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Grian is never clear with his words.
He’ll speak when he has to, make polite conversation when it can’t be avoided, and talk bluntly, calmly, never embellishing with flowery script or purple prose. But he isn’t clear with his words. He never promises anything, always evading saying those specific words but freely offering any other version, as if the entire world will fall apart the second he pledges himself. He doesn’t make commitments. This is something Scott has noticed as the days pass them here.
Scott makes commitments far too easily.
Their chests rise and fall in tandem. He wonders how he can be so in-sync with his killer.
Grian does not speak.
Scott drags fingertips against the wood that they sit on. He can almost hear Jimmy scolding him, worrying about splinters as if that’s the biggest concern within these games. His partner doesn’t scold him this time around. His partner says nothing at all. Scott doesn’t mind. It’s almost nice, the lack of nagging. Almost, almost.
Their feet dangle off the roof of the house he’s spent far too many resources on.
Grian helped; they work well in silence.
It’s pretty, Scott thinks. Far from his usual style, but pretty nonetheless. It has a sandstone gradient for the walls, the roofs curved and pointed in three distinct triangle shapes, the one in the middle the biggest, and shingled with the crimson wood from the Nether. The windows don’t have glass, no matter how he’d grumbled about that, and use acacia fence posts instead. Inside, the floors are simple oak, two stories with a bunker for a chest room deep below. The house is…eerily reminiscent of the desert. He never asked if it brought back memories for Grian, and Grian never told him.
Right now, they sit on the window ledge, close enough for their shoulders to brush, overlooking the tiny mesa they’ve settled in.
Joel’s tower threatens to encroach upon their territory from the birch forest that borders the mesa; it looms, threatening, highlighted by a rising sun. It’s spindly and tall, and Joel is an impressive builder regardless of the life they live or the server they play on. Scott can admire that, even if Joel always has it out for his guts. Farther back, just on the horizon, rests the box-like shape of BigB and Jimmy’s base in the mountains. Scott doesn’t want to know what it represents, really. He’s offended enough that it interrupts his otherwise-beautiful sightline already.
A dry wind rustles his hair. The mesa is full of sharp, blinding heat, another thing that reminds Scott so deeply of sand dunes and failed traps and blood and an arrow in the neck and a widow’s scream and⎯ Golden-blond strands fall into his eyes, but before he can reach up to tuck them behind his ear, there’s already nimble fingers dancing against his forehead, sure and soft. Grian’s hand falls back to his lap hardly a second later. He says nothing.
We aren’t close like that, is Scott’s first thought.
Does it matter?, is his second.
He didn’t ally with Grian based on any past interactions he’d had with him. Scott doesn’t do that, regardless. He starts each one of these damned games fresh, no matter how it hurts some dying loyalty deep down in him as he chooses new allies. Last year’s had been Gem and Impulse. Lovely people, really. He enjoyed Cherry Blossom Grove and the band. They were his friends. They were his friends, and Scott gave himself freely up for that, even if it didn’t result in victory. Gem is suited towards these bloodthirsty games; she still delights with the unknowable, the fun of it, not so traumatised compared to the rest of them. She isn’t tired yet.
Scott is so, so tired.
He and Grian found each other near the beginning of this game. It was just happenstance that they were gathering resources in the same area; they got to talking and fooling around, lighthearted as everything is in the starting days. Grian is fun to talk to, even if he never says anything real, never anything meaningful despite the bluntness of his words. They found Jimmy soon after that and ragged on him together, prompting Jimmy to start complaining to anyone who would listen about how the dream team had gotten together and had it out for him.
Scott doesn’t feel like he’s on much of a dream team, at the moment.
Still, that had locked him and Grian together in the other players’ eyes, which wasn’t so bad of a thing. He hadn’t been upset, at least. Grian was fairly easy to get along with, although their playing styles concerning the games hardly matched up, but Scott figured that there were many worse potential candidates. He’s slowly running out of people he hasn’t already allied with in these games, after all, and he never would’ve sought Grian out himself, so he decided to trust fate just this once.
Really, he ought to know better, after the shit hand fate has consistently dealt him.
“The sunrise is pretty,” Grian says, quiet. “The, uh, the yellow is…nice.”
It’s so stilted, awkward in a way Grian never is, even when he’s made the worst mistakes in the word
like killing Scott’s husband,
and utterly endearing. Scott huffs a laugh before he can stop himself, knocking his shoulder against Grian’s pointedly as he stares out across the mesa. They don’t give and take casual touch freely, not like Scott is used to indulging in with his allies. Even when he’s entirely platonic with people, Scott is used to
touching.
Grian isn’t, though, and Scott respects that.
If Grian has a problem, he’ll let Scott know. For now, he keeps his shoulder where it is, soaking in the body heat of someone else, feeling content in a way he hasn’t since they started this accursed game. Scott has always gotten far more out of touching someone, anyone than he lets on.
