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It had been three days.
No, maybe three weeks. Or months. Scar wasn’t sure anymore.
Whatever, it didn’t matter, anyway. He was here, and he was content as could be with a pounding heart in his chest and the love of his life by his side, hand in hand with his lover in the glistening dawn that was rapidly fading as the moon chased it across the horizon of the otherwise desolate land.
The moon, desperate in its attempt to catch up to the ever-evasive yet all too tempting sun, failing as it manages to only grasp a mere view of the velvety red, pink and orange hued remnants in the sun's fleeing path, was a meaningful sight carrying familiarity in Scar's mind.
He remembered some sort analogical comparison from...somewhere. Somewhere he couldn't quite place even if he crinkled his eyebrows and creased his forehead in attempt to recall. In the foggy depths of his mind, there was another universe, another strange existence that was irrelevant to this perfect one of his. He did not much want to remember this seemingly futile external timeline. What would be the point?
He had finally gotten exactly what he had been after for as long as he could remember. And nothing would be able to replace that. Nothing would get in the way of his happiness, not now, not ever.
A prodding in the back of his mind urged him to understand where he was in time, how long it had been since he had last kept track, even as the rest of him rebelled, so lulled into comfort that he couldn't care less.
You should've kept track. You're getting lost, it whispered, its traitorous, unwelcome voice invading his head in a hushed whisper.
In the end, the strangely alert, unwanted hiss in his head won.
Scar turned his head to face his companion, his body remaining in its comfortable sitting position perched up against an enormous withering oak tree, gloriously decadent in its state of leisurely decay, with a plethora of dead leaves feathering the branches that augmented the already haunting allure of the grandiose structure. His legs were laid flat out in front of him, the tips of his toes pointing towards the Secret Keeper, which the moon rose protectively above like a watchful guardian.
His sitting position sparked the briefest flash in his mind, a vivid vision stained with some sort of filter that enhanced certain details, mostly honing onto feelings, yet left many seemingly less important ones blurred. He could remember the fading daylight, frustration, exhaustion, and the silhouette of a familiar figure trailing him as a shiver of unease ran down his spine.
Scar shook his head, recomposing himself and cramming whatever he just saw into the back of his brain as his mind tuned into the present once more like an old radio flipping frequencies.
In the moonlight, Grian's porcelain face was dusted in a silver shimmer reflecting slivers of the intoxicating, milky chrome-tinted hue of the pale glow. His gaze was trained forward, dark eyes tinted of freshly brewed coffee focused intently on the crumbling sculpture of the hooded figure. Scar thought he noticed that his eyes still had that funny purple sheen in them, but maybe he was just imagining it. Maybe he had always been imagining it.
Ever the hedonist in this life, Scar did not want to stain his perfect perception. He did not wish to compromise his newfound, tranquil peace in any way. But the serpentine fibber which his mind gave tongue to voice unnecessary thoughts to fill pockets of serenity in his head demanded. It urged that its request be met, in such a way that Scar could but turn it down.
"How long has it been?" He regretted the words as soon as they leapt from his throat, wishing he could have smothered them down with pillow feathers and shoved them in a long-forgotten oak barrel sitting antsy in the corner of an empty rum warehouse.
Grian did not pay him any mind, did not even react to Scar's words in the slightest, his unblinking, unwavering stare narrowed on the ruined hooded figure.
Scar cleared his throat, attempting to swallow the self-conscious itch that burned in his mouth and festered in his mind when he felt he was not enough for someone else. Not what they expected. Because he knew Grian had never thought that of him. The raw, passionate truth in his sweetly uttered words whenever they laid together ensured Scar just how well-meaning and honest he was. How much he truly loved Scar, in a way that reciprocated more fondness and tenderness than Scar felt he himself exuded.
In a way that he did not deserve. In a way that made him feel perpetually indebted.
