Chapter Text
It had been two weeks since Lizzie’s visit, and the forest hadn’t recovered any more than Grian had. The air clung heavy and warm over the clearing, thick with the scent of damp earth and that late-summer hush that usually came just before rain, but even the precipitation seemed to hold its breath. The trees stood unnaturally still. No birds visited the cabin or chirped from a distance, no insects hummed at dusk, not even the soft rustle of leaves stirred by a wandering breeze. Just the slow creak of the wooden porch beneath Scar’s wheelchair and the steady tick of the kitchen clock behind him.
Grian remained on edge, wary of sitting outside for too long, as though another unexpected visitor might step out from the treeline at any moment. Scar had to coax him just to sit on the porch steps, pleading for him to get a bit of fresh air to help his body heal. The forest itself seemed to respond to Grian’s moods— when his feathers flared or his voice rose, a breeze stirred the leaves. When he went quiet, the woods went still with him, caught in the same anxious and uneasy silence.
At least the quiet had allowed his wing time to heal. It had been a little over a month since Grian had crashlanded into Scar’s backyard, and the worst of the damage was gone. He couldn’t flap it excessively by any means, but he was able to twist and maneuver without pain. Scar had read enough online to know that a dislocated wing should fully heal in four to six weeks, and he could only hope it would become usable soon when the day came that Grian might actually fly. He simply couldn’t imagine a grown man soaring through the sky with a pair of parrot wings, but maybe that would all change. A part of him desperately wanted to see it, even if it meant the man would probably leave.
Still, the fear was winning. Grian stayed close to the cabin, pacing or perching at the window for hours, gaze fixed on the treeline. It was starting to eat at him. Scar could feel the tension pressing down on him too— the way a house grows smaller when two people are both pretending everything’s fine. It was a feeling all too familiar.
He needed to get him out before the silence swallowed them both.
Scar had made a few quick trips to town for groceries when his legs were steady enough— an hour’s drive down narrow, gravel roads, always half afraid he’d come home to find the cabin empty or worse, discovered. Of course, he wanted Grian to come with him, to experience the strange hum of human civilization. The man would love it, but his wing was still too raw to bind and hide beneath a coat. And while his headwings could easily be tucked beneath a large-brimmed hat or beanie, the red feathers along his cheeks and hands were harder to disguise. A public place was impossible, at least for now.
But there were other options. Scar remembered Etho once talking about a pond not far from the cabin— a marshy clearing half-swallowed by reeds and cattails, where koi fish flickered beneath the water and dragonflies skimmed across the sunny surface. It sounded perfect.
If Grian was fascinated by the shower’s running water, Scar couldn’t wait to see his reaction to a real-life pond. He could already picture it. Sunlight scattered across the rippling surface, reflections bending around them, the scent of wet reeds and sun-warmed mud across the banks. A place where the world felt soft and alive again.
Convincing him was the real issue, though. Grian could be prickly as thorns when it came to leaving his comfort zone. Scar knew the feeling well enough; they mirrored each other in that. It would take timing, patience, and a little pleading… maybe even begging Grian to go on an artistic field trip as he pulled him into the car for the first time. And yet the idea of seeing Grian’s wide-eyed wonder, the slow unfolding of joy on his face, made the careful planning worth every anxious step.
Scar smiled at the thought, watching the empty treeline as if the soundless forest might answer back. He rolled his eyes at himself before turning around and wheeling back inside the cabin, where Grian resided.
The cabin was cooler, shadows clinging to the corners where afternoon light didn’t quite reach. Grian sat cross-legged on the living room floor by the open window, a faint breeze shifting the curtains and stirring the ends of his hair and feathers. His injured wing was spread halfway open around his body. Feathers rustled as he combed through them with careful, precise fingers, as he maneuvered the feathers into place, biting the edge of his lip in concentration.
Scar paused in the doorway, watching. He had only briefly seen this once before, and something in him was still drawn to the sight. He desperately wanted to ask if he could help, but with how quiet Grian was about the whole ordeal, he was too nervous to ask. So for now, he just watched for a heartbeat longer— the curve of light along scarlet primaries, the faint shiver as Grian flexed the healing joint, checking for breaks or tears.
A small pile of scarlet, gold, and cerulean feathers had gathered on the floor around him. The colors caught in the sunlight like stained glass, impossibly vivid against the dark wood. His fingers moved slowly toward a line of pale blue pin feathers along the edge of his wing. Their waxy sheaths gleamed faintly, finally growing in after his injuries. Scar watched as Grian pinched one gently between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it with practiced ease. The sheath cracked softly, and flakes of the casing fell like snow against the wooden floor. The new feather unfurled slowly and delicately, brighter and softer than the others, still downy at the base. Grian’s breath caught, almost imperceptibly, and he lowered his head as though the moment were meant to be private.
