s lap. The advent of gilded noon weaves around them, perfuming the air with light and heat.

"Okay," Grian says at last, and it drops from his lips with the weight of a confession; a relinquishment; a solemn vow. "Okay."

This time, when Scar reaches for his hand again, Grian meets him halfway, and the tangle of their fingers nets the sunflower in a promise neatly between them.

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applestruda · 1 year

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Drew some scenes from @hopepetal fic (read here)

#i usually dont like drawing environments but this was actually pretty fun #anyways #PLEASE GO READ ZERA'S FIC ITS WONDERFUL OMG #desert skies au #desert duo #goodtimeswithscar #grian #pearlescentmoon #sky cotl #my art

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bipbopdepmop · 3 months

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something something these guys are almost always used as just a sidepiece to grian

#my art #salty moment #im not maintagging this #slight rant below #just. grr. mumbo barely has any fics and such centered around him #scar is almost always used to further grian and his angst #not to mention. some depictions of desert duo are like. fucking abusive??#hrghh :/#and bigb.... he got attention through the cheating arc of dl and nothing else #and also the hole. but even the hole kind of got made about grian too #bigb is cool. appreciate him more in general #anyway if ya dont agree. leave me alone thank you <3 #also ssorry if the art is low quality it was a quick doodle before dinner jeiaefijwi #blinky by stiffyck

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birrdies · 10 days

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alright, alright by birrdie 3.5k, one-shot desert duo / scarian vigilante au

#birdie writes #hi please consider reading #this little mini vigilante au has been my baby for a few months #i posted one of the other fics on here a month or so ago but im now getting around to posting them on ao3 #pure self indulgence but i think they're fun #hermitshipping #<- scar's flirting really badly but that's the extent of it #desert duo fic #scarian #scarian fic #hermitcraft fic

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canarydarity · 1 year

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for the dialogue prompts… number 9 desert duo?

“Grian!” Scar shouted, momentarily forgetting his place. He so rarely got to feel triumphant in this way, he thought he deserved a little bit of freedom given the circumstances. “Grian, where are you? I got a kill, can you believe it! I got a kill doing nothing,” he laughed, jumping over another trail of wool and ducking through a break in the deepslate; his hand gripping the wall, he used his momentum to turn the corner without slowing down.

And there he was, sweater red and rumpled, eyes wide and diamond pickaxe in hand.

“Oh! Grian—”

But Grian was looking past him, where the stream of water slowed until it became a puddle. Every few seconds, one of Martyn’s items would leak through the hole in the wall and plop into it; though weak, the current pushed each abandoned thing further, making it halfheartedly lap shorelines that didn’t exist below ground in the ancient city.

“Is that the way out?”

Scar glanced behind him but didn’t linger; he was far too excited for the precarious situation that they were still in.

“What? Oh, yeah, I chased Martyn and Cleo down there.”

Grian’s shoulder brushed his as he pushed past Scar towards the tunnel, and Scar turned to follow, already beginning to recount his tale.

“Grian, it was the slowest chase scene you’ve ever seen in your entire life. Oh my god, it was so anticlimatic—here, I’ll tell you a better version,” he was trailing behind Grian, hands making grand gestures and dramatic replays of the events which he described.

“I dropped 500 blocks with the most amazing mlg water bucket you ever did see, but when I looked up, I was surrounded by four wardens. Now, I could see Martyn and Cleo in the distance, and with creepers high above me and skeletons below, I began my pursuit.”

Scar’s eyes didn’t see the way in front of him but rather envisioned the kill as he told it—tensions high and dramatics turned all the way up; in his version, Martyn was screaming, cowering, as Scar, the devishly handsome and well-renowned killer, expertly tracked him down; in his version, Grian was waiting behind for Scar to come back, windswept but not even slightly out of breath, for the chase was that easy. In reality, adrenaline was still making its way through him even though he really hadn’t done much, and he was running out of breathe at faster rates than he should've been for the way he was over-telling the story—but he kept telling it anyway.