A sudden wince shoved Scar back into his physical body, away from his tumultuous headspace which, like ancient runes, he could not quite decipher. An intense, piquant flavor resemblant of metal ran rivulets down his mouth, dancing gleefully along his tastebuds as they savored each bite. His love, almost imperceptibly so, seemed to perk up a little taller at Scar's overwhelmingly delicious rush of pain. But, then again, maybe Scar was imagining it. If he wasn't, well at least he had his attention better now.
"I mean, since we've been...living here together" Scar continued his original statement, choosing to add more clarification this time. The word 'stuck' hadn't sounded quite so right to say, despite it being the first word his thoughts jumped to for filling in the blank. Instead he settled with something safer and more accurate to his view.
He observed, slightly in a dazed awe that never seemed to fade when it came to Grian, a corner of his darling lover's lips tip up into an amused curve.
Something develish in cruel rests behind that damning smile, his gut desperately kicked and plead with him to grasp and understand the deception, even a fool like you knows it. His gut lied, its whispers filled with acidic falsehoods and scalding chemical burns. He willfully chose to ignore it.
"Words, Scar. Use your words."
Scar's world tipped on its axis as his vision blurred at the edges, narrowing inwards in imitation of the lightheadedness before one passes out. He had said Scar's name. The sudden bout of giddiness inflated his chest like a pump of helium, and in his euphoric deliria his mind seemed to drown out the following, seemingly less appetizing continuation of Grian's speech.
"You're not a child. Speak like you mean it."
Awestruck, and barely even comprehending his love’s not so subtle cruelty, he repeated himself in the totality of his words.
“How long have we been living here together for?”
In response, Grian tittered a rattling series of chirps representing an avian laugh.
The sound resounded through Scar’s very bones, the vibrations passing internally through his ribs to the very epicenter of his chest. His heart jolted excitedly, leaping to any and every morsel of affection he achieved.
“No amount of time you need to concern yourself with,” Grian grinned, his tone light and dripping honey sweet.
Oh. Okay. Despite his slight lingering confusion, Scar felt a small, warm smile form on his face as he basked in the comfort of his lover’s voice.
Scar will forget. Scar will willfully forget, if it means his utopia will persist.
His fingers laid resting on the cool earth between their bodies right at the base roots of the towering oak they were leaning against. Craving that extra slip of affection, that most minuscule portion more of attention, Scar carefully crept his hand over towards Grian’s, coaxing them to interlock. His lover’s hand didn’t shy away, yet did not make any attempts to connect their palm, instead letting Scar take the brunt of the work.
And that was fine. Scar knew what greed could do to a person. After all, he himself had burned with that very selfish desire at one point, and it had only led him to an abysmally isolated fate. Had Grian not felt such a strong sense of pity, burden, and fondness, Scar would still be condemned to such a horrible destiny. Yet he still wanted, and so still he would try to take.
So he reached, gently taking hold of his soulmate’s hand, delicately intertwining their fingers, in a way that communicated that if he was not careful, his love might scurry away like a frightened rabbit. But Grian did not flinch or even move at all, allowing Scar to do as he pleased. His hand was seemingly cold to the touch, but in a way that provided the opposite effect of a scorching burn. Scar reveled in the astoundingly piercing sensation, elation overcoming his body at the rush of sudden adrenaline pumping through his veins.
Silence fell between them once more, a weighted blanket smothering every unsaid remark, unkept promise, and unvoiced falsehood. Scar curled into it, snuggling into ugly truths and finding comfort in the things that are better unknown.
He had almost achieved perfect, heavenly solace in the quiet, almost mastered unbothered contentment.
Almost. Except for that damned sinner of a voice in his head.
Something isn’t right. This isn’t right. It chanted, willing Scar to heed its mistruths.
It insisted on ruining his fantasy. Scar ignored, avoided and disobeyed to the best of his ability. He had been doing so well pretending it didn’t exist for a while now, so much so that he could’ve sworn it had disappeared for a little. Why, like a pesky parasite, had it decided to come crawling back just to stir up some unnecessary and false doubts?
He blocked it out, like he usually did. But as time progressed, it was becoming more and more difficult to stamp them out. The whispers slithered past his blockades and shimmied through the cracks in his walls, surpassing every barrier he was capable of putting up.