He worked methodically, freeing one after another, each movement patient and careful in a way Scar didn’t often see. Occasionally, a sharp flinch ran through him when he touched a tender spot or tugged a worn feather loose, but he never stopped. A faint layer of pale dust was gathering in the sunlight like gold flecks with the molted feathers, swirling as a breeze drifted in from the window.
Scar found himself leaning forward slightly, caught in the beauty of it all. He’d painted birds before, sure, but none of it could compare to this— the quiet intensity and precision of it all. There was something undeniably fragile about it, watching Grian stitch himself back together feather by feather. Every movement, every bright feather on the floor reminded Scar that this was not a moment built to last forever.
“You’re getting better at that,” Scar said finally, easing into the doorway. “At this rate I’ll have to start charging you rent for all the feathers you’re shedding.”
Grian didn’t turn, simply continuing to card through his wing, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re the one keeping them in a jar. Quite inhumane, if you ask me.”
Scar grinned. The sound of his chair wheels on the wood filled the brief silence. “For scientific study,” he huffed, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. “I’ll have you know I’m considering a career change. I think I could be quite the birdkeeper, what do you say?”
He didn’t add the real reason as to why the feathers were tucked carefully into an old mason jar on his shelf. It made everything feel less like an accident waiting to end and more like proof that Grian had been there at all. Something to hold on to, if he ever woke up one morning to the cabin empty once again. And maybe it was a little selfish, but the vibrant colors had become something like a muse to him. Somehow, their nature had struck something deep inside of him, pulling him to copy those colors into his own work. A sort of inspiration. But Grian didn’t need to know that.
That earned a low, breathless laugh. They were both beginning to understand one another’s humor— Scar’s teasing remarks layered with obvious half-truths and Grian’s dry comments wrapped in a soft sarcasm.
“Excuses, excuses,” Grian muttered, chuckling, still focused on smoothing the new feathers into place. A downy tuft drifted loose on the breeze, spinning lazily between them. “Besides, we both know I’d be better at it. Don’t even try to steal my future job.”
“Right, with your magical bird talk,” Scar shot back. He leaned forward, one elbow on the arm of his chair, his scarred hand flexing unconsciously against the soft material. “If only I could coo like you, maybe I’d have better job prospects.”
“Coos?!” Grian sputtered as his feathers puffed, catching the light in sudden brilliance. “I’ll have you know that’s the language of my people. Quite offensive, if you ask me. I might even have to call upon those magical space gods to knock some sense into you.”
Scar couldn’t help a quiet laugh at that. A few weeks ago, just mentioning those “space gods” would have sent Grian retreating behind his feathers, a sharp look and silence closing him off. But now— now he could joke about them, even if it was thin humor wrapped around something heavier. It was proof that, while still tender, he was healing both on the inside and outside. Proof of how far they’d come. Proof of how badly Scar wanted to stay with him.
“Yeah, right,” Scar said, rolling a little closer, careful of the distance between them that neither quite dared to cross. “Speaking of birds and the outdoors… What do you say we stretch our legs? There’s this pond a little ways out— a real beauty. Dragonflies, frogs, all the good summer sounds.”
The humor faded a fraction. Grian stiffened, his hands freezing mid-preen, a few feathers rising slightly at the edges of his wings. “Outside?”
“Outside,” Scar confirmed. “Where the air’s fresher than our morning coffee. It’s a way out, no one will be there, but we can go when the sun’s low, just to be safe. Just a quick field trip.”
“Field trip?” Grian echoed, turning one curious eye toward him. The feathered crest along his cheeks shifted faintly, a tell of anxiousness Scar had learned to read. He tried to mask it, but the ficker was there, hesitation coiled under the surface. “Sounds dangerous…”
“It’s for research,” Scar said, straight-faced. He lifted his brows like he was giving a very serious scientific presentation. “You’re the subject, I’m the artist. Hypothesis: fresh air might keep you from molting all over the cabin.”
Grian turned, feathers smoothing back down. His eyes were suspicious but bright, a faint shimmer clinging to them. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” Scar said, smile widening, “you’re still here.”
A small huff escaped Grian, not quite a laugh but close enough. “You know it’s dangerous, right?” He pressed. His tone was measured, but there was an edge of real worry threaded through. “No one can see me, you said it yourself. Not to imagine your wheelchair, it’ll be hard for you to get out there.”
“We’ll drive most of the way, don’t worry,” Scar assured him. He gestured vaguely toward the door. “I know you want to check out my sweet drive. Besides, I’m feeling fine. We’ll just be sitting. I can use my cane to get out there, or you can be my crutch! It’s perfect.”
For a moment, Grian didn’t answer. His wings gave a small, weary twitch, the kind that carried more tiredness than resistance. Scar watched him carefully, the way his shoulders tensed and eased again— the hesitation flickering with something softer underneath.
Grian exhaled loudly. “You’re not going to let me say no, are you?”