“I dodged, I weaved through explosions and arrows flying, looking to strike down Martyn, who had followed Cleo into a tunnel, where little did she know she’d end up surrounded by her own kind: zombies.”

Scar sighed wistfully and dropped his hands. “I didn’t even do anything, Grian, but I still got the credit! and that’s when I found you and—” He looked to his side. Grian was picking his way along the wool path, alert, on edge; looking this way and that for shriekers, occasionally glancing high for bows that might be trained in their direction. “And you’re not listening to me.”

Scar stopped when Grian did, watching him bend down to glance into the tunnel where Scar had managed to kill Martyn. He was inspecting it closely, analyzing the water coming out of it. Scar waved his hand in front of Grian’s face but Grain slapped it away. “Grian? Are you listening to my story?”

“Scar, I think this is…”

“This is what?”

“Yes! This is the exit.” Grian actually raised his hand and pointed a finger in the air when he came to the conclusion—something he did without thinking when he figured something out and was excited about it. Scar had mentioned it once and Grian had pouted about it before resolutely trying to stop doing it, but more often lately he’d been forgetting to. Scar was glad, for he found it kind of endearing, which was the only reason he’d first brought it up.

He had no idea what it was Grian had thought he’d discovered. He had literally just told him this was the exit.

“Isn’t that what I just said? Yes, Grian, this is the exit.” He over-emphasized it this time, hand out like he was making introductions. “Now, it’s scary down here, let’s go!”

Grian stopped Scar from turning to go with a hand to his arm, “No, Scar this is Tango’s exit…” His eyes bore into Scar’s, as if that alone would lend to understanding.

Scar glanced from Grian to the tunnel, and then back, and then again and— “OH, OH!” Scar stumbled away from the entrance; eyes wide, he lowered his voice as if the tunnel was listening to him and had the potential to retaliate. “You mean this is where he…?”

“Uh-huh…”

They hesitated for a second; Scar didn’t know about Grian, but he was busy thinking about the panic of hearing the low growl of the warden out of the blue while supposedly safe up on the surface.

He got the chills at the thought. “Scary, we can still get up this way, though, right?”

No answer.

“ …Grian?” Scar looked back at his soulmate, but he was still staring down the tunnel, the water stream, eyes narrowed.

“It’s still set up…” Barely a mumble, probably not meant to be shared aloud at all.

“What?”

Grian nodded with whatever conclusion he’d come to, finally looking back at Scar. “You go ahead.”

“Whyyyy…” Scar drew it out, suspicions high. Scar was never a model student, but Grian was a class he felt he could ace even without studying for all the tests. Paying attention to Grian was easy, and if he needed an excuse besides the obvious, then he’d say it was because Grian didn’t say what he meant so much as he acted on it, and once Scar had picked up on this he’d made it a point to observe; Grian was a language Scar was looking to obtain fluency in.

Tango tunnel (haha, alliteration), ancienty city, the look on Grian’s face that said he had a plan… “You want to send another warden up.”

Grian shrugged, “well…”

In his mind, Scar saw flashes of horns, concave chests; he could almost hear the bone-chilling growl—though he supposed he preferred that to a sonically-charged shriek. Two pairs had been eliminated, everyone else was on red—this thing was going down, tonight. There was a good chance they wouldn’t survive till morning. “You think that’s a good idea?”

“You don’t?” Grian looked back at him, and Scar could tell without it needing to be voiced that Grian was thinking the same kinds of things. Whatever alliance the reds had ended when Scar released his arrow. Grian was thinking kill or be killed.

Scar wasn’t pleased, but he’d long ago learned to act like it. “Okay, tell me what to do!” He enthusiastically nodded once at Grian, his hands on his hips; his glee looked every bit like a boy scout waiting to help an old lady cross the street—not at all like he was plotting the murder of some of his closest friends.

Grian wasted no time shutting him down, head shaking. “No, Scar, I’ve got this you…you head back up.”

“What! No I wanna help, I can do something. Look, I’m strong I’ve got muscles.” Scar smiled, flexing a little as a joke, but Grian was having none of it. He was stubborn, especially when it came to a plan and exactly how he thought it should work.