“You don’t have to hide behind sunrise compliments if you think I look good in yellow,” Scott says easily, laughter fading in the warm morning air. “Of course, if this is your way of apologising for killing me⎯”
“I know,” Grian groans. “I know, it was shitty of me, I never should’ve done it. I swear I wasn’t going to, and then you were right there, and you were so. You were so you. Trusting. Loyal. And I couldn’t…couldn’t let myself get knocked down to red already.”
“Grian,” Scott says quietly. “I was only going to say that if it was your way of apologising, it’s unnecessary.”
“What?”
“I think you forget that we’ve been playing these games together from the beginning.” He tilts his head, gaze slanting over to his ally. His murderer. His partner. His friend, even in these games. Grian stares down at his red sweater, absently picking at the threads. He doesn’t meet Scott’s eyes. “I know you, Grian.”
“What a not at all terrifying and ominous thing to say to someone,” Grian huffs sarcastically, falling back on it like a shield. Deflecting. Scott has to give him some credit; he’s nearly as good as Scott himself is at that. He hums, turning his attention back to the mesa. All this land stretches out before them, pretty in mesmerising shades of red, orange, soft yellows and creams. Really, it is not so bad a place to have a home. Soon it will be full of craters, lava left behind from heavy metal buckets, arrows dug into the give-away ground of terracotta.
For now, though, it remains whole, unbroken, warm in the sunlight.
“You’re a survivor, Grian,” Scott says calmly. “I knew that the second I allied with you.”
“Forgive me for not thinking you remembered,” Grian says, sharp, bitter. “No one else seems to.”
Scott knows this. He knows because he’s seen the aftermath of Grian’s allies, what wrecked pieces are left behind after the games, the way they struggle to pull themselves together again. He’s helped put Jimmy back together twice now. He wonders how Scar fared, how the rest of the Southlanders dealt with it, if Joel relied a bit heavily on his wife after the infamous Bad Boys game, how Etho and Cleo adjusted. They’re all hurt in the end, regardless if Grian kills them himself or simply doesn’t go sinking with the rest of the ship like the rest of them do.
Scott doesn’t know why.
He’s watched it happen over and over, even watched Grian distance himself from nearly everyone in Secret Life before getting tangled with Etho and Cleo, and wondered. It’s as if everyone has selective memory over Grian’s actions, that they don’t remember that the man who shares a base with them will always put himself first. It’s ridiculous. They allow him in and they get hurt for their troubles, stabbed in the back or beaten bloody in sand dunes or given up on after they’ve gone to the grave, because Grian will always try to survive. Scott doesn’t blame Grian for it. It’s…almost a point of admiration instead. He wishes he had some of that instinct.
Instead, somehow, Scott finds himself continually dying for someone else, every time they play one of these infernal games. Practically handing himself up on a silver platter for his allies, over and over. Still, just because he recognises the habit doesn’t mean he understands how to stop it.
“I know you, Grian,” Scott says again. He thinks they could understand each other on a level unheard of, if the game would let them. If Scott could lower his walls and not expect a knife in the back for it. If Grian could get over an incessant desire to live. Alas.
“Repeating it doesn’t make it any less creepy,” Grian mutters. Scott snorts.
“I try my best.”
“You do get it, don’t you? Why I had to⎯” Grian gestures vaguely, hands flicking just in Scott’s peripherals. “You know. You get it.” He says it like he’s trying to convince himself. Scott hums in acknowledgement. Does he? Perhaps not. But he can empathise. It’s what makes him such a loyal fool in the games. He can always, always empathise with someone else, always put their needs before his.
“I’d never do it to you.”
“Yeah.” Grian goes quiet again. What else is there to say? It’s an indisputable fact. Scott closes his eyes, basking in the rays of sunshine that have begun to reach them as the sun lifts entirely above the horizon. It’s warm; he can feel the crystals bobbing around his head as they settle into the new temperature, easily absorbing the heat. They won’t grow hot enough to burn, he knows. Scott isn’t built for hurting people like that.
“How do you feel about our chances?”
“Our chances?” Grian repeats. Scott dips his head in affirmation. “Mediocre. These things flip on the head of a dime, you know that. But we’re solidly set up here, and we’ve got the bunker, and then the other bunker, and we’re far enough not to be immediate targets. Our monopoly on terracotta is pretty sweet too, even if it’s not…like, super useful, in the scheme of things. But we are on a server of builders, and we’ve gotten some gold out of it already, so. I’d say we’re doing well, but our chances are just mediocre.” He’s logical, listing out their advantages, which is something Scott can appreciate. He’s usually more focused on the aesthetic side of these games, even if he plays it smart, so it’s nice to have a teammate who is perpetually concerned with logistics. Grian is very good for that.