“Nope!” Scar chirped, too bright on purpose, leaning into humor like it was a safety net. His grin was sincere, though, the kind meant to bounce off of Grian’s defenses until they cracked just a little.
A beat passed. Grian sighed, folding his wings behind his back in one fluid sweep, the motion strangely graceful. “Fine. But if anyone is there, we leave immediately. We’ll bring a blanket to cover my wings. And if I’m seen—”
“You’ll say I kidnapped you and forced you to dress up for creative purposes,” Scar cut in smoothly. “Perfect alibi.”
Grian’s breathless laugh echoed through the cabin, a sound that always caught Scar a little off guard. “You really don’t stop, do you?” He said, shaking his head.
“Not when I’ve got a muse this stubborn.” Scar leaned back slightly in his chair as he said it casually, like a joke he’d tossed around a hundred times. But his heart gave a traitorous little kick anyway.
A faint color rose across Grian’s cheeks, so brief that Scar might’ve missed it if he blinked. The man turned away quickly, instead bending down and gathering the pile of loose feathers into his hands. The shedded down shimmered gold as it caught the sunlight, sparks of impossible color flickering between his talons. Scar found himself staring a little too long at the way the glow clung to Grian’s skin.
He paused as he straightened, feathers cradled carefully to his chest. A silent huff escaped him before his gaze flicked up and caught Scar’s. For a heartbeat, something unspoken passed between them— half a challenge, half trust— and Scar knew just what to do with it.
He pulled the face. The one that had gotten him out of trouble with teachers, with neighbors, even Lizzie sometimes, if he tried hard enough. Big puppy eyes, a small frown on his face. The classic.
“Soooo… whatcha gonna do with all those?” He asked, voice deliberately innocent.
“Throwing them away, duh.” Grian sighed, shaking his head slightly as the corner of his mouth curved upward, betraying him. “Besides, you have enough in that little jar of yours, don’t think I didn’t notice.”
“Well, yeah,” Scar mused, drawing the last word out. “But none of them are from the man, the myth, the legend himself.” He batted his eyelashes dramatically, absolutely shameless. “Pretty, pretty please? If I ask nicely, can I have one?”
Grian gave him a look— exasperation mixed with something softer that he probably didn’t want to admit. “You’re incorrigible. As if the pond isn’t enough.” He hesitated, wings shifting like he was trying to find an excuse not to care. “And lucky you’ve done so much for me. You get one. No more.”
He placed the pile gently on the couch, careful not to crush any of the loose feathers, before crouching to sort through the mess of multicolored plumes. Scar watched him silently, struck by how careful he was with even the smallest feather. His talons moved delicately, like this wasn’t just some habit but a ritual instead. Occasionally, he’d pause, hold one up between two fingers, turn it slowly toward the window, and then discard it with a soft flick when it didn’t meet whatever invisible standard he had.
“What are you doing?” Scar questioned, leaning forward slightly. “I promise it’s just a joke, don’t worry about it.”
“If you’re gonna ask, you’re getting a good one,” Grian huffed without looking up. He sifted through the pile with the seriousness of someone picking out a needle from a haystack. Little hums and half-grunts slipped out of him as he weighed each feather carefully, his hands moving with precision. Finally, he plucked out a small red covert, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.
“This one’s decent,” he said after a beat, turning it over in the light. His sharp canines caught his bottom lip as he looked at Scar. “Take good care of it.” His brow furrowed, trying to look menacing, but the faint pink across his cheeks ruined the effect.
Scar leaned forward to gently take it from his fingers. The feather was unexpectedly warm against his palm, soft but solid, and something in the weight of the gesture made his breath catch. Grian looked away the moment their hands brushed, head feathers flicking nervously. Scar had the distinct, dizzying feeling this meant more than he understood— some quiet kind of trust he hadn’t earned but was being offered anyway. He didn’t know what to do with that fact. It lodged somewhere beneath his ribs, warm and aching.
He swallowed, trying to shake off the heat creeping up his neck. “Of course, of course.”
He looked down at the feathers again, rolling the calamus carefully between his fingers. It shimmered faintly in the flight, flashes of crimson and speckles of gold chasing each other across the barbs. Already, ideas of what to do with it tugged at him. He could tuck it into the corner of his mirror to look at every morning, hang it above his desk as inspiration, maybe even thread it through the loop of an old silver chain he hadn’t touched in years. Something close. Something his.
“I’ll treasure it forever.”
“Scar!” Grian shouted, feathers bristling in an indignant flare. His voice cracked around the edges, half outrage, half something else. “You can’t just say things like that! Just— just get stuff ready for the pond. You know more than me.”
Sar wheeled back just a little, fighting down a grin that wanted to spread far too wide. His chest felt loose and light. “Oh, we’re going today? You treat me so well.” His voice softened into an exaggerated lilt. “Very well, let me change into something a bit more appropriate than sweatpants and grab a nice picnic blanket for us. It’ll be amazing!”