“I don’t think those are much help here…just go up to the surface, please.” It wasn’t polite—less pleading and more exasperated; more do what you’re told, for once and less thanks so much for offering anyway.

Scar dropped his arms and let out a “but who’s going to help you!” Which was met with a silence he’d expected but had really, really been hoping not to hear. “No, you’re not planning on doing it alone are you?”

“Tango was able to!” Grian argued, as if this was a question of skill, as if Scar would ever question whether or not Grian was capable of doing what he set his mind to. He wasn’t insulted by the assumption, because he knew the avoidance meant Grian had picked up on his concern. “Besides, everythings here and set up. All I need to do is…summon the warden, lead it here and…” Grian glanced down the tunnel again. The only noise was the slow, steady stream of water, and the far-off shouting from whatever reds were still stuck down here. They really needed to go, soon.

Scar followed Grian’s gaze and considered the plan again. He couldn’t help but think about Grian trapped far down the narrow pathway, a monster of black and blue and teal lumbering behind him. Scar looked back at Grian, who was still himself staring through the entrance. For just a moment, he dropped the mask. “I don’t think I like this.”

Grian rolled his eyes. “That’s exactly why I’m telling you to go.” That’s not what Scar meant at all, and they both knew it.

He pushed anyway, cause stubbornness wasn’t a Grian-only trait. “Just give me a job! I wanna help, I can do it!”

Grian sighed, he was getting antsy; the situation was dire, indeed, but not immediately so. And yet, Grian was getting more anxious the longer they stood and did nothing, Scar could tell. “Scar you—alright, fine, you want to do something? This tunnel should lead somewhere on the surface…there’s a hole in the ground with water in it—take the water out.”

Scar blinked at Grian a few times. He watched the way Grian’s eyes shifted from his and back again, the way he fought with his own anxious energy until he could play the part of being calm and still.

“...You’re going to be down here summoning a warden on purpose and you want me to go play with a water bucket, is what you’re telling me.”

“It’s an important job!” He was overselling it—they both knew who the salesman was out of the two of them, and it wasn’t Grian. “We don’t want the warden to come up too soon, right? If you remove the water and then wait till i’m up there, we can place it together and watch it to come to the surface.”

It was busy-work, not a real task. Scar guessed it wasn’t exactly useless, but it wasn’t helpful either—and it provided Grian with what he’d wanted, to do this part, down here, alone. It wasn’t an issue of trust or skill. Scar could read it in the way Grian was actually providing him an alternative, trying and failing to convince him he could help, he could do something, it just happened to be far away, (to be safe). If Grian didn’t trust Scar to help he would’ve flat out told him, no words minced or feelings protected. His expert translation skills had worked something else out instead, and what it was was this: I can’t do this if you’re down here and I’m worrying about you instead of me.

“Take a water bucket, find the warden-hole-thingy, remove the water, wait for you to come up—in that order, you got it!”

What a cruel situation they were in, worrying for each other more than they worried for themselves—it mattering none that they were tied together and those were as good as the same thing.

Scar offered Grian a mock salute, smile bright. “You be careful down here, mister, I’m sure there are still pandas up there wandering around somewhere that need me. I’d hate to orphan them—can you imagine? Orphan pandas! No one to feed or cuddle them!”

Scar turned away only after Grian had rolled his eyes again, this time in the way where he’d only done it so he wouldnt smile instead. Diffusing tension was an art, and Scar the rich and famous artist, sought-after for his skill.

“I hate it down here, honestly, thank god I get to go back up to the surface, phew!” Scar ducked into the narrow tunnel, “I’ll see you soon!” He threw over his shoulder. If he didn’t leave now, he didn’t think he’d be able to go through with it. He meant it when he said he hated it down here, but he hated the thought of leaving Grian alone even more.

“Scar, wait, I—”

Scar looked up, but he didn’t turn around. Grian’s voice alone was seeping into dangerous territory, Scar didn’t want to have to look at his face (he wasn’t a very good actor). “Yes, Grian?”