But for now, he was able to keep them out for a little longer, and he could manage with that. Eventually he would have to learn how to keep them out forever to prevent the flood of lies, but for now this was good enough.
The tranquil pocket of quiet continued, Scar settling in once more, pretending like none of his mental chaos had ever occurred. Somehow, the calm had managed to last for just a little while longer, the illusion of ideal peace unable to be shattered by any external force once more.
But like every pleasant thing, it had to come to an end eventually.
Scar. Please. Wake up. That’s not me. Wake up.
Scar wished to drag his hands through his unkempt hair to the very scalp and individually rip each strand out by the root, ensuring the max extent of pain could be felt each time to satisfy the growing pit of utter frustration fermenting in his stomach. He could barely prevent the rage, so dense it was almost palpable, brewed in his gut. Nonsense was, seemingly unavoidably, being spewed in his very mind once more.
All at once, the urge to kill, rid himself of this devilish curse cast upon him by every foe of his past overtook his body. Murderous intent he was not sure he had possessed before corrupted his thoughts and poisoned his mind. A wrath unmatched by a thousand suns grasped him around the collar, constricted his throat, and hissed for him to do as he bid. Its presence flowed through his flesh masterfully like streams of blood. His fingers tensed, wanting to crush anyone and anything in his path, his nails begging to make cuts that would leave behind the scars of his namesake. The very thought of burgundy rivulets bitter as metal created a delightful watering in his mouth.
Yet, something stopped him. In his haze of pure, unfiltered aggravation he almost failed to notice the difference in this voice. This voice didn’t have a hushed murmur under its breath, didn’t carry with it that same manipulative tenacity. It sounded as though it was coming from far away, projecting to fight whatever noise was holding it back, with genuine desperation in its pleas.
He couldn’t place it for some reason. It felt familiar, enough so that he thought he had maybe heard it recently. Yet at the same time, it rang in his head like a bell that hadn’t been struck for decades.
Things did not usually come to any sense of clarity for Scar all too quickly. Generally, he was relatively late to pick up on things, often after they had already dealt their damage and left a gaping wound in their wake. For instance, his death from Skizz, who had disliked (a generous term for the unbridled hatred felt by most of the server towards Scar) him for a while, was slow reacting on his part. Sure, Scar had been aware of Skizz’s relative fury, and he had some suspicions of his passive aggressiveness while hanging around, but he had not realized it would actually be expressed as revenge during that visit until he felt his weary bones wake and rise once more from the earth.
Yet this understanding, this comprehending, came somewhat smoothly to him. With goose flesh pricked up along his skin and the hairs on his nape erected, Scar could’ve sworn he had heard the shout battling heavy fog and raging storms from beyond the grave.
Bile built in his throat, and he attempted to swallow it back and flush it down. To no avail. Resting uneasiness began to simmer in the depths of his stomach.
Was that even possible, to hear the voices of the dead? Would the ghosts
No, surely not. He must’ve been imagining it, fabricating something in his mind to make himself fear and lose faith.
No, he could not lose faith and trust now. He could not fall victim to the fibbers in his head. He could not lose sight of his perfect future to a shaky canard.
All at once, Scar returned to himself, brought back to the present with the conscious registration of his hand clenched in Grian's firmly, gripping the man's palm tight enough that Scar's own fingernails had imprinted crescent indents in the back of Grian's paled knuckles. He immediately slacked his grip, mentally cursing himself. From the corner of his eye, in the peripheral field, Scar thought he might have seen the corner of his lover's lip curl slightly upward with something akin to glee. But when he blinked, it was gone, still neutrality overcome on Grian's features.
Directing his line of vision downwards, Scar eyed where his own unkempt, serrated nails had dug into the back of his one and only's hand, watching in horror as the minuscule, open wounds allowed for thin streams of blood that, in the gleam of the moonlight, presented to Scar as purple in sheen (though he was obviously seeing things,) to begin dribbling down his wrist and to the muddied flooring. Grian seemed unbothered.