Grian muttered something unintelligible as he turned away, wings twitching like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. One feather stuck out at an odd angle until he absentmindedly smoothed it back down, cheeks burning pink.
“Hey, you’ll want to stick your feet in the water. There should be some shorts in the spare bedroom. Why don’t you find some that fit? It’ll be great!” Scar offered.
Grian froze for half a second, feathers rustling in a soft, uncertain shuffle, then simply nodded. Without a word, he slipped down the hall and closed the spare bedroom door behind him.
Scar took a deep breath as he rolled down the hallway to his respective room, keeping the feather balanced carefully on one of his palms. The bedroom was cooler. Scar closed the door behind him with a quiet click and sat up straight.
For a long moment, he just stared down at the feather lying across his palm. It didn’t look like much— small, delicate, almost weightless. But somehow, holding it felt like balancing a secret.
He set the feather on his knee and reached for the small wooden box on his nightstand that smelled faintly of cedar and dust. Tucked inside, half-forgotten, was the old silver chain he used to wear before the accident. The metal was dull now, edges worn smooth from years of absentminded fidgeting, but the clasp still clicked neatly into place when he tested it.
Scar hesitated, the feather warm against his knee where it rested. Was this too weird? Probably. But the thought of the tiny thing gathering dust on a shelf felt wrong. This wasn’t something he wanted to look at from a distance. It was… something he wanted close.
Carefully, he threaded the chain through the delicate quill, silver looping against red. He adjusted it so the feather lay flat against his palm and fastened the clasp around his neck. The feather rested lightly against his sternum, moving with each small inhale.
Scar caught sight of himself in the mirror. The feather hung just off-center, glinting faintly in the dim light. It looked… strangely right. Like it belonged there.
He laughed softly under his breath, shaking his head at himself. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, the word sounding strange in the quiet. But he didn’t take it off. Instead, he traced the feather with a fingertip, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing its patterns and warmth. It anchored him, tethering the ache and awe that had settled in his chest since Grian had handed it over.
Finally, he let his hand fall, leaving the feather resting against his skin, and turned to face the rest of the room. The small glow from the window caught in the mirror, and for the first time in weeks, Scar felt like something— maybe himself, maybe the world— was perfectly right.
He lifted himself out of his wheelchair, moving slowly and steadying himself with a hand on the dresser before pulling on a pair of khaki cargo shorts and the nearest black shirt. He reached for his cane, leaning against the bedframe; the worn wooden handle fit perfectly in his palm, reassuring in its weight and solidity.
The cabin was its usual cluttered mess —evidence of unfinished projects and late nights lay scattered across tables and counters— but Scar managed to unearth the things they’d need. An old checkered picnic blanket that smelled faintly of sun and grass, an emergency towel folded into a slightly lumpy square, and enough bread and peanut butter to assemble two sandwiches for later, if needed. The mundane rhythm of the motions helped settle his mind after the strange, almost intoxicating, feather ordeal, letting him exhale the tension that had been coiled in his chest.
When everything was neatly piled by the door, Scar made his way slowly toward the living room. Grian sat curled on the couch, half-hidden under an old blanket draped over his folded wings. He’d pulled on a pair of black athletic shorts— an awkward fit but good enough— and his familiar red sweater. The shorts hung above his knees, a few red feathers peeking out from beneath the fabric. The contrast between the oversized clothing and his slight frame made him look softer.
He wasn’t tall— maybe 5’3… something to do with bird genetics— making it a small daily puzzle to find clothes that didn’t swallow him whole. It wasn’t like Etho’s family kept a variety of smaller clothes lying around either. With Etho being freakishly tall even at thirteen, practical attire for shorter frames had never been a consideration.
The sunlight had shifted while they’d been busy. It was no longer bright and sharp, but honey colored, soft and low as it streamed through the cabin in quiet stripes. The air had that late-day stillness to it, the kind that settled gently over everything.
Scar leaned against the doorframe and glanced back at Grian. “You ready?” He asked, voice soft but carrying easily through the room.
Grian’s head lifted from where it had been tucked against the blanket. He blinked slowly, feathers ruffling as he adjusted the fabric around his shoulders, and gave a small nod. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Amazing!” Scar chirped, “Then let’s head out. You’ll absolutely love it!”
He grabbed the bundle of supplies he’d stacked neatly by the door— everything tucked into an old canvas tote— and hooked the strap over his arm. His cane clicked softly against the wooden floor as he opened the door, the sound steady and familiar.
Grian followed, padding barefoot across the floor, the blanket slipping from his shoulders just enough to reveal the curve of his wings. Outside, the last of the afternoon light was waiting, warm against the porch and already beginning to fade into gold. A soft breeze pushed through the treeline, bringing with it the scent of pine needles.