“And how do you feel about your chances?”
It’s silent. Birds begin to chirp somewhere, alerted by the sunrise. Scott listens idly, patiently waiting for an answer. He feels the air move slightly as Grian adjusts, and pointedly doesn’t flinch when the other man’s hand dances its way over to his. Grian is delicate in this. He touches like he doesn’t remember how. He inches fingers under Scott’s palm and holds his hand, awkwardly placed as if he’s holding onto a book and not a person, and Scott doesn’t mind one bit.
His lungs shudder when he breathes out.
“Me, well. I could win it again,” Grian says. Blunt, unflinching, incredibly honest. Clear in a way he so rarely is. Scott wonders why his heart is aching. He knew this was coming. “My chances are good. My chances are…statistically ridiculous. You’re a good ally, Scott. You’d help me clear out the worst, and from there, well, easy pickings.”
“Blood on my hands to prevent from staining yours,” Scott murmurs. Grian’s grip tightens, and he wonders if Grian is contemplating it even now⎯ Letting go, shoving Scott off the window, dooming him to death a second time. The fall would kill him. He is horrendously vulnerable here, free of the trappings of armour, and Grian is unpredictable.
Of course, he’s smart, too, and he knows that having a red wake up in their base with all of his secrets, at least the ones they share, would not work in his favour.
“That’s not⎯” Grian stops, for how is he to argue? Scott laughs. The sound isn’t happy, but it isn’t hurt, either, not full of emotional minefields for Grian to step amongst like he’s trying not to walk on eggshells. He opens his eyes. The burn of sunlight almost feels like tears. Scott’s blinks are slow. He turns his head slightly towards Grian, finding the other man already looking at him, those dark eyes staring and entirely unreadable. They glitter with the force of the cosmos. Scott sighs.
“It’s okay, Grian,” Scott says. “Not that you need my forgiveness, or my approval, or anything at all from me except my life, my hands⎯ But it’s okay, really. I can be a weapon. I’m sure I can be a good weapon, at that. After all, I don’t settle for anything less than the best.” He winks after he says it. Grian doesn’t blush, but to his shock, he can see tears welling in those void-dark eyes.
Scott’s heart stutters in his ribcage.
“I hate this, I hope you know,” Grian admits with a small, watery laugh. “I really fucking hate this.”
“Yeah,” Scott agrees. “I hate it too.”
“We never should’ve been partners. This⎯ This is ridiculous. We’re too suited for each other.”
Scott purses his lips.
He flips over his hand so that they’re palm-to-palm, adjusting his grip to interlace his fingers with Grian. He gives the avian’s hand a gentle squeeze. Grian blinks away his tears; a lone one drips down his cheek like something out of a film. Scott leans over, collecting it on the tip of his finger and flicking it away. Hiz gaze is soft where it rests on Grian. Not for the first time, he wonders just how the other man fares through these games. He’s only ever experienced it through the eyes of Grian’s allies, mostly with Jimmy, but never witnessed what it’s like for Grian.
He wonders if it tears him up inside to keep surviving.
He wonders if Grian keeps doing it anyway, as if in the hope that one day it’ll finally be enough, and he’ll have survived so he can finally give up anyway.
“I don’t know if suited is the word.”
“Ridiculously self-destructive?”
“Oh, not self- destructive, surely. Everything I do is for other people. Everything you do is against other people.”
“Should I be offended by that? I feel like I should be offended by that.”
“Please,” Scott says with an airy smile. “We both know it takes a lot more than that to offend you.”
“Hm,” Grian replies, noncommittal, but an amused grin tugs at his lips. “You’re too good for these games, Smajor.”
“I used to think that, too,” Scott admits. “About Jimmy. About Pearl. Maybe we were all too good for these games at some point. But now? Oh, Grian. No one here is good.”
“You never asked.” Grian says quietly, unreadable. Scott blinks, trying to keep up with the subject change.
“There’s a lot of things I don’t ask about. I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, Grian dear.”
“About your chances. You never asked about your chances.”
Scott flashes a smile with sharp, sharp teeth. “Well, that’s easy. I already know I’m doomed.”
They lapse into silence.
A wind blows, creaking through the fence-post windows of their house. It tousles through golden-blond curls, offering some relief from the already-overbearing sunlight. He is not particularly built for living in such heat. Scott feels a twinge of grief for future loss. Somehow, his beautiful homes never survive these games. He should likely stop building them, stop making a pretty corner for him to live in, stop carving out his niche and staying there, but to do so would feel like letting them win. And Scott is many, many things, but a loser? He refuses.
So he and Grian hold hands, sitting on the roof of the beautiful house they built together, silent in the knowledge that there is only one way this ends. Bloody, Grian’s knife in Scott’s back, and a game won, either way.
⎯end.