A pause. The water weakly pushed against Scar’s legs, like it too wanted him to turn around and meet Grian’s eye; the strength of the stream in no way represented how hard it actually was to resist. “I’m trusting you,” Grian finally said. It didn’t sound like what he’d wanted to say at all. “Please don’t make me regret it.”

Scar chuckled, “Grian, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

So Scar traveled to the surface, finding distraction in picking through what was leftover of Martyn’s things as he did, or in staring at weird patterns on the tunnel wall. He wanted to breathe a breath of relief when he clawed his way out of the hole, finally, and reached the surface, but he couldn’t—not while he knew where Grian was and what he was doing. Still, he did his job, he pulled out his water bucket and acted like this was important—like this was necessary. He walked in the direction of where he thought the Warden’s exit would be, and he repeated it until he believed it—that this was a good plan, that this was going to help them win, that Grian was right behind him, that Scar had done the right thing by leaving.

And then—like a period at the end of a sentence, leaving no room for doubt, an ending resounding and distinct—the first tick of damage hit. Scar fell to his knees, but still, as he went down, his thoughts laid only with Grian, hundreds of feet below.

#worm writes #dialogue prompt #desert duo #grian #gtws #goodtimeswithscar #desert duo fic #double life #double life fic #double life smp #gtws fanfic

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blondeling · 1 year

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Chapter 2 is completed!

Hotguy and Cuteguy go on a patrol! What could go wrong? :D

Words: 9k

Chapters: 2/?

**enjoy some fluff for.....no reason in particular..... :) <3**

#grian #gtws #goodtimeswithscar #hermitcraft #desert duo #mcyt #desert duo fic #my fic

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roe-oo · 3 months

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old-ish fanart kinda for this fic 🫶

#🥰🥰🥰🥰THE comfort fic of all time🥰🥰🥰🥰#mcyt #mcyt fanart #desert duo #gtws #grian #grian fanart #hermitcraft #roe.art #trafficshipping #scarian

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theminecraftbee · 10 months

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Grian comes to again, flat on his back, and groans. Distantly, he hears Scar yelling an apology. It’s hard to tell if Scar had accidentally dropped sand, accidentally kicked one of the dragon eggs currently littering their bases (causing it to fall), or had missed concrete somewhere and caused that to drop, but the apology, this time, was at least sincere, so he’s fairly certain Scar didn’t intentionally knock Grian out. Doesn’t mean Grian hadn’t been knocked on his ass by, what, a pavlovian reaction to sand? But it means Scar hadn’t been intentionally exploiting it.

He’s rubbing his head when he hears them chittering distantly. He looks up, and then he Looks up, just to make sure he’s not imagining it, and… yep, they’re there. The Watchers. They’re busy happily chittering about the fact that Grian passes out when any block falls to the ground. Of course they are. He wonders if this is their fault. Probably not; Watchers may be annoying, but they can’t see the future, so it’s not like they’d have known about the egg thing ahead of time. No, they’re probably just amused at his suffering.

Joke’s on them. This is mostly just going to make cleaning up slower. And they’re going to have to deal with that too, on account of the fact Grian can’t do much else until it’s done.

He’s trying to hit another egg with a piston when he hears, distantly, “shoot, the beach!”, realizes what has happened, and then he’s waking up on the ground again. He stares at the sky for a moment.

“Trust Scar with sand, I thought. He terraforms all the time, I thought. He won’t keep messing me up with it, I thought.” He groans.

The chittering of the Watchers gets louder. He hears a lot of ‘Scar’ and ‘sand’ and ‘he can’t bear it’ and. Great. Grian’s pretty sure he knows what comment is coming next—

you’ve never left that desert.

“So this is your fault!” he says, accusingly. “Why! All it’s done is make my life more confusing!”

Indistinct noises. At one point, when Grian had been more one of them than he is now, he had been able to tell all of the voices apart easily. Now, the Watchers are somewhere between the wall of incomprehensible, horrible sound that they are to mortals and normal voices. He has to strain to pick out anything overly specific. He supposes if he chose to go all Watcher again he’d be able to tell what they’re saying, but frankly, they’re all annoying, so why would he bother? Better to stick to things as they are.