Scar breathed it in without thinking. It wasn’t too far to the pond, but he liked leaving when the light started to dip. Late afternoons like this always felt quieter. The air was cooler, edges softer, and shadows long and lazy. Perfect. Just enough time before dusk.
The car itself was nothing fancy. Just a weathered old Jeep that his friends lovingly had christened ‘The Swaggon’ back in college. The wheel bearings had started to rust over, and the dark blue paint carried the history of past road trips down gravel roads in the form of scattered dents and scratches. But Scar loved it all the same.
Grian climbed into the passenger seat with a quiet curiosity after Scar gestured him over. His hands hovered over the dashboard like he wasn’t sure what was safe to touch. His feathers fluffed slightly as the door thunked shut, covered wings shifting against the seat.
Scar made his way to the driver’s side, and the engine coughed to life with a familiar growl, the loose heat shield rattling for a moment before settling down to its usual background hum. Grian jumped at the noise, shoulders tightening.
“Don’t worry, that’s just her way of saying hello,” Scar said, tapping the steering wheel with theatrical pride. “Welcome to my lovely Swaggon. She’s been with me since I learned how to drive and hasn’t died on me yet.”
Grian blinked, still wide-eyed, glancing between the dashboard lights that blinked awake. He reached out hesitantly to brush a fingertip across the textured surface of the glove compartment, before he jerked his hand back as if expecting it to react.
Scar couldn’t help the grin that crept across his face. The way Grian took in every tiny detail like it was new again— well, it made the whole rusty thing feel special again, like Lizzie and he had done back in college.
But still, he hesitated with one hand on the emergency brake and the other on the steering wheel, looking toward Grian. “Hey… we don’t have to go, y’know,” he said lightly. “If you’d rather stay here, I won’t mind. She does fine with solo missions.”
Grian blinked. For a moment, Scar thought he might actually say no, but Grian quickly shook his head. “No, I want to go.” His gaze fell toward the tree line, something unreadable flickering across his expression. “I like it out here.”
The tires crunched over the gravel as they pulled away from the cabin, the fading sunlight painting streaks of gold across the dashboard. Scar rolled down their windows halfway, letting a soft rush of cool air combined with the scent of damp earth fill the car. The old Swaggon hummed beneath his hands, rattling in the way only a well-loved car could.
Grian leaned closer to the open window, bracing his hands on the door as the breeze tugged at his hair and feathers. His eyes widened in surprise, and a small, startled laugh escaped him before he could try to stop it.
Scar glanced over, smiling. “First time in a car with the windows down?”
“First time in a car at all.” Grian turned toward him, face half-lit by the fading sun. “I didn’t think it would move this much! This fast!” He admitted, feathers fluffing in the wind.
“It’s called air, G,” Scar said dramatically, drawing out the word. “People like to breathe it in, sometimes even enjoy it.”
Grian shot him a look that was almost a glare, but his mouth twitched at the corner. “You’re insufferable.”
“I prefer charming, actually,” Scar chuckled, gently rolling his eyes in amusement.
The road curved gently through the trees, the golden light flickering through the branches. Grian leaned back against the seat, still eyeing the air vents and knobs suspiciously.
“What does this one do?” He asked suddenly, pointing to the hazard light button.
“Push it and find out,” Scar said.
He did, and the car filled with a loud, steady clicking sound and flashing orange lights on the dashboard. Grian startled hard enough that the feathers puffed up against the blanket, making Scar laugh so hard that the car swerved slightly.
“Scar!” Grian hissed, gripping the seat with both hands and his talons just barely digging into the worn fabric.
“Sorry, sorry,” Scar wheezed, still laughing. “You’re just— just look at you! Big scary bird man defeated by some hazard lights. I love it!”
Grian huffed, but his face flushed warm, and there was no real bite to it. “Your machines are ridiculous.”
“And yet,” Scar said with a grin, “you’re still sitting in one.”
The road stretched ahead of them, lined with old pines and soft light, the Swaggon rattling along like it always had. Their laughter faded into an easy quiet as the trees began to thin near the edge of the property. A gust of wind pushed through the open window, carrying the classic scent of pine baking in the summer sun and damp soil. The narrow dirt road dipped and curved, familiar enough that Scar could drive it half-asleep.
“Alright, brace yourself,” Scar warned with mock seriousness as the car rattled over a particularly nasty patch of washboard gravel.
Grian’s hands immediately went back to grabbing the edges of the seat, wings twitching in reflex. “You live like this?” He screeched as the car bounced once, twice, before steadying out with a low groan of old suspension.
Scar snorted. “She’s got character. That’s all part of the charm.”
“She’s going to kill us,” Grian muttered under his breath, sighing as his wings gave an exaggerated twitch.
“Hey,” Scar said lightly. “I could’ve made you walk… or maybe even fly!”
Grian scoffed, but the spark of amusement in his eyes was unmistakable. “And miss this… death trap? Unthinkable. There’s no place I’d rather die.”