Heat crept up Scar's neck as he viewed ashamed and aghast at the damage he had unintentionally wrought. The world had seemed to become a slight daze as he tried to reconcile, firstly with himself, that he had not meant to do that. He had never meant to hurt the only thing worth keeping around anymore in his life.
"I...I hadn't meant that" He started sheepishly, feeling the blush rise to his face as he knew that his words had no substance or apology. Oh, Grian probably hated him.
"I- Grian I am so sorry, I truly hadn't meant..." Stumbling stupidly over his words, he continued, still shocked at himself. He chose to avert his eyes to his vicious hands, burning holes through them with his wide stare. Shame warmed his cheeks. "That wasn't intentional I swear, you know-"
A sudden snort cut off his launch of nervous ramblings. The snort evolved into a small chuckle. Scar glanced back up, taken aback by the interruption, setting a now astonished gaze upon his love.
Grian giggled, setting Scar’s nerve endings aflame immediately and warming his core. Yet for the life of him, he could not figure out what was so funny.
It took a few minutes for his love to regain his composure, whatever it was that had made him fall into a fit of lovely, ringing laughter finally ready to be voiced.
"Oh, Scar, how adorable of you." Grian finally turned his head to face Scar properly, finally gracing him with all of his divine beauty and dark, wanton eyes. "How pathetically cute."
Scar's heart inflated by tenfold, butterflies buzzing alive in the pit of his stomach as his aching heart worked overtime, basking in the attention it had been able to achieve after such a long time of being dehydrated. He was well aware that his face now heated for a different reason, achy longing stirring in his gut and stretching in his chest.
"You? So pitifully reduced to a nervous wreck, worried about hurting me?"
The winged man cocked his head, tilting it at Scar and seemingly staring right into his soul, a tiny, innocuous looking smile plastered on his face. The barely noticeable, curled up, jagged edges of it betrayed sadistic intent, though Scar was none the wiser.
“You know,” Grian hummed, his smile widening to display impressively sharp canines. “I could kill you at any moment,”
An itch in the back of Scar’s mind, the very depths he attempted to suffocate, alerted him that something wasn’t how it should’ve been. He ignored it, tamping down on the unnecessary background noise his mind supplied him with. He, however, could not prevent his smile from slightly faltering for whatever reason it did.
Ever the more observant, Grian’s gaze narrowed, his hawk-eyes pinned on Scar, a keen stare honed on the small motion of his lips scrutinizingly.
But all Scar could focus on was Grian’s eyes focused on his lips, and immediately emotions bombarded him, drowning him in a sensation so full of desire his palms turned white-knuckled as he gripped tighter on his companion’s hand.
Fire curdled between Scar’s lips, the sweltering heat licking flames up the sides of his gums, singeing the roof of his mouth, charring the delicate nerves on his tongue, and continuing along its all-consuming, ravenous path.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, that wretched, treasonous voice chanted in his head.
Something isn’t right. This isn’t right.
Scar attempted to drown out its treachery, muffling its pleas that had crescendoed from a church choir to a cacophony.
He bit down on his lip, partially to quell the bubbling, raw need in his body, and partially to stifle the incessant roaring in his head that was slowly but surely convincing him that something was off. Maybe it was fortunate that his partner seemed to notice the first half of his reasoning over the other, more traitorous part.
Grian, body now angled fully towards Scar and perched on his knees, reached out a single, slim finger, framed a pale silvery-blue in the moonlight. Though feeling slightly hazed and numb to the rest of the world around him, Scar felt the moment his lover's finger contacted his face with the sharp, honed clarity of glass. Sucking a breath, he was unable to register anything except for the delicate trail the digit ran down his cheek, leaving in its wake a pathway engulfed in fiery, passionate tones of crimson. Hs eyes had fluttered closed of their own will, soaking in even the smallest touch. He was not sure the last time he had been granted the luxury of such a holy caress from the only saint that had ever mattered.
Unbeknownst to Scar, the prey's mind clouded with want and eyes pinched closed in equally salacious yearning, "Grian's" face twisted into a crooked smile. The weight of his effect ran a course of satisfaction through his selected form. Power was one hell of a drug.