He messages Scar: If you drop sand one more time I am going to figure out how to add more dragon eggs to your base.

Scar messages back: its an accideet

Grian responds one more time: lol. accideet.

He takes a moment before standing up to check around himself. Scar does seem to have moved on from whatever he’d been doing with terraforming to keep dropping gravity blocks, so it’s probably safe to stand without passing out again. What had he been doing? Right. Eggs. Piston.

you never left that desert, Grian hears again from the wall of noise.

“Right. That’s me. Never left,” Grian says. Honestly.

can’t stand the sight of scar and sand.

“You know you guys are reaching, right?” Grian says.

never left—

“I would if you’d let me!” snaps Grian.

Indistinct chittering. Deep breaths. He’s fine. He's apparently developed sand-based epilepsy or something, and is trying to find the solution to that, but. Fine. He’s fine. It’s not like arguing with Watchers is ever actually worth it. They never change their mind. The thing is that they tend to think they know exactly how he works, and no matter how much he tries to refute their baseless assumptions, they still have a picture in their head, and they still keep working off of it.

A strange shudder runs down his back.

you never left that desert.

“Look, it’s not that I’m not over it,” Grian says. “I’m actually pretty over it. I’ve been over it since Last Life, really, even if none of you believe me.” He puts another egg in his inventory. “Scar’s my friend and he’s a weird guy and I like him, but it’s not like I’m not over that stupid game. Wouldn’t keep playing it if I weren’t over it, would I?”

Indistinct chittering about tragedy and deserts and dramatic final suicides and, look, Grian is good at telling stories. That’s the whole point. That’s why these guys won’t leave him alone. But sometimes, he swears…

“So you know, I would have left the desert by now. It’s just that you all haven’t. So guess who’s still stuck here? Believe me, it’s not me who’s not over it. If you wanted me out of the desert, you could let me leave any time you’d l—”

He has a second’s warning before he’s on the ground, dizzy, hoping he hasn’t gotten a concussion. He glances down at his communicator.

Mumbo says: that was me this time my bad

Shakily, Grian types: you have 10 seconds. start running.

The chittering gets more distant. Grian gets up. He checks to make sure his wings are on. He goes to light a rocket, but not before shouting: “Scar, if you do anything with gravity blocks while I am actively flying I will kill you dead!”

“Have fun buddy!” Scar shouts back. Grian’s not sure Scar actually heard a word he said. Well, hopefully there will be no sand falling from his hands while he goes to murder Mumbo, then. If there is, Grian’s—well, Grian’s going to have a broken bone at that rate, but he’s recovered from far worse falls. Some of those have even been Scar’s fault, by some measure or another.

He Looks back up at the mass he knows are the Watchers. “If this is you all’s fault because you never seem to have gotten over the whole desert thing, I’ll find a way to, I don’t know. Inconvenience you greatly. Not sure what I’ll do, but I’ll figure it out.”

The chittering gets way more fond, then. Pleased. They want him to do that. Can’t even threaten the assholes properly, they like it. Honestly, Grian doesn’t know why he bothers. It’s not like they’ll listen. No matter how many times he says he’s over it, it’s not like they’ll listen.

(Sometimes, he hates that he’s so good at stories.)

Right then. Time to wreak havoc on his friends for exploiting his very exploitable weakness, then. This sword’s got sharpness on it, right?

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(originally written for @hermitcraftguesstheauthorevent, and posted on ao3 here; now that it's revealed, i figured i'd go ahead and post it here, since it really matches the cadence of one of my tumblr things more than an ao3-only fic. enjoy!)

#hermitcraft #grian #the watchers #desert duo #KIND OF? i think this COUNTS?#a bee fic #anyway guess the author was cool! thank you so much <3 #wrote this like immediately after the falling sand stuff came out as a musing on some of the ways people were talking abotu it #you know how it is. sometimes you've gotta metacommentary.

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