Scar laughed, the sound mingling with the steady hum of the engine as the road finally leveled out. Through the windshield, the tree line opened into a clearing, and the pond came into view. It was a still sheet of water surrounded by tall grasses and cattails, the surface catching the last gold of the day. A few dragonflies hovered just above it, wings catching the light as they flew in lazy arcs.
Grian fell quiet, not the awkward type, but the soft, breath-catching quiet that came with wonder. His fingers, which had been gripping the seat a moment ago, loosened as his gaze fixed on the water, and his feathers flattened against his back.
Scar eased the car to a stop beneath a crooked pine and killed the engine. The Swaggon gave a final, tired shudder before stilling into stillness. Outside, evening wrapped around them, threaded with the soft hum of cicadas and the distant call of a mourning dove.
“This,” Scar said with a little flourish of his hand, “Is the pond. Five out of five stars. Great ambiance, free entry.”
Grian turned to him slowly with a small smile on his face. “And questionable transportation.”
“Hey now,” Scar protested with mock offense, tapping the dashboard fondly. “The Swaggon got us here, didn’t she?”
“She survived getting us here,” Grian corrected, warmth bleeding into his voice despite himself.
Scar grinned, stepping out of the car and grabbing his cane and the canvas tote from the back seat. The evening air was cooler now, heavy with the scent of mud and still water. Grian followed, bare feet brushing against soft dirt and flattened grass.
The last light of the sun bled against the water as they walked toward the edge of the pond, turning it into a wash of gold and orange. Scar adjusted the strap on his shoulder, watching the way Grian’s wings shifted against the blanket as he took in the open space.
“So…” Grian trailed off, eyes narrowing as if the body of water had personally wronged him. “What do we do at a pond?”
“Nothing much, nothing much.” Scar chuckled, “Usually, people swim in the water and just enjoy the view. Used to do it all the time as a kid. Just relax, it’s good for you!”
“Swim?” Grian echoed suspiciously.
“Yes. You know, in the water. Splashing. Very advanced technique,” Scar gestured towards the pond, grin widening. “Or you can just dip your feet in. Whatever works,” he added quickly, suddenly needing something else to do with his hands. He dug through the tote, pulling out the old picnic blanket and shaking it out.
“I don’t think I’m built for that,” Grian said, but his tone was light, almost teasing. A breeze skimmed over the surface of the water, and his feathers ruffled in response, catching the light.
“C’mon, you’ve got this,” Scar nudged, carefully lowering himself onto the blanket. “And no one’s here, too, you can take off that blanket. Looks uncomfortable.”
Grian hesitated, but ultimately, he nodded once, shifting off the blanket and laying it gently next to Scar. He approached the bank slowly, toes sinking into the damp mud with a soft squelch. His nose wrinkled at the texture, seemingly disgusted yet intrigued by the sound and feeling.
He crouched at the edge, trailing his fingers through the water. Then, with an unexpectedly decisive motion, he stepped in. Water splashed around his calves, the dark shorts clinging to his legs.
Scar laughed softly. “Look at that. Natural talent.”
Grian shot him a look that was half offended, half amused. “This is cold,” he muttered, but he didn’t step out. His wings twitched and relaxed, the tips just barely brushing against the water.
Scar simply grinned, letting the sound of Grian’s half-hearted complaints hang in the cooling air. He leaned back on his palms, watching as ripples spread out from where Grian stood in the shallows. Grian traced lazy lines across the pond’s surface, clearly mesmerized by how each movement sent new circles chasing outward into the fading light. Small minnows flashed beneath the water, quicksilver streaks that drew Grian’s sharp, curious gaze as he shifted to follow them.
The water lapped softly against his legs, and the last of the sunset turned the surface into liquid gold. The light caught along the edges of his wings, picking out tiny iridescent sheens that shifted with every small movement. The feathers moved like they had their own minuscule bit of gravity, pulling at Scar’s attention until the rest of the world blurred around the edges.
He hadn’t realized he was staring until the thought hit him like a breath caught too late. His chest felt oddly tight, warmth prickling at the edges of it in a way that felt both familiar and dangerously new. Scar coughed once, as if he could dislodge the feeling, and forced his gaze down to his hands— anything that wasn’t him.
His fingers found the chain around his neck almost without thought. The feather sat warm against his skin, catching the last glimmer of dying light. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, grounding himself in that small, familiar weight.
He knew this feeling. It was one he’d brushed against before but never quite let settle. He was always quick to care— Lizzie had said it a hundred times in college— but this wasn’t that soft, habitual warmth. This was something deeper. Pure, raw adoration that melted through his chest and seeped into every corner of him. Something that matched the pure gold of the sunset as it gave way to the first threads of silver moonlight. His light.
And it struck him with quiet, breath-stealing certainty.
He was in love.
He was in love with Grian.