In the midst of his intoxication, Scar's brain took a few moments to catch up with the sensation of Grian's finger being removed.
Sheer, leaden disappointment stung instantaneously like a sword dug in between his ribcage, nestled like an extra organ. Had he done something wrong? Acted incorrectly? Disobeyed?
Had he finally done it, upset his one and only, the divine being that graced his selfish life out of his own will, just like he had upset everyone else? Had he let his god, the only one he would ever bow to, down?
Just as he felt himself unraveling, the widening gap of time with agonizing distance between him and the itching, desirous need of contact from his love finally beginning to split him like a cleaver through the middle and tear apart his weary bones, he felt a hot breath fan against his cheek.
Grian moved silently, his mouth now against Scar's ear, rekindling the dormant forest fire in his body, each nerve once again set aflame, his skin one cooled with loneliness heating in tandem.
The whisper in his ear sent a pleasant shiver snaking down his vertebra, heightening his acute awareness beyond a level he thought possible with his sense of sight not currently being in use.
"I will be the death of you, my love."
A quivering breath escaped Scar's own lips, his mind mentally mapping out the proximity between him and his love, building suspense and something else deep within his soul. The other feeling, something he could not place, mounted too within his chest and desperately pounding heart.
The heat radiating from his lover drew back a bit, only to return but a few seconds later in the form of the physicality Scar had been longing for in the form of lips. Featherlight kisses were placed along the sensitive column of his neck, growing heavier and more meaningful as they made their way further down his skin. He reminded himself of the need for breath, short, trembling inhales being all that he could manage as his head turned light and fuzzy with the dangerously heady force of love.
The weight of passion submerged him like a tidal wave, and he was content to fall victim to it, perfectly happy to drown for it as it flushed away all other doubts beneath its mass and sunk them to the ocean floor. There was nothing to lose anymore.
Yet something refused to be swept away with the tide. Something within him combatted wildly, on its hands and knees, gnashing its teeth and rearing its ugly head, resisting every other potent power that strove to extinguish it.
Scar, please! That's not the real Grian!
It shouted cries that rang clearer than before, emerging further and further above the muddied mush and slop his mind had become in the wake of love. And this time, Scar could not ignore it, could not disregard the contradictory premonition climbing in his body.
That voice was so familiar, it struck him as it had before, yet this time with a sense of unmatched necessity to uncover the truth. Why was that voice so damn familiar?
That's not me!
And finally, finally he could place the other sensation that had created a permanent home within his figure, settling itself in the caverns of his organs and corners of his bones. Apprehension.
His eyes flew open as he gasped, feeling the realization reawaken the memories he had so urgently attempted to rid himself of. Everything flooded back to him with the lucidity of awakening the morning after a one night stand.
Oh void. This thing, it's not Grian.
It all made sense, the omnipresent existence of uneasiness burrowed within him that he had, in his muddled, dazed state, tirelessly attempted to purge. The voices that struck in his head like warning bells. The voice that he had up until now been unable to place, its familiarity washing over him like an icy waterfall.
The voice of the real Grian, battling to reach him from beyond the realm of life.
Scar internally cursed himself for allowing this to happen, wishing he could tear his hair from the roots of his skull and bite each individual finger off his hand. He could hardly begin to comprehend how a state of such amnesia could have been brought upon him by his own will. It truly looked like some things never changed, no matter how much he tried to brainwash himself and manipulate his circumstances.
He always let himself reap the consequences later.
In his lethargic state of understanding, he was not quite quick enough to react, was not quite fast enough to chose the flight reaction instead of freezing, his delayed comprehension prohibiting the reflexes he had previously prided himself on.
Scar hardly managed to register the impersonator's sudden, harsh grasp on his neck, cutting off circulation and airflow, before he felt the jagged incisors from earlier plunge into his neck, gouging a gaping wound in soft flesh.
The world tilted on its axis, endeavoring to reconcile with the newfound, excruciating throb in Scar's body, hovering at the edge of consciousness, before it finally dimmed and went black.