His fingers went still around the feather. The realization landed like a stone in his stomach, heavy and unrelenting.
He couldn’t be in love. He shouldn’t be.
Scar dragged in a slow breath, trying to steady the frantic fluttering in his chest. His fingers tightened around the feather at his throat like it might anchor him to something safer than this sudden ache. The world narrowed around him as the quiet lapping of water against the bank, the humid chill of early nightfall, and the faint rustle of wings and leaves faded together into the distance.
Grian was still in the water, wading a little deeper, light catching once again on his vibrant feathers. The curve of his back, the ripple of water trailing behind him, the way the breeze ruffled stray curls— everything felt unbearably sharp.
Scar exhaled through his nose. He didn’t even notice himself leaning forward over his stretched-out legs, hand curled loosely around the feather, lost in the drum of his own pulse.
“That’s mine.” A voice called out, cutting through the haze.
Scar’s head snapped up. Grian was crouched at the edge of the pond now, close enough that the damp tips of his feathers brushed against Scar’s knees. One taloned hand hovered toward the red feather at Scar’s chest, eyes fixed on it with a curious, almost reverent, intensity.
Scar’s breath hitched. He glanced down at the necklace, then back at Grian’s face. The last of the sun caught in Grian’s damp curls, haloing him in gold and copper light, while the shadows along his wings gave him a kind of fragile, dangerous grace. Water droplets hung to the tips of his feathers, sparkling faintly as he shifted, and every careful movement made Scar’s pulse hammer in his ears. There was something unspoken in the tilt of his head, the soft curve of his jaw, the way his eyes lingered on Scar like he was memorizing him.
“Are you okay?” Grian pressed, his head wings flaring outward just enough to frame his face perfectly. The movement was instinctive, birdlike, but there was something achingly human in the way he leaned closer. The flared feathers bled seamlessly into the small red ones along his cheeks— close enough now that Scar could see the delicate lines between them. Close enough that he wanted to reach out.
But he snapped himself out of it.
“Oh, uh— yeah,” he stammered, heat creeping up the back of his neck. He hadn’t even noticed how close Grian had gotten.
Grian’s gaze flicked from his face to the necklace again, brow furrowing softly. “That’s my feather,” he said quietly, surprise threading through his voice. His talons flexed against the damp ground, and his eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion but something more thoughtful. “Why?”
“Right,” Scar breathed, the word catching somewhere in his throat. His fingers brushed against the chain as if to reassure himself that it was still there. “Figured it didn’t deserve to sit on a shelf.”
Grian tilted his head, studying him for a heartbeat, before taking that as a silent invitation to move closer. He crouched on all fours as he stepped out of the water and onto the muddy bank. Mud squelched softly beneath his feet, the faint scent of wet earth mixing with the lingering warmth of the summer heat. His fingers reached out, brushing against the feather and cradling it carefully. In the motion, the edge of his hand knocked lightly against Scar’s chest, sending a shiver up his spine that he hadn’t expected.
Scar swallowed hard. His eyes locked on Grian, on the delicate curve of his taloned hands, the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he leaned in, the way the light caught in his pitch black eyes.
And then Grian looked up.
Their eyes met, and something unspoken passed as the world shrank around them. Scar could feel the gentle pull of gravity between them, the weight of something dangerous and beautiful hovering in the space that had suddenly shrunk to just the two of them, the feather, and the last fading light.
Scar’s fingers twitched against the chain, unsure whether to pull it closer to himself or let Grian’s touch linger. He wanted to speak, to explain himself better, maybe even laugh nervously— but every instinct in him had melted into the quiet intimacy of the moment.
“Do you know what that even means?” Grian asked hesitantly, wetting his lips as he broke the silence between them.
Scar couldn’t muster a word. His throat felt heavy, every heartbeat loud against the hush of the evening. He simply shook his head, slow and honest, as if it alone could convey everything he couldn’t speak out loud.
Grian’s fingers slipped away from the feather, but instead of retreating, they traced along Scar’s hand. His talons glided over old scars scattered across the skin, pausing at one nestled between his thumb and pointer finger, as if committing it to memory. The touch was feather-light but grounding, an unintentional form of intimacy that pulled against the strings of his heart.
“When a feather is given to someone who’s not one of us,” Grian said softly in a low but deliberate tone. “It isn’t just… a feather. It’s a tether. A piece of what we are, bound to someone else. It’s an indescribable amount of trust.” His eyes flicked up to Scar’s, steady but shining with something vulnerable. “It’s belonging.”
Scar’s throat tightened, the words settling heavy in his chest.
Grian’s fingers moved along his hand again, brushing against a larger scar on his palm— a pale, jagged line from a shard of glass years ago. The touch was tentative, as if he wasn’t entirely sure he should be touching it at all.
“For Watchers,” he continued, voice quieter now. “It’s dangerous to give a feather away. Most of us don’t. It’s too personal. Too many feelings.” He let out a shaky breath, something like disbelief threading through the edges of his voice. “But you’re wearing it. That’s—” he stopped, almost laughing, almost panicking. “That’s a claim. To any Watcher who sees you, it’ll look like you’re… mine.”
The last word hung between them, fragile and sharp all at once. Scar’s heart kicked hard against his ribs.
“Yours…” He echoed softly, the word tasting strange but warm.
Grian didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the feather, then on Scar, something like awe and fear tangled together into a single expression, bright and sharp as the dying sunlight against the edge of the pond.
Then, like a sudden change in the wind, Grian shrank back as if the touch had suddenly electrocuted him. He rose quickly, shaking the mud off his feet a little too fast, wings pulling tight against his shoulders. “You probably didn’t mean it like that, though,” he muttered, eyes darting away like he couldn’t bear to meet Scar’s.
Scar opened his mouth, then closed it again. No sound came out. The words were stuck somewhere behind his ribcage, locked tight with the weight of everything he wanted to say— everything he couldn’t let himself want. He wanted to tell Grian the truth. That he didn’t just like him, didn’t just care. That he’d fallen in love with him in ways he hadn’t thought himself capable of anymore. Grian was the light of his life, the one he wanted to wake up next to every morning, to discover the joys of the world.
The future that Grian didn’t owe him.
Scar knew better. Grian had a world beyond this pond. Beyond him. And Scar couldn’t be the reason he stayed. He had to lie.
“Yeah,” he said after a beat, forcing a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Probably not.”
But his fingers didn’t leave the feather. The lie hung heavily, as did the small bit of space in between them. Grian’s shoulders curled in, and something in the clearing shifted with him. Even the hum of cicadas seemed to still.
Neither of them moved for a moment, simply staring at one another, waiting for something, anything, to break. A breeze drifted in from the treeline, cool against Scar’s skin. A single raindrop landed on the back of his hand, then another, each one a soft punctuation onto a fragile moment.
Grian flinched at the touch of the wet drizzle, feathers shivering against the sudden cold, but he didn’t step back. Not yet. Scar thought for a heartbeat that he might say something— push against the tension, draw the moment further into its quiet ache— but instead, Grian folded his arms around himself, wings hugging close as if to shield himself from both the rain and whatever unspoken emotions hung between them.
“We should probably back up… before it picks up,” Scar said softly in a voice that didn’t quite sound like his own.
Grian nodded once, eyes fixed on the ground between them. It was a clean and easy retreat that somehow made everything feel worse.
They worked in quiet coordination. Grian retrieved his blanket, tugging it around his wings and shoulders, while the first few raindrops soaked into the worn fabric. Scar folded the picnic blanket clumsily, each movement stiff with the cold and unbearable ache sitting heavy behind his ribs. The forest dimmed around them as the sky bled into a slate gray, the rain thinking, air heavy with the scent of wet earth and ozone.
Grian lingered at the edge of the clearing as Scar slung the canvas bag over his shoulder. The weight of it pulled at his side, heavier than it had any right to be. They started toward the path that led back to the car, abnormally silent.
But Grian stopped.
Scar turned, and his breath caught. Grian was standing in the open clearing, colorful wings half-furled as the blanket slipped to the ground. Rain traced silver lines down his face, clinging to the feathers along his cheeks and down to the curve of his jaw. He tilted his head back, eyes closing as if to drink in the storm.
The world around him wavered. For a breath, Grian’s form shimmered, edges smearing across reality like wet ink. His feathers caught a flash of lightning— or something else simply akin to lightning— brief flickers of violet and gold threading through them. The reflection in the growing shallow puddles lagged behind, just a fraction, as if the world couldn’t quite keep up with him.
Scar froze. His breath caught in his chest as he watched the air distort around Grian, beauty and wrongness twisting together into something that shouldn’t have been possible. And yet it was. All because it was him.
Grian laughed once, the sound joyous and bright, layered through with something that rattled through the air, something not quite human. The laughter echoed just a little too long, brushing against the edges of the thundering storm like a second, hidden voice joining in.
Lightning cracked far away, spilling heavenly purple light through the clouds, but Scar couldn’t look away. The storm, the glitching edges of Grian’s form, and the warmth in his chest all tangled together.
The rain slid down his face like tears, cool against the heat beneath his skin. His fingers brushed over the single feather hanging from his neck. It wasn’t quite enough to steady him, not when the ache in his chest felt so much like the pull of gravity— a tide pulling him toward something that could never be his.
And still, he stayed, rain soaking his shirt as he let the sound of Grian’s laughter fill the space between them. He wanted to reach for him, to tell him he was loved, to let go of all the fears insisting it was impossible. But he couldn’t. Not yet.
So he held the feather instead, pressing it against his chest as the storm washed over him. Because some part of him already knew that loving Grian was real, terrifying, and yet entirely his